24
Fletcher remembered little of the rickety carriage ride to Corcillum, or Arcturus ushering them up the stairs and into the dusty beds of the Anvil Tavern. It was a hazy mix of sleeping and waking, of furtive whispers and stolen glances in the darkness.
He had slept through the night and, it seemed, most of the day also – for the view from his room’s window when he was woken by the scent of cooking was the dim blue of winter afternoon. Othello’s bed was empty, so he stumbled down the wooden steps to find the source of the delicious smell, tripping over an abandoned boot he had wrenched off on his way up the night before.
He was ravenously hungry, his stomach cramping like a clenched fist with every mouth-watering sniff of the food downstairs. Leaping the last steps, Fletcher came upon a group of tables in front of the bar, haphazardly pushed together and piled high with platters of steaming food. There were fried eggs with fat, golden yolks, and still-sizzling sausages as thick as his wrist. Crisp, thick-cut potato slices sat in bowls, browned to perfection, topped with a garnish of steamed spinach and tossed with fried garlic cloves and sprigs of tarragon. Glass jugs of pulpy orange juice completed the picture, along with pitchers of crystal-clear water.
It was a feast that could feed a small army, but there were only five seated around the table, already halfway through their meal. His teammates did little more than grunt at him, still devouring the food as if it might disappear at any moment. But there was someone else at the head of the table. A figure clad in green robes, who was as short as Othello and Cress.
‘Well, look who’s up!’ said a familiar voice.
It was Briss, Othello’s mother. Fletcher grinned and bent down to give her a big hug, which she returned fondly.
‘Hurry up and get some food inside you,’ she said, waving him over to a seat beside the others. ‘Othello showed me a piece of that jerky you’ve been eating over the past few days. Horrendous!’
Fletcher didn’t need to be told twice, pausing only to grab a knife and fork before stuffing his mouth. The next few glorious minutes were spent chewing and swallowing in silence, until his chin was stained with yellow yolk and his belly felt fuller than it had ever been in his life.
‘Your mother has already eaten, poor dear,’ Briss chattered, filling the void with conversation. ‘Thaissa is upstairs looking after her – she’ll be bathed by now and tucked up in bed. The King says he’ll get her the best care in all of Hominum, so don’t you worry about her.’
By the end, the food had somehow miraculously been reduced to a few tattered scraps.
Othello unleashed an exaggerated groan and rubbed his bulging midriff.
‘You’ve murdered us,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Death by food.’
‘How are you supposed to fit into your costumes now?’ Briss teased, prodding his belly. ‘I’ll have to adjust them at this rate.’
‘Costumes?’ Fletcher asked.
Briss sighed from beneath her green veil and stood. It was only then that Fletcher noticed the folded clothing on a table behind her, along with a pair of what looked like shoeboxes.
‘For the ball,’ Cress sighed, her voice glum. ‘When we sneak in.’
‘Well, don’t sound too excited,’ Fletcher said, even though the reminder of their new mission filled him with trepidation, too.
‘You’ll see,’ Othello grumbled. ‘You got off easy. Anyway, I don’t see why you’re complaining, Cress. I’ve got the worst outfit of all.’
Cress broke into a broad grin, her morose expression fading at his words.
‘All right, settle down,’ Briss chuckled, waving her hand for silence. She picked up a red bundle of cloth and frills, then handed it to Sylva, who took it with an apprehensive look.
‘From what Othello has told me, this might not be to your taste, but you have to look the part,’ Briss said sheepishly. ‘I’ve made a few of these before, and they’re very popular with the young ladies of the nobility. There’s a hot bath ready upstairs for you and all the necessaries. Go try it on up there, then Thaissa will help you with your hair.’
‘I’m sure I’ll love it,’ Sylva mumbled, trying to hide her misgivings. She trudged slowly up the stairs, holding the dress as if it were a poisonous snake.
