Bloodforged (30 page)

‘Come upstairs,’ she said. ‘We will find you clothes and masks suitable for the opera.’

Ulrika blinked, then stepped forwards, making to speak, but the boyarina held up her hand.

‘You are not forgiven for bringing this crisis upon us,’ she said. ‘But as you have thrust it in my lap, and as all now depends on me, I will not falter. But do not expect my goodwill when all is done.’

And with that, she turned on her heel and led them all upstairs.

CHAPTER THIRTY

THE CONCERT

An hour later, with night falling, Ulrika, Stefan, Galiana and Evgena left the safe house – a modest townhouse in a quiet cul-de-sac in the Merchant Quarter – and travelled in chilly silence within a black coach through the Noble Quarter to Windlass Square, Praag’s greatest plaza, upon the southern edge of which sat the duke’s palace, and upon its east flank, the Opera House.

Ulrika and Stefan were dressed now in the height of Praag fashion – Ulrika in doublet and breeches of dark green and black with a cloak to match, and her cropped white hair hidden beneath a Kossar’s fur hat, and Stefan in deep blue and white with a short cloak that draped over one shoulder. To complete their costumes, Evgena had given them masks. Ulrika was certain there was some petty spite behind her selections, for she had chosen for Stefan the traditional black, full-faced mask of comedy, and for Ulrika, comedy’s ancient counterpart, tragedy, complete with a diamond tear, and lugubrious, down-turned mouth.

Evgena and Galiana had dressed up as well, Evgena in a forest-green gown with black trim to match Ulrika’s colours, and Galiana in midnight-blue over white silk to match Stefan, though
their
masks were beautiful, glittering works of art, plumed with iridescent feathers, rather than ugly jokes. In addition to these disguises, the boyarina and her sister had donned new wigs, chestnut-brown waves for Evgena, and a spill of blonde curls for Galiana – but the true transformations were those of the women themselves.

Through darkest Lahmian magic, the boyarina had cast an illusion of youth and beauty upon them that was stunning to behold. Evgena, who had looked like a skinned and mummified cat since Ulrika had first met her, now appeared to be a dignified beauty of perhaps forty years, with an imposing bosom and alluring eyes, while Galiana, who had seemed a wizened doll with a wig too big for her head, now looked a fresh-faced young girl, with pink cheeks and plump, parted lips. It made Ulrika wonder when they had given up the effort to maintain the illusion, and why. It also made her wonder if she had ever seen Countess Gabriella’s true face.

Windlass Square was a jostling confusion of coaches and carriages when they arrived, all debouching beautifully clad men and women who drifted in slow, swirling clusters across it like jewelled leaves stirred by a lazy wind. At the edges of the square, a wall of guardsmen held back crowds of hollow-cheeked refugees and beggars, who watched the glittering creatures within in glassy-eyed wonder, as if the masked and painted things were specimens from some strange zoo.

On the south side of the square, the palace, underlit by a thousand lanterns, loomed like some bizarre red and gold rock formation, with crenellated walls and towering onion-domed spires covered in mosaics of garnet cabochon and hammered leaf. The Opera House was hardly more sedate, with a baroque façade of blue and red tile, marble statues and a turreted roof of verdigrised copper – and amongst this ornate decor, the scars it had received in the Great War against Chaos. Repairs had not been made, for Praag was proud of its war-torn history, and shattered columns and black-edged pockmarks showed the prosaic brick behind the beauty of the fantastical walls and roof.

In the midst of this madness, Ulrika alighted from Evgena’s coach with the boyarina on her arm, and Galiana and Stefan following likewise linked, to stride through the laughing hordes.

Men in rich clothes or military uniform paraded by, wearing hats and capes made from the fur of fox and bear and snow cat. Women flirted in ermine-trimmed bodices of every colour, and layered, petticoated dresses that swept the ground. And both sexes wore masks of all varieties, from simple dominos that covered only the eyes, to wild, leather and lacquer creations that hid the whole face behind stylised depictions of gods and heroes, animals and birds, daemons and monsters. Even the most august and noble ministers and members of the priesthood had got into the spirit of the night, and wore bright colours and shining baubles as well as their chains and sigils of office.

