A Journey of Black and Red

When I rejoin the upper floor, the man in red has returned to an animated discussion with Jean-Baptiste and the lady in blue. The air around them warps strangely so that I cannot discern their words, an intriguing effect created by a proximity enchantment set on his mask. A useful tool.

The few guests in white have gathered in clumps, taken in their own intrigue, while Luther has wandered to the main floor on some errand. I am hailed by Dominique.

“A pleasant performance. Maximilien’s prowess with Charm shames us all, and places him above the majority of the Lancasters, so any compliment he pays speaks very highly of one’s performance. Well done.”

“You honor me.”

“You almost went too deep at the end. Be careful, for strong memories bring strong associations.”

“He did mention his wife.”

“I like to step aside and deprive the prey of visual cues. It helps settle them. Ah, listen to me ramble.”

I am, in fact, taking notes. One does not every day get pointers from a centuries-old master of intrigue.

“I invited you for a celebration and we could not go five minutes without you being hassled. I am making a poor show of it. Let us relax as we await the next act.”

Dominique and I make small talk, and by small talk, I mean that he questions me about the New World. Our discussion remains light-hearted, and I never come close to revealing what I believe to be confidential information. His main focus seems to be the opinion we have of our European cousins. When I imply that we expect interference sooner or later, my host surprises me by confirming my doubts, as expected, in a roundabout way.

“Some, like our good Bertrand, see the world at large as an opportunity for our kind to expand faster. He theorizes that vampires require a living space, and that as apex predators, our living space is significantly larger than that of humans and beasts alike. Our numbers increase slowly while the spawn of men thrive and multiply, something that will become a cause for worry when we are inevitably discovered.”

“You believe that we will be dragged into the light?”

“Yes. Do you not?”

“I do. I just expected you to believe that you could maintain the status quo.”

“I have not remained in power for so long by basing my plans on hopes, young Ariane. The mages will publicize their existence, and soon. Afterward, the other members of the supernatural family will be revealed one by one.”

“And Bertrand believes that aggressive expansion could offset the risks?”

“Bertrand believes that a more… united ‘vampirekind’, forgive the word, will be best equipped to fend off the backlash we will face. We would, of course, need to agree to be ruled by a united government.”

I finally understand. Bertrand heads a faction dedicated to uniting all of us under one flag, by force if necessary. That includes taking over the New World as we are comparatively weaker, and that means that if he has the opportunity to deprive us of one of our assets, he will. Such assets include a stable, sane Devourer with a proven record of acceptable combat prowess. Bertrand wants me dead. He was the one who tried to dispose of me, and Dominique just informed me in the most direct way possible. For a Mask, that is.

“An intriguing plan. I believe that a fragmented nation means that we cannot be taken down in one fell swoop, however, perhaps there would be a need to decide on a common strategy to handle the crisis stemming from the great reveal?”

“The Great Reveal. I like that. Yes, I will be in touch with Constantine. Ah, and here is the next piece of entertainment.”

Maximilien steps on the stage again while a string quatuor sits behind him to provide background music.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my fellow denizens of the sunless earth. Here comes the moment that you have been expecting, the selection of the Queen of the Night!”

A pair of burly men in sphinx masks come, carrying a rectangular black box covered in shimmering runes and reinforced with silvery bands, which they unlock to reveal a circular opening at the top. The thing looks massive and incredibly heavy.

“Is that… a raffle?” I ask with disbelief. Dominique merely chuckles.

“One of the more recent and popular ideas from our brave Maximilien. He writes the names of the women set to attend the party and places them in this strongbox, which is then kept in a secret location for a week before being brought here. We do not check for tampering and the trail to follow is only mildly difficult.”

“Hold on, do you mean…”

“Yes. This is a cheating competition. This time, the strongbox was placed in a bank vault. We made it excruciatingly clear that the guards were not to be harmed and we have seen, I must say, quite a few interesting takes on changing the contents of the box. You understand the issue with changing the box’s contents, yes?”

