We checked. No entanglements, no divine signatures, no cloaked figures jumping out of alleyways with knives. Markus and I remained unaccosted as we traveled alongside Lady Obol’s palanquin, chattering amiably. Specifically, she was chatting amiably. Lady Obol was a fountain of gossip, it turned out, and Val was taking copious notes back on the ship. There was nothing left to do but listen, politely continue the conversation, and keep one eye out for sudden, oblique disaster.

In addition to ruining the Lady Geremine’s schedule for the evening, the commander’s objectives had also included figuring out how the invitations worked. Surely we couldn’t just walk in there, right? Right?

Actually, it turned out that we could. There was the small matter of the cover fee–and by “small” I mean “most of our remaining money,” making it critical to get some kind of patron tonight—but otherwise it was a matter of showing up and acting like you belonged. All of us were formally trained in exactly that, so I wasn’t too worried. The part I was worried about was the Right of Challenge, which was a custom whereby those “of grace” could challenge others on grounds of having “insufficient grace” and get them booted out of the ball. I was so going to pull that on Lirian if she showed her face.

“You are not engaging Lirian,” said the commander. “Focus on getting Markus a patron.”

“Aye aye, captain,” I subvocalized in between empty polite responses to Lady Obol’s monologue on the evils of the Voranetti. Apparently the Voranetti’d just finagled some kind of contract with a merchant that usually worked for the Jeneretti because the normal deal had fallen through, and now it was confusion and hurt feelings on all sides, a state of affairs that, in Lady Obol’s opinion, was entirely the fault of the other family.

“You’d think the merchant would have more loyalty,” Markus said.

“Loyalty does not pass the city gates, boy,” said Lady Obol, though in appearance Markus was the same age as her. “They’re all Phrecians out east now, not a drop of the old blood left. Clans, not families. Their duties to their elders come first.”

Markus made an enlightened noise.

“And that’s another thing,” she said. “Give me an inheritance any day. I can trace my descent through my grandmother’s grandmother to Seindel himself. We’re a family of the land. We know, the city knows it, even our enemies know it. The thrice-damned Voranetti know it, that’s for certain. You know where you stand with an inheritance. But a clan? Where’s their foundation?”

“I’ve never thought of it that way,” I said, which was technically true because I’d never thought about it in any way.

“Anyone can join a clan!” said Lady Obol, throwing her hands in the air. “There’s no identity to it, just a bunch of people out to make money!”

Before we could enjoy more of what was beginning to sound like a suspiciously racist account of Phrecian sociology, we arrived at the estate. In Lady Obol’s case, “returned to the estate” might be a more appropriate phrase, as the event was taking place in one of the Jeneretti holdings. The structure was enormous compared to some of the smaller inns and workshops we’d had occasion to frequent during our cultural forays thus far, with walls rising two or three stories. We had to skirt around the side—no servants’ entrance for us, thank you—eventually coming to an opening that was too wide to be intended for defense. Inside, we were treated to a fantastic display of colored fire.

The central courtyard of the compound had been covered, great woven mats thrown over temporary scaffolding to block the light of the moon and stars. From that scaffolding hung fake stars—what must have been thousands of brightly colored lanterns burning in a hundred hues. Below the artificial starlight, we saw flurries of movement in darkness, interwoven with colored lights from masks worn by the attendees. The lights somehow managed to raise the ambient light level just enough not to bump into anyone, but not enough to make out any details. And the masks, it seemed, were designed so that the light shining from them did not reflect on the wearer’s face.

It took me back to those photos NASA had taken of other galaxies, the bright lights thrown about in chaotic patterns. Something grand, something mysterious. And unlike NASA’s photos, these lights were swirling around in real-time, and they were really that beautiful, not just x-ray spectrographs photoshopped into the visible spectrum and breaking my little college freshman heart.

It was too breathtaking for the memory to really distract me. I stood transfixed for I don’t know how long.

“Isn’t it magnificent?” said Lady Obol. “Only the Vitares have a greater collection of ghostlights. The Goddess has favored us greatly, and in return we guide her holy city.”

She was, I could tell from the comm translation, referring to Androdaima.

“How are they made?” I asked, pulling myself together.

“Spoken like a child of traders!” Lady Obol laughed, not unfondly. “The secrets of the process are well-guarded by her temple, but the color at least is derived from brightflowers. Every hue you see before you was blended with great care by the hand of our Mistress of Colors, or one of her predecessors.”

I’d heard of brightflowers before but didn’t remember what they were. They had the feel of a common-knowledge thingy, so instead of drawing suspicion to myself, I made a mental note to look them up later. The comms being what they were, Val saw the mental note and grabbed the answer out of our recon database.

“Brightflowers are unusually pigmented flowers associated with Androdaima,” he said. “The pigments are easily released with a simple mortar and pestle, making them important to many industries. They’re likely the reason for the advanced textile colors we’ve encountered so far.”

