Nevernight (37 page)

“One more reason to hold on to it then, aye?”

“…
hmph
…”

“Pfft.”

“…
grrrr
…”

“Shut up.”

“…
grow up
…”

Laughter rang out and the shadows smiled.

“Never.”

The girl and the not-cat faded into the dark.

1. He muttered to his knife a little less while his jaw was on the mend—Mia was tempted to seek out his torturers and thank them.

CHAPTER 19

M
ASQUERADE

Weeks flickered by in the darkness, untracked save for the tolling of bells and the serving of meals and hours upon hours of lore.
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Mia and Tric trained every turn after lessons, in either the Hall of Songs or the Hall of Truths. Every session in Songs saw Mia paired up with Jessamine or Diamo, and her blood painting the floor. And though in truth she found herself enjoying Tric’s company more and more, she began to wonder if he was the mentor she needed …

Winter was deepening and Great Tithe approaching, snows beginning to dress Godsgrave in gowns of muddy white. Nevernight after nevernight, pretty shadows Blood Walked from Adonai’s chambers and flitted out into the city in search of secrets, returning to lay them at Aalea’s feet. The Shahiid of Masks gave no indication who might be winning her contest.

The weaver continued her work, altering faces one by one. She wove Jessamine’s feral beauty into full bloom, honed Osrik’s natural good looks to a finer edge; even Petrus had got his missing ear back. The newly woven acolytes began making use of Aalea’s many weapons—minor games of flirt and touch breaking out during lessons or after. At mealtimes, Mia could feel a new current in the air. Furtive glances and secret smiles. For all the sweat and blood the acolytes were putting in, Mia figured they deserved it. Lessons were getting more grueling; almost half their number were already dead. She supposed a little harmless fun never hurt anyone.

And then came the masquerade.

The acolytes were summoned after evemeal, one and all, down into Adonai’s chambers. Without preamble they were ushered through the Blood Walk, one by one. Mia felt hungry eyes on her body as she stripped down to her slip, her eyes on others in turn. Emerging from the blood-red warmth beneath the Porkery, the acolytes were told to bathe thoroughly, dress quickly. The seventeen were then punted—by covered gondola, no less—to Godsgrave’s marrowborn quarter. Mia shipped out with Carlotta, Ashlinn and Osrik, peering out through the canopy as the well-to-do estates of Godsgrave’s richest and most powerful cruised by. The Hands punting them were dressed in servants’ finery—gold-trimmed frock coats and silken hose. Saan’s bloody red glow was reduced to a sullen pout behind a heavy veil of roiling gray, but Mia still found herself squinting, pinching a pair of azurite spectacles to the bridge of the nose.

She looked Carlotta over from behind the tinted glass, admiring the poem Marielle had made of the girl’s face. The weaving had been done only a few turns prior, and it was hard not to notice the difference, or the way the other novices stared now it was done. Carlotta’s lips were fuller, her body more shapely. And where once an arkemical slavemark had marred the girl’s cheek, there was now only smooth, pale skin.

“The weaver knows her work,” Mia smiled.

Carlotta glanced at Mia, back out the window.

“… I suppose.”

“O, come, you look a picture, Lotti,” Ash protested. “Marielle is a master.”

At an elbow from his sister, Osrik piped up. “O, aye. A picture, no doubt.”

“It’s strange,” Carlotta murmured. “The things we miss.”

The girl touched the cheek where her slavemark used to be. Fingers tracing that now flawless skin. She said no more, and Mia was reluctant to push. But she could see memories swimming in the girl’s eyes as she stared at the passing city. Shadows that stained Carlotta’s irises a deeper blue.

Where had a slavegirl learned venomcraft?

What had driven her to join the Church?

Why was she here?

Mia knew Carlotta was competition for Spiderkiller’s prize above all else. That Mister Kindly had spoken true, and pity would be a weakness to be used against her. That she shouldn’t care.

But still, somehow she did.

Their gondola finally took berth at a small pier at the front of a grand five-story palazzo—the kind of home only the marrowborn might own.

“What the ’byss is all this about?” Mia whispered.

Ashlinn and Osrik both shrugged—seemed their da didn’t tell them everything after all. Mia checked her gravebone blade for the fourth time before stepping onto the jetty. The winds off the canal were icy, the pier slippery beneath her feet.

