Winter Ball I

In the carriage to the main palace, Taylor thought they looked quite the pair. Jane was in a dress for the ball, the first he'd ever seen her wear, with a close bodice of red velvet and loose skirts that allowed for dancing. She didn't overdecorate herself with ribbons and jewels, just a string of excellent pearls and silver bands to keep her hair in place. She was striking, but he didn't dare say anything about it. Jane could be touchy about compliments and offers to help, but maybe that was because he was her ward and mentee. She didn't like having her role as the adult usurped.

Taylor asked, "Do you think I'm hauling around a lot of potential?"

"I'm surprised you know the term when you don't have a class."

"I've read Camille's Theories of Class Mechanics. An ancestor left tons of notes in the margins, so I thought it was worth a read."

"If potential is a real thing, then I think you have it." Her mouth did something funny, like she was chewing on a decision. It was a new expression to Taylor. "Do you know what level Kistur was when he deployed?"

"Three, maybe? He was already pretty good with a sword, so he probably got his first few levels quickly. We didn't exactly talk the last time we met." Taylor watched the gymnasium as they passed it by. He hadn't seen inside of it yet, but he heard it was impressive. The Kistur situation was something he tried not to think about.

"Fifteen." Reaching level fifteen within a few weeks of getting a class probably marked him as a genius. It fit the theory that some people were a locus of class potential, and association with them sped up class advancement. Taylor always assumed he was honing his abilities against Kistur's greater size and longer practice, but the transfer of skills was more two-way than he intended.

"I suppose that's interesting," mumbled Taylor, "but he's still a jerk. You know what? I hope you're getting a lot more from me than he did. You deserve it more, and you're a better person than he is."

"You're a very kind boy. Don't let them ruin that." She sounded solemn as they pulled in front of the governor's main palace. "Don't forget to check your sword. When you start getting the looks, use your pin. There are supposed to be privacy screens in two corners of the room. Use them. You get nine minutes of exposure at a time."

They'd been over this before, but it was important. Taylor nodded. "Let's do this."

Aside from the low-key guards in powder blue uniforms who carried smallswords and pistol-shaped praxes, all arms were checked at the door. Taylor was told specifically to bring his weapon, but not many other people did. That worried him. There was no grand announcement at the door introducing them to the assembly. They just walked in, and everybody stared for a few seconds. There he was, the cursed son of Legate d'Mourne that so many of them had heard about. They all saw him. Then they went back to what they were doing, for now.

Three hundred people milled about in five rooms: a mirrored ballroom for music and dancing, and four smaller side-rooms for food, viewing art, and conversation. There were doors leading to outside patios, but they mostly stayed shut because it was too cold outside.

The nine-minute game was fun at first. Jane introduced him to a knot of legates from townships near theirs. These were all people he knew from their network handles.

"Nice to put a face to the handles," said Taylor.

"Nice to put a mask to yours," quipped OneLegUp. "Thanks for handling all the wolves."

"I was glad to help."

BlueMarco laughed and offered his hand to shake. "Glad to get the skins, too, I bet!"

"Naturally," Taylor shook. It was disconcerting to have people willing to touch him, even after all the practice Miss Florence and her people put him through. They got paid. BlueMarco and the other neighboring legates shook his hand because they wanted to. "I think we all made out pretty well. Except the wolves."

They laughed.

When his nine-minute limit neared, he pushed his way to a paper screen in one corner of the room and rested in the conveniently provided chair. One of his new accessories was a pocket watch with a countdown function. He set it for five minutes and ate tiny sandwiches until his break was up. Then set it for eight minutes and plowed into the crowd again.

He joined a line dance, one of the easy ones with entirely predetermined steps, danced in groups of three couples. He simply found a girl his age who was looking for a partner but couldn't find one, introduced himself, and asked. They joined a group of four that were about the same age, at the children's end of the line.

"Are you really the cursed d'Mourne?" she asked him on the first promenade.

"Yes. Why would anyone wear a mask like this if they didn't have to?"

"But," she asked on the cross-arm pass, "you could be anyone under there."

Their conversation continued in bits and pieces during the dance.

"Can you prove you're Blythe Petham?"

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

"Who else would I be?"

"Anyone, for all I know."

"Ask around. Lots of people here know who I am."

"But how do they know who you are?"

"They can see my face, silly!"

"Oh. Why didn't I think of that?"

On the next promenade, she apologized.

"Don't feel bad," he told her. "I'm having fun."

He thanked her for the dance and checked his watch.

"We could go again," she offered. "I wouldn't mind."

"Neither would I, but there isn't time. I have to manage my exposure to other people."

"What happens if you stay too long?"

