Chapter 123: The Undercity (1/2)

I wake up expecting the worst only to be pleasantly surprised. I lie in a comfortable bed, head resting on a plump pillow and one hand placed on my belly. I feel the caress of a silk slip on my skin. Nothing restrains me, chains or otherwise.

Somewhere to my front and left, the susurrus of paper being turned breaks the silence. Without moving, I slightly open my eyes to take in my surroundings.

Somebody brought me to an extravagant bedroom of good size. The light of candelabras gives it a cozy feeling, and shows an interesting choice of decorations. All the paintings reveal a virginal woman in a white dress resting near a lake. Melancholy seeps into every rendition, even though each work was made by a different artist. Whoever decorated this room placed an emphasis on interpretation rather than on the subject itself.

I notice this in an instant, then turn to the person currently sitting at the edge of my bed. He places a page marker in a small leather-covered book before hiding it in an inner pocket of his dark coat. His gloved hand retrieves a golden pocket watch, which he checks, before turning to me.

“Five fifteen in the afternoon. Not bad, with a damaged heart.”

I take a moment to taste his aura. I have no doubt that he is powerful, yet his presence eludes me. The essence is extremely diffuse, with a vaporous quality that teases and disappears just as I grasp it. He wears an impeccable black suit under a dark coat with a brown vest and red tie. With his black hair and beard, he might have been threatening, and yet his smile as he talks to me would disarm even the most skittish of maidens. He is more like a handsome, sharp doctor than a dangerous predator. Even the amused glint in his dark brown eyes lacks bite.

“I fear that you have me at a terrible disadvantage, sir,” I observe. He chuckles in answer.

“Indeed, then let me correct this grave offense. You are currently in Paris. You were taken into custody by the Lords Andre and Vincent after a mighty tussle, or so I heard, and were consequently absolved of all crimes. You are fine, your Vassal is fine, and your belongings will be returned to you in their integrality. Some of our best smiths are currently working on repairing your gear, though I am told that your armor does that by itself — quite the defensive equipment I must say.”

“Who undressed me?”

“My own Servant, Mathilda. She bathed you too. I assure you that nothing untowards happened, I swear it on my essence.”

The oath settles without issue.

“The Roland will make sure that you have a ship to return whenever you are ready. There is, however, one thing…”

I frown. Of course, there always is.

“Lady Dominique. Or Lord, depending on your preferences I suppose, wishes for the pleasure of your company tonight as she celebrates the thirtieth anniversary of the peace of Baden-Baden.”

Seeing my incomprehension, the man elaborates.

“The cessation of hostility between the Mask and Eneru factions after the last war. Some territory changed hands, some reparations were agreed upon, and Lord Nathaniel was spiked through his anus to face the dawn until death.”

“Charming.”

“I regret not being able to witness that event, as I was slumbering at that time. Mathilda informed me that it was quite the festive occasion, however.”

“I will take your word for it. How does this concern me?”

“I suppose that you will have to ask her. In case it was not clear, Lady Dominique does not make suggestions. Terribly sorry about that. Rest assured that your safety is guaranteed during your stay, and you will most likely have a grand time. Mask parties are always memorable.”

“Yes, I get it, I attend the party and then you let me go?”

“Excellent. I knew that you would see reason. Now, you will find that we have prepared an outfit with your size for the masquerade. Please, don it, then join me outside. We have much to do before we are ready to begin. I will see myself out.”

“I did not catch your name?”

“Oh, my apologies. I am Jean-Baptiste of the Roland. And you are Ariane of the Nirari, of course. A pleasure. I shall see you later.”

I wait until the door closes before jumping to my feet.

I am fine, completely healed, in fact. And clean. Someone even took the time to brush and dry my hair before delicately positioning me in bed, in a very artistic posture. I confirm what my instincts told me. Nothing binds me. Unfortunately, I cannot refuse the hospitality of my host for two reasons.

First, the only free exit is protected by thick shutters, on the other side of which is the sun.

Second, I know of Jean-Baptiste. He is a renowned warlord of Mask, not just the Roland, but the actual alliance. His Magna Arqa fills his foes with abject terror. He is also the only known scythe-wielder among our kind. Naminata informed me that he was nicknamed The Reaper, though never to his face, and that he was entirely monogamous.

