Chương 317: Sneak Attack

If you want to be the focus of the party, you need to be on the stage, right? I stood straight, poised, elegant in the spotlight. I could activate it remotely, its sigils were just a scaled-up version of the ordinary candles used everywhere, and I had learned to operate them remotely about two days after I first came into my powers.

The man in the catwalk was surprised to see his equipment activate itself but I have to give credit to his professionalism: when he saw that the spotlight he was responsible for had turned on and was aimed at someone on stage who was talking to the crowd with a booming voice like a lion's roar, he scrambled to position and steadied the gimbals to keep it trained on me.

"As of this moment," I projected, "it has been hours since the representatives of the throne have presented their plea to dissolve the vote of no-confidence and been rejected by the High Court. It has been hours since their solicitors have compiled a brief to redress the grievances and failed to reach the first threshold for a quorum of compromise. We are now officially past the point of declaration and we are engaged in a state of rebellion.

While I am certain we all hope for a peaceable resolution and the betterment of the kingdom, it becomes increasingly clear that we must prepare for bleaker outcomes. These days will be trying, and will require both courage and discernment from all parties. And with trust and valor together, we can all endeavor to prove why we, here, are the leaders of the kingdom. Thank you."

The spotlight followed me as I moved to the edge of the stage, but lost me as I crossed the foot and floated out to the main floor, drifting downwards as I went. I landed at a stroll, just a few feet from Petunia. She smiled politely, and handed me a glass.

"I don't want to spoil your moment, but the Marquis of Brunbling was up there just twenty minutes ago making almost the exact same speech."

"Fuck." I indulged in a halfhearted facepalm. She patted my shoulder.

"Your speech was nice too."

"Thank you for trying to save my feelings," I said to her.

"All the power in the world can't stop me from making an ass of myself, I suppose. What else have I missed?" Petunia meant well but she's not as good at wrangling spy reports as Bruce is. But we're still keeping Bruce out of the public view because we're trying not to remind everyone that Nathan has a lookalike.

On that specific subject, several of the spy reports we're getting back are about various people with hypotheses that Nathan was acting out of character yesterday because that was not him but his mistaken-identity doppelganger cousin. So far those theories are being dismissed with a laugh, Bruce's nearsightedness is rather common knowledge.

Few people wear spectacles in this setting, probably because of the game studio's art style, but diegetically the reason given is because healers are good at restoring most ailments of the senses. Bruce is not extremely compromised, but he is affected in a way that cannot be easily fixed. And so very few people in this world have close experience with people wearing glasses, and ignorance is exploitable. By and large, people assume that Bruce is fully blind without his glasses.

So he can Clark Kent his way through this impersonation with a little bit of guidance, and since he was not tripping over tables everyone knows it can't be him. And yet they totally understand "he left his walking-stick behind". Go figure.

"So, what can we expect tonight?" I asked her, taking a sip of lemon water.

"Hmm. Interdonato. This time of year we mostly only ever see eureka and lunario."

"Why are you an encyclopedia of lemons?"

"It worries me that you're not," I shot back.

"You are a strange one," she sighed fondly, shaking her head.

"To answer your question, based on what I've observed from having gotten here ten minutes earlier than you, this is going to be a lot less House-oriented than most, more about the inclusive multi-House faction. We're probably not going to get away with holding you way back in reserve. So it's important that you try to be a little less..." She trailed off awkwardly, and would not make eye contact.

"Sinister? Threatening? Arrogant? Caustic?"

"What? No, those are all fine. Rude arrogant bastards are just the norm here, and sinister has become your statement piece. No, you just need to not be a dork."

"I never should have taught you that word."

"No take-backs," she declared.

"That's not what that means," I insisted. To no avail. But at her urging I did pass the word for the family to open up the formation, and allow the minglers to muddle their way in. The next half-hour was mostly about me fielding a tide of nobles and officials who wanted "just a word" with me. The profile was the same across the board: highly-stationed or holding a high-ranked appointed position, someone who is important enough to the world to get into this room during this event.

