“… You may be most assured we have, Adonai. You threatened my master, after all…”
“No threat, daemon, but a vow,” the speaker replied. Whipping his blade across his other wrist, Adonai let two long gouts of crimson spill forth. “And on matters of blood, count upon a speaker’s vow, ye may.”
Mercurio’s heart sank as he heard boots tromping in the hall outside. He glanced over his shoulder, saw at least two dozen Luminatii assembling just outside the room. Ornate suits of gravebone armor. Blazing sunsteel blades setting the shadows dancing. Scarlet cloaks edged in purple.
Scaeva’s elite guard.
Sidonius drew his sword with a curse, Bladesinger beside him, each setting their backs against the other. But Mercurio only glanced at them and shook his head.
“This is no time for heroics, children.”
The bishop of Godsgrave turned rheumy eyes to the shadowviper.
“How long have you known we were coming?”
“… Since first you set foot in one of Godsgrave’s shadows, old man…”
Mercurio sighed, reached into his cloak, and retrieved a cigarillo from his wooden case. Striking his purloined flintbox, he lit the smoke, breathed gray into the air.
“So what now?”
“… My master, Julius Scaeva, People’s Senator and imperator of the Itreyan Republic, requests the pleasure of your company at his grand gala this eve. However, I must insist you abide by the dress code…”
“Dress code?” Sidonius growled.
Half a dozen of the elite stepped into the room, eyes on Adonai, sunsteel burning in their hands. One held out a set of heavy manacles as Whisper hissed.
“… Iron is in fashion this season…”
CHAPTER 43
CRIMSON
Mercurio could smell the fear as soon as he walked into the room.
On the surface, it was a picture of opulent splendor. The finest of Godsgrave society, perhaps a thousand dons and donas, filling the great hall to brimming. A kaleidoscope of color and sound, of shimmering silk and glittering jewels. The ballroom itself was gravebone and gold, ringed with statues of Aa and his Four Daughters. Graven pillars rose to the high ceiling like the trunks of ancient elms, vast chandeliers of singing Dweymeri crystal glittered like stars in the high gables overhead. The dance floor was a revolving mekwerk mosaic of the three suns, inlaid with gold. The long tables were set with delicacies from every corner of the Republic—sizzling meats roasting over open coals, the sweetest treats laid out on silver platters. A twenty-piece orchestra played on a mezzanine above, the beautiful notes of a sonata drifting over the throng like smoke.
The guests were all arrayed in their finery, like songbirds in a jeweled cage. They hid their faces behind a multitude of astonishing masks—dominos of finest porcelain, voltos of black glass, masks made of peacock plumage and carved coral, of glittering crystal and flowing silks, smiling, frowning, laughing. Slave-marked servants wore gladiatii helms and suits of armor decorated with gold filigree—perhaps some nod to Scaeva’s miraculous survival at the Venatus Magni. They carried silver trays set with Dweymeri crystal glasses, overflowing with the finest vintages, the most precious goldwines. Candied treats and spiced fruits. Cigarillos and needles loaded with ink.
But Mercurio could still smell the fear.
The doors were sealed and locked behind them, heavy bolts sliding into place. The elite legionaries marched forward, leading their prisoners on, Mercurio, Sidonius, Bladesinger, Adonai stalking last of all, hands manacled behind their backs. The guests parted before them, some watching with curious eyes. But most still looked to the far end of the room, to the dais where the consuls’ chairs had once stood.
At its heart, the Itreyan Republic had been founded on a single simple principle—all tenure of power was shared, and all tenure of power was short. A senator could sit as consul only once, and even then, that senator shared their role with another. Consuls were supposed to be elected during truedark—during the very Carnivalé going on around them. But instead?
Since the Kingmaker Rebellion, Julius Scaeva had been twisting that fundamental truth, worming through the Republic’s constitution as if it were rotten fruit. Loudly and publicly refusing the ever-increasing responsibilities he’d orchestrated for himself, accepting them only reluctantly for the “security of our glorious Republic.”
Before the uprising that ended their monarchy, the kings of Itreya had worn a gravebone crown on their brows. After the insurrection that finished them, that crown was kept in the Senate House, still stained with the blood of the last king who wore it. The plinth it rested upon was engraved with the words Nonquis Itarem.