Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle #1) - Jay Kristoff Page 0,110

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.”

“Very good.” The servant stepped to the top of the ballroom stairs and announced in a loud voice, “Bara Cuddlegiver of the Seaspear clan, and companion.”

A few of the three-hundred-odd guests glanced in the pair’s direction, but most of the throng continued with their conversations. Mia took Tric’s arm and led him down the stairs, nodding at the folk who’d looked their way. She waved down a passing servant, who lit a black cigarillo in a slender ivory holder and handed it over dutifully. Mia slipped the smoke through her masque’s lips and breathed a contented, gray sigh.

“Cuddlegiver?” Tric hissed.

“Better than Pigfiddler.”

“’Byss and blood, Mia…”

“What?” she smirked. “I’m sure you give lovely cuddles.”

“Black Mother help me,” Tric sighed. “I need a fucking drink…”

Fourteen servants materialized beside the boy, bearing trays with almost every beverage under the suns. Tric looked taken aback, finally shrugged and took two goldwines.

“Very thoughtful of you,” Mia said, reaching for a glass.

“Sod off, these are mine. You get your own.”

Mia looked about the sea of masques, silk, skin. A string quartet played on a mezzanine above, a perfume of beautiful notes hanging in the air. Couples danced in the room’s heart, clusters of well-heeled men and well-frocked women chatting and laughing and flirting. The music of golden rings against crystal glasses rang amid the hidden faces. Aalea was right; it was easy to forget who she was among all this.

Mia sighed. Shook her head.

“It’s a sight,” Tric agreed.

“This used to be my world,” she said softly. “Never thought I’d miss it.”

The sharp chime of metal on crystal caught her attention, and Mia turned to the mezzanine above. The music stopped as all eyes looked up to a smiling gent, half his face hidden by a domino of beaten gold. His coat was silk, embroidered with golden thread, the cravat at his throat studded with gems, rings on every finger.

Our host, Praetor Marconi, no doubt.

“Ladies and gentlefriends,” the man spoke, his voice rich and deep. “I welcome you to my humble home, one and all. I’m not one to speak overlong and part you from your revels, but it is the season of Great Tithe, and I would be remiss if I did not give my thanks to each of you, and most of all, to our glorious consul, Julius Scaeva.”

Mia found her jaw clenching. Eyes scanning the crowd.

“Alas, our noble consul could not attend our gala, but still, I’d have each of you charge a glass and raise it in his honor. Six years have passed since the Kingmakers sought to slave us once more beneath monarchy’s yoke. Six years since Consul Scaeva saved the Republic, and ushered in a golden age of peace and prosperity. Without him, none of this would be possible.”

The young praetor raised a glass.