Karen Chance - Masks

“Well, of course. Senators have already started arriving. One of their entourages almost ran me down today—”

“—and all slap in the middle of festival season!” Paulo finished, looking aggrieved. “With the city already bursting at the seams. It’s madness!”

“Very profitable madness,” Auria said. “Or it will be, if we can get this lot ready in time.”

“Get us ready for what?” Mircea demanded, but no one was listening anymore, due to an argument that had broken out over the all-important topic of the older vampire’s beard.

“Forked,” one of the maids hovering around Bezio said decisively.

“Clubbed,” another announced, just as strongly.

“Forked, unless you want him to look old and boring.”

“Clubbed, unless you want him to look like a ship’s captain.”

“At least ship captains have some style—”

“And no class. We need him to look like he fits in a drawing room.”

“As the butler?”

“Clubbed!”

“Forked!”

“Pointed,” Paulo said, cutting in. “His face needs the length.”

And that ended that. No one asked the man himself what he wanted, of course, any more than they would ask a chair if it wanted to be reupholstered. He didn’t matter; none of them did.

“Why do you need us?” Mircea asked again, harshly.

Auria looked up, startled, from examining more of the silks. “What?”

“Why are we here? To entertain senators?”

Auria just stared at him for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

“That would be a no,” Paulo said dryly. “You’re here, along with the rest, to free us up to entertain senators.”

“Mmmmm, senators.” Auria fell back against the chaise, hugging an armful of silk to her breast. “I heard they give the most delicious presents. Ropes of pearls, barrels of them. And rubies the size of my fist, and collars of diamonds, and jeweled sleeves—”

“And you know this how?” Paulo inquired.

“I hear things,” the auburn-haired beauty said archly. “Anyway, do you think the mistress is going to all this expense for nothing? She knows—this will make us!”

“Or break us, at the rate you spend money.” He caught Mircea’s eye and scowled. “You’re here to take care of our regular clientele and the extra business from the festival crowds, to run errands, and to do whatever else makes it easier for us to attend to high profile clients. And preferably to maintain a good attitude whilst you’re at it!”

“And after?”

Mircea didn’t get a response to that, either, because one of the servants approached him, tweezers in hand.

Fortunately for the man’s health, Paulo stopped him in time. “The mistress said no.”

“No?” The man looked dubious.

“She wants him left rough around the edges. Something about having a particular client in mind—”

He suddenly cut off, at the same time that Auria’s head jerked up.

“Oh! Oh, is it—” she exclaimed, as what sounded like a stampede of cats rushed by outside. It was eerily silent except for the creak-creak-creak of the old wooden staircase under what had to be dozens of feet, all going up.

But Auria wasn’t silent. She let out a whoop that would have done an attacking Saracen proud, and rushed out the door, with Paulo on her heels. A moment later the servants stopped torturing Mircea’s former cellmates and did the same, leaving him and the others looking at each other in bewilderment.

And then as one, they hopped off their perches and headed to the door, ignoring the annoyed sounds of the tailor behind them.

Mircea reached it first, only to see what appeared to be every vampire on the property headed up the stairs, politely taking turns. Except for Auria, who had pushed her way almost to the top. And then she disappeared around a bend in the stairs, and the cat feet started not-pounding the boards above their heads.

Mircea looked up, despite the fact that there was nothing to see but a board ceiling, and then down again at his fellow prisoners, whose heads were now sticking out of the salon along with his. And then he slowly turned to stare at the front door, which was tantalizingly close.

And completely unguarded.

Mircea didn’t hesitate. In an instant he was through the door, feeling vaguely ridiculous in only the skin-tight leggings. Especially when a single length of any of the costly stuff draped around the salon would have brought him a new outfit, boots, cloak, and possibly provided traveling money as well.

But not if the tailor put up a squawk about it and alerted the whole house. Mircea decided he couldn’t risk it and ran, out the door and down the embankment outside, which fronted yet another canal. If he had to, he’d swim home, he thought—

Right before a rough hand fastened onto his upper arm.

And slammed him back into a wall, almost jerking him off his feet.

Mircea looked up wildly, expecting to see Paulo or one of the servants. Or possibly a member of the Watch, who was wondering why a mostly-naked vampire was fleeing down the street like all the hounds of hell were after him. So it was a shock to see the older of his three cellmates frowning at him out of the gloom.

Bezio, he thought, relief pouring through him.

For a split second, until he was dragged into an alley. He started to protest—vigorously—when a group of the Watch ran by, shouting commands to their fellows on the opposite bank. Mircea stared at them—there had to be a few dozen at least, their armor splashed with light from the torches they carried.

It seemed a little excessive, for one runaway, he thought stupidly, before Bezio pulled him further back into the shadows.

“It’s not for you,” Bezio said, before he could ask. “The consul is coming. His flotilla is going to pass right by here, which is what has the house in an uproar. They’re all on the roof, trying to get a glimpse.”

“Perfect,” Mircea breathed. “Then we have time to—”

“Get back before anybody notices you’re gone? Good idea.”

“Like hell,” Mircea said, and tried to tear away. Only to find his back making the acquaintance of the bricks again, and a trailing bunch of vines did little to cushion the blow.

“What the—”

“Why do you think they allow us to come here?” Bezio demanded.

Mircea looked up into a swarthy face that appeared utterly serious. “What?”

“The government. The senate. Why do you think—”

“I think you’re about to take a bath,” Mircea snarled, and threw him off. Only to be pinned by two hands this time, huge and calloused, and significantly stronger than they’d been the night before.

“Do you think it’s compassion?” Bezio demanded. “Altruism? They’re not like us. They didn’t go through what we have, they don’t live like we do. And you don’t learn compassion by sitting on your ass in a gilded salon!”

No, but you get caught talking to a madman in an alley, Mircea thought. “I don’t have time for this!”

“Then answer the question: Why is this city here?”

“Get out of my way!”

“Answer the question!”

“I don’t know! It’s a port! You can’t just close it off—”

“Bullshit. They’ve closed off plenty of others. I ought to know; I had to come through half a dozen to get here.”

“You’re not Venetian?”

“Do I sound Venetian?”

Mircea didn’t know. He could barely speak the language himself, having not known a word of it when he arrived. How the hell was he supposed to tell one damned Italian from another? He also didn’t care.

“Damn it! Let me go —”