‘Right, now – let’s see if this fits,’ Briss said brightly, once Sylva had gone. She took a pink garment from the table and shook it out. It was a flowing robe, complete with embroidered flowers around the hems of the sleeves and a delicate veil secured with a silver chain along the bottom. It was very pretty and Fletcher could imagine Cress cutting a fine figure in this traditional dwarven garb. But …
‘The veil,’ Fletcher said. ‘No wonder you’re so grumpy, Cress. Still, it’s just for one night.’
Othello shuffled his feet, his face flushing the same colour as the robes.
‘Well, yeah, but … that’s not mine,’ Cress chortled, turning on the reddening dwarf. ‘Othello, I think pink is your colour – it goes very well with your complexion.’
‘Oh, bloody hell,’ Othello groaned.
Fletcher couldn’t help but burst out laughing as the morose dwarf shuffled forward and allowed his mother to tug the robe over his head.
‘Just don’t tell Atilla,’ Othello begged, as Cress cackled and arranged the veil over his face, tucking in a stray wisp of red beard.
‘He should come and have a look, see what he’d look like in a dress,’ Fletcher chuckled. ‘He is your twin, after all.’
‘Trust me, I wish Atilla was in your shoes,’ Cress said, wiping a tear from her eye. ‘Or should I say, your gown!’
She doubled over into hysterics again, and Othello slumped back into his chair in defeat.
‘I don’t understand,’ Fletcher said, getting his laughter under control. ‘Why is he wearing a gown?’
‘Arcturus, Lovett and I have been up all night, working out a plan on how to get you through the palace undetected. Obviously there won’t be any dwarves invited to the ball, but there will be plenty of dwarven servers, all female, all wearing this uniform. So, Othello’s going to be playing dress-up today. It wouldn’t be the first time – remember when you were five years old, Othello, and …’
‘All right, enough now,’ Othello said loudly, tossing a half-eaten sausage at his mother. She ducked it and took another, identical robe from the table, then handed it to Cress.
‘You know, somehow this doesn’t seem so bad any more,’ Cress said cheerfully, letting the garment unravel and holding it against her body. ‘I haven’t worn a robe in ages.’
She shrugged on her own, leaving the veil on the table. Then she twirled, the loose muslin floating in the air, her eyes sparkling as she tossed her red hair.
‘It looks wonderful,’ Briss said, covering her mouth to hide her smile of pleasure.
‘It really does,’ Othello agreed, then cleared his throat awkwardly.
Fletcher could not see Othello’s face, but he imagined the dwarf’s mouth was hanging open beneath the thin pink veil.
‘Now you, Fletcher,’ Briss said, after giving both he and Othello a knowing look. ‘You’re too tall to be a dwarf, so you and Sylva will be attending as Seraph’s guests – luckily he’s staying in a hotel in Corcillum tonight and we were able to bring him up to speed.’
Fletcher grinned at the thought of seeing Seraph again. The noble-to-be was like Fletcher in many ways, a commoner turned noble who had a close relationship with the dwarves. It would be good to see him.
‘We’ll dress you as two members of his entourage,’ Briss announced. ‘You’ll be wearing this.’
She pointed at the table, where Fletcher could see a clean-cut suit of royal blue satin, edged with gold lace and tasselled epaulettes on the shoulders. A pair of shiny black-leather loafers with brass buckles sat beside them, as well as some elegant white gloves, there to cover the tattoos on his hand.
‘Off you go to try it on,’ Briss ordered, shooing Fletcher away.
Fletcher took the clothes into his arms and hurried up the stairs.
‘Mind you have a bath too,’ Briss called after him. ‘I won’t have you stinking it up. Sylva should be done by now, and Thaissa will have drawn you another.’
Fletcher grinned and turned right at the top of the stairs. He knocked on the girls’ room door.
‘Next door, Fletcher,’ Thaissa’s voice came from behind the door. ‘Don’t come in! Hurry up before it gets cold, we’re almost out of wood – Cress and Othello hogged most of it this morning.’
Wood? He moved on to the next room, to find a suite with a small window, a mirror, a stool and a large metal bathtub full of steaming water. The floors and walls were tiled, and there was a large drain beneath the tub and a crackling fireplace with a cauldron hung above it in the wall. There was a fluffy yellow towel on the stool, along with fresh socks, underwear, a razor, pumice stone and scissors. They had thought of everything.