But, not a regular attendee of the social scene, for whatever reason. A lot of people that think they're distinguished and noteworthy enough to deserve my attention, but who I have not seen paying their dues every week. I gestured Petunia and my usual minders back at a distance, they might as well enjoy themselves somewhat. A press of dozens of men and women formed around me, gaggling and chattering and trying to hold my attention. Some of them had something to say, or a business proposition or something.

But most of them were just there because I'm the center of attention and they want to soak up as much as they can. That's how it works, right, if everyone pays attention to me and I pay attention to Madame Moneygood, then by some transitive property everyone pays attention to Madame Moneygood, right? Not actually. But the more important I grow to be, the more people I have that want to stand in my spotlight. The whole time I was on highest alert.

I kept my hand with my glass and my poison-detecting ring up near my face, I scanned everything around me for weapons or sigils, I gave a sliver of my focus to the spinning coin in its glass chamber, and I watched people's eyes carefully. In addition, I'm flushed with the essence of corundum right now: it's not just a very expensive gemstone that looks enchanting and impressive, it's also just barely less hard than diamond is. Right now, someone could break a sword on my neck.

And that's on top of the mundane protection, my bustier is not steel-boned, it's steel- plated, and this jacket weighs thirty pounds because it's a full quilted gambeson with felted inner layers. After all, this is assassin season, and I'm the highest-profile target around. Quarl volunteered to make an attempt on me early and openly so that we could demonstrate how prepared I was and how assassin-proof I was.

I vetoed that because it was an unnecessary risk for him, and also because I did not want to take a chance that he would accidentally prove how good an assassin he is and how not assassin-proof I am. It would be humiliating if he miscalculated and accidentally wounded me. For all that I was concerned having that many strangers in such close proximity would be dangerous, it turns out that having a hundred eyes pointed at you is one of the best protections against a professional assassin.

So of course when the next would-be strides out of the proscenium with a pilfered microphone, that was the moment to strike.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said some woman that I could almost recognize, "mere hours ago, the High Court rejected the plea to strike down the vote of no-confidence. As of now we are no longer a declared rebellion but an actual rebellion in progress. The-""Oh, shut up!" some wag was yelling at her. It was so similar to the speech I'd given, and I cringed internally. Was that what I sounded like? But those thoughts were interrupted by movement, an arrow bouncing off my cheek.

"Ow! Fuck!" I blurted, reaching up to touch my cheek. My eyes were stinging a bit, and I could see some wispy white fumes coming off the arrowhead. It smelled like something you should not breathe in. One hand went to my cheek to make sure I was all right, and I could see the strong vibrant glow coming off my ring, the brightest it's ever glowed. My hand came away clean, no blood, that's good.

I would not look good with a facial scar, and I was not eager to find out what kind of poison that arrow was covered in or what it would do if it were exposed to my bloodstream. See, this is exactly why we were worried. It's just too inevitable that someone would attack me. And whatever poison that was, it was very serious stuff.

"Holy shit," someone next to me muttered.

"Someone wanted you very dead." I called the arrow up to my hand, and now that I have better perspective this is actually a crossbow bolt, which makes a ton more sense because nobody could bring and use a vertical bow in this place. I looked around.

"Anyone see where this came from?" I held the bolt up, and pallid miasma wisped up off of the point, a lazy trail in the air as I swished it back and forth.

"A crossbow?" someone said, with the hopeful upbeat tone of someone very stupid trying to be helpful. I did not summon fire. I considered the timeline. It's been about fifteen seconds since someone shot at me, but it only takes about two seconds to throw a crossbow to the side and start walking away, so it's already too late to find the would-be assassin. My palm itches where the wooden shaft touches it, and the unwholesome-looking vapours coiling off the metal tip are making everyone around me recoil.

One of the Harigold covert operatives stepped up to my side and offered to carefully dispose of the poisoned projectile.