I think for a second and… of course.

“You have to be the last one.”

“Indeed, you must be the last person to change the names to your advantage in order to win. That means that every new robber must contend both with the security and with the presents left by the previous teams. I do believe that I know who will win, though I will refrain from commenting for now. There could always be an upset.”

Maximilien is done ranting about the illustrious tradition he created merely a few years ago. He plunges a hand in the box and moves it around while the four players accompany him with dramatic tension.

“And the winner is… Meredith of the Hastings!”

Everyone applauds immediately, and I do not detect a hint of distress from those who played and lost. A fair lady in a bee-themed mask points a finger at herself, apparently surprised. Instead of climbing to the stage to claim her prize, she turns to a man by her side and curtsies deeply. Dominique leans towards me to whisper in my ear.

“Theodore of the Roland, the true artisan of this victory. Ah, what a delightful lad. Maximilien would not shut up when he figured out the young man’s trick. You see, Theodore unexpectedly went early to the box and left without altering it. He returned one night later… and changed the upper plate. The one that Maximilien just put his hand through.”

I try to imagine someone in a bank vault, juggling magical implements and a screwdriver to achieve his goals. It must have been quite the task.

“Do you not protect the box against tampering?”

“Of course we do. There are low-level enchantments to prevent alteration as well as high-tier trackers to prevent someone from switching the whole box with another one. We detected the tampering, but Maximilien judged that it was delicate and clever enough that it should be tolerated. He also loved young Theodore’s concept. You see, that lad enchanted the plate so that every paper going through it will have his darling’s name written on it. A brilliant idea! And no matter how many times the ballots were replaced within the vault, the final result would be the same.”

“And Theodore struck a deal with Meredith?”

“No, he just fancies her terribly. What a way to woo a girl. Why, I believe that he will spend a pleasant evening.”

And indeed, Maximilien enthrones Meredith in a farcical remake of a royal coronation. No sooner is the lady crowned, that she calls upon the crafty thief to join her side. The couple then walks through the crowd on their way to the balcony, receiving silent accolades and excited signs from everyone around. Meanwhile, Maximilien flutters from group to group.

“Our gracious host will give a ranking to every performer, in secret of course, so that they may improve in the future.”

“What an excellent way to promote a healthy competition.”

“Indeed. And now, please excuse me a moment as I congratulate the victors.”

Dominique leaves me behind, and Luther uses this opportunity to take my side. Chairs of stone emerge from the stage’s ground, white and sober, as the quartet leaves and a column of mortals joins the party.

They wear expressionless white masks and carry their instruments with them in an awkward shuffle, clearly unused to the ponderous red garments they had been given for the occasion. At their head stands a tall, fat man with long white hair. He huffs and puffs as he carries a pulpit with him, on which he fastened music sheets.

“Oh, mortal performers,” I observe.

“The best at captivating us,” Luther replies, “I enjoy good music very much. It is the only time when Masks will shut up.”

“Ahem.”

Luther leans towards me. From so close, the scent of old power and the sensation of being in the forest almost overwhelms me.

“Do I shock you, Ariane of the Nirari?”

“No, but you cannot blame me for avoiding a joke at our host’s expense. I already tested the limits of their hospitality.”

“Indeed. That cute little train conductor you seduced was most adamant in her protests. I had the opportunity to lodge a formal protest. How fares Odilon?”

“The perpetrator? I am not sure if I am at liberty to say.”

“Do graciously dodge the question while leaving a hint, as tradition demands.”

“He was appreciating Jean-Baptiste’s furniture the last time I checked.”

Luther’s amusement is palpable. Bravo, Ariane, very subtle.

“Ah yes, he was giving them a close look, I would wager? They can be so convoluted.”

“Thank you for the rescue.”

“I would not want you to feel like the only straight arrow in a quiver of hoops.”