“A daughter of this House now returns in the company of friends,” said Lady Obol formally to the doorkeeper, who saluted and stepped aside. Lady Obol passed quickly, heading to a table that had been set out with an array of masks, each burning with ghostlight. Markus and I followed.

“Ah, my lady,” said the doorkeeper to me, her eyes flicking uncertainly to Lady Obol.

“Forgive me, I forgot myself in the face of all this spectacle,” I said quickly.

“Repeat after me,” said the commander, who was probably nearby.

“A friend of this House seeks the threshold.” I said as she prompted me.

“The right of hospitality is ours,” replied the doorkeeper.

“We shall repay what is given,” I said. “Thala?”

Markus stepped forward, bowing, and presented the doorkeeper with a bag filled with my hard-earned pirate treasure.

“Enter, friend,” said the doorkeeper, bowing us in.

We joined Lady Obol, who fortunately had only looked bemused at the faux pas of forgetting the hospitality ritual.

“Thala!” she said, waving him over. “Blue for you, I think. As if those eyes are shining through! One gets the sense of an ocean from you.”

“Your kindness is great,” said Markus, accepting the mask. It was thin, dark cloth, with two glass cylinders on either side in the same hue of ghostfire. Two loops on the ends were apparently meant for the ears, which would have caused issues with my positively baroque hairstyle, except Oloren had apparently seen this coming and left space around my ears. Markus put it on, covering everything above his nostrils with shimmering black.

“No significant visibility impairment from the mask,” he reported subvocally. “Peripheral vision fine. Night vision unaffected.”

“You look gorgeous,” said Lady Obol, merrily pinching his bicep. “And Lady Ajarel, it seems this is your first Starlight Ball.”

I knew how to look for the little etheric flicker in the comm translation now—that was one of those indirect requests, but the usage here was weird. Normally you’d solicit a request for help by making an observation about the other person’s needs, but that was for things that benefited you.

“It is,” I conceded, stalling for time. What did she gain by helping me pick a color? Shit, were the colors meaningful? Comm said no, other than the faint trace of Androdaima’s divine signature. Huh, weird, that wasn’t an active blessing. Worry about that later.

“Once you’ve chosen a color that suits you, I can announce us to the company and we can begin our evening,” she said with a polite smile. I couldn’t read her face—doubly so, under dark cloth and deep maroon—but there was still that subtle etheric note.

It hit me like Markus. If she announced us together, I’d be associated with her family, and her enemies wouldn’t be able to snatch me up as an independent. We were heading into a fancy, decorated war zone.

“I’d be honored if you would,” I said.

I scanned the table full of flickering starlight, looking to see what stood out. I had my eye on this really cool fire-yellow one, but Lady Ajarel was supposed to be more subdued. Green? It wouldn’t go with my dress, not that anyone could really tell under these lighting conditions. Best not to risk it—these were people “of grace,” they’d be highly class-conscious. They would find out somehow. Best not to pick anything too close to Lady Obol’s color, but I also couldn’t go for anything that clashed with her or it’d be making a different statement.

Aha! I snatched up a mask with a nice burnt umbre tone to it. Subdued firelight, the aura at the center of the candle. Dark like hers, but different in tone. Opposed to Markus’s too, which in retrospect may have been a deliberate test when she picked out that blue color.

Lady Obol literally radiated approval as I picked up the mask and put it on. Definitely a test, then, and it seemed I’d passed. She’d been nothing but talkative and genial in my short acquaintance with her, so this was a valuable reminder that beneath all that was the kind of social cunning that elevated a family to the top of the city. She wouldn’t be the only one.

“I arrive: Lady Obol Jeneretes,” proclaimed the woman I’d almost written off as someone’s gossipy aunt. “With me, Lady Arguel of Salaphi and trusted companion.”

I would say something like “all of these people were sharks,” but they didn’t have those here. So all of these people were, like, some kind of really sneaky soulless predator. Like a mongoose or something.

*

I’d won Lady Obol’s approval by listening to her chatter away and passing a few subtle evaluative tests, but the next problem was actually getting her to sponsor Markus. Which should have been easy, given that she definitely liked me—I have no idea how I survived without a comm to handle social ambiguity—but she just wouldn’t stop talking.

“Now, the Seborae have only been here a generation—practically foreigners!—but their scion Iani is quite the up and comer! I considered bargaining my eldest/male/unwed/status/child to her, but it wouldn’t do, no, not at all.”

That was the fifth time she’d used that word—all of them in this context, poor kid—and I wasn’t quick enough to catch the literal word the last four times. This time I was ready. Primora, I thought at my comm. I felt a satisfying sense of something giving, like the noetic equivalent of snapping some kind of one-way plug into an IKEA desk.

“That’s an opening,” Abby said, patiently coaching me, as she had for the last hour. “Jump in now.”

“I wonder if she’d take a look at this lunk,” I said, gracefully shifting to indicate Markus at my side. Well, shifting, anyways. But my hand amplifier was set to make me seem graceful, so either way it worked out.

“Pride, Lilith,” the commander reminded me. Right, less of a culture of humility around here.