The acolytes were ushered into the palazzo’s foyer. The walls were red, hung with beautiful portraiture in the lush Liisian style.
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Vases full of flowers strung the air with a soft perfume, and a roaring fire burned at the graven hearth.

At the top of a grand and winding staircase stood Shahiid Aalea. Though she’d fancied it a silly turn of phrase only found in books, the sight of the woman actually took Mia’s breath away. The Shahiid was decked in a long, flowing gown, red as heart’s blood, embroidered with black lace and pearls. A drakebone corset pulled her waistline torturously tight, and an off-the-shoulder cut exposed smooth, cream-white skin. In her hand, she held a
domino
mask on a slender ivory wand.

Lotti’s eyes were wide, misgivings about her face momentarily forgotten.

“I would kill my own mother to get into a dress like that…”

“I would kill you
and
your mother to get into a dress like that,” Ash whispered.

“You want to dance, Järnheim?” Lotti deadpanned. “Liisian silk brocade with a melphi-cut corset and matching gloves? I will
bury
you.”

Mia and Ash’s laughter was cut short as Aalea spoke, her voice soft as smoke.

“Acolytes,” she smiled. “Welcome, and thank you for coming. Three months have passed since your induction into the Red Church. We understand that lessons grow long and the hours weigh heavy, and so every once in a while, I convince the Ministry to allow you to … let your hair down, as it were.”

Aalea smiled at the novices the way the suns smiled at the sky.

“Great Tithe approaches, and as such, it is customary to give gifts to loved ones. Across the canal is the palazzo of Praetor Giuseppe Marconi, a wealthy young marrowborn don who throws some of the most delightful parties I’ve ever attended. This eve, the praetor hosts his traditional Great Tithe gala; a ball to which only the cream of Godsgrave society is invited. And invitations have been arranged … for you.”

Aalea produced a handful of parchment slips seemingly from midair, slowly fanned her neck.

“Of course, you’ll each have to concoct a convincing subterfuge as to
why
you’ve been invited to such an exclusive soiree. But I’m certain I’ve versed you well enough for that. The ball is a masquerade, after all, so the face you wear can be any you choose.”

The Shahiid indicated a set of double doors with a wave of her hand.

“You will find suitable clothing within. Enjoy yourselves, my dears. Laugh. Love. Remember what it is to live, and forget, if only for a moment, what it is to serve.”

Aalea handed out the gilded invitations, and ushered the acolytes through the double doors. Within, Mia found row upon row of the most beautiful gowns and coats she’d ever seen. The finest cut. The richest cloth. Ashlinn practically dove at a rack of silken corsetry; even Jessamine lost her customary scowl.

Mia wandered wide-eyed through a forest of fur and velvet, damask and lace. It’d been years since she’d seen clothing like this up close. Longer since she’d worn anything like it. As a little girl, she’d attended the grandest balls and galas, worn the finest dresses. She remembered dancing with her father in the ballroom of some senator or another, balancing her feet atop his as they swirled around the room. For a moment, she was overcome. Memories of the life she’d lost. Thoughts of the person she might have been but never was.

She ran her fingertips over the row of masques Aalea had prepared for them. Each was a
volto
—full-faced and oval shaped. Pearl-white ceramic, trimmed in gold, each with three blood-red tears beneath the right eye. They were exquisitely crafted, velvet soft to the touch.

“This is all a bit much, aye?”

Mia turned to find Tric beside her, scowling at the other acolytes. Osrik and Marcellus were trying on various waistcoats and cravats, bowing to each other “After you, sir,” “No, no, after
you
, sir.” Carlotta had wriggled into a gown made of some astonishing fabric that shifted hues as she twirled on the spot. Hush had clad himself head to foot in pristine white; his doublet embroidered with gleaming silver.

“A bit much?” Mia repeated.

“We’re supposed to be disciples of the Mother. They’re acting like children.”

Mia found herself on edge too, truth be told. The first time Aalea had sent them to Godsgrave, she’d been locked in a cell and beaten half to death at the command of the Lord of Blades. They’d all traveled dozens of times to the City of Bridges and Bones since then, but she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that this “gift” was too good to be true. Yet finally, she shrugged.

“It can’t hurt to have fun once in a while. Give it a try. You might enjoy it.”

