One by one they ascend up to the ballroom, returning at spaced intervals to avoid attracting suspicion. Once again Marco is surrounded by a variety of wealthy faces, and he can’t help but feel wildly out of place with his mangled outfit. He wants nothing more than to shrink away and be unnoticed, but it appears that meatballs are popular tonight. Quickly he becomes acquainted with a number of guests. A group of Remoran Senators with their blue-trimmed togas. A circle of lizard people in dark robes with triangle-shaped emblems around their necks. A collective of celebrated artists from across the land, proudly standing near their minimalistic paintings. Many more of the guests are not quite as memorable, wearing the typical high-end clothing according to the current standard. But including even the more eccentric partygoers, all have something in common: They barely notice him at all. As this pattern becomes more apparent to him, Marco becomes more comfortable in the waiter’s outfit, feeling freer to walk around the ballroom.
Something catches Marco’s eye from across the room. About halfway up the enormous staircase, speaking with some of merchants, is a man with the white gold Seraphim armor. Marco doesn’t recognize the man, but he recognizes the sigil, and he recognizes the officer’s epaulettes that signify his rank. The Seraphim officer waves over to another familiar face on the balcony. Fitzgerald Fauntleroy McCappon gives a polite wave over, but his usual cheery demeanor is starting to wane. McCappon is escorted by his own guards down the hallway and out of sight.
Marco looks back to the Seraphim officer, and his heart nearly skips a beat. The same pair of hawk eyes from before are staring directly at him from across the room. They belong to a humanoid bird person with wings folded up under his robes. Upon meeting his gaze, Marco quickly looks away and walks off in the opposite direction. It is only now that he realizes his tray of meatballs is empty, and likely has been for some time. Feeling the glare of the hawk at his back, Marco redirects himself into the kitchen to pick up some more hors d’oeuvres. He finds a few rolls of coffee bread next to the tub where the cooks are washing the dishes.
“Find everything alright?” a nearby cook asks him.
“
Marco returns to delivering snacks as he contemplates whether he hold some form of anti-avian prejudice. This time, a familiar voice calls him over.
“Oh waiter, over here!” Emmitt.
Marco glares at him as he makes his way over to Emmitt’s location. He practically shoves the tray of coffee bread into his stomach.
“Ah, excellent,” Emmitt speaks in an exaggerated formal tone. “Many compliments to the chef.”
“Funny you should say that…”
Emmitt takes a bite of coffee bread and speaks through a half-filled mouth. The tension has not left his body, remaining on alert, but for a moment he is able to get some satisfaction out of embarrassing Marco. His expression softens as Marco refuses to smile, still irritated.
“You don’t want to be my friend?” Emmitt says. “Fine. But this is serious. I need to know that you have my back, and I need to know that you aren’t withholding anything.”
“You know everything you need to know.”
Emmitt sighs as Marco continues to stonewall him. “I guess I do.”
He looks out at the party around them. Everywhere people are laughing, dancing, and making conversation, oblivious to the impending doom that awakes them outside. Yes, they are a bunch of obnoxious blowhards, but it does seem…nice. Emmitt gives Marco a pat on the back as he walks off.
“It would be nice if you could be my friend as well.”
Marco walks off without a word. Emmitt takes a deep breath and concentrates his energy back on surveilling the area. A Remoran centurion in full armor passes by, and Emmitt reflexively straightens his posture, fighting the urge to salute. The centurion regards him as though a rat has scurried over the floor and keeps walking. Emmitt sighs and shakes it off, finishing the last of his coffee bread. Behind him, a bird is watching.
***
Leylin didn’t mean to end up at the bar, but here she is now. A small glass of whisky sits in her hand, which she twirls around, watching a few drops of liquid escape onto the counter. She mutters to herself, voice muffled by the sounds of the party. “Spirit’s reprieval…screw it.”
She downs the whisky in a single gulp. A second glass in promptly placed down on the bar in front of her. She slides it away and shakes her head.
“No, sorry, I have uh, something to do in the morning.”
She looks up at the bartender, who looks at her with wide black pupils and deep yellow irises that engulf the rest of his eyes. The face of a bird is watching from across the counter, a scar where its left eyebrow should be. He speaks with a calm, rural drawl. “Busy person I suppose. No time to rest on the sabbath. Must be an important person.”
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“I’m not so sure about that.” Taken aback by the piercing gaze of this bird person, Leylin forgets for a moment that she’s supposed to be undercover. She hastens to come up with something better, sitting up and straightening her posture. “Actually, um, yes. Very important person. I’m actually a princess. From, uh, Loxo…co.”
“Is that so.” The bartender bobs his head. “Haven’t heard of it. Must be far away.”
Leylin gives an anxious glance at the rest of the ballroom. Marco and Emmitt are currently out of sight. “Oh it’s very far away, yes. Across the ocean, in Mexicali. But it’s nice. It’s warm, it’s uh, there’s a nice breeze off of the coast.”
“Uh huh.” Unfazed, the avian bartender tosses the whisky in the trough behind him and begins to wash out the glass.
“I have an estate along the water, you see. It’s a big place but I mostly just sit out on the balcony and watch the tides come in. And even with the whole world out there across the sea, I’m happy to just be there. Because that’s where I belong. I know where I come from and why I’m there and it’s nice. It’s just nice.”
