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The invitation, when it arrives, is gilded, garish, and ornamental to the point of illegibility. It’s a miracle that Saphir’s the one to intercept it, as he is inclined to believe Jade would have burned it on sight. That seems to be the way most letters from the imperial palace go.
TO THE DOCTORS JADE CURTISS AND SAPHIR GNEISS it proclaims in looping script, the kind Saphir suspects was last commonly used under the reign of Karl III. He’s lucky to be able to glean Jade’s name—his own is totally unrecognizable given the complete change in the letters S, P, and G during the last four hundred years. The letter itself is at least in the common fonic alphabet, and it cordially requests their presence at the annual Lorelei Decan Ball as the special guests of Emperor Peony Upala Malkuth IX. Saphir glances to the bottom of the letter where, as though to drive the point home, there’s a handwritten note: Don’t wriggle out this year—your emperor commands it! - PUMIX
“Are you typically invited to these sorts of things?” Saphir asks over dinner.
Jade hums. “I wouldn’t know. Peony can be as bad as you at times. Unless it’s a decree sent directly to my office, I tend to ignore his attempts at contact.”
“Well, are you accepting?” Saphir asks impatiently. Even if it comes from Pea-Brain, he’s intrigued by a ball. Daath never had anything so exciting.
“It all seems rather tedious, doesn’t it?” Jade comments. “The politics, the niceties, the asinine smiles of Malkuth’s most influential—it’s very taxing to pretend to like those you don’t.” He pauses, then adds, “Not that you would know. And perhaps that’s yet another reason to avoid it. We wouldn’t want some sort of incident.”
Disappointment floods Saphir’s body, and he stabs at his pasta with more force than necessary. “I know how to behave.”
“All evidence points to the contrary.”
“Jade—”
“There’s also the matter of your status,” Jade interrupts, speaking over him. “Peony’s opinion of you is far and away more rose-tinted than his court’s. I honestly don’t understand what he was thinking, inviting us. It’s hardly a strategic move.”
Saphir has lost his appetite. Sullenly, he says, “I suppose so.”
“Then it’s settled.”
“I suppose it is.”
“You would hate this sort of thing, Saphir,” Jade says quietly. “And it is for your own safety, most of all.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Saphir responds, bitter, and the conversation dies from there.
Later that night, in the pitch darkness of Grand Chokmah winter, Saphir wakes up. He’s not sure why at first, but then a sound at the window startles him, a small tapping. He groans and, still half-asleep, shakes Jade’s shoulder.
“There’s a noise,” he says once Jade has half-opened his eyes.
As though on cue, the tapping comes again. Jade rolls over to his other side. “Just the wind. Go back to sleep.”
And, like flipping a switch, Jade does. Saphir will never understand how he can do such a thing.
There’s another tap. Saphir pulls his pillow over his head to no avail.
With every sharp noise against the window, Saphir becomes more alert and annoyed. Finally, when he feels as though he could cry from frustration at the incessant, periodic tapping, he hauls himself out of bed, fumbles for his glasses, and throws open the window.
A small pebble, perhaps two centimeters in diameter, flies directly through the opening and expertly strikes Saphir square in the forehead.
“Yulia!” he swears, stumbling backwards and clutching his head. Jade is out of bed in an instant, his spear materializing in his hand before Saphir has the chance to return fire at his assailant.
“Shit!” a voice from the ground echoes upwards, and with dawning horror, Saphir recognizes it. “Saph, are you okay?”
“You fiend,” Saphir spits. He’s not bleeding, but he’s sure they’ll be a surreptitious mark by morning. He leans out the window so the fool can see the full extent of his fury. “You idiot.”
Jade’s spear disappears. His face is expressionless and his voice is smooth when he calls down next to Saphir, “To what do we owe the pleasure, Your Majesty?”
Peony, only slightly abashed, grins up at them. “Ix-nay on the ajesty-May stuff. I’m here incognito.”
“As what, my assassin?” Saphir asks angrily.
“Could we talk about this inside?” Peony calls up. “I’m freezing my tail off down here.”
“Oh, boo hoo. You’re the one throwing stones in the dead of night!”
