Wolves of the Northern Rift (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 1) (14 page)

“Of course,” Patrick replied. “He’s present for all the governor’s gala events.”

“Then please let him know that we are honored by his invitation and will most certainly be present.”

Simon walked past Patrick and entered the sitting room, leaving Luthor to glare after his friend from his place on the stairs.

Luthor tugged on the cravat that billowed against his throat. His mop of hair was slicked against his head, leaving only his muttonchops untamed. He reached up to run a hand through his hair, but Simon knocked it aside.

“Stop fidgeting,” he chided. “You’re acting like a child who abhors dressing up for Sunday services.”

Luthor frowned but lowered his hand to his side. The pair stopped at the landing between the second and third floors in the mansion. Above them, they could hear soft string music drifting down from the grand ballroom.

“I feel preposterous,” Luthor complained.

“You look preposterous, but that doesn’t mean you have an excuse to mess with your well-manicured features.”

“You should have let me wear my bowler cap, at the very least.”

Simon smirked at Luthor’s request. “It’s impolite to wear a hat indoors. Try not to think of this as an obligation, but rather as an extension of our investigation. I have a strong feeling that many of our queries will be revealed before we retire for the night.”

The servant at the top of the stairs motioned for Simon and Luthor to advance. They climbed the stairs side by side, Simon in his well-fitted, black, three-piece suit, and Luthor tugging endlessly on his coarser, tan, wool jacket. As they reached the third floor, the servant pulled aside a heavy cloth curtain that separated the ballroom from the rest of the house. A cacophony of sound rolled from the room, overwhelming the pair.

Ladies in long dresses milled about beside their dates, their bouffant hair rising to ever increasing heights as though the rise of their hairstyle signified their societal standings. The gentlemen were all similarly dressed to Simon and spoke to one another in boisterous tones, while servants drifted through the busy ballroom serving glasses of champagne. A string quartet sat on a raised dais, playing soft music to which a few couples danced.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a man announced from just inside the ballroom, “I present Royal Inquisitor Whitlock and his companion, Mr. Strong.”

The faces in the room turned toward the entryway, as Simon and Luthor begrudgingly stepped past the curtain. The doorway opened onto a small ledge, from which a few stairs descended to the ballroom’s official floor. The two men walked calmly down the steps as previously interrupted conversations resumed throughout the room. A few nobles positioned close to the stairwell paused to shake the Inquisitor’s hand as he passed. Simon nodded politely as they introduced themselves, surely intent on befriending someone so closely associated with the crown and the capital city, but Simon forgot their names as quickly as they said them.

Simon’s gaze drifted over the room until he spotted Governor Godwin. The heavyset man sat at a head table near the far side of the room, laughing heartily to whatever witticism Mr. Dosett offered. The thin businessman sat on the governor’s right, as he had done at the dinners.

A servant passed them, and Simon deftly snatched two glasses of champagne from the tray. He handed one Luthor.

“What is our plan for the evening?” Luthor asked. “Do we in fact have a plan, or are we merely mingling until you’ve deduced the answers to the mysteries of the universe after witnessing nothing more than the shade of mud smeared on the bottom of a man’s shoe?”

Simon turned curtly toward the apothecary. “Luthor, I’m noticing a very blatant amount of hostility. You’re being rather rude at the governor’s party.”

Luthor tilted back his glass and drank most of it in a single long draw. “I joined you as your traveling companion because I have a deep rooted fascination with the occult and mythology. I find true happiness in a book or in a wicked brew that I can create from local flora. I understand books. I understand plants. What I don’t understand is people. Therefore, when you force me into a room full of not just people but arrogant nobles and men of affluence, I find myself quite out of my element. So forgive me if you perceived a hint of insolence because I clearly meant it to be much more pronounced.”

Rather than seeming upset, Simon tilted his head back and laughed. “That’s why I like you so much. Please, don’t let me keep you confined in the middle of the room. I believe there’s a balcony that you could explore that would be better suited to your tastes, though I’m sure it’s a bit frigid for standing outside.”

Luthor smiled, though the humor wasn’t reflected in the rest of his expression. “I’ll take my chances with the frostbite. Better to risk the cold in the air than be exposed to the ice in some of these men’s veins.”

Luthor touched his forehead in a salute before making his way across the room. The tall doors that separated the main ballroom from the outer balcony swung open briefly as the apothecary stepped outside. In that short moment, Simon could feel the arctic chill wash through the room. He understood his companions dislike for such formal occasions, but he struggled to understand why anyone would rather risk their death in the cold rather than enjoy good food and spirits.

Simon wandered through the room, shaking hands politely but never letting his gaze drift for too long from the governor and Gideon. Despite his chiding of Luthor, the apothecary was correct. Simon didn’t truly have a plan, though he knew that observing Gideon would offer the best chance at discovering what the businessman knew about the werewolf attacks. Contrary to Luthor’s opinion of him, Simon showed surprising understanding of the importance of attending formal events like the governor’s Winter Ball. Though he generally lacked decorum at such events, Simon could be political if it suited his purposes.

As he reached the far side of the room, Simon turned and caught sight of two very familiar faces. The tall Mr. Orrick of the Artisan’s Guild and stocky Mr. Tambor of the Miner’s Union stood merrily by one of the hors d’oeuvres tables, laughing at one another’s jokes. Of all the people he expected to see at the Winter Ball, he was most surprised by these two, who were such outspoken opponents of both the governor and Mr. Dosett.

A guest of cold wind washed over Simon once again, and he shivered involuntarily.