Just as they reached the marble steps that led to the Opera House’s forecourt, a liveried page with a bugle stepped out and blew the tantara signalling that everyone should come and take their seats. There followed a great migration towards the doors, and Evgena, Ulrika, Stefan and Galiana joined the crush. All around them as they inched forwards was the buzz of conversation – the usual gossip of who wore what and who accompanied whom, but intermingled with that, Ulrika began to hear a familiar name, and listened closer.

‘Padurowski? Truly?’

‘But someone said Padurowski was dead.’

‘No, he’s back.’

‘Where has he been? No one could find him, not even the chekist.’

‘The hospital, I heard. Under the care of the Daughters of Salyak.’

‘Probably had a case of the nerves. I know I would, if I had to perform before the duke.’

Ulrika exchanged a look with Stefan as the surmises continued. They had thought the maestro kidnapped or killed by the cultists. Had he escaped their grasp? Had he been hiding instead? Or recovering from wounds?

‘Does this mean Valtarin wasn’t kidnapped either?’ murmured Stefan.

Ulrika shrugged, but then a thought came to her. The blind singer – was there hope for her too?

They reached the gilded doors at last and Evgena stepped forwards boldly. Ulrika feared they would be asked for an invitation, but after a dazzling smile and a show of cleavage from the boyarina, the usher bowed them through without a word – poleaxed by Lahmia’s most powerful magic.

Once inside, Evgena led them immediately upstairs to a private box – not her own, for she feared it might be watched, but that of a courtier she knew was sick and would not be attending – and sat in one of the luxurious seats.

‘Be silent,’ she said. ‘I must look for them.’

She closed her eyes and folded her hands in her lap. Galiana sat beside her and did the same. Ulrika left them to it. Her own witch sight was so poor it wasn’t worth her time to try. Instead, she stepped with Stefan to the rail, and looked out at the interior of the Opera House through the eyeholes of her mask.

Below, the lesser attendees made a crazy quilt of colour as they took their seats in the stalls, while their betters laughed and talked amongst themselves in the three tiers of private boxes that rose above them, supported by gilded columns decorated with sculptures of grotesque gargoyles with the bodies of violins, horns and drums, all playing instruments made of human bones.

The stage at the front of the theatre was hidden by enormous tasselled curtains of burgundy, emblazoned with the crest of Praag as well as the coats of arms of the duke and other patrons. The elaborate proscenium continued the motif of music, madness and death, portraying the siege of Praag with sculpted daemons climbing up the columns to the left of the stage, and the brave defenders of the city climbing up those to the right. They met at last in a titanic battle that came to a climax high above centre stage where Magnus the Pious swung a golden hammer at the head of Asavar Kul as skull-faced minstrels looked on, lutes and harps in their hands.

As Ulrika was taking in all these details, a flood of applause started in the stalls, then spread up into the boxes. She looked around. The people below were standing and turning to look up at the central box at the back of the theatre, and all the people in the private boxes were doing the same.

Ulrika followed their gaze and saw the slim, elegant figure of her cousin Enrik, the Duke of Praag, entering his box and stepping forwards to acknowledge their acclamation. He was dressed head to toe in brilliant white, from his fur cap to his ermine half-cape, to his doublet and breeches which glittered with a frost of diamonds, to his cavalry boots, which had quite obviously never been anywhere near a horse.

He saluted the room and bowed graciously, then motioned to his guests, a glittering assemblage of generals, ministers, priests and ice witches, to take their seats. When they had done so, he took his own, a silver throne, crowned with the head of a pure-white snow bear, the pelt and paws of which hung down over the arms of the chair. Ulrika smiled to herself. Some called her cousin mad, but he had ruled admirably during the recent siege, and always knew how to put on a good show.

A moment later, Evgena opened her eyes. ‘They hide themselves well,’ she said, sighing. ‘As they would have to, with so many priests and witches in attendance. If I was not certain they were here, I might never have found them. As it is, I can only surmise their presence indirectly.’

‘How so?’ asked Ulrika.