"People get very mean."

She grabbed his arm as he tried to leave. "How mean?"

He examined her face closely before he answered. He didn't sense malice or any kind of purpose. She was just curious. "Enough to ruin the party."

He took another break and another dive into the masses.

"Vincent, son of Legate Stodeley." A boy introduced himself. "And these are Anthony and Annabel. You wouldn't know us, we're from the other end of the province." They were part of the group he danced with earlier.

"Bilius d'Mourne."

"Wyvern slayer, right? What's with the mask? Are you really cursed?"

"Yes and yes. My face looks normal, but anyone who sees it hates me instantly. And the mask just buys a little time. It doesn't fix anything."

"Wicked," allowed Anthony.

"Weird," said Annabel.

"Both true."

"So how'd you do it? How'd you kill the wyverns?" The three children hung on his next words.

"I was lucky. They killed and ate my pony, and I cast spells at them while they were distracted. I didn't set out to hunt them, you know. That would be crazy. Normally, I just go after wolves. We don't have very many fighting men left in the area, so I kind of got drafted to help out."

Downsell, downplay, be casual. Those were his conversational tactics of the day.

"Does Stodeley have any animal problems like that?"

"Horned rabbits," they said together, and laughed.

"They're cute," Annabel explained, "and very soft, but they break into people's cellars and eat everything. And the horn is no joke. Even your white wolves wouldn't want to mess with them."

"And they're fast," said Anthony.

They talked until his pocketwatch dinged at him. Taylor made his excuses and retreated. Another pause, another dance with Blythe and the kids from Stodley, and he felt like things were going well.

That is, until he returned to his resting place and discovered someone was there, attacking his sandwiches.

She was in the dress uniform of the Imperial Expedition Corps, the men's version, with the same dark blue cloak and two columns of shiny buttons as Father wore in the old portrait. She didn't have as many ribbons, but she did have a pair of medals: the Extermination Shield and the Valorous Cross. The short cape was a dashing touch, a recent addition to the uniform. She kept her blonde hair short around an angular face. She was probably at her fighting peak, a little over thirty.

She stopped eating and stared at Taylor, her cheeks full, as if he were the one intruding.

"You know there's a better selection in the buffet rooms, right?"

"Were these yours? You're out. Go get me some more," she said with her mouth full.

"I don't see why I should. You should leave, before my curse gets to you."

She nearly choked on his sandwiches and laughter, and had to chug all of his water to clear her airway. "Are you burdened by dark knowledge, great purpose, and a terrible curse? Very dramatic! The mask is a nice touch."

"Just a moderate curse. None of the other stuff." He leaned against the wall and observed her feast. Someone had refilled the platter while he wasn't looking, and this new woman was determined to demolish it completely. "I'm Bilius d'Mourne," he held out his hand, palm up, "son of Legate d'Mourne."

She didn't return the gesture. "Never heard of you."

"And you are?"

"None of your business. Fetch the food, runt. See if they have any of those puffy pastry things with crayfish inside."

"No," he said experimentally, "get your own food."

The soldier glared at him. "What did you say to me?"

"Are you always this rude, or are you trying to intimidate me? Because this is a little much."

"I'm too much? You're wearing a mask."

"I have to wear a mask. What's your excuse?"

The stranger laughed, full-throated and loud enough that the nearby partygoers were probably looking their way. "Cool your heels, short stuff. If you're out of food, I'm out of here."

She swanned out of his rest area with a swish of her capelette, leaving him with a devastated plate and an empty pitcher. Possibly, she had just come off the train from Grisham's Wall and had to rush to the ball without having lunch. Or, she was one of those people who did whatever they pleased, but didn't mean any harm. For several minutes, he made do with the remnants of his savaged platter.

The dance music stopped, replaced by the governor's fanfare. Taylor went into the stilled crowd to watch her procession. She came from the doors to the inner recesses of the palace, attended by ministers and ladies, wearing an expansive dress designed to glitter in the declining light and take up as much space as possible, and seated herself on a dais to watch the proceedings. The audience bowed to her great personage and rose when bidden.

"Continue," she said, and the dances began again. Taylor was too far away to see her clearly, but he recognized the uniform running across the hall to join her on the dais — his interloper. The rude woman stood beside the governor and watched everyone who approached. She didn't appear armed, but Taylor bet she was.

A line formed to greet the governor, made chiefly of the legates who were in attendance, and a few wealthy individuals. The dances carried on while she greeted her guests. These were working hours for her, and she was unlikely to get a chance to enjoy the evening at all.

"We're cutting in." Curator Jane found him, and steered him by the shoulder to the front of the line. "Remember your manners."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.