the outskirts of Rosaklyss. It gets bloody cold up there.”
They set off, Gilli leading the way. The streets were full of revellers, the restaurants and bars on this side of the river doing a roaring trade. Apparently the imminent threat of revolution had done nothing to dampen the party spirit. Ahead, the Arch was a bridge out into indistinct darkness, the falling flakes rendering the far side invisible. Light from the lanterns spanning its length did little to alleviate the situation, each seemingly trapped in its own bubble of tumbling snow. Rivan peered out over the side as they crossed the Maico, shivering at the thought of the dark waters undulating below. He turned his gaze out towards the coast and the Arc beyond. Wondered how far away Timo was.
“They’ll be fine.”
He glanced at Galairel. Nodded mutely as they passed a group of Tor on patrol. The Imperials didn’t even twitch, but then there was no reason for them to. With the visibility so poor and so many people abroad it was doubtful the rank and file would be looking for specific faces in a crowd. Why bother the common soldiery when you had Daiku for that?
As they reached the other side their group paused. It was here they would split up.
“We’re all clear on what to do…?”
“Nothing’s going to go wrong old man!” Kelsaro growled. “We’ll see you on the other side.” She reached out to clutch the Efljos’ arm brusquely, a brief swooping sensation tugging at Rivan’s stomach as their fires collided. Then she was encircling Rivan in a swift embrace.
“Knock ‘em dead, you hear?”
Rivan nodded mutely as she disengaged, lips pulled down at the edges, eyes bright. Then she was releasing him, signalling to Rina and Tomen. Together the three of them vanished into the snow.
“Come on boys, curtain’s at the tenth bell and it’s nearly half nine, we need to get a move on.”
Nodding, Rivan turned away from flash of red that was Rina’s dress, accepting Lair’s arm as they followed Gilli upriver towards the rising dome of the Grand Opera.
The place was as impressive as Rivan remembered. More so, in the softly falling snow. Lamps dotted the stretch of river front promenade off to the left, where boats were mooring up to disgorge visitors from the inland estates. Meanwhile the square ahead was packed with milling bodies as the rich and famous of the Congregate gathered for the night’s gala performance. Rivan spotted more than one grey hood amongst the assembled but Galairel squeezed his hand, offering quiet reassurance that in this density of bodies he would be impossible to pin point. Gilli seemed unperturbed by their apparent exposure, leading them unerringly through the press towards the right hand side of the building, where an archway led through ornamental gardens towards the service entrances at the rear. The crowd thinned noticeably as they left the light and fanfare behind, though there were still plenty of bodies milling about on errands. Most wore the Opera’s uniform of red trimmed with gold, though there were a few in plain formal wear who bore the look of harassed PAs and at least three florists making last minute deliveries. Their own attire earned them one or two curious glances but then they were not the only ones in finery present. The others must be friends and family of the cast, Rivan assumed, as they passed one elderly couple talking with a pair of shivering dancers. Most saw Gilli and probably assumed they were here to do the same.
His heart leapt into his throat briefly at the door, but the huge suited figure there merely glanced at Gilli and waved them on through. The guitarist turned as they entered, noting Rivan’s obvious relief.
“Luxosian’s brother,” he explained.
Rivan glanced back over his shoulder, nodding thoughtfully as the family resemblance fell into place. He shared the square frame and heavy brow of the Ear of the Corn’s doorman. The bouncer caught his eye over the heads of the crowd and winked before a rail of dresses obscured him from view.
“This way,” Gilli called back, pulling them deeper into the theatrical chaos that was the Grand Opera’s back of house.
Rivan had been to the opera in Kharpal a handful of times, though baring once all of those trips had involved music that might more properly be termed ‘Soul’. Taiiruz’s take on the operatic genre tended to leave most mainlanders with a nasty sneer, but Rivan found the heavy beats and shimmering guitar rifts that accompanied such piece’s vocal athletics far more uplifting than the emotional darkness that seemed to pervade a lot of what the capital might consider ‘Classic Opera’.
