Snippet #11940

"Like royalty," Vespasian agreed easily, ordering his feathered cloak with one hand. "Scheming, plotting royalty aiming to burn down the Parliament." He paused, with a wicked grin. "Of course, they don't know that. All they'll see is that dem fine chap, Rembrandt Faux. And his foreign friend, of course." He frowned.

"'Tis a pity we can't go with your original plan. Some of them'd go up like Iban Candles, all the fat on them." An elegant shrug. "But if I cannot have my inferno - and we are agreed I cannot - then a night of wine, women and song, of every excess under the sun will serve as compensation." Vespasian's eyes were sparkling behind his mask.

"Such a liberating thing, a masquerade. People do and say things they'd never dare unmasked. Is it not wonderful?" he demanded rhetorically, in a whirl of crimson silk, and then followed his master down to the grand staircase that led out onto the masquerade ball itself, making its fantastical way across the acres of polished marble.

As they appeared at the head of the stairs, a great-voiced herald booming their names to the assembled, Vespasian's gaze raked the crowd even as his power tangled with the millon candles, twisting their flames to a greater and more golden radiance, striking brilliant highlights from the myriad golden details of his costume and softening the unrelieved white mask of his master's.

The details were everything; the two of them, limned in blazing firelight at the head of the stairs - a jewel-bright phoenix of rebirth and the suave, innocent royal prince - was a powerful image to imprint on people's minds.

Remy may have held the head of the stairs for effect; Vespasian used the few seconds to gaze over the sea of masques, sifting the plethora for the Visitor he'd sensed, before plunging into the sea of brilliant fabrics.

Arch, braying young men and giggling, simpering debutantes parted before his crimson presence, none of them quite sure why, closing up just as quickly behind him. Vespasian could sense the darker undertones of the masquerade better than most, the subtle games of one-upmanship played by sober businessmen, armoured in their well-cut suits and fat wallets on the mezzanines, the silent swordfights for status conducted with flickers of eyes and the crystal sceptre of a champagne flute of the ladies clustered genteelly at the windows - the better to see and be seen.

Tonight, though, those would be left for Remy. The Burning Duke was an unknown, a risk. While the dancers of the main floor - the younger wealthy, or the heirs to the old - would take him at face value, or slightly more, the cautious mezzanine groups would try to find out just who he was.

Better to be established in the beating heart of the masquerade than fencing on the periphery.

In other words, Vespasian would have his fun, oh, yes indeed.

Through the whirling crowds he moved, a blazing jewel, until he came upon a towering man - standing easily head-and-shoulders above the rest - and his escort - or perhaps it was the other way round, he allowed, his eyes narrowing slightly behind his mask.

Vespasian dipped a shallow bow as the orchestra began the prelude to a well-known dancing measure. "Might I have the pleasure of the dance, my lord?" His gaze flickered over to Jocelyne. "Save a dance, my lady?"