“The king trusts me,” she assured him, unsmiling behind the white mask.
“And look at what that trust will get him.”
She considered her hands and said, “All that lives must die.”
“I heard the king cannot be killed,” goaded the man in gold.
“Then he will be removed,” she said.
“We can say he fled, and left his family to the wolves.” The humor in his voice was clear. “I do wish I could be there. It is only so much fun to watch.” He rolled his empty glass. “I take it no one should be spared.”
At that, the man in the black mask spoke up again. “Let them do what they want with the queen and heir, but the consort is mine.”
“It would be cleaner,” began the woman, “to let them—”
“I don’t care,” he cut in, fist clenching. “The persalis will carry them beyond the palace wards. They will slaughter the household, incapacitate the king, and bring Alucard to me.” He turned on the last member of their group. “Are we clear, boy?”
The Master of the Veil sat back in his chair, his eyes hidden behind the glinting gold mask. “You mistake your host for a servant.”
“A servant would be useful.”
The man in the gold mask rose, and as he did, the spritely humor melted like candle wax, revealing something hard beneath.
“Do not forget, old man, the persalis might be your idea, but the Hand were my invention. You make plans that crumble under weight, but I make weapons that will hold. And they may be blunt, but they are ours to wield. They will cause their havoc. They will take the credit, and the blame. And when the Maresh are all dead, and the throne is empty, and the city is reeling, looking for guidance—” Their host spread his arms. “—we will be there to guide them. We will hunt down the vile servants of the Hand, deliver them in the name of justice. And then we will not have to take the throne. It will be given to us. And when that happens, I want you to remember which of us was most useful.”
He tossed a coin onto the table, like a patron paying for a drink. It was an ordinary lin, or so it seemed, but on its edge, an address was etched—the following night’s address. “In case you forget where you are going.”
He gave a sweeping bow.
“In the meantime, enjoy the Veil.”
And with that, their host was gone, out into the hall, vanishing into the cloud of music and laughter that spilled through the house. The man in the black mask watched the door as it swung shut. In his scarred hand, the glass splintered, the contents leaking through the cracks.
“I will not sit on a throne beside him,” he said under his breath.
The woman in the white mask sighed and rose from her chair. She went to him, resting her hand on his sleeve. On someone else, the gesture might have read as gentle, even warm. But her touch was a passing breeze, meant only to get his attention.
“Fight over the corpse when it is dead,” she said, and then she, too, was gone.
The man in the black mask stood, silent and still, until the door swung shut, until he knew he was alone. Then he cast the broken glass aside, shards littering the plush rug of the borrowed house. He tore off his mask, and flung it onto the table, scraping a hand through his dark hair. He went to the lamp, and lit his pipe a final time, smoking until there was nothing left, and he trusted his temper to hold. Then he tucked the pipe back into his coat, and went to the table.
He plucked up the coin, and held it to the light, though he knew the words printed on its edge: 6 Helarin Way—Eleventh Hour. Still, he pocketed the altered lin, swept up the black mask, and settled it back over his face before leaving the room.
He descended the stairs, into the foyer of black and white masks, and returned his to the wall like any other patron, then stepped out into the night. A handful of carriages dotted the street, their patrons still inside. He walked past them to his own, a block away, and as he neared, he drew a silver ring from his pocket and slid it back over his thumb. Two horses stood lashed before his carriage, pale as cream. He ran a hand along one’s side, and as he did, the lamplight caught on the grooves in his ring. The edge was uneven, the band not a band at all but the impression of a feather.
The driver stepped down and opened the carriage door.
The interior was a lush and midnight blue.
“Where to, my lord?” asked the driver, and Berras Emery’s hand fell from the horse’s flank.
“Home,” he said, climbing up into the dark.
* * *
SEVENTEEN YEARS BEFORE