“Only because all the entrances are locked!”
“Should we invite every cat-burglar and wayward emperor inside?”
“All I’m saying is Nephry wouldn’t—”
“Do I look like Jade’s sister?!”
“—calm down, Saph, there are people trying to sleep—”
“Emperor.” Jade’s voice is faint, and unmistakably coming from the ground floor. Saphir hadn’t even noticed him leave the bedroom. “Come inside. Stop yelling.”
“Finally, someone with sense,” Peony exclaims, and then disappears from view.
Saphir throws on a robe and thunderously descends the stairs. When he catches sight of Peony, he stops in his tracks. It was difficult to tell when he was outside, but he’s in a raggedy dark coat, a thick but worn scarf, and earmuffs that seem to be slightly too small for his head. “What the hell are you wearing? You look like a bumpkin.”
Peony raises his eyebrows, taking his scarf off. “Oh, wow, um, well—you look like a pin-up. See, I can say mean things, too!”
Saphir’s face flushes. Jade pinches the bridge of his nose.
“‘Sides, these are my old clothes from Keterburg,” Peony continues, tugging off his gloves. “So, you know, glass houses and all that.”
“Emperor.” Jade sounds oh-so-tired. “Surely the Imperial Palace has fallen to civil unrest, forcing you to flee and seek shelter here.”
“What? No, you weirdo,” Peony says. “I’m here to make sure you’re coming to my party this year!” He pulls off his coat and, speaking to Saphir as though sharing a secret, says, “He never comes. I was hoping since he had an actual date this year that’d change. Plus it’s just the kind of thing you’d go nuts over.”
“Jade told me I’d hate it,” Saphir says suspiciously, turning his glare on Jade.
“You would,” Jade says, not taking his eyes off Peony. “It’s a wholly unpleasant affair.”
“You don’t get an opinion on it. You notoriously hate fun,” Peony objects.
“It’s also not safe.”
“What the hell isn’t safe about it?”
Jade raises his eyebrows and gestures to Saphir with one hand. Peony scoffs. “What did you do with your invitation?”
“Burnt it.”
“Dude,” Peony groans. “That could’ve been a collectible.”
“Pity.”
“The point is that on the invitation, if you read the whole thing, it says it’s a masquerade,” Peony continues. “Are you familiar with the concept, Mr. No-Fun-Allowed? A masquerade. As in a masked event.”
“We don’t have the appropriate costumes.”
“No fucking kidding. I’ve already taken care of it,” Peony says, waving his hand dismissively. Jade frowns. “Don’t look at me like that. I picked great costumes; someone’ll drop them off later this week. It’s going to be fun! Music and dancing and drinking—and this year I won’t be alone!”
Saphir’s heart jumps. “Dancing?”
“See? Saphir does want to go!” Peony says triumphantly. “Who are you to deprive him of a good time, you stick in the mud?”
Jade inhales deeply, then exhales. “We’re not required to stay the entire time, are we?”
“I mean, no, but once you’re there, I doubt you’ll want to leave,” Peony winks. “I throw a hell of a party.”
“Your subjects are very lucky,” Jade says dryly.
“Yeah, yeah, fuck you, too. You’re coming and that’s final,” Peony says. “Now, where am I sleeping tonight?”
❄ ❅ ❄ ❅ ❄ ❅
Perhaps others would feel lucky to have the emperor asleep on their sofa, but Saphir is more grateful when the palace guards inevitably arrive and whisk Peony back to where he belongs. Not that he’s upset at the outcome of the night—the pebble mark on his head fades after a day and he’s going to a ball. Saphir’s never been to a ball before, much less a masquerade.
He is not as pleased when the costumes arrive. Peony has decided to put Saphir in blue and green, colors he often avoids, for the sake of a peacock theme. If it’s a joke, Saphir doesn’t find it very funny. The one redeeming quality is that that mask features glass coverings in the eyes so that Saphir won’t be totally blind in it—though he’s suspicious as to how Peony knows his exact prescription.
Jade, on the other hand, is in black and white, with skeletal stitching along the coat and a mask not unlike a skull. Saphir’s breath catches when he sees him. Jade’s eyebrows raise over the top of the mask.