Within a few minutes Fletcher was enjoying the deep heat soaking into his bones, rubbing his body and hair with a bar of lavender-scented soap until suds seeped over the edges. Then, as the water began to cool and the bubbles receded, he attacked the callouses on his hands and feet and scrubbed the rest of his body until his skin was raw-pink, but cleaner than it had ever been.
Next, he shaved away the wisps of hair that had gathered on his upper lip and chin, to leave himself baby-faced, more for Berdon’s sake than anything else – and the thought of the gentle giant sent a pang of pain to his heart. He had no idea where he and the villagers of Pelt might be, only that they would still be somewhere to the north, journeying downwards.
Finally, he bundled his locks into a rough ponytail and snipped off the split ends, leaving himself with a handful of hair that he surreptitiously tossed down the drain. That would have to do.
He got out of the water, now tepid and dirty, to dry himself off with the towel in the dim light of the dying fire. Realising he had taken far longer than Sylva had, he tugged on the clothes and returned back down the stairs, barely looking at himself in the mirror.
‘Well, well,’ Cress laughed, as he arrived in the front room of the tavern. ‘Look at you, all fancy.’
Briss clapped her hands with excitement and rushed over, tugging his jacket here, smoothing there, until she stood back and admired her handiwork.
‘You cut a fine figure,’ Briss said. ‘You’ve lost a bit of weight since I measured you last, but I anticipated that. It fits you like a glove. Why don’t you put your shoes on? Let’s see if I got those right too.’
Fletcher slipped his feet into the loafers and grinned.
‘I could get used to these,’ he said. ‘Comfy; but I could run a mile in them too.’
‘Well, you might need to tonight,’ Cress reminded him, and he grimaced at the thought of the purpose of their attire.
‘Have a look in there,’ Briss said, pointing to a shoebox. Fletcher turned to the table, mystified. He picked it up, and the container felt oddly heavy. Curious, he lifted the lid.
Only to see a pale visage staring back at him.
‘What the—’ he gasped, dropping the box on the table.
‘Ah, you’ve found your new face,’ Briss said, picking the box up and holding it out to him. ‘Well go on, try it on, see if it fits.’
Fletcher looked inside once more. It was a mask, made from porcelain so pale that it might have been bleached bone. In fact, with the empty eyeholes it could almost have been a skull, were it not for the soft curves of the cheeks, and the pouting white lips.
A fine filigree of gold traced around the oval edge, curling inwards at intervals with delicate whorls that curved around the eyes to draw attention there. It was terrible and beautiful at the same time, like a bird of prey.
Fletcher lifted it to his face and felt Briss’s hands tying the mask in place with ribbons, tight against the back of his head.
‘It’s a masquerade ball, if you hadn’t guessed,’ Briss said. ‘I took up pottery to sell pots, believe it or not, but we get more requests for these than anything else. The nobles have several masques each year, and they insist on having a new mask for each.’
‘Thank you,’ Fletcher said, searching for the right words. ‘It’s … it’s hauntingly beautiful.’
He turned to Othello, who had lifted his veil to get a closer look.
‘You know what, I’d rather wear the veil,’ the dwarf said, shaking his head.
‘It gives me the creeps,’ Cress agreed.
Briss sighed.
‘Well, that’s what they like to wear, these nobles, and I made it as subtle as possible. You should see Sylva’s though, it has feathers.’
‘What has feathers?’ came a voice from behind them.
Fletcher turned, and his mouth dropped open.
Sylva was coming down the stairs, transformed. Gone was the pale, almost silvery hair, replaced with flowing locks which had been dyed and curled to fall about her shoulders in a wave of sable, and the change was so startling that Fletcher was left speechless. Her shoulders were bare, with the red velvet of the dress hugging her slim curves and waist. Her hips held up a sweeping skirt, edged with delicate folds and layers that gave the impression of a budding rose.
She had never looked more beautiful.
‘Nobody laugh,’ Sylva growled, stomping past them. ‘Let’s get this over with.’