“He may not have much of a name in Vitareas,” I continued without pausing, “but when he competes for glory in the Renathion, that will change.”

“Ah, wonderful!” said Lady Obol, favoring me with an encouraging smile. “He reminds me of my third husband—he’s a feisty one, not that you’d know it to look at him. Why, back in the day—”

And just like that, I’d lost control of the conversation again. Did she ever pause for breath?

“You can’t keep letting her get in like that,” said the commander. “What are they teaching you kids in Social these days?”

“I, uh, didn’t actually take Social,” I subvocalized while nodding along politely. “I took Theory of Social Roles instead, it counted towards the requirement.”

“Max is getting an earful for this when we get back,” said Abby. “They filled in the cracks with fancy etherware and thought that made you an infiltrator. Do they all have transfer damage? Even Torres signed off on your credentials, and I know for a fact he’s been out in the field!”

“This is people infiltration, it’s Markus stuff,” I complained.

“I’m not blaming you, Lilith,” she said. “This is my fault, I should have trained you better.”

“You’re doing good,” said Markus. “Stay positive. You’re facing a difficult challenge, just keep at it.”

I didn’t respond. I was too busy double-checking that my composure didn’t show my frustration, as Lady Obol had given me a bit of a searching glance. The hand amplifier should mask anything I didn’t, but this was exactly the sort of situation where someone might notice the dissonance and get suspicious. I didn’t pick up any suspicion from her, so I don’t know what that was. I got another opening when she paused for just a bit longer than usual.

“Oh, yes, I can’t imagine how hard it is to make connections with visitors,” I said, perhaps a bit too close to rudeness but afraid of missing the opportunity. “It seems like you really need to snatch up everyone with talent before someone else does.”

“Good,” said Markus. “A bit direct, but that’s acceptable given the context.”

“Oh, child, you’ll do well here,” said Lady Obol. “I am a hunter, in my way. Flitting from here to there—I dare say my prey don’t even realize they’ve been snatched up!”

“You honor us,” I said with a smile, putting the slightest emphasis on us. She knew Markus needed a sponsor, what was she playing at? The comm only told me that she genuinely approved of me, almost in the sense of a teacher or mentor.

And then we were talking about chariot races or some shit. My smile became a little forced as I resisted the urge to punch something.

“The fuck am I doing wrong?” I asked. “Fuck, does she ever breathe?”

A pause on the other end.

“Yes,” said the commander, and I could feel her frown through the word. “You’re not noticing it because she does it in the middle of a thought.”

“It’s fucking strategic?” I said. I wanted to scream, but that would torpedo me worse than whatever she was doing. “The comm says she likes me!”

“Send me a sample,” said the commander. Markus tapped his thigh to let me know he was on it. The commander rendered her conclusions quickly. “She thinks she’s doing you a favor. Teaching you something.”

“I don’t need teaching.” I managed not to let my pout show on my face.

“She has to know what you want by now,” said the commander. “She’s using your inability to initiate to prevent you from asking for a sponsor.”

“How is that doing me a favor?!”

A pause. Apparently Lady Obol was also considering bargaining her primora off to the youngest Vitares daughter, but of course it wouldn’t be proper with the political situation as it stood. I nodded attentively at the proper moments, unable to get actual words in.

“She can’t or won’t sponsor Markus,” the commander finally said. “But she wants you to think there’s a possibility, so she’s not turning you down.”

“She doesn’t want me to compete at all, I think,” Markus said. “We should have considered this. Perhaps there’s a competitor they favor heavily.”

“This op was last-minute,” said the commander. “We didn’t have time to get the list of sponsored athletes.”

Val’s voice reached us from the edge of the city. “Should I retrieve it from the temple records?”

“Too risky,” said the commander. “Disengage, you two. There’s still time to find a sponsor.”

I’d gotten angry enough that it was almost a physical thing, a lump beneath my sternum and the sensation of my tongue against the roof of my mouth. When I smiled it felt sharp.

“If you’ll excuse us, Lady Obol,” I said politely. “I should eat, and as much as we’ve enjoyed your company, it would be good to meet others of your city.”

“By all means,” she smiled. “Refreshments are at the east wall; I’ll show you there.”

“Shit,” I thought. “I wouldn’t like to waste your time,” I said.

“It’s no trouble,” she said. “I am your host, after all.”

“You’re tired,” offered the commander.

“It’s not just that,” I said. “We have been traveling all day, and need to sit down. We wouldn’t wish to keep you from your other guests.”

“If you insist,” said Lady Obol with an expression of generosity. “Rest well, my friends, and I’ll be sure to check up on you soon.”

As we escaped from her overbearing social clutches, I realized the old bitch was actually proud of me. Maybe she thought we’d still be friends afterward, but I was gut-punching her next chance I got.

“Come on,” I told Markus. “Let’s get you a sponsor before something else goes wrong.”

We almost made it to the banquet table.

“I arrive!” bellowed a familiar, hateful voice from the direction of the entrance. “Lady Lirian of Silence!”

I buried my face in my hands.