“Do you think I should be offended?” he asks casually.
“You look nice,” Saphir says, swallowing roughly. He takes a step forward, smoothing Jade’s lapels. “Though it may defeat the point of being masked.”
“Mmm. Maybe it was to protect your honor.”
Saphir scoffs. “In what way?”
“I can’t imagine anyone else will want to dance with me tonight,” Jade says. “Unless they’re eager to have a memento mori as their partner.”
Saphir hadn’t considered other people dancing with Jade. Hot jealousy flares in his chest. “Perhaps.”
“You will behave yourself, won’t you?”
“Of course I will. I’m not going to ruin this,” Saphir says tightly. Jade hasn’t said anything about his costume. “At least yours is intimidating. I feel like—”
“A pin-up?”
“No,” Saphir says adamantly—though he does, a bit. “Just…foolish.”
“Everyone will look foolish. You won’t be alone.”
Saphir scowls. The smallest smile creeps onto Jade’s face, and with the top half of his face covered, Saphir can’t tell how insincere it is. “You look fine, Saphir. And under all that blue, no-one will suspect it’s you.”
Saphir sighs. “I don’t think I have any lipstick that will match.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” Jade says.
He does—but only because he did, in fact, have a deep blue shade he had entirely forgotten about. It looks foreign on his mouth. He hardly recognizes himself, and he supposes that’s a good thing. Jade doesn’t offer him any additional compliments. Saphir tries not to feel too disappointed by it.
The imperial palace is decadent, more so than usual. Though Grand Chokmah has only had a dusting of snow this winter, there’s ice sculptures in the square in the visages of Yulia, Peony, and—Saphir stifles a groan—a fair number of rappigs. He should have expected. He won’t be surprised if Peony himself has gone with a rappig costume. The man has no decorum.
But the nobles of Malkuth apparently do. The costumes come in every shape and color, some long, some short, and all with various masks. There are other animals and monsters, though none are as gruesome as Jade’s or as ostentatious as Saphir’s. It’s a bit overwhelming.
Jade makes an immediate beeline to the wine, and Saphir follows behind. After pouring himself a generous helping, Jade murmurs, “I recommend you start drinking early. The vultures have already begun to circle.”
Saphir glances to the side. There’s a fox, a cheagle, and a swan middling about, their eyes flickering to Jade every so often. He’s had enough practice pretending to not be looking at Jade to know when others are doing the same. “Ah.”
Jade lifts his glass in a toast, a joyless smile on his face, and drinks deeply.
“Excuse me,” the swan simpers, approaching Jade with her hands behind her back. The white feather on her mask droops in front of her face. “May I have this dance?”
Jade’s eyes meet Saphir’s. There’s a silent question in them.
“Why shouldn’t you?” Saphir hears himself saying, and then Jade has been whisked away to the dancefloor by the swan, leaving Saphir alone with his empty glass. He resists the immense urge to smash it on the ground.
“Damn it all,” he mutters, refilling it with more wine for himself. “You fool.”
Saphir has no desire to dance with anyone but Jade, but he isn’t even given the dignity to reject any of the Grand Chokmah nobles, as none of them approach him. Jade will periodically return, drink more, and then be taken away once more. It seems the only thing his mask hides is his expression. It’s no secret that Jade the Necromancer has finally made it to the emperor’s ball after years of avoiding it.
And their moron of an emperor is nowhere to be found, either. Saphir sourly thinks that, given his insistence that they come, he would at least have the courtesy to come by and say hello. Instead, Saphir is relegated to the outskirts by himself, alone as always.
“You’re here with Colonel Curtiss?”
Saphir startles, the glass nearly slipping through his fingers. A man in a Glasruda mask had approached while he sulked. He’s older, perhaps in his sixties—a relic of the court of Karl V.
“My apologies. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Sir Glasruda says.
“You didn’t,” Saphir says shortly, gripping the glass’ thin neck tighter.
Sir Glasruda nods towards Jade, now dancing with someone styled after a marionette. “You’re a friend of the Curtisses?”
“Just that one,” Saphir says before he can stop himself, then adds a bitter, “Friends in a sense.”