Any witty retort I may have found dies on my lips as we watch the orchestra, now settled, welcome the arrival of a diva in a pink gown with a domino mask, and a male singer in a grey tuxedo.

Also, did I seduce the train operator? It was by accident. I swear.

“Ah, Ernani,” Luther says as he nods to himself.

“Ernani?”

“Yes, a recent Opera by Giuseppe Verdi. Are you familiar with the man?”

“I loved Nabucco.”

“Then you will be delighted. This is the Orchestra of the Opera-Theatre de la Nation. Maximilien sometimes pays princely sums to famous performers so that they come here and entertain us. I recognize their conductors, as well as the singers.”

“Does he not fear discovery?”

“Maximilien gives them two Louis d’Or per night and per head. I assure you that paying musicians a generous wage is such a rare occurrence these days that they would not forfeit their chance for any reason. Besides, this is Paris. You cannot raid a bakery without stumbling upon two secret societies’ meetings.”

The musicians tune quickly. The lights dim while strange lamps criss-cross the stage until the performers are illuminated and we bask in darkness.

What follows is a reproduction of my very first night at the opera with Torran. The orchestra and singers play airs from Verdi’s masterpiece with talent backed by experience and hard work. The performance is flawless. The stage comes alive with the distressed arias of the disgraced nobleman Ernani and his promised, the beautiful and fierce Elvira. By themselves, then in pairs, they proclaim their love. I have to stop myself from leaning too much over the balustrade on two occasions, especially when Elvira begs Ernani to save her from marriage with a decrepit old codger. Poor thing. I have Luther to thank for offering context, as I do not speak a word of Italian.

The performance ends too soon, and Maximilien now steps on the platform.

“Une extraordinaire performance, toutes mes felicitations,” he says to the orchestra, then he turns to us.

“And now, my fellow puppeteers, I invite you to join us in singing a beautiful hymn, one that speaks of a lost land and its memory. Though we remain apatrid, we surely all long for what we sacrificed on the path. To me, my dearies, to me, and let your voices rise on wings of gold!”

“This is my favorite part,” Luther whispers in my ear, “watch closely, for you will not witness this anywhere else.”

The chef d’orchestre lifts a wand. Wood and brass answers. The music starts softly, with strings offering melancholic phrases, then the vast cavern booms with the call of fate, mirroring the cruel destiny of Nabucco’s Hebrews as they lament the loss of their city. Finally, the introduction ends with hints of hopes.

The vampires come into play.

With a single voice, they sing, as umoving as the cavern around them. The chorus should express a powerful longing, but in the polar voices of the assembly, its tune becomes hollow and threatening. The assembly’s inability to convey emotions they no longer experience turns the hymn into a dirge, the auric wings tarnished, yet no less imposing for it. Mask voices are as exact as they are flat, and their mechanical precision echoes an increasingly distressed orchestra.

They can feel it. Haunted eyes rise from music sheets and away from the frantic director. They steal glances at what they finally recognize as predators.

“Le memorie nel petto raccendi,

ci favella del tempo che fu!”

Rekindle the memories in our heart, and speak of times gone by!

Too late. It is far too late for us. No golden harps or prophet’s voices will help us recover what we left behind. The only warmth we feel is the one we plunder.

After touching the hidden sky and the depths of the world, the chorus finally dies down with pianissimo voices and lightly plucked strings. The harmony lingers in the air for a few more seconds which are still, to me, parts of the song… then the conductor lowers his hands and the performance is over. We all applaud the mortals and each other, and I do so with gusto. Truly, that was a show like no others.

I only listen with half an ear to Maximilien’s compliments. Afterward, the orchestra shuffles away in silence, heads bent and eyes lost like drunken revelers heading home. Light progressively returns to the cave and the flickers of conversing hands heralds the return to normalcy. I lean back from the balcony.

“I hope you had a delightful experience. Alas, I forgot to inform you about this new tradition, or I would have invited you to join us,” Dominique pleasantly says as he returns to my side.

