Blackveil

With Yap freshly shaved and his hair trimmed, and attired in brand new well-fitted clothing, he looked not only content, but dapper, like a proper gentleman, though his specs, now repaired, gave him a somewhat scholarly demeanor. No one would mistake him for a pirate, at least by appearances alone.

The two were now returning home after a shopping trip to acquire supplies useful to their forthcoming journey. With Yap’s seafaring background to guide him, Amberhill purchased hardy oilskins and had shoes made that would be more suitable for being aboard ship than his fancy riding boots. He purchased woolens and even a brimmed hat to keep the sun off his face. Yap advised him to expect every type of weather once they were out to sea.

Other parcels that filled the carriage contained more new clothing for Yap, including a pair of shoes. Yap had proven strangely resistant to the idea of shoes and stockings, but he caved when Amberhill insisted.

“Sorry, sir,” Yap had said at the shoemaker’s shop. “Just been without for so long that barefoot is the most natural thing in the world.”

He showed Amberhill the bottom of his feet which were textured like hard leather. Impressive though this might be, without shoes his appearance as a gentleman was incomplete, and that wasn’t even considering the state of his toenails.

Amberhill gazed absently out his window at the traffic in the street, at all the wagons, riders, and pedestrians going about their daily business of buying and selling, building and crafting. His driver expertly guided the carriage around slower going conveyances, but their progress was still sluggish and Amberhill mourned not having his Goss to ride through the crowds. It was much easier to maneuver through the traffic on horseback than in a carriage pulled by a pair of horses, no matter how fine the pair or expert the driver. Alas, he’d sent Goss home to the Amberhill estate for breeding and the stallion would soon be having a jolly time covering mares. His offspring would, Amberhill hoped, provide some of the finest stock ever seen in Sacoridia and propel his stable to prominence.

They passed a rickety old cart pulled by a swaybacked mule and with a jolt of surprise, Amberhill recognized the driver: Galen Miller, the old man he’d saved from the thugs outside the Cock and Hen. Galen Miller guided his mule up the Winding Way at an agonizing plod, his hands trembling and twitching as he held the reins. His expression was grim and intent.

Amberhill wondered what his business was and if he’d made good use of the silvers he’d been given. But Amberhill did not call out to Galen Miller. He’d been of the shadows that night, in a different role, and he preferred not to be recognized. In his current role as a nobly born gentleman, it would be unseemly to call out and wave to someone of such obvious low station.

Galen Miller’s cart fell behind and Amberhill shrugged. He had little interest in the old man’s life story, but he couldn’t help being curious about what had brought him to Sacor City, or being concerned about the continuing welfare of a man he’d gone out of his way to assist.

Just as well, he thought. I’ve enough with which to occupy myself.

With surprising ease he dismissed Galen Miller from his mind and busied himself by going over his various business affairs and deciding which required his personal attention prior to his departure, and which did not. Truly, there was not much he could come up with, for his man-of-business was very efficient and capable.

Presently they entered the noble quarter and the carriage picked up speed down the less crowded street that fronted many a large and extravagant manse. Yap’s open-mouthed snore provided counterpoint to the sharp clip-clop of hooves.

When they arrived at Amberhill’s more modest house, Brigham—who no longer paled every time he saw Yap—greeted him at the door.

“There are several parcels in the carriage that need to be brought in,” Amberhill informed his manservant. “Mister Yap will assist.”

“Yes, sir. Sir, while you were out, this letter came for you.” Brigham handed him an envelope then stepped outside to where Yap had begun to unload the carriage.

Amberhill curiously gazed at the envelope, his name scripted in gold. The dual seals made him raise his eyebrows. When he looked inside, he saw it was an invitation to the masquerade ball Lady Estora had mentioned to him, in which she included a personal note: I realize you must be nearly ready to embark on your journey, but I hope I may persuade you to delay your departure for a few days yet. It would make Zachary and me very happy if you could attend our ball.

Amberhill’s immediate thought was to send her his regrets, but then he reconsidered. It had been several years since his last masquerade ball and he remembered enjoying the mystery of it all, the ability to hide behind a mask and take on another role. As a man who once wore a mask regularly and moved in the shadows, a masquerade held special appeal. Who else might be in attendance? What secret trysts might occur? What undercurrents and intrigue would transpire that would not otherwise be present with unmasked guests?

He did not wish to encumber himself with people making tiresome inquiries about his journey, and he’d already taken leave of Zachary and Lady Estora. However, since he wished to remain anonymous and avoid entanglements, he could respond to Estora saying he would be coming and yet not have his presence announced to the gathering. He would not have to remove his mask.

His journey, he decided, could wait a few days. He glanced at his dragon ring and the quiet glow of the ruby. It did not protest and he smiled.

At least it was not the broil of summer, Hank Fenn thought as he leaned on his pike in the Hanging Square. He stood guard over three corpses just lowered from the gallows and laid out on the paving stones. He’d drawn old blankets over them.