It takes a little longer this time for the crowd to return to their usual amicable demeanor. Long after Leylin, Emmitt, and Maria are escorted away, a cluster of curious guests remain standing around the base of the staircase, held off by a line of guards holding up their shields to form . With everyone’s attention directly elsewhere, Marco abandons his tray of meatballs and runs down to the cellar, trying to ignore the watchful eyes of the bird people throughout the room.
Gabriel is waiting at the bottom of the stairs, a crossbow in her hands. A shortsword has been added to her belt of various gadgets and potions as an extra precaution. By the time he reaches her, she is ready for an explanation. “What happened?”
“The guards took Leylin and Emmitt upstairs. I don’t know where they went, but I’m going to get them back. Is there anything you can do to help?”
Gabriel looks up at the ballroom, calculating. She contemplates the array