“Have you conceded that it’s more comfortable indoors?” Simon asked without turning toward the apothecary.

Luthor’s teeth chattered, and he rubbed his arms to promote the return of circulation to his extremities. “I concede nothing.”

Simon motioned with his now-empty champagne glass toward the two men. “Do you see who else has graced this soirée?”

Luthor saw the two men and frowned. “They seem like the least likely people to be in attendance.”

“My thoughts exactly. You asked me previously if I knew what I was searching for tonight? I believe I’m now ready to answer that question.”

The duo walked back through the crowd, approaching the two guild leaders. Upon seeing the Inquisitor, their faces brightened considerably.

“Inquisitor Whitlock,” Tambor said with a firm pat on Simon’s shoulder, “it’s very good to see you again.”

Orrick pulled a glass from the table beside him and offered it to him. “We weren’t sure we’d see you here tonight. You seemed so thoroughly committed to your investigation, we were sure you’d be locked away in some dark laboratory running experiments.”

“Quite on the contrary,” Simon said as he took the filled glass from Orrick. “I’m quite in my element at parties like this. I must confess, however, that I’m more than a little surprised to see you both here. When last we spoke, you weren’t exactly fans of either of our hosts.”

Tambor waved his thick fingers as though brushing aside such nonsensical thoughts. “We spoke out of turn. You were right to chastise us at the time.”

Simon arched an eyebrow. “So you’ve made amends with the governor and Mr. Dosett?”

“We had a meeting with Mr. Dosett shortly after we spoke at the tavern,” Orrick explained. “He was courteous enough to let us voice our concerns. In return, he offered concessions and, in the end, made an offer that neither of us could refuse.”

“You yourself said during our last meeting that he swindled families out of their property and businesses by offering coppers against the real value of the land.”

Orrick shrugged, his handlebar moustache bouncing with the movement. “I was mistaken.”

Simon clenched his fists. “You both practically spit venom at even the mention of his name.”

“We erred,” Tambor replied with an irritatingly jovial smile. “We judged him too harshly.”

“You filed reports with the crown contrary to Mr. Dosett’s accounts. Your reports were practically the reason the Order of Inquisitors were so intrigued with this specific investigation. I’m here as much on your contrary accounts as I am from the governor’s initial report.”

“No one feels worse about wasting your time than we do,” Orrick said. “If we had the ability to turn back the hands of time, we would have certainly voiced our support for Mr. Dosett’s accusations.”

The red on Simon’s face began at the neckline of his suit and crept slowly to his ears before finally crashing onto his cheeks in splotchy patches of crimson.

“Good day, gentlemen,” he said through clenched teeth.

Orrick and Tambor nodded to the Inquisitor, as Simon spun angrily on his heels and stormed away. Luthor didn’t bother returning their polite nods, feeling no need to smooth the waves Simon was creating.

“Can you believe those bastards?” Simon stammered as the elegance of the language eluded him.

“If you were searching for something out of sorts at the party,” Luthor offered, “I believe you found it.”

“Not two days ago, they were the vocal minority. Now, they’re even more sheep, catering to Gideon Dosett’s every whim. They stand there with the same glassy expression as the governor, on bended knee and bent ear toward every—”

Simon stopped in mid-sentence. The pause took Luthor aback, and he had to look at his mentor to ensure the man was still feeling healthy.

“Sir?”

Simon shook his head. “I’ve been a fool, Luthor. I’ve allowed myself to become flustered for all the wrong reasons. Let’s forget about Misters Orrick and Tambor. Let them cater to Mr. Dosett if they so desire. You and I should be enjoying the night’s festivities.”

Luthor frowned and ran his hand nervously through his greased hair. “Did you take an imaginary blow to the head that I somehow failed to observe?”

Simon laughed. “Not at all, dear friend. Our encounter with Orrick and Tambor was far more revealing than you could possibly imagine. It may not be your proverbial smear of mud on the bottom of a man’s shoe, but it was as close to a smoking gun in this case as I’ve seen thus far.”

Simon looked over only to realize that Luthor hadn’t heard much of what he had just said. The apothecary’s gaze was set across the room. Simon followed his gaze and saw a splash of red against the otherwise powdered white skin and wigs of the women in attendance.

The woman’s tresses of unkempt red hair framed her narrow face. She had tried to pull it back into some semblance of order, but it fought free of its confines as though from its own volition. The tendrils of free hair fell to the dark leather corset pulled tightly around her waist. It ended in a long, flowing red dress that match the fiery copper color of her hair.

Though she was attractive in her own right, she stood in such an unpolished stance—with her hands placed on her hips as she stared with an expression that bordered between anger and fear—that Simon was immediately intrigued.

“Do you know her?” the Inquisitor asked.

Luthor shook his head. “I’ve never seen her before, though she’s stunning.”

Simon shrugged. “She’s plain. For an unrequited bachelor who constantly ridicules my relationship choices, I would expect you to select a better mate.”

Luthor shot Simon a glance devoid of amusement. Simon merely shrugged and looked back at the redhead. Her gaze hadn’t wavered since they first noticed her. Her eyes remained locked on something across the room. Simon tilted his head to the side in an attempt to estimate the recipient of her hatred and was stunned when his gaze drifted to the head table. Truly, if looks were daggers, she would have been flaying the governor and Mr. Dosett alive.

“You know, Luthor, I believe I owe you an apology. This stranger with whom you seem infatuated has suddenly piqued my interest as well. Why don’t you get us all drinks while I introduce myself?”