“Servant?” Sir Glasruda asks casually.
“No,” Saphir snaps, glaring at him. Sir Glasruda raises his hands, palms-forward.
“Peace, friend. I meant no offense,” he says easily, which doesn’t calm Saphir’s ire in the slightest. “It’s not so uncommon. What family are you from?”
“I’m not a member of the court.”
“Not a noble and not a servant?”
“Shocking, I know,” Saphir says sarcastically. “We do exist.”
“I meant no—”
“—offense, I’m sure,” Saphir interrupts. “And yet you continue to cause it.”
Sir Glasruda chuckles, though Saphir doesn’t see any humor in what he just said. “Forgive a bumbling old man. The court of Emperor Peony IX is a far cry from Emperor Karl V.”
Saphir takes a sip of wine to occupy his mouth. A wry comment to Sir Glasruda about Pea-Brain may very well have him accused of treason.
“Is that Colonel Curtiss’ paramour?” Sir Glasruda asks, indicating the Lady Marionette, and Saphir chokes on the wine.
“His what?” Saphir asks incredulously once he’s regained his ability to breathe.
Sir Glasruda hums. “There are rumors that the colonel is finally revoking his bachelor status.”
“Ha!” The laugh comes out far more forced than Saphir would prefer.
“Then it isn’t true?”
“Jade is married to his work. He wouldn’t settle down with just any—” Saphir bites his tongue before the word “floozy” can come out. Yulia knows who the Lady Marionette is and what connections she has. “—person.”
“I see,” Sir Glasruda nods. “Then Yana still has a chance.” Though Saphir doesn’t ask, he clarifies, “My niece, from my wife’s sister. There she is.”
He indicates the Lady Swan, who has had more than her fair dances with Jade already and looks ready to swoop in again after the Lady Marionette breaks away.
“Rather young, isn’t she?” Saphir says, his voice climbing in pitch.
“Past her coming of age ceremony, and with a considerable dowry. She’s quite eligible,” Sir Glasruda comments.
“Why pursue him, in that case?” Saphir prays he doesn’t sound overly panicked. “With his reputation—it would be a black mark on the family, wouldn’t it?”
Sir Glasruda shrugs. “He’s a hero of Auldrant.” His eyes gleam behind his mask, focused on Jade. “And one that holds the emperor’s ear.”
“Ha!”
Saphir can’t help himself. Perhaps it’s the wine taking hold of him. All his fears are assuaged—the idea of using Jade to influence Pea-Brain is so utterly ridiculous, so unrealistic, so simple that all he can do is laugh. The fool and his niece haven’t a hope.
Sir Glasruda takes the mockery in stride. The current waltz ends; the Lady Swan performs an interesting maneuver that elegantly shoves the Lady Marionette out of the way. She’ll go far in the court, but not with Jade.
“Perhaps, as his friend, you can put in a good word for Yana,” Sir Glasruda suggests.
“Oh, of course,” Saphir says, his grin wide and maniacal. His head is buzzing—certainly the wine. He drinks more, just to be safe.
“It’s very difficult, without an heir apparent,” Sir Glasruda murmurs. “Yana is all that will be left of my house.”
Saphir could not care less. He refills his glass.
“Surely even someone like you understands,” Sir Glasruda says, near pleading. “Surely you have worked to uphold your father’s legacy.”
“You’ll find it’s difficult to do so when you’ve never met the man,” Saphir snorts. “And I doubt knowing him would have changed a thing. Fathers in general seem to be a rotten business.”
Sir Glasruda finally takes his eyes off his niece and Jade to give his complete attention to Saphir. “You’re a bastard?”
Saphir considers how much of an incident he would cause if he upended his wine on Sir Glasruda’s head. As he debates the consequences, Sir Glasruda continues, somewhat sadly, “Then perhaps you don’t understand.”
It’s a wonder Peony can stand any of these people day to day. “Perhaps I don’t.”
“You must forgive my bluntness,” Sir Glasruda says, and the fact he’s even attempting to salvage the interaction is laughable. “It’s been many years since I spoke to someone so unacquainted with the Malkuthsian court.”