Yes, well, no.

“Think nothing of it. I believe that I had a more pleasant time listening than I would have had singing.”

Me and everyone with functional ears in a fifty yards radius.

“It gladdens me that you would find the show to your taste. I am glad to see the younger generations appreciating the fine arts just as much as we do. Ah, how I wish we could end the evening on that beautiful note. Alas, we have a terrible matter to attend. Two of our domains have entered into conflict over ownership of the city of Amiens, and agreed to settle their differences tonight.”

“A duel?” I ask. I always like a good duel as long as I am not on the receiving end.

“In a manner of speaking. No, I fear that the offended party chose chess.”

I was not aware that the game of kings was such a dreadful pastime. I am personally terrible at it, but I still have a good time watching experts play.

“You will understand very shortly.”

As expected, Maximilien returns to the platform.

“Our friends from Rouen and Lille agreed on a trial by chess for the control of Amiens. Although I regret, as always, that it has come to violence, I can only salute the determination of both parties in pursuing this ancient tradition.”

Hmm, what?

“Lord Corentin, please select your champion,” he continues.

“We choose master Pascal D’alembert.”

From the door behind the stage, a portly man with a frizzy black beard in a dark ensemble comes out. He is a mortal, calm and composed.

“D’Alembert is a renowned player, one that has dominated the field for over a decade. Lille is practically unbeaten,” Dominique explains in a deceptively light tone.

“Only mortal players have the wherewithal to do what must be done.”

I have a terrible feeling about this.

“And you, Lady Annabelle?”

“We choose Sabine Treillis.”

The crowd twitches and signs as a young woman appears, eliciting a raised brow from the chess master. She has sad, large brown eyes, and an elegant dress that both fits and does not. It is too majestic for the girl’s nervous hands and bent back.

“Set the stage and let the contestants take their place.”

The stones of the platform shift again. Squares disappear below ground and emerge back later, now a shiny onyx. Soon, a traditional board, eight by eight, occupies a significant portion of the space. Then the pieces appear.

Wearing swords and square shields, men in black and white uniforms emerge in two lines from the back. Cattle. They take the places of pawns as I watch with horrified fascination. Then…

No. No no no no no. No! I turn to Dominique to confirm that this is a joke, a jest to terrify me, but no, Vassals are now stepping up to the playing ground. Vassals!

No, this is not what I think it is. I refuse to believe it.

Maximilien flips a coin.

“Sabine Treillis gets white.”

The Vassals, garbed in a variety of costumes designed to mimic armor, split in two groups. Sabine’s team lines up behind the white cattle-pawns.

“You may begin.”

“Pawn to D4,” the girl declares in French.

A man with glassy eyes takes a few steps forward.

“Knight to C6,” D’Alembert retorts with barely hidden contempt.

And so they go on, until the fateful moment.

“Pawn to E5,” Sabine announces.

One of the cattle steps forward and to the diagonal. He brandishes his sword and sweeps at the opposing pawn’s neck.

The sharpened blade hews through sinew and cartilage with a ghastly crunch. A tremendous geyser of blood splatters the killer, the ground, and a few nearby pieces as the fallen piece collapses on the ground with a last gurgle.

By the Watcher.

Surely, surely they would not. Surely.

Two guards in sphinx masks come to retrieve the body, leaving promptly to free the space for D’Alembert’s next move. The victorious pawn’s rule ends when D’Alembert has yet another cattle strike him down. Sabine, however, was expecting it.

“Queen to D8.”

Gasps echo through the spectators, and I understand why. D’Alembert’s move deprived his queen of cover, and Sabine decided to trade pieces in what I recognize to be a suicidal move. Her queen will take his and be in turn taken by the king. But… no. They would not.

A tall woman with a lost look steps forward with a heavy mace. On the other side, a smaller woman with very dark hair turns rigid.

