Moria had never attended a grand reception, but she’d often read of them in books, particularly the type Ashyn liked to secret under her pillow while pretending to be enraptured by a tome on the social history of nomadic desert tribes. Receptions and balls featured prominently in many a romantic tale. This particular scenario seemed straight out of one. The awkward girl, transformed by silk and rice powder, walking into the party on the arm of a dashing warrior, as the gaping crowds part to let them through.
In books, Moria always skipped that part. And so she did tonight, at least mentally. She walked in on Gavril’s arm, and the assembled guests could have pulled faces and stuck out their tongues for all she noticed. She was too busy looking about for escape routes.
If she did attract attention, it could be attributed to the fact that she was one of very few women at the reception. It mattered little anyway. When admiring glances lingered for more than a moment, they were scattered by a glower from Gavril. That was perhaps the most unfair part of all. She had to smile and twitter and act as if he was the most wonderful boy she’d ever met. He could be his usual cold and surly self, and if anything, it enhanced the performance, giving the appearance of a possessive and attentive fiancé.
She did have one source of petty pleasure, and it came from the fact that he seemed as uncomfortable in his dress attire as she felt in her gown. He’d been wearing it earlier. She’d not noticed, any more than he’d noticed her dress. It was only when she caught him pulling and tugging at it now that she took note. It was, like hers, formal wear. His trousers were loose and pleated. Over his tunic he wore a robe nearly as intricately embroidered and bejeweled as the top layer of her dress.
As for how he looked in it, she did not allow that assessment to cross her mind. She knew him for what he truly was—a liar, a traitor, the young man who’d have let her rot in a dungeon—and that was all she saw when she looked at him. Which made it all the more difficult to feign those admiring glances.
Fortunately, Moria had too much else on her mind to simmer over the outrage of this charade. Each time they passed an exit—there were three—she noted how well it was guarded. She mentally configured this room within the outside of the building, based on her walks about the grounds, determining which exit led to which door and which would provide the best escape route. The answer seemed simple—the northern exit, which would take her to the less guarded northern end of the compound. And tonight, the goddess truly did shine on her, because that exit also led to the toilet pits.
Moria made sure to drink too much water and tea, ensuring she’d need to make several trips to the toilets. When the need first arose, not long after they’d been in the reception, Gavril seemed happy for the excuse to leave the party. So happy that he didn’t even insist on escorting her all the way, waiting instead in the first hall. That gave her time to explore.
In between trips, Moria took careful note of who she met. The main guests were the two warlords. They were debating whether to join Alvar’s forces, which Emperor Tatsu would be very interested in knowing. There were others, too—men of varying positions who either hadn’t declared themselves for the Kitsunes yet or hadn’t done so officially, acting as spies in the imperial court. All useful information.
Moria and Gavril made their rounds of the guests. They ate and watched a poetry recital. Moria managed not to fall asleep during the recital, which would have pleased Ashyn. Gavril barely even feigned interest in it, looking about, paying her and the poet little heed.
“I’ll need to use the toilets again soon,” she whispered as the primary poet left the stage, to be replaced by the secondary one.
“It’s the middle of a performance,” Gavril said, shooting her a look of annoyance.
“Which is why I said soon. After it’s over.”
When it finished, he was the one to remind her, saying this would be a good time, before the acrobatic performance began.
He was escorting her toward the exit when they were stopped by Lord Kuro Tanuki and his son. They’d met both earlier—a short and formal conversation. That was when the two men were sober, which they no longer were. In fact, they were clearly, exceedingly, not sober.
Lord Tanuki stumbled into their path and thumped a meaty hand on Gavril’s shoulder.
“You’ve grown up well,” Tanuki said. “Very well indeed. The last time we met, you were just a skinny boy, running around court with the emperor’s bastard. A useful friendship, as it turned out.”
He winked at Gavril, then did the same to Moria. He seemed to expect some response from her, but she was struggling to think of a way to word her own question. You speak of Tyrus. Does he live? Tell me he lives.
There was no way to ask without betraying herself, so she held her tongue and prayed he’d give some sign that he did not speak of the prince in the past tense.
“Yes, you’ve grown up well,” Tanuki said. “Strong and sturdy, like your father. But you take after your mother in looks, which is particularly fortuitous.” He laughed at his own joke, then thumped his son for comment, but his son was too busy staring at Moria to notice.
“They do make a striking couple, don’t they?” Tanuki said. “They’ll have very handsome children.”
“I’ve never bedded a Northern girl,” his son blurted.
Even his father sputtered at that. The son seemed too drunk to realize his impropriety and kept staring at Moria.
