The Ritual (9 page)

“Good,” he said, standing up. “Let’s make a move then. Mior, can you see if you can find a copy of the invite somewhere? I’ll go shopping for dresses.”

“Do you need us to come along?” I asked. “I’d like everything to fit.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “And how would I explain to the vendor that my lady owner, for whom I am buying these dresses, is the half-elf accompanying me? You know they won’t sell to me unless I say it’s for an elf.” He picked up his backpack, rummaged around and produced first a plain slave-choker, then a tape measure. “Come, I’ll take your measurements.”

I felt a blush creep up and fixed my eyes on a crack in the wall as he casually wrapped the tape measure around my hips, waist and breasts, and hoped he didn’t notice how my nipples puckered up when his hand brushed against them. He scribbled down the figures on a scrap of paper, then fixed the choker around his neck with an expression of distaste. Normally the chokers were warded against removal, and included a spell that limited movement to a certain range, and although this one was clearly deactivated, I shared his aversion to the thing. It always rankled that humans could be and do anything they wanted, provided they didn’t challenge the supremacy of elves, yet that half-breeds like us were considered only a step above vermin.

Mior left shortly after him, and with a sigh I began to experiment with Shani’s hair, trying to think of what I could do to it that would make it look intricate and elvish.

*   *   *   *   *

In all, our preparations took up nearly every measure of our time right up to the fete, with barely enough left for us to catch enough sleep to be rested and alert. Mior had managed to get an example of the duke’s invitation, and he had forged a copy to allow access to Lady Aylin Sha’anar and her sister Roniel. By the time we left the inn Shani and I were still bickering over which of us was who.

I felt awkward and irritable. The dress Zashter had returned with was predictably elaborate, with a full skirt which constricted my movements and kept tangling around my legs. I wasn’t used to skirts in the first place, and this one had about four layers of fabric to get caught in, yet still didn’t manage to keep out the draught that blew up underneath it and chilled my skin. The bodice was tight and pushed up my breasts, and even though mine weren’t very big, the cleavage was so low that I nearly spilled out of it, to the point that I hardly dared to bend over. To top it all off, the colour was such a vivid emerald green that it almost stung my eyes. It was trimmed with cream lace and gold ribbons, and we had sorted through our stolen jewellery to find a matching necklace and some bracelets. In all, the dress was the most sumptuous garment I had ever seen – never mind owned – but I felt like a fraud and was convinced I looked like one.

The headdress didn’t help either – it was a monstrous, turban-like contraption that covered my ears and included a double tassel which hung along my left temple and tickled my jaw annoyingly, and I was trying to forget about the three enormous emerald-green feathers that crowned its summit.

Shani was similarly attired, except her dress was sapphire blue and trimmed in silver and grey, and her hair was elaborate enough on its own to preclude a headpiece, although Zashter had still insisted on adding a few feathers. We both looked ridiculous, and I missed the easy movement that my normal tunic and trousers would have allowed.

In contrast, Zashter looked immaculate in close-fitting black velvet trousers, a velvet sleeveless doublet with green embroidery that emphasised his luscious physique, and a dark moss-green shirt with billowing sleeves. His hair was neatly brushed and arranged with care, and the total effect was so dashing that I could barely keep my eyes off him.

We had to walk to the elvish part of the city, from where we hailed a two-seater carriage, since no elves would ever arrive on foot. Zashter hopped onto the servant step at the back, already getting into his role as our slave. The ride was pleasant, and I saw that he had been right about this side of town looking and smelling much better. The streets were wider and less steep, and the houses looked more opulent, with ornate gable decorations and immaculate plasterwork.

And then we arrived at the duke’s estate, and Zashter took my hand to help me alight from the carriage. “Back straight, chin up,” he murmured to me. “Remember, you’re an elf. Arrogance is the word.”

I looked at Shani, unrecognisable in her glamour and finery until I met her eyes, which were still her own dark brown. We nodded to each other, then lifted our heads high and strode to the front door, ready to begin the deception.