With slow purpose, the white queen moves forth. Her mace rises. This is WRONG. WRONG. THIS IS ALL WRONG.

“What are they doing? What are you doing?” I hiss, realizing that the entire private floor can hear me and not caring one bit. How… This makes no sense, no sense at all!

The black queen lets out a muffled scream, a sharp thing that escapes through gritted teeth. I step forward and stop when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I swipe it away, feeling something impact. Claws grab my neck. No no no NO NO NO, FIGHT IT.

Broken skull, one eye falling down, a mess of brain and matted hair. A second squishy hit. I am dragged away, through a door, only to hear Sabine’s calm voice.

“We forfeit.”

A corridor and Dominique slams me against an engraved wall. He shows no emotion but regret.

“It is their choice. I cannot intercede.”

“Then you are mad, you are all mad!”

“Their sacrifice and ours will prevent the many deaths that come with open war.”

“It is better to die on the field than to allow such travesty to occur. You have lost yourselves, you fools!”

I hiss and sputter, knowing that I offend and not caring a bit. They are insane. They are monstrous. Such a travesty should never have been allowed to occur. BLASPHEMY. SUBSUME AND PREVENT.

“Our contest is cruel, but so is war. When a lord falls, their Servant dies as well. Their Vassals suffer from the severed bond.”

“You use sophistry to deny the truth, and the truth is that a Servant’s life is sacred. We all know it. We all feel it. You perceived the collective pain we all endured just as I did when that woman died. Bound mortals are not tools to be used in games of power!”

“Everything is a tool.”

“If you truly believe that, then there is nothing left behind the Masks. You have become empty vessels with no substance.”

Heavy silence descends upon the empty corridor. I want to kill him. I want to kill them all. They desecrate everything that we should stand for. They taint the most fundamental rules that keep us in check. Vassals are treasures. I will never, ever tolerate anything else but that.

“I shall forgive your words, as I understand where they came from. You have my apologies for submitting you to such a spectacle. I did not expect such a powerful instinctual response.”

“Perhaps you should pay more attention to what your instincts tell you.”

Claws grab my neck once more.

“Be careful what you wish for.”

I swipe once more with as much speed as I can gather and Dominique takes a step back.

“Spare me the theatrics, unless you wish to further break the rules of hospitality. You wanted me for something, yes? Tell me what it is so that I can leave this place.”

All the art and the songs, they no longer matter to me. The evening is entirely ruined by… I cannot think about it without feeling a bone-deep anguish. I should have… but no, I tried and was restrained. They are fools. Imbeciles.

Dominique takes my measure. I cross my arms to signify that we are fully done.

“Very well. Please, follow me to my study.”

We walk up a set of stairs and through soberly decorated alleys. Contrary to the catacombs, this place is warmer, and smells of fresher air. Eventually, Dominique opens a door and we enter a richly decorated workroom. Time to see what this is all about, why I had to fight my way through battle masters, got stabbed in the chest, then had to witness the murder of a Vassal. Time to see why the head of Masks demands my presence. I hope that it will not bind me to this place for another fortnight, because I am more than fed up.

Dominique gestures. On a dark wood table, in the middle of the space, a single book has been left with a fountain pen by its side. This is a collector’s tome with a richly decorated cover and the crisp, white pages I associate with brand new editions. Indeed, I approach and realize that the bindings still smell of fresh leather. I pick up the pen without quite understanding my role until I look closer.

A good half of the cover shows an excellent rendition of a red-haired man fighting off goons in brown outfits. He holds a sword in one hand, and a voluptuous dark-haired beauty in the other. In the background, a fetching blonde woman with a torch and a muscular man with dark hair and a beard fend off more assailants. The title jumps to my eyes in all its golden-lettered glory.

“The Cecil R. Bingle Omnibus, Vol. III.”

Dominique’s voice wakes me up from my consternation.

“I would like an autograph, ‘Ariane Delaney’.”

Motherfucker.