If The Reaper wants me to attend a party, I will attend the party. I do not stand a chance against one such as he. He stands at the apex of power and martial prowess in the world. Amusingly, he does not feel that way. I would call him debonair and suave despite the underlying threat, as if we were both merely victims of unfortunate circumstances and he had decided to make the best of it.

With a sigh, I move around and find an open chest at the base of the bed, which contains a white dress that I put on. The dress itself is rather complicated, and it takes me ten minutes to finish setting up everything by myself. Several layers of fabric contribute to a typically Victorian ensemble with a modest cleavage being the only concession to modernity. Every layer is made of different cloth, all of them bone-white, in a curious monochromatic harmony that relies on relief to create contrast. I like it. It is also almost my size.

At the bottom of the chest, I find two masks and a note.

“I was ordered to provide you with a basic mask, but nothing prevents you from using your own. The choice is yours.

Jean-Baptiste.”

The first accessory would not look out of place on a cheap stall for Mardis-gras celebrations. The second is my war mask. Chipped. Damaged. Heavily enchanted. An instrument of combat whose owner survived many battles.

I will not attend a masquerade wearing a debutante ball prop, thank you very much.

Now set, I exit into a gaudy corridor. Jean-Baptiste waits on a nearby seat with his book.

“Ah, excellent choice. First, you must be ravenous. Corentin is waiting in a nearby room.”

Corentin turns out to be a young man with angelic features, complete with golden curls, and a terrible case of the nerves. I soothe his mind and feed lightly, as it appears that he is rather inexperienced. I leave the satisfied youth asleep in his bed.

“Good. Now that we are done, let us be on our way.”

The corridor leads to a massive entrance, also shuttered, as well as a most peculiar candelabra. Someone is affixed to it in a very uncomfortable position, though probably not as uncomfortable as having his body skewered by multiple barbed steel spikes. Black blood seeps from his many wounds and, as I pass, I hear a weak moan.

“Is the decoration to your taste?” Jean-Baptiste lightly asks. I inspect the furniture and human hybrid more closely and realize that the fantastic moustache is familiar. Indeed, he and I met briefly when he tore up my passport.

“Are we not missing five others?” I ask with a frown.

“I did not want to waste valuable blood to hasten their regeneration. I made an exception for him, seeing as he surpassed all expectations by breaking three international treaties in a single night. You are an overachiever, are you not, Odilon?”

“Please…” a raspy voice beseeches from the strange decoration. Jean-Baptiste does not slow down.

We climb down marble stairs in the dim glow of gas lights to a locked entrance. My host leads me down a hidden path through a wine cellar, then through a secret passage hidden behind a fake wine barrel of monumental proportions.

“A bit stereotyped, I know. We have to maintain appearances for the sake of newcomers and visiting dignitaries. Ah, but I wish I had seen you in action yesterday. To defeat over ten opponents in direct combat! And without the use of a Magna Arqa. It must have been such a precious spectacle. Alas...”

I frown at the non sequitur but remember that he cannot see my expression behind the mask.

“You talked to my captors?”

“Vincent and Andre, yes. If there is one thing they dislike more than politics, it is to be disturbed by a botched attempt at it.”

“I am still unsure as to why I was attacked in the first place.”

Jean-Baptiste turns to me then, his eyes searching my own.

“Ah. I understand that Dominique wished to see you, and that her orders were… altered somewhere down the line. A polite invitation was twisted into a blundering attempt at coercion by an unseen hand. As for the culprit, you must ask Lady Dominique when you see her. I already overstepped my bounds by revealing so much.”

“I see. I do not care for so much mystery.”

“Quite frustrating to be on this side, is it not?” he says with a wink.

I know what he means. We usually save the incomprehensible situations and theatrics for the mortals. And speaking of theatrics, the passage we follow descends into the darkness through stairs cut into the very rock. We soon approach a dead-end, the end wall emitting a powerful aura. Another secret passage.

Jean-Baptiste bows with a flourish, then, without breaking eye contact, presses a secret panel that depresses to show the symbol of Mask.

Corny does not do the mechanism justice. I struggle to find an appropriate euphemism.

“How very... colorful.”

“Is it not? I shot down the suggestion to use a skull shape with its eyes shining red.”

“Only because you could not enchant it to laugh maniacally, I suppose?”

The lord graces me with a smile, and it feels strangely genuine.