“Mm.” Saphir is mentally sketching out the schematics for a large robot to unleash on Sir Glasruda.
“She was a remarkable girl—beautiful enough to be of noble blood, and with the court skills to match. And in Keterburg, of all places!”
Saphir pauses as he’s soldering wires in his mind. “Keterburg?”
“The outskirts of the empire—Sylvana,” Sir Glasruda says, as though Saphir doesn’t damn well know, as though he wouldn’t know. “My family used to own some land there. ‘The Silver World,’ they called it—hardly a world at all, if you ask me. Barely a town. Lorelei knows what the inhabitants do all year when it’s not the skiing season.” His eyes light up. “But this girl! Lorelei, you’d never know she was from backwater stock, aside from her name. It was something very Ket, like nails on a chalkboard. I hardly remembered it even then.”
There’s a deep anger burning inside Saphir, incomparable to any of the other insults Sir Glasruda has heaped upon him. The man is far deeper in his cups than he’d previously thought. He’s still looking at Saphir but his eyes are unfocused, not truly seeing him.
“Very beautiful,” he repeats. “Deserving of a beautiful name. Tiana, I called her. It was close enough to the Ket one. And if I had taken her back here with me…” He trails off, then sighs deeply. “It never would have worked. She’d have been no better than a courtesan. She certainly whored herself out enough to me.” A strange expression takes over his face, his smile both wistful and mocking. “I believed she truly fancied herself in love with me.”
The anger in Saphir’s stomach has been joined by dread. “Did she have a family name?”
“Oh, certainly,” Sir Glasruda, still deep in the past. “Something else terribly Ket. Weiss, or something similar.”
Saphir can hardly bring himself to speak. “Gneiss?”
Sir Glasruda is finally brought back to the present, surprise in his eyes. “...as a matter of fact, yes. I believe so. Tiana Gneiss.”
Saphir’s wine glass shatters in his hand.
“By Lorelei!” Sir Glasruda exclaims. “Are you quite alright?”
Saphir is hardly in the mood to entertain any more of this conversation. He feels sick to his stomach.
“You’re bleeding!” Sir Glasruda points out, taking a step forward, and Saphir takes his bloody hand and pushes it against Sir Glasruda’s pure white costume. “Lorelei!”
“Don’t touch me!” Saphir hisses. He takes a step back, feeling like a cornered animal. “Don’t you ever touch me!”
“What’s come over you?” Sir Glasruda moves closer. Saphir’s trembling, bloody hand finds the neck of the wine bottle.
As he arcs it over his head, ready to make hard contact with Sir Glasruda’s skull, he’s stopped by a gloved hand catching his wrist in a vice grip. Saphir whirls (as much as he can) to see who’s stopped his righteous anger and is confronted with a person masked from head to toe in the image of the great Sand Worm of the Chesedonian desert.
“I think we all need to lay off the alcohol,” a familiar, friendly voice says, muffled by the costume. “A word, Mr. Peacock?”
And without waiting for so much as a nod, Peony drags Saphir away from Sir Glasruda, who looks forlornly down at the blood staining his chest.
Peony brings him out of the ballroom entirely, off into a small, empty room. Saphir’s still clutching the bottle of wine. Peony pulls off his own mask and runs a hand through his hair. Saphir doesn’t say anything.
“We should probably get you something for your hand,” Peony mutters, moving to dig through some of the wooden cabinets. “What the hell happened, Saph?”
Saphir opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
“I’ve been looking for you all night, by the way,” Peony continues, pulling gauze out from who-knows-where. “Why weren’t you—give me your hand, dude, you’re bleeding all over the rug—why weren’t you out dancing with Jade? They’re eating him alive out there.” He tears off a strip with his teeth and wraps it tightly around Saphir’s hand. “And you were about to brain a noble. Which, been there, but seriously?”
“That man had an affair with my mother.” Tears inadvertently fill Saphir’s eyes. “And Jade doesn’t want to dance with me.”
Peony’s mouth falls open. “Dude, what?!”