Once inside, the first thing I noticed were the people. There were elves everywhere, parading, laughing, chatting, relaxing on big chaise-longues and eyeing each other with veiled expressions. Their attire dazzled me – I had thought my dress was opulent, but the first elven lady to sweep past me nearly knocked me over, so thick were her petticoats. The colours ran the full gamut from deepest crimson to bri
ghtest cerulean, and they were thick with gems, feathers and ribbons. I felt plain in comparison, though it suited my disguise as a relatively poor elven lady. Bits of conversation drifted past me as I slowly made my way into the first reception room, and the elvish voices were all so musical, their words so polished, that I feared that my own plain voice and roughened speech pattern might give me away.

The sight of so many elves at once threatened to overwhelm me, so I tried to concentrate on the inside of the residence instead. It was as lavish as the exterior – thick carpets, silk wallpaper, priceless vases and statues on marble pedestals and gigantic flower arrangements decorating every table. The air was sweet, almost cloying – a mixture of flowers and exotic fruit, and for several long heartbeats I couldn’t figure out where the latter smell was coming from. Then I noticed that some of the flower arrangements weren’t actually flow
ers, but fruit carved to look like flowers, and I approached one in curiosity, startling when I was immediately addressed by the half-elf slave who stood next to it.

“Would mylady like a piece of fruit? Pineapple perhaps, or maybe a morsel of mango?” He picked up a tiny silver knife and a small silver bowl, ready to slice off a piece, and looked at me expectantly.

I stared at the fruit arrangement in uncertainty. Everything was yellow, and I did not know one from the other. “Uh, pineapple please,” I ventured, and the man’s eyes widened before he turned and sliced off a few chunks with the knife. I wondered at his reaction, but when he handed over the bowl with a bow it came to me: I had said ‘please’.

I turned away, chagrined, suppressing the urge to thank the man and forcing myself to remember that he was a slave
; that all the half-elves here were slaves who required neither politeness nor thanks. In the initial dazzle of the elves I hadn’t noticed them, but there were many, all in uniform and with gold slave-chokers, carrying trays of sparkling wine, tiny pastries, stuffed quail eggs and other appetisers. I felt sickened at not having noticed them before, at being so taken in by the elves flaunting their perceived superiority, and it dawned on me that I was further out of my depth than I had ever been before. I tried to compose myself, hiding my feelings behind a vacuous smile, and distractedly ate a piece of the pineapple.

One bite was all it took. The juice flowed into my mouth, much sweeter than I had expected, and I was lost. “Gods, Shani, try this stuff, it’s fantastic,” I moaned, stuffing another piece in my mouth, but when I lifted my head I found her pursing her lips at me with her arms crossed.

“Who’s Shani?” she asked, and I remembered myself, chewing and swallowing the pineapple away.

“Sorry,” I muttered, “but this stuff really is godly. Where’s Zashter? He should try this.”

“Gone to find one of the drinks servants, and he can’t try it unless you feed it to him.”

I
stared at her, then looked around me again, paying more attention to the interactions between all the people present. This time I noticed that some of the half-elves were body slaves, trailing after their elven lady owners. As I watched, one of those ladies stopped, picked up a vol-au-vent from the tray presented to her and held it out to her slave, who obediently opened his mouth and allowed himself to be fed.

“She’s making him lick her fingers,” I said hoarsely. “There’s no way I can do that with him.”

“Can’t you? I’d have thought you’d love him to lick your fingers.”

“Shh!” I hissed. “He might hear! Besides, I’m not sure I could feed him at all. It’s just too degrading.”

“Right, that’s it,” Shani snapped. “Come with me, now!” She hooked her elbow around mine as if we were the best of friends and going for a stroll, but she nearly dragged me with her towards one of the doors, just as Zashter returned with two glasses of wine. “Hold on to those, and follow,” Shani barked at him, and I saw his mouth curve before he bent his head in acquiescence.