“Her hair is like golden fire,” the son said. “Is it the same color down—?”
His father cut him off with a thump to the back of the head hard enough for the son to stumble. Lord Tanuki laughed, too loudly, as if he could drown out any more indiscreet comments. “We’ll need to find you a Northern girl to check for yourself. Another Northern girl. This one is taken, and from the looks young Gavril is giving you, if you continue speculating in that fashion, we’ll all be witnessing a sword fight instead of an acrobatic performance.”
“My apologies, Lord Tanuki,” Gavril said stiffly, sounding not apologetic at all. “I am unaccustomed to being betrothed.”
“And my son is unaccustomed to your father’s rice wine. It is good to see you so taken with your bride. As a man who has been married nearly three decades, I can assure you that it helps a great deal. You will be very happy together. Not that there was any doubt of your mutual affection, given what the young Keeper did for you.”
Before he could continue, one of his men came to tell him that Alvar wished to speak to him. Lord Tanuki said he’d be right there and then turned to Moria. “That was quite a feat, my lady. A difficult one, I’m sure, leaving your sister and your wildcat behind. The empire may not hold you in very high regard now, but once Alvar Kitsune triumphs, people will understand the sacrifice you made.”
“Sacrifice?” Moria said, but Tanuki was already walking away, following his man to Alvar. Moria turned to Gavril. “What is he talking about?”
For a moment, Gavril seemed not to hear her. He stared after Tanuki and there was an odd look in his eyes, as if a horrible thought had just dawned on him.
“Kitsune,” she hissed, tugging his arm. “What is he talking about?”
“I—I don’t know.” He turned to face her, but his gaze didn’t meet hers. He appeared genuinely confused, and more than a little concerned. “Wait here. I must have a word with my father.”
“But—”
He strode off. As he did, Moria glanced around. She was at the party, alone. Completely alone, as people returned to watch the acrobatic performance.
She peered toward the hall leading to the toilet pits. A few guests still streamed out, rushing back to the main room as the performance began.
Moria gave one last look around. Her gaze settled on Gavril, now across the reception hall, speaking to his father and completely preoccupied.
She hurried for the hall.
Moria knew exactly where she needed to go. Getting there was somewhat more complicated. Not least because she was stuck wearing the blasted dress for as long as she could reasonably expect to bump into someone. And until then, she was as inconspicuous as a peacock.
She took the circuitous route she’d noticed earlier and managed to avoid two guards. Then, as she was creeping down the final corridor, a voice whispered by her ear, Wait. She paused.
Not yet, child, the spirit whispered.
Moria tilted her head, and as she did, she caught the grunt and sigh of a bored guard at his post ahead. She zipped around the corner.
“You deign to help me now?” she muttered. “About time.”
A second spirit answered, Impatient child.
Impertinent, a third spirit sniffed.
Moria glowered. What good did it do to hear the dead if they would not even help when you were trapped in the enemy camp? Ashyn would point out that there hadn’t been a way to help until now, but Moria was in no mood to be charitable.
Shhh, child. It was the first spirit again. Heed me.
Heed only me—that’s what it meant. Moria focused on the first spirit and ignored the mutterings and mumblings of the other two.
This way.
Moria followed the first spirit’s whispers back down the hall, then along another one. She ended up near where she’d been heading, but approaching from the opposite side. When she peeked around the corner, she could see a single warrior guard, shuffling and grunting with boredom. Wide-awake and alert, though. Looking for trouble. Hoping for it, to break the monotony.
Blast it.
The exit door was right there. Once through it, she’d be outside, on the north end of the compound. All she had to do was get past one guard.
She fingered her dagger and peered out again. She could throw it from here and catch him in the neck.
And raise a commotion that would bring every other guard running.
Was that truly what stayed her hand? A fortnight ago, she’d never have considered hurting an innocent man, possibly killing him. Now . . . ? There was still hesitation, but how much of it was reluctance and how much was simple concern that the ploy would fail?
It was only three paces to the door. If she could distract the guard . . .
She reached under her gown. All she carried with her were the dagger and the wildcat figurine. There was little question of which she should use, but still she hesitated. She clutched the figurine. To lose it felt like losing Daigo himself again, and her chest seized at the thought.
Yes, child, the spirit whispered. You must.
She braced herself, then she took aim and pitched the figurine as far as she could down the hall, letting it bounce off the distant wall.
The guard jumped. He looked around. Then he started toward the object on the floor, pulled by his boredom and curiosity. Moria slipped from her hiding place, crossed the three paces to the door, eased it open, and escaped.