‘There is an area somewhere behind or below the stage,’ she said, ‘that deflects my gaze almost without me knowing it is being deflected. When I try to look there, I find myself thinking I have already done so, and pass it by.’ She laughed. ‘Had I only looked once, I would never have given it a second thought. But since I was determined to find something, I finally noticed the compulsion to look away. It is very sophisticated magic, and very powerful. I hope we are enough to best it.’

She stood, and turned to Galiana, who stood as well. ‘Stay here, sister, and watch the audience. There may be cultists among them. Watch the winds and be ready to act if anyone begins to gather them.’

Galiana curtseyed. ‘Yes, sister.’

Evgena started to the door, beckoning to Ulrika and Stefan. ‘Come. Let us find these daemon-lovers. I am prepared now. This time it will be I who strikes first.’

Evgena again used the mighty magics of eyelashes and smile and cleavage to draw away the guard who watched the door that led backstage so Ulrika and Stefan could slip in behind him. The boyarina joined them a moment later, smirking.

‘I have sent him for the watch,’ she said, ‘saying I saw Boyarina Evgena Boradin, who is under suspicion of witchcraft, sneaking into her private box.’

Ulrika smiled as they hurried up a dimly lit stair. The boyarina seemed to have warmed to her work, now that she had begun it. It was proof of something Ulrika had learned many many battles ago, that anticipation is a hundred times worse than action.

The steps ended at the wings of the stage, and they looked around. A rickety stair rose into the cavernous darkness above the stage, and nearby, stagehands stood at a line of tied-off ropes and pulleys, waiting. In the centre, behind the closed curtain, musicians in simple black surcoats sat in rings of seats around a podium and tuned their instruments while a stage manager with an open ledger in one hand eyed them anxiously.

‘Ready now, gentlemen?’ he asked. ‘It is time. It is time.’

There was a general grunt of assent.

‘Excellent, excellent,’ said the stage manager. ‘Then we begin.’ And with a soft whistle and wave of his hands, he trotted towards the far side of the stage.

‘There is nothing here,’ said Evgena, and turned towards a door in the side wall as the stagehands began to haul on the ropes and the curtains began to open. ‘We must go further in.’

Applause spilled through the parting curtains, and then redoubled as a tall, white-maned figure strode towards the podium. Ulrika looked back as the others went through the door. It was Maestro Padurowski, in a long lilac jacket and knee breeches, beaming cheerfully and waving his baton.

At centre stage, he bowed to the audience. ‘My lord duke, ladies and gentlemen, I am deeply touched at the outpouring of concern for my safety, but as you see, all is well, and we need dwell on it no further. Tonight is a celebration of our beloved duke and his brave generals, of our divine Tzarina, and of the countless men and women who united to defeat the terrible horde that threatened us this winter past. And so, without further ado, we begin. For Praag! For Kislev!’

And with that, he turned and raised his baton to the orchestra. Ulrika turned and followed the others out into a dim corridor as the musicians thundered into a stirring rendition of ‘Gryphons of the North’.

The music followed them as they wound through a maze of tight corridors and stairways. Doors opened into property rooms and rehearsal rooms, and rooms full of machinery Ulrika did not understand. Stefan pulled aside a curtain to find a closet full of halberds made of wood and papier-mâché. Another was hung with fierce horned helmets made of tin. Evgena opened a door into a high room where scaffolding was set up before a canvas two storeys high and forty paces wide, upon which was an unfinished painting of what looked like an elven garden in far Ulthuan.

Hurrying on with the others, Ulrika passed a descending stair with a door at the bottom that looked as if it went under the stage, but she dismissed it. Nothing would be happening down there.

Five paces on, she stopped. ‘Mistress,’ she whispered, pointing back. ‘That stair. I have the idea we shouldn’t check it.’

Evgena turned on her, frowning. ‘Of course we shouldn’t. Nothing could possibly–’ She paused. ‘Ah. I see.’ She shook her head in admiration. ‘Even knowing, I still missed it.’

‘Well spotted,’ said Stefan.

‘Yes,’ said Evgena, then turned to continue down the hall. ‘Now come, we have other places to check.’