“Bollocks,” he growled. “I’m not here to enjoy myself.”

“Rest easy, my dour centurion.” Mia plucked up one of the
voltos
, pushed it against Tric’s face. “If you do crack a smile, it’s not like anyone will see it.”

Tric sighed, looked up and down the racks of gents’ attire. Jackets and doublets, boots with gleaming buckles and waistcoats with glittering buttons.

“I’m not too polished at this sort of business,” he confessed. “Aalea has been trying, but in truth I’m not sure where to start.”

Mia found herself smiling. Offered her arm.

“Well, it’s a good thing you’ve got me, Don Tric.”

He scrubbed up well, in the end. Though it was a challenge to find anything that sat comfortably on shoulders broad as his, Mia eventually found Tric a long frock coat in coal gray (dark colors, it seemed, were en vogue for gentry this season) gilded with gold. As he’d sat and squirmed, she plaited his saltlocks into something resembling order, and tied a white silk cravat around his throat. Inspecting her handiwork in the mirror, the boy gave a grudging nod. Ashlinn whistled loudly from a corner.

Mia herself chose a daring gown of crushed velvet in a deep wine-red, propping a tricorn of the same fabric atop her head. Kohl for her eyes. Burgundy paint for her lips. Aalea favored reds, and Mia was of a similar complexion, so she thought it might be worth a gamble. Pulling on a pair of long gloves and a wolf-fur stole, she peered into the looking glass and smiled.

Ash whistled again from her corner.

The acolytes drifted back into the garish sunslight, ferried across the canal. Stepping onto a broad pier and through the gates of Palazzo Marconi, Mia saw guests arriving by gondola, others by carriage, horses snorting and stamping in the chill. A bitter wind was blowing in off the water and her breath hung in the air. She pulled the wolf fur tighter, squinting at the pale red sun behind its veil of clouds and wishing she’d not worn an off-the-shoulder cut. Tric, walking arm in arm with Ashlinn, noticed Mia’s shivers, and slipped his free arm about her for warmth.

Mia regretted her choice of dress a little less.

The acolytes were all wearing their
voltos
, faces hidden behind smooth ceramic. As they milled about the entrance, Mia saw the other guests were similarly attired, her eyes growing wide at some of the masques on display. One gent wore a death’s head carved of black ivory, arkemical globes burning in its eye sockets. She saw a woman with a
domino
made of firebird feathers, which seemed to ripple with flame when the sunslight hit it right. The most stunning belonged to a lass barely in her teens, whose masque was a long sheaf of black silk, form fitted to her face. The silk billowed like a loose sail in the wind, yet once they’d stepped inside, the silk continued to ripple, even without the breeze to move it.

Servants with slavemarks on their cheeks and clothes that must have cost more than the average citizen earned in a year greeted them, inspecting their invitations before ushering them into a grand entrance hall. Praetor Marconi’s palazzo dripped with wealth; marble on the walls and gold on the handles. Singing chandeliers of Dweymeri crystal spun overhead, soft music filled the air, the chatter of hundreds of voices, laughter, whispers, song.

“So this is how the other half lives,” Tric said.

“I could stand to stay here a spell,” Ash replied. “These used to be your sort of folk, aye, Corvere? Is it always this flashy?”

Mia gazed at the opulence about them. The world to which she’d once belonged.

“I remember everyone being much taller,” she said.

Servants appeared with golden trays. Dweymeri crystal glasses filled with wine, with slender straws to allow guests to sip without removing their masks. Sugared treats and candied fruits. Cigarillos and pipes already packed with slumberweed, needles loaded with ink. Glass in hand, Mia wandered through the foyer, overcome with the sights, the sounds, the smells, forgetting Aalea, her suspicions, her worry. Arriving with Tric at a grand set of double doors leading to the ballroom, a servant in a masque fashioned like a jester’s head bowed before them.

“Mi Don. Mi Dona. Might I have your names?”

Tric whipped out his invitation like his pocket was on fire.

“Yes, very good,” the servant said. “But I need your name, Mi Don.”

“… What for?”

Mia stepped into the uncomfortable silence, smooth as caramel.

“This is Cuddlegiver, Bara of the Seaspear clan of Farrow Isle.”

Tric threw Mia a look of alarm. The servant bowed.

“My thanks, Mi Dona. And you?”

“His … companion.”