Her attention drifts away as she becomes increasingly invested in this fantasy she has created for herself. When again she hears the drawl of the bartender’s voice, she is startled back to reality.
“Guess you know what you really want.”
“My name is Caria DeBeaumont and I have three cousins. One of them is adopted.” Leylin looks at the bartender with a panicked expression. That drink would really come in handy right now.
The bartender just smiles, or what she thinks is a smile for the beaked creature, and places the clean glass back on the rack. “It was very nice to meet you, Caria.”
He wanders off to the opposite end of the bar. Leylin watches with a curious expression as his wings twitch under his robes. He nods across the ballroom, and Leylin finally notices the other bird person standing on the stairs, who then nods to a third near the kitchens. Suddenly very uncomfortable, she hops off of the chair and tries to get away as quick as possible.
Leylin crashes into Vilma Solberg, who happens to be walking behind her at a similarly hurried pace. Vilma’s drink flies out of her hand, splashing onto both of them. All at once, Vilma’s face shifts from polite and professional into a visage of pure hatred. “What have you ?”
“Shit, sorry, looks like we both—”
“You need to learn to be more careful, especially around people of higher standing. You will get absolutely nowhere if you cannot learn respect. Who even let you into this party? Who do you work for?”
“Look, lady, it was just an—”
“Ugh, these clothes are going to be absolutely . Not that you would understand. Bartender, another drink. Now, please.” Vilma snaps her fingers over at the bar. She grabs a towel from one of the (real) waiters and starts dabbing at the drops of champagne that have gotten on her robes.
Leylin, meanwhile, has been drenched. She looks back at the bartender, who pours a glass of champagne with an easygoing look on his face. He gives Leylin a wink as Vilma snatches the glass from his hand and ascends up the staircase. Leylin, with no desire to stick around, continues across the ballroom to the stairs to the basement.
Downstairs, Gabriel is testing the contents of the explosives with a thin strip of colorful paper. She gives a brief glance at Leylin before fixating back on her work. “There are some towels on the side if you want to dry off. You haven’t been getting drunk, have you?”
“I wish.” Leylin grabs a towel and begins to dry herself off. When she’s done, she tosses it to the side in frustration. “Some fancy shmancy woman just cursed my whole line because we both ran into each other. She barely even got wet. Looked like she almost ordered my execution because she spilled her drink. These damned people…”
“We can kill her if you want.”
Leylin looks at Gabriel with a confused expression. Gabriel is sealing up the tops of the explosives, not a single care in the world. When she is done, she takes several jars off of her belt and starts on some other mixture.
“What?” Leylin asks.
“Sure,” Gabriel says. “Bring her down, stick her in a crate. What’s one more bootlicker in the ground?”
Leylin decides not to push further. She looks up the stairs, where the party is still raging. She places her hand over the handle of her sword at her belt, feeling a little anxious. “I actually came down here because there were these people watching me. They were all bird people, actually. I don’t want to offend or anything, but I’ve never come across a bird person before. Lizard people sure, turtle people obviously, but nothing like this.”
Gabriel diverts her attention for a moment to think it over. As she does, a stream of orange smoke rises from the vial in front of her. “That is strange. I don’t know of any bird people either. Unless…No, they wouldn’t be out here this far. They’d have no jurisdiction. Castilucia’s a long way away.”
She pours something into the vial and the smoking stops. The liquid begins to shift into a pale orange powder. Satisfied, she closes the vial, places it on her belt, and looks back up at Leylin, pointing at the tattoos along her arms. Leylin examines them for the first time in a while. They look like sheet music, notes rising and falling as animal spirits run alongside them. “So what’s your deal? You know what those tattoos mean? Cause I do.”
“The rhythm of the universe, I know. I’m a prophet of Ipillus.”
In that moment it looks like Gabriel could vomit. Leylin does her best not to look offended. Unfortunately her best is very much.
“A prophet, huh?” Gabriel is already shaking her head. “So you’re going around trying to get people to bow down to this guy?”
Leylin crosses her arms, hiding the tattoos against her stomach. “Ipillus preaches the values of freedom and rebellion. It doesn’t work that way.”
“Then tell me this. Ipillus asks for devotion, does he not? He has a set of rules you need to follow? There are temples erected to this guy?”
“
Gabriel shakes her head again. Wrong. Incorrect. When she speaks, it’s as though she is reciting from a book. “Ipillus, just like Pillani and Chrianus, teaches his followers to follow their ‘true path’, which is to say, the path that Ipillus decided for them. The first recorded Poem from the Annals of Ippillium has Ipillus removing a man’s hearing for breaking their oath. For a prophet, you don’t seem to know much about your own religion. Maybe you should read the book I left for you.”
“I’m not reading your stupid book. We left it at the tavern anyway.”
“Alright then, have you spoken to Ipillus? Where did you get your powers?”
Leylin, fuming at this unprovoked attack, opens her mouth to talk but finds she doesn’t have an answer. Gabriel continues to look at her with a vacant expression. She’s right, but that doesn’t make her any more agreeable. After standing there for a long moment with nothing to say, Leylin walks back to the stairs.
“Might be a good thing to sort out,” Gabriel tells her.
“Why don’t you go back to blowing us all up?”
Gabriel continues her work as Leylin disappears into the ballroom.