Wetness tracks down Saphir’s cheeks and Peony swears. Through angry sobs, Saphir imparts what he’d learned. Peony’s eyes grow wider and wider until he lets his head drop into his hands, hands balled in his hair.
“And Jade won’t dance with me,” Saphir repeats miserably to finish.
“I seriously doubt that,” Peony says to the floor, then sits up straight. His face is stormy. “I can’t stand a single fucking person in this stupid fucking court. Yulia, Saphir, I’m sorry.”
Suddenly, Saphir finds himself wrapped in a hug, Peony’s weight bearing down on him. He freezes.
“Lorelei, you’re sloshed,” Peony murmurs. “Normal you would’ve decked me for this.”
“Jade,” Saphir whines, leaning into the warmth. He didn’t realize how exhausted he was.
“Sure, Saph,” Peony says, patting his back. “I’ll try to not hold that against you.”
“Oh, I should hope not.”
Saphir jolts upright. “Jade!”
“Should I be worried about infidelity?” Jade asks from the doorway, and Saphir forcefully shoves Peony away from him, straight into the wall. Peony bounces off of it skull-first with a yelp.
“Thanks, man,” Peony says dryly, rubbing his head. “Really appreciate it.”
Jade steps forward, closing the door behind him. “I was concerned. One moment Saphir was there and the next he was gone.”
“You won’t dance with me,” Saphir accuses, only slurring his words slightly, poking Jade insistently in the chest. “You’ll dance with every harlot out there but me.”
“Ah, but you’re my favorite harlot,” Jade smiles.
“I’m not a whore and neither is my mother!” Saphir says angrily. Jade blinks at him.
“Do not ask,” Peony grits out. “I’ll fill you in tomorrow. Lorelei, you’re also wasted. What’s wrong with you two?”
“It’s your court, Your Majesty,” Jade says smoothly. “They’d drive any sane person to drink.”
“I’m not a whore,” Saphir repeats, fisting Jade’s lapels in his hands. “I just want to dance.”
“You’re not a whore,” Jade agrees.
“Won’t you dance with me?”
Jade strokes his chin, as though considering it. In a flat, completely unamused voice, Peony says, “Dance with the guy, Jade. Your emperor commands it.”
“I suppose if I have no other choice,” Jade says, eyes glittering.
Saphir remembers Jade taking him by the wrist, and he remembers bright lights and brighter music, and he remembers laughing as they spin, and he simply can’t remember why he had been so upset in the first place.
❄ ❅ ❄ ❅ ❄ ❅
Saphir wakes up with a terrible headache. He only has a moment to process that pain before nausea overtakes him and he stumbles to the waste bin to empty the contents of his stomach. Jade makes a noise indicating he is awake, but makes no effort to move from his place in bed.
“Yulia and Daath,” Saphir moans from the floor.
“Having fun down there?” Jade asks, sleep coloring his voice.
Saphir moans again in response.
“You look awful,” Jade says.
Saphir’s not even sure Jade can see him. “I feel awful.”
“Did you have fun last night?”
Another wave of nausea passes through Saphir and he closes his eyes to try to stifle it. The last twelve hours are a blur to him. “Did we dance?”
“We did.”
“Then I had fun,” Saphir decides, draping himself over the waste basket.
“Is that all you remember?”
“I don’t even remember dancing,” Saphir says into his own arms. Jade doesn’t say anything for a moment, and Saphir lifts his head to squint at him. “Do you?”
Jade pauses and then, obviously lying, states, “No.”
Saphir unsteadily gets to his feet. “Did I do something?”
“Nothing of importance,” Jade says. “We did dance. Wash up and come back to bed.”
Though it’s Saphir’s nature to argue, he is exhausted and he desperately wants the taste of bile out of his mouth as quickly as possible. By the time he crawls back into the bed, Jade’s back is to him and for a moment, he thinks he’s fallen back asleep.
“We’ll have to go dancing again,” Jade says quietly. “Something pleasant for you to remember.”
“Whatever you say,” Saphir mumbles as he begins to drift off again. “I still feel…I’ve forgotten something…important.”
“I assure you,” Jade’s voice echoes as Saphir succumbs to his own exhaustion, “there was absolutely nothing worthy of being remembered.”