He had never, however, had cause to go back of house. It was mind boggling how much stuff there was here! He found himself staring about in bemused amazement as they passed rooms full of bits of scenery or backdrops. There was an entire corridor apparently dedicated to different wardrobes. And an armoury of fake weapons, swords and axes neatly slotted into the base of coat stands, bows and staves lined on racks across the walls.
And the people.
Hundreds teemed past them, each on their own errand of the utmost importance to judge by the blind indifference to anyone in their way they displayed. He was jostled by women in tutus and fur stoles, a troop of men in ballerinas leggings and the shoulder guards of the Tor.
And to think I was worried we might be spotted amidst this chaos…
Seeing the reality of it now, he realised how foolish that worry had been. Gilli caught his eye as the Torsmen passed (he knows me too well, Rivan thought, grinning as the guitarist winked), waved a hand around with a shake of his head. Rivan nodded, taking his meaning.
Here, we’re just as invisible as the next improbably costumed performer.
Finally their guide paused half way down a corridor, glancing briefly towards the Torsman (real this time) and dancer stood at the far end, locked in heated discussion. The doors lining its length each bore a star with someone’s name on a card slotted into it. He held up a finger, listening for a second before knocking. Rivan stood impatiently, trying to contain his misgivings as the pair concluded their discussion, the dancer leaning in to kiss the Torsman soundly before disappearing. The man settled his helm upon his head once more (the crest brushing the ceiling) and turned their way, but at that moment a fresh delegation entered, obscuring them from direct view. Rivan gave a sigh of relief, looking up gratefully as the door before them was pulled open.
For a second he suffered a sweeping attack of deja vu as he took in the square shoulders and broad features before him. But then his mind caught up with the details and he realised this man he actually recognised…
“Lux!”
“Come in, quickly now.” He glanced out into the corridor. “Miren has done her best, but curtain call draws near.” He glanced up the corridor towards the Torsman before withdrawing into the room. He clasped wrists with Rivan, turning to hug Gilli and offer the Efljos a more formal bow. “She’ll be with you in a minute.”
Rivan had been surveying the people crowding the room.
To a man they out did many of the dancers he’d already seen with the flamboyance of their attire... A flash of pale skin caught his eyes and he peered round one broad sequin-gowned back to make eye contact with the young man he took to be Nashiel. The rebel Wraethi smiled shyly at him. Of the lot, he was the only one dressed according to the social norms of their gender.
A side door opened, and he found he was not the least bit surprised to see the figure now advancing across the room towards him, in black lace and a bask of sheer silk, hair done up in an elegant pile atop her head. Rivan looked down at the boots and burst out laughing; there was simply no other response for the elegant sweep of heel that easily added another six inches to the club promoter’s already impressive height.
“Daes Glam...”
The Exotic’s smile was as lascivious and inviting as he remembered as she leant in to bestow a chaste kiss on his cheek, one hand resting artfully upon his chest for a second.
“Rivan Fehr, as I live and breath. Darling you look fabulous.”
“As do you.” Rivan glanced about at Gilli and Lair, both of whom were doing their best to suppress laughter
of their own. He raised a hopefully eyebrow at the Efljos, but he shook his head minutely, hand raised to cover his mouth. So, no help there then…
“This little thing?” Daes gestured to herself, taking in the sea of sequins that formed the tail of her gown. “Just something I threw together, lowly girl from the ‘new territories’ that I am.” The flash of her eyes was dangerous as she uttered the derogatory. “But then, somebody told me the Naysmith might be in the crowd...” and now the smile was full of genuine warmth as she extended a hand to take his “...and my mother always taught me it pays to dress properly for revolution.”
Rivan laughed, the mirth spilling from him once more. Daes let her own mask slip, joining in his mirth. They embraced before Rivan held her away from him. “Seriously though, what are you doing here?”
“Social cache.” Her lips quirked a smile as she glanced about at the other exotics who adorned the room. “The establishment wanted a champion of the people to host tonight’s proceedings. And in the wake of the current fad for these deadhouse parties it seems my name came up.” She shook her head scathingly. “Honestly, if I had a denari for every time someone ripped off one of my ideas...”
Rivan grinned. “So you’re opening proceedings.”
Daes’ lips