Emre calmly pushed the man’s hand away. “Ease, friend. Only going to see if they have more of those charred bits on a stick.”
The drunkard’s demeanor softened, and he then proceeded to slap Emre with the back of his hand like friends do when scouting a beautiful lass in the distance. “Bring me some of those, will ya? Them’s good eats.”
Some of the others standing in line called out other morsels for Emre to pilfer if he should find a chance. He gave a slight wave and checked his pocketwatch, moving. “Wick, nearing the door. Any scale on the other side to worry about?”
“Just one and the bugger’s not paying much mind.”
With a touch, the door swung on oiled hinges. The delicious smell of roasting meats, spices, and grilled vegetables overtook his nostrils. The clanging of pans, the cuts of knives against wooden boards, the clatter of spoons against pots drowned out the barks of a head cook’s orders. A soldier leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, wheellock rifle hanging from his shoulder, breather helm lowered as if studying the ground, or possibly even napping.
But once Emre made his appearance, the soldier looked him up-and-down, taking in his fine-cut black suit and ornate mask. “Guests are not allowed back here.”
Emre raised his hands to act innocent. “Forgive me,” he said, feigning a stagger as if he’d drunk too much. “Privy line double long. Was wonderin’ if there was another pot to piss in back here.”
The soldier straightened and pointed back the way Emre had come. “Only privies down there.”
Just then, a lapin servant wearing a red-and-black tunic rolled at the elbows came around the corner with a massive tray of food. He tripped over his own paws and barged into the guard, who in turn, shouldered into Emre, who stuttered back into the swinging doorway. The tray clattered to the ground and threw chunks of skewered meat-and-veggies-on-a-stick everywhere. The lapin gasped at his folly and dove to pick up the food. Emre regained his balance and bent down to help, while the guard muttered under his breath as the lapin servant apologized time and again.
Some of the guests were pointing and laughing at the interchange at the end of the hall. In all the kerfuffle and muttering, no one noticed the lapin hand Emre a bulky object, and they certainly didn’t see him pocket said object.
Emre helped Wick to its feet and grabbed a couple of the stick delicacies. The lapin apologized loudly once more while backing into the doorway, the guard shaking his head and cursing as the door swung closed.
Sauntering toward the exit, Emre took a bite from one of the sticks before he offered one of the treats to the drunkard.
The man vigorously shook his head as he laughed. “Got boot dirt all over it. Gonna make me retch more than the wine swilling in my gut.”
Shrugging, Emre rounded the dance floor, where he spat out the meat in a nearby bush and tossed the others. He didn’t see the bikrome anywhere. The music started again, the dance floor was full once more.
“Val, meet me by the fountain.”
Emre snaked through the party. His scars itched to no end, and he fought the urge to scratch them again. With the aetheric bomb on his person and the drakken siblings no doubt nearing their targets, he was growing antsy. Years of planning had brought him to this exact moment in time, everything worked for, everything paid for, all for right now, right here.
The time to bring down the Imperium was reaching its apex, and he only had one more piece of the puzzle to click into place before the true show was to begin.
Emre came upon the magnificent fountain. Its marble was carved in the shape of four wood nymphs holding up a bowl. The shimmering liquid aethecite spouted six feet in the air, a perfect three-pronged arc landing gracefully within the bowl as the mist rose from the pool. Its aether was breathtaking.
A few guests hovered around the fountain, a couple daring to touch the aetheric liquid. A woman ran her finger through the arc and giggled as it rolled off like a gloopy syrup. Bending down as if he was tying his shoe, Emre pulled the bomb out of his pocket and tacked it under the rim of the bowl using heavy adhesive tape, then burned aetheurgy to trigger the Ignis spell.
“Anyone have eyes on our catalyst?”
“Nothin’ by me,” Finn said.
Wick mimicked with a, “Nor me.”
“Keep an eye everyone. Lojen, Ruane, are we set? Over.”
“The belle of the ball has arrived,” said Finn suddenly. “Bless the Pentax, I think that’s her?”
XXXV
Ashe
WET HAIR CLUNG to the nape of her neck, her torn feet throbbed within the haphazard bandages she’d wrapped, a welt at her temple where her head had smacked the sink, but the godsdamning thing most of all, Ashe had a fractured soul.
And yet, she kept her back straight as she marched through Gargantua as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
Imperium soldiers gave her curious looks and a wide berth, taking in her long-trained stola, pinkest of pink hem flowing behind. She cared little that the wafer-thin material hugged her body, nor about the generously high slit up one leg that showed her bruised thigh. Even a thief such as herself showed little appetite for the expensive string of pearls draped across her collar.
For her, this was her armor. The gorgeous armor—she had to admit the dress was lovely despite the unfortunate color choice—she’d wear into battle with Solanine. Beautiful and angry armor. An armor of defiance.
At least the mist had returned to her, flitting under the train, caressing her legs, fueling her rage. Yet there was a minute change in the mist, as if it wanted her to march in a different direction, to go deeper into the building. Queer, that.
Some guards smiled at her, only to turn to concern when she scowled at them. Others raised eyebrows behind skull-painted breathers, more than a handful gripped their wheellock rifles tighter. Each one of them braced for trouble because they saw she meant to rain down heaps of it.
The maze of hallways ended in a double door of Calibrathian redwood, which stood open, revealing a downward curving stair. Word of her coming had already reached the exit as armed guards on either side stood with rifles at the ready, fingers on triggers.
One stepped forward, her aggressive reflection peering back at her from the man’s tinted breather. “Sorry, mistress, but Solanine has requested you meet elsewhere. If you would but follow us, we will show you whe—”
“Move.”
The jackass held his ground. His aura was a nervous jaundice. “Solanine has expressively declared tonight to be free of any disturbances. And you appear… well, Mistress Benld, you appear like you’ve seen better evenfalls. That lapin servant should never have allowed you to leave your rooms like this.”
“Move,” she repeated. The mist clawed up her legs.
“Mistre—” the man’s words choked off as Ashe jammed stiff fingers into the gap between his breather and collar. He dropped like a sack of aethecite.
Ashe glared at the other soldiers, daring them to get in her way, the mist eager for a fight. She didn’t care anymore, whatever happened from here out, would happen. But the soldiers didn’t bite, they removed fingers from triggers and warily backed away.