"I'm channeling some very durable essences right now, I should take care of this," I said. He was polite in a way that reminded me of Gedes.

"I do understand that milady, I may not have impervious skin, but on the other hand I do know what I'm doing." I let him have the poisoned bolt. It's important to know your limitations. And on the plus side, all of the sycophants who had been trying to glom on me all fucked off, apparently that poison was quite noxious and none of them were eager to see what happens if the next arrow that bounces off of me were to hit someone else. So, for the price of one assassination attempt, I got some breathing room.

Once that knot of knotheads broke up, it was time for other parties to drift by and have a few words, people with more serious business than just assuaging their own egos. The first of these was definitely a surprise to me.

"Princess Harigold." If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

"Sir Maspers." My very favorite cop. I think that a strong argument could be made that he's actually my greatest nemesis, but we get along far too well for either of us to agree to that.

"You seem to have been attacked."

"It's to be expected," I said, shrugging with my hands.

"Funny how that happened right after you declared war on my boss."

"I have done nothing of the sort." He mused, and considered.

"All right, technically he's my boss's boss's boss."

"And also I haven't declared war, only rebellion. War doesn't happen for a while yet. But when it comes time, I shall." He rolled his eyes.

"You have your very own specific way of making things difficult for me."

"Do you think I'm about to make that worse or better for you right now with my next sentence."

"This proposal concerns me."

"I just learned how to manipulate fire, to my own standards," I said, smiling to him.

"And, vis-à-vis our last conversation-""That means that from now on when I find magisters with holes melted in them, I can no longer assume you're innocent just because you don't have that ability," he finished the thought off for me. I beamed at him.

"That's right!" I put my hands behind my back and rocked on my feet, heel-to-toe and back. He rolled his eyes at me, but I could see how amused he was.

"And now it' s going to be very hard for me to discount you as a suspect, considering that you and the magisters have so much bad blood."

"That's right!" I said, smiling still.

"But, of course, you know that if more magisters do die from magic and fire, that it's not me." He arched an eyebrow and raised his hand as if to take a stiff drink, only to realize that he was not holding a glass. He looked peevish and disappointed as he put his hand down, hanging his thumb off his coat pocket.

"Because if it was you, you'd tell me about it anyway," he said.

"Yes I would," I said, with no hesitation and no irony.

"This right here is exactly how you make my life hard," he said. He sounded annoyed and grouchy but it was all just an act. Maspers and I have a special understanding. If I was accused of a crime and innocent, I would tell him, and he would believe me, but he would then have to justify that belief in his reports despite my habitual refusal to actually prove my assertions.

And if I was guilty, I would also tell him, and he would assume that I had a good reason for committing the crime, because he trusts my intentions and my objectives. He was one of the first people to really understand my deal and one of the first people to really believe in me. He's also the only person to ever hold me captive to any significant degree. My enemies in the royal house trust him to bring me to heel, and they regard him as their secret weapon against me.

I trust him more than several of my own love interests, and I regard him as my secret shield against the royals. He admonished me to keep my nose clean and not commit any crimes and for gods' sakes don't confess any crimes, not even to him. I conspicuously did not promise anything. He was annoyed but amused by that. And then appeared a man that I could not have expected to avoid any longer than I did. A man in a faded red coat, with hair that was the same red as mine used to be, and a fine heroic jaw.

I wrapped us in silence and privacy as he approached. Time to have this fight.

"Natalie," he said with a careful display of patience and temperance, "why does everyone seem convinced that I said something so vile to you that it made you weep in public, and yet nobody can tell me what it was I supposedly said or did?"

"Oh, that?" I said, with my best stevia smile: so sweet, so fake.

"It's just because everyone saw you do that. It was at the same time that you were stuck in the backstage area fixing those dresses." He blinked.

"It was Bruce, right? You had- wait. The dresses - did you do that? Did you mess with them?" I watched in real time as he started to realize how badly I had outflanked him.

