1: Lady in Gold

Pret Deavos looked down on the ballroom from his high balcony, watching the nobility below mix and mingle. From down there, on ground level, the throng of people looked random, disorganised, but from his vantage point Pret could see that the patrons all met and swivelled and parted in an elaborate social dance, different groups of important families and their orbiting attendants, those of lower status swinging past briefly before looping around to pass a different congregation. The women wore flowing gowns of all colours that stopped just short of the ankle, as was the current fashion. Some also had a high collar, a cole, that covered their right cheek and ear, but these were becoming less and less common. Their counterparts we bedecked in dark, tight-fitting vests with voluminous sleeves that proved useful for holding personal items. Pret preferred to have less fabric around his arms and so his sleeves extended only to his elbows; enough to hold and small personal effects, but short enough to still have a full range of movement of his arms, should he need it. He hoped he would not.

The patrons continued to dance and talk, presided over by the Duchess and her husband, who sat on a raised dais directly below the balcony. One of the large double doors opened, allowing the pooled light to spill out into the night, shadows dancing over the gardens and marble statues that surrounded the ballroom. Pret caught a glimpse of a man with a spear raised, frozen mid-step. It was a likeness of the Duchess’ husband, on the day he routed the Southern Lord. As if to balance the light escaping the doors, an ebony-haired woman stepped inside. Her golden gown rose from her toes to her nose, the cole covering the entire right side of her face and slanting down to obscure even part of her left cheek. The door closed behind her and Pret could see her inhale deeply, slowly, and then set off into the crowd. Something in his gut twinged and he felt at his belt unconsciously to make sure he still had his sword and pistol.

Turning to Marc, the uniformed man beside him, Pret murmured, “Have someone follow the Lady in gold who just arrived. Something doesn’t feel right.” Marc nodded and moved quickly down the stairs to floor level. Pret turned his focus back to the ballroom, trying to locate the woman… but couldn’t. He scanned back and forth, but saw only dresses of orange or lime or perhaps yellow, but none the burnished gold of the newest Lady. His eyes flicked down in alarm to the Duchess, his heart beating faster, but the High Lady seemed unperturbed, laughing to the Lady sitting to her right. His hand again moved to his pistol—to find the holster empty. He looked down, grabbing at his sword, but the scabbard was vacant of steel too. He heard a polite cough and spun around to see the golden-garbed Lady leaning against the wall, his sword resting lazily in her right hand and his pistol held steadily in her left, pointed towards him. He tensed to lunge at her but she cocked the pistol, shaking her head.

“I was expecting more from the Captain of the Guard.” She said, the words sliding from a mouth hidden behind the wide cole. Her one visible eye was a deep, dark purple that seemed to overlap itself, the colour looping and sinking beneath and around her pupil. She lifted the sword, letting it slice slowly through the air. The barrel of the pistol never wavered. “You men are all so brutish, so heavy-handed. You don’t even notice when a lighter touch is used.”

“How did you get past Marc?” Pret growled.

The Lady’s visible eyebrow creased in mock concern. “Oh dear, that wasn’t the man you sent to look after me, was it? I’m afraid he won’t be waking up tonight. Whether he wakes at all… well, that’s up to what you do now. You see, he somehow swallowed a lethal dose of the Taint. However, I happen to have a dose of the cure here.” She pulled a thin vial filled with a swirling translucent liquid from the back of her cole.

Pret froze. If what she said was true… No one would have any of the cure, not this far from the Rift. And if Marc was truly Tainted and left unattended to, the entire nobility in attendance would be in danger. “For all I know, you’re lying.” He said, hating his voice for cracking.

The Lady cocked her head, her long black hair sweeping past her shoulders, and asked, “Can you take that chance?”

Before Pret could respond, she lobbed the vial toward the stairwell and sprinted for the balcony railing. Letting out a roar born of indecision and regret, Pret leapt for the vial.