Chapitre Quarante et Un

Signaux de la Main

Lucilla

While the Renarts tended to fellows of their station, Lucilla slipped out of the ballroom to find her own quarry.

The halls of Marquis Étranger's mansion were lined with barren walls. Where once sat portraits of the Forbin family going back hundreds of years, now there were only squares where the paint was just a little whiter. Lucilla was certain she heard light footsteps on the other sides of those walls.

It's not so different from the way it is at home. Except, I'm sure that most of those footsteps don't belong to Fitzroy's agents.

Lucilla knew that they were listening, whoever they were, but she couldn't be sure whether she was being watched. Even so, in order to keep her excuse for wandering this far into the mansion consistent, she staggered and stumbled as she walked, occasionally bracing herself against the wall.

Soon she found the place for which she was searching: the kitchen, wherein Étranger's chef reclined in his chair in a well-earned moment of relaxation. The round-bellied chef stood as she entered the room and reached out to catch her hand as she stumbled.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle," he said, a charming smile claiming his face. His accent was certainly not Salian, but she'd have to listen to him more in order to place it.

"No, essscuse me," Lucilla slurred, allowing him to help her into one of the wooden chairs.

"You've wandered far from the ballroom," he said. "Are you feeling ill?"

"Jus' too much wine..." said Lucilla. "Needed to be away from all the noise."

The chef chuckled, took a pitcher from the counter, and poured her a glass of water. "Here. Please drink."

His hard pronunciation of the s in "Please" and his dark skin gave him away. This man was from the desert nation of Ma'Ariv. Good. That meant his native language was one Lucilla knew. More importantly, the people of Ma'Ariv lived under constant watch of an oppressive Emir, and so had developed an ingenious language of hand-gestures, which allowed them to carry on a completely different conversation without being overheard.

In the Ma'Arivi language, Lucilla said, "The Marquis must have his hands full dealing with all of these soldier conspiracies, yes?"

As she spoke, she gestured with her hands, asking him, "How well does your lord pay you?"

The chef responded in the Ma'Arivi language, "I don't know anything about that. I just cook here."

But, with his fingers he signaled to her, "Average chef's salary. Nothing great. Why? Are you to buy me off?"

Lucilla grinned. Verbally, she continued her conversation about the soldiers and their conspiracies, and even slipped in a few questions about the barbarians on the other side of the border. If there was anyone listening in who spoke the Ma'Arivi language they'd surely believe she was trying to learn more about the Marquis' exploits from the cook, only to have him duck and dodge her prods.

She couldn't help but smirk at her own misdirect.

"My lord has much gold," Lucilla signed, "But information is more valuable. Infinitely."

The chef grunted in displeasure before verbally deflecting her questions yet again, and then signing, "I have much information, but gold is more valuable to me. Infinitely." Lucilla could tell that he was struggling to hide his own smirk at his joke. If the eavesdroppers could hear the smile in his voice they would know they were being tricked.

"What would you say to... 5 lyrae for every helpful secret?" That was sure to be more than he could make just as a chef, and certainly enough to be worth risking his life.

"Sounds good. I accept."

"My name is Lucilla. By what name may I call you?"

"You may call me 'Mouse.'"

"Do you have any other secret names? That one is already used."

"How about 'Dough.'"

"That's a good one. I will let my master's spy-leader know and he will be in contact."

The chef adjusted his hat and snorted. "If you don't mind, mademoiselle, I have important work to attend to."

"You sure you can't speak with me just a little longer?" asked Lucilla in the sultriest tone she could manage while still speaking Ma'Arivi.

"Get out!" the chef growled, pointing to the door.

Lucilla hung her head in false defeat and trudged out the door, grumbling about being dismissed like this. She feigned a stagger back through the halls of the Étranger mansion, running her fingers along the walls as if she needed help balancing. The slight vibrations in the walls told her that whomever was on the other side was keeping step with her; following her to see what she'd do next.

She was determined to disappoint them, and returned to the ballroom, where the music would obscure her words.

Beatrice met her at the hors d'oeuvres table. "Lucilla, are you feeling better?"

"Oh, yes, my lady, much better," said Lucilla, giving her a slow nod.

Beatrice smiled. "I'm glad, and I'm sure Lucien will be quite pleased too."

Lucilla leaned in and brought her voice to a low whisper. "If you get a chance before I do, tell Fitzroy--"

The music cut off suddenly, and Lucilla immediately closed her lips. All others in the ballroom, apparently, understood to do the same, as they all went silent with the musicians.

Micaedon stood at the front of the room, before the band, with both hands raised. "If I may have your attention for a moment, lords and ladies?" He lowered his hands as all eyes turned to him, and two servants walked through the room with velvet bags in their hands. "Just a few days ago I was speaking with a dear friend of mine and pondering how I could make this masquerade ball... how shall I say it? Unique. He told me that one common complaint of those who dislike such events is that everyone dances with the same people at every ball.

"My servants, making their way around the ballroom now, each have in their velvet bags slips of paper with numbers written on them." Micaedon raised his right index finger and met eyes with several of his guests. "The rule here is quite simple. Draw a slip of paper from the velvet bag, then find a dance partner who has your matching number. That shall be your dance partner for the next song."

The crowd murmured their excitement for this fascinating game, though Lucilla knew that every lord present understood this to be some manner of trap. The question was simply, "For whom was this trap set?"

"I'm afraid," said Duke Lucien from across the room, "That I cannot join in the festivities. With my back and hip... I haven't been able to dance in a long time."

Micaedon nodded to him. "I would never dream of trying to force you to do anything that would irritate your old injuries, my friend. Perish the thought!"

Lord Lucien is not the target. Lucilla breathed a sigh of relief.

The servants made their rounds throughout the ballroom, and the lords and ladies present for the ball took slips from the velvet bags. One servant only gave slips of paper to the ladies, the other only to the lords. A good way to ensure one did not pair up two dancers who only knew how to lead, or only follow.

Beatrice pulled a slip from the bag and looked at the number. Lucilla leaned over her shoulder to see.

"Number 17," said Lucilla.

Beatrice's eyes searched the room as the different dancing partners found each other. As more and more of the lords and ladies paired up with their dancing partners, it began to sink in that one particular young lord on the dance floor was having trouble finding the number which corresponded with his.

Leon soon stood in the middle of the dance floor, the only lord without a partner. And, soon, Beatrice was the only lady without a partner.

Though Beatrice wore a pleasant smile, it was clear to Lucilla that this was a mask as much as the gold resting on her face.

Lucilla had suspected that Beatrice and Leon held a secret passion for one another. The two gazed at each other just a little too longingly a little too often. Now her suspicions were confirmed.

It was only then that Lucilla grasped the nature of the trap. If Beatrice and Leon refused to dance it would draw suspicion, and raise all sorts of questions as to why. But if they did dance then the romantic tension between them would be difficult to keep hidden, and whatever was going on between them might be forced into the light.

Leon approached Beatrice, a pleasant grin on his face but terror in his eyes. "So silly. He tries to arrange for us to dance with new partners, but we end up with the same ones as at the last masquerade."

Beatrice giggled. "Well, once in a while even random chance brings people back to routine."

Leon took her hand and kissed the back of it. "Shall we dance, Mother?"

"I would love to," said Beatrice.

Lucilla felt her heart sink, as if she were watching two friends shuffle off to the gallows, when Leon and Beatrice took to the dance floor again.