"Don't be silly. I never once went anywhere near those dresses," I said clearly.

"The problem was that your models shrank."

"My m- the girls? Shrank?" he asked. His confusion and disbelief were palpable. Oh god this is even more fun than I thought it would be.

"Yes, they shrank. Only an inch or two," I said. I watched him calculating this in his head, the waistband measurements, the hem-lengths. Then he cottoned to the next step.

"And they're... not shrunk tonight?"

"No, they're not," I said easily. Which means that all the work he spent yesterday getting the measurements exactly right was going to need to be reversed today- yesterday his models were a size too small, today they're a size too large. He had remolded those garments directly over their bodies yesterday, drawing everything to a perfect fit. My smile was beaming.

"Although I must congratulate you. Your presentation yesterday was a triumph. You had every disadvantage for your show, and you managed to produce wonderful dresses anyway." For this, I'm being less sarcastic than I would wish. He really did a wonderful job under the worst conditions I could arrange.

"The other shows, the other designers, stealing my ideas?.." he prompted me.

"Couldn't have been me, I don't even know who they are," I said blithely.

"I don't keep up with the designers. I had my chance to take part in that world and I turned it down, remember? But maybe someone else learned what they were not meant to know and passed that on to your competition." My smile was all blameless innocence.

"But not to worry, you turned out just fine."

"If it's so fine, why is everyone convinced that I hit my models?" he said, with an angry gravelly undertone.

"That is an interesting question," I said, nodding sagely. I can't lie, not really, but I'm not expecting him to believe that I'm innocent. I'm peevish and contrary enough to find this moment delicious. The more transparently guilty I am while smiling disingenuously, the better.

"I can certainly see how someone in your position would have a difficult time dealing with a reputation for violence, anger, and unpredictable behavior."

"These aren't just girls from school that are modeling clothes," he said, trying not to snap, trying not to seethe. I can see a degree of anger he does not want to admit to. Well, that's going to be even more of an issue from now on. He's not just trying to defend his heroic reputation, there are specific allegations about anger against women that he's trying to shield himself against. He cannot afford to be even visibly annoyed at me.

"They're friends, Natalie, they're important to me! You had no business dragging them into this!"

"You had me arrested on my birthday." My smile, my eyes, my posture, none of them changed at all, there was no indication visually that I was reacting at all. But my voice in that moment was a rasp to scour flesh off the bone.

"You sold us out to the trade minister. Gambling on my camogie game. Convinced Lydpel to conspire against me and ran off to tell me so I would have to kill him. You sent Casser Fucking Swamman after me, Nathan. We are still so far from the scores being settled." He paused, and looked frustrated now.

"You're looking at this all wrong, still. If-""No," I said coldly.

"That is not our roles. I'm the one that sees things nobody expects. You're the one that convinces people what they should see. You make people doubt, and I cannot doubt. Now then, your show starts in about an hour, and every one of your dresses needs to be let out by an inch or your girlfriends are going to look like they are squeezed into sausage casings." He stared at me, and his eyes had gone shielded, unreadable. He glanced me up and down.

"Your coat looks nice," he said.

"Thanks," I said to him.

"The intention was that it would be reminiscent of yours but also highlight the distinct differences between us."

"That is exactly what I get from it," he said.

"Nathan?"

"Sister."

"There is a lot between us. And it will be a long time before I'm ready to give an apology that really matters, if ever. I suppose the same will likely be true for you; we both do what we have to. When this is over, we're going to need a long vacation to sit down, just the two of us, and explain ourselves." For some fucking reason, this amused him. He tried to suppress a grin and failed. He shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Natalie, when that time comes, it's going to be much easier than you think."

"Why is that?" I blurted. Far off, a bell tolled. He glanced in that direction, frowning.

"I need to get to work. Dresses to alter. We'll talk again soon." He turned on his heel and headed for the entrance to the backstage areas. Not fair. I'm supposed to get the last word.