Masquerades - Kate Novak [126]
The Tower was alight with magical faerie fire, which formed the symbols of all the noble houses of Westgate, from Athagdal to Vhammos. Alias shuddered to think about all the nobles' homes guarded only by sleepy servants. The Night Masks must make quite a haul on nights like these, she realized.
There was a small queue of glittering nobles inside the Tower's entrance.
"What are we waiting for?" Alias whispered.
"This is a formal ball," he explained. "We must be announced, so the others present know we are here."
"And can give us the once-over," Alias mused.
"Don't worry," Victor said. "You look radiant."
When they reached the front of the queue, Victor leaned over to give their names to the acting seneschal, another member of the watch with a white capelet and white plume.
"Lord Victor of House Dhostar," the seneschal announced. "Alias, Foe of the Faceless, and Dragonbait, Companion of Alias."
"Foe of the Faceless?" Alias repeated with disbelief, her laughter muffled behind her mask.
"It's the thought on everyone's mind, here," said Victor. "You might as well admit it."
Dragonbait pushed on his mask, which kept slipping up on his reptilian muzzle. He wished irritably that the Foe of the Faceless had not chosen him a mask with feathers. They kept tickling his eyes.
The interior of the Tower was awash with light. Hundreds of candles burned from a large central chandelier of cast iron, and all about the perimeter hung magical globes of light enchanted to appear as if salamanders and efreeti were dancing inside the orbs. Two great mirrors hung opposite one another, reflecting back into the room all the light they caught and creating the illusion of two infinite corridors filled with revelers.
The watch officers' desks had become buffet tables, and a ten-piece orchestra was playing a rondo. A dozen couples occupied the center of the floor, spinning in their own little orbits around an imaginary central point. The stairs to the upper levels were blocked by more of the watch, decked in white plumage.
The guests' clothing was rich and varied, but it was the masks that impressed Alias the most. They ranged from simple domino masks and silk veils to full face sculptures of papier mache and enamel. There were silvered globes of the sort worn by priests of Leira, the goddess of illusion, and more than a few veils of strung coins or beads. Most amusing were the masks that were common to street theaters everywhere: the Merchant, the Gossip, the Red Wizard, the Cat Burglar, the Twins.
Alias spotted Durgar dressed in his silvered armor but wearing the mask of the Doctor, a pompous character in street plays who always offered bad advice. With its high forehead, bulbous nose, and thick handlebar mustache,
the mask looked like a parody of Durgar's own face. The swordswoman would never have credited the priest with such a sense of humor.
Catching sight of Haztor Urdo's black, puffed out hair, Alias paused to watch him. The Night Mask noble was wearing the mask of another theater staple-Captain Crocodile, the foolish, brash young warrior who blusters, but at heart seeks only love. Haztor was flirting with a woman dressed in an extremely low-cut gown made of fabric covered in mirrored facets and a silvered globe mask. Alias watched them just long enough to see the woman slap the young man and stalk off.
Alias chuckled. "Their battles are fought at the ball," she quoted.
"Pardon?" Victor asked.
"A song that my-" She hesitated a moment. "That Finder Wyvernspur wrote about nobility in general," she explained. In a low voice audible only to Victor and Dragonbait, adjusting to the rhythm of the orchestra, Alias sang softly:
"For all of their dancing,
Posturing, prancing,
They'll fight with their backs to the wall.
Till then they are eating
And drinking and meeting;
Their battles are fought at the ball."
Victor smiled. "That sounds like Westgate," he agreed. "Good evening, Lady Nettel," he said.
Alias turned to greet the elderly Thalavar matriarch.