“You understand.”

We walk through the revealed passage into a new area, this one significantly older. The air here smells damp and slightly rotten, the cause immediately apparent. We stand in a corridor harboring a multitude of alcoves, into which skeletons lie in neat, ordered rows. Stacks of skulls, bundles of tibia, mountains of ribs, and plains of knuckles alternate with each other to form a grim landscape of ancient, yellowed remains. I stop to inspect the show with curiosity. The remains are so ancient, and so anonymous, that they become a morbid background rather than dead people. I had no idea that such a place existed.

“We are in the catacombs, below the Rive Gauche, the southern part of the city. We did not create it, mind you. It was used to store the mountain of old human remains buried across the city around sixty years ago. Dominique found the setting simply too tempting. We have co-opted it as a result.”

“They dug a mausoleum for the unknown dead?”

“You underestimate the civil servants’ resourcefulness, my dear. Those are repurposed quarries.”

Jean-Baptiste leads me deeper into the warren of stone and bones. The passages quickly expand until every room becomes cavernous. The air gains an unnaturally cold quality as we move on, and I find myself enjoying it tremendously. Such an original setting! I wish I could take the time to make a few drawings. Perhaps later.

Our journey continues through winding tunnels until my guide stops before an innocuous pile of grinning skulls that nothing differentiates from the others.

“It should be here. Ah.”

He retrieves from behind it the head of a wolf, as dark as the night. I only realize its nature when he puts it on. The threatening maw is particularly convincing, and his eyes gain a wolfish quality.

“Homo homini lupus.”

I roll my eyes at the antics, and am graced with a rumbling laugh.

“Ah, you Americans. So refreshing. Forgive me for the detour, we will be there shortly.”

I finally notice how he orients himself when I realize that unknown symbols have been engraved on every arc. I would be lost without hope of rescue, were it not for my nature. The honeycomb of chambers and passages hides many secret entrances, easily discernible for those who can perceive magic. As we go on, I find the first irregularity since we started our little trek: a large arrow painted on the packed earth of the ground in luminescent paint.

“What is that thing?” I ask, surprised by the graceless display.

“Part of tonight’s entertainment. I am not privy to the details, yet I would bet a Louis d’or against a sou that it involves mortals. Maximilien loves his games.”

“Maximilien?”

“The Prince of Paris, and organizer of this event. He rarely disappoints. Ah, here we are.”

Our feet have finally led us to a monumental entrance. Wrought iron twisted in intricate patterns contrasts with the crimson rosewood essence to create a red and black scenery. A doomed man beseeches a beautiful and terrible goddess, who ignores his advances as her gaze travels up. A pair of perfect sapphires were inserted where her eyes would. They shine, azure, under the glow of nearby torches.

“The last work of Michel Entrenas. He hanged himself shortly afterward, claiming to have achieved perfection.”

“Your ambassador mentioned that you collected insane artists.”

“Yes. You can feel it, can you not? The manic fires of inspiration as his life slipped away like a guttering candle. Michel remains here, immortalized for all of eternity. I miss the bugger.”

“You knew him?”

“Recovered him myself, actually. We try to prolong their lives, but only repetitive feeding will dull their pain, and then, they will have lost their spark. Some people are broken. What they create shines all the more brightly for it.”

I am not familiar with metalworking for the sake of art. I can even spot a few places where flaws have escaped the artists’ attention, and yet, the sheer emotion captured by this work grabs at my mind with the frantic grasp of the desperate. It embodies everything we have lost and still admire in mankind, the drive, the originality, the unfettered genius. Emotions, raw and pure, radiate from it in waves that force my attention to dart from one detail to another, from one loving twist to another obsessed hammering. I stand in the presence of greatness.

Jean-Baptiste tugs on my sleeve, and I blink.

“My apologies, we must enter. You will love the inside, I believe.”

“Ah, yes, please lead the way.”

We approach and I notice a single wardrobe sat on the side against the wall. It is partially open and contains a single male white suit.

“Also part of the game,” Jean-Baptiste comments. He is having fun.

I let him open the gate and walk in.

If I still had a breath, it would have caught on my chest now. To call the place I find myself in grandiose would be a massive understatement. It is… incredible.