She pulled me into the corridor, then stopped by one of the liveried servants. “You! Where are the facilities?” she said imperiously, and the man bowed and pointed to a door a little further down. Without another look at him she yanked me along, went inside and slammed the door shut behind us.

The bathroom was palatial, with a sunken bathtub, an elegant porcelain privy and two washbasins with a small basket full of little soaps in between. Shani gave a cursory glance around the room to ensure it was empty, then turned to me with blazing eyes. “Will you stop being such a Godsfucking idiot? What are we here for?”

I stared at her. “We’re… well, to scope out the place. Shani, I don’t understand, what’s the–”

“Exactly, to scope out the place,” she snapped. “We’ve infiltrated an elven bulwark of the high aristocracy, and in less than a quarter measure you’ve managed to stuff your face like a commoner, call me by the wrong name and whinge about how degrading it is to feed your slave.”

“But it
is
degrading!” I protested.

“And do you think he didn’t know it would be before he got here? He’s not stupid, Rin, and he
suggested
posing as our slave. Now ask yourself this: what would he be more pissed off about, you acting like an unprofessional amateur, or you treating him like every other fucking elf treats her body servant?”

I lowered my eyes, feeling thoroughly chastised. She was right
, of course, and I nodded in defeat. “Right, point taken.”

“Good. Now get out there and act like an elf. Oh, and one last thing…” She waited until I was looking at her, then gave me a sly smile. “If you don’t feed him, I will. And believe me, I
will
make him lick my fingers.”

Jealousy flared up, hot and painful, and I knew she could see it in my eyes. “You don’t fight fair, Shani,” I muttered.

“Of course not,” she replied with a warm smile. “I fight to win. Zash would tell you to do the same.”

He would too, and I was all too aware that I wanted him to be proud of me, that I wanted to prove to him that I could be relied upon. He had brought us tonight, not his brother, so the least I could do was try and live up to his expectations. I straightened up, tried to adjust my tassels, then gave up and strode back outside.

The corridor was deserted but he was still waiting, a glass in each hand, with perfect poise and lowered eyes, as was proper. He looked beautiful, but the slave-choker marred his appearance like a pebble in a diamond necklace, and I knew that while I had to be professional and treat him like a possession, I couldn’t do so without letting him know that I would hate every moment of it.

I strode over to him, and as I plucked one of the glasses out of his grasp I looked him straight in the eyes and said, “I apologise in advance for whatever elvish bitchery I have to do to you tonight.”

For a heartbeat he looked surprised, then he smiled. “I’m sure I will live, Little Firelocks, but I appreciate the sentiment.” He held out his other glass to Shani, then gave a small bow and gestured for us to precede him.

I went back into the main room, now focused on my task, and for two measures we observed, circulated and exchanged pleasantries with other guests of minor importance. I staved off boredom by mentally valuing all the jewellery on display, until I caught Zashter’s hooded glare, and realised that I’d been muttering a litany of gems under my breath as they passed before my eyes. It made me blush, and I tried to hide it by turning toward
s a passing tray of appetisers and grabbing two.

The savoury tidbits were as delicious as the fruit, and I occasionally fed one to Zashter, looking fixedly past him as my fingers brushed his lips, until I noticed that it amused him. From then on I looked him straight into the eyes, though I soon realised that that wasn’t a smart move either, because it made him act even more provocatively.

I had just fed him another quail’s egg, and was trying to suppress the shiver he caused when he sucked the filling off my fingertip, when a liquid-honey voice behind me said, “Do you sell his services?”

I froze and saw Zashter stiffen as well, and turned around to face the elven lady who had spoken. She smiled at me, her baby-blue eyes avid and full of guile, and I wondered what she meant.

“Services?” I asked, cocking my head.

“Yes,” the woman breathed, her gaze roving over Zashter’s body from head to toe before she looked back at me. “He looks like he would be most satisfying. If you wish you can exchange him with mine for a day or two?”