Under a ceiling that could fit a cathedral, a chamber of pharaonic proportion stretches far into the distance, leading to an elevated platform of white marble. The ground expands in a myriad of tiles of various sizes that still manage to fit perfectly. Columns as large as redwoods expand up, while stalactites climb down like so many swords of Damocles. Every inch of walls is engraved with chthonian scenes and alien landscapes, all unpainted grey, all bearing the touch of madness. At regular intervals, wood panels lit by candles show intriguing and unique portraits or sculptures in a succession of masterpieces that no mortal museum could match. A set of stairs lead to a balcony on the left side that allows its occupants to dominate the crowd.

And what a crowd it is.

In pairs or groups, vampires in white uniforms mingle with silent grace. Masks as varied as can be, hide their features in a clash of styles and tastes. Comedy masks, tragedy masks, veils and visors. Beasts and kings and gods and monsters. Assyria meets Rome while Guinea courts Russia in a dizzy dance of colors. It is, also, perfectly silent. All the guests sign with their hands at blinding speeds that only we can follow. Spread fans hide meaning from questing eyes, and the drone of moving fabric is the only noise, for no one here is a mortal.

There are more than three hundred vampires present, at least fifty lords and ladies. Not a single courtier. The combined power present here simply defies description. Even with their auras so tightly controlled, I feel something in the air that… alters it, as if a purple haze covered every nook and cranny of the room. The world around me feels more plastic, more fluid. I could gaze up and feel the presence of the Watcher through layers upon layers of stone.

Jean-Baptiste breaks my line of sight just as I am about to lose myself in a deliciously insane interpretation of the Last Supper. He extends a hand which I automatically take, and we move onward.

To the right and on the opposite side of the balcony, someone created an otherworldly pond filled with transparent water. Luminescent mushrooms and algae dance a chimeric rondo in step with the beat of a fountain, pulsing like a giant heart as it bleeds water. Vampires move and part before us in an organic fashion, and I realize why. My guide still wears black, save for the single scarlet dash of his tie. It gives the wolf mask an edge.

I am led to the base of the stairs and let through by a pair of powerful lords wearing identical masks in the likeness of sphinxes. We climb up, and the hum of conversation pops out of nowhere as soon as we are on the steps. It appears that the privileged section of the assembly prefers speech, though they do not share it. Lady Dominique is throwing me a bone by inviting me among the hallowed ranks of vampire nobility, if only for a night.

We top the landing, and I finally lay my eyes on the cream of the crop. Contrary to the uniform white below, the assembly here shows more color, though they maintain the monochromatic spirit of the evening. A burly man in red turns to look at me with a scowl barely disguised behind a kingly mask, also red except for stylized black curls in the hair and beard. A lithe lady in a blue gown and a very thin mask of a siren gives me an imperceptible nod before the pair returns to their previous conversation. As I pass, I feel the echo of Lancaster essence coming from her. A few other guests in white mingle around them, as well as another trio of dignitaries that we quickly join.

I see a tall, muscular man in green with a mask seemingly grown from roots to give him a monstrous appearance complete with a haunting smile. I taste a hint of Erenwald forest on him. His deep blue eyes glance over me without reaction. Next is a curious man with the thin build of a fencer and the tiniest hint of a potbelly. His costume is purple and atrociously extravagant, a mix between gaudy prince and jester, with a grinning full mask and a clown hat with two jutting, pointy black ends. He is jumping excitedly from foot to foot in a decidedly unvampiric way.

The center of the group, unmoving and aloof, is a vampire that can only be Lord Dominique.

And I finally understand why I was told multiple times that deciding on her? His? Their sex, was up for discussion. Dominique wears yellow and gold, with a top hat and the most androgynous face I have ever seen ‘hidden’ behind a thin domino mask.

I believe I will go with ‘he’.

He has a delicate face with a slightly squarish chin and prominent cheekbones, as well as hooded brown eyes. He twirls in his hand a silver and ebony cane showing a tiny spider. Blond hair falls to his shoulders in a delicate mess, slightly wavy, and looking deliciously soft. A loose jacket hides what could be small breasts or undeveloped ones. It tapers to a thin waist and dancers’ legs. Dominique is by far the most androgynous being I have ever seen. He smiles as he sees us.

“Look what the wolf dragged in. A wayward Devourer! Maximilien my dear, I hope you will not hold it against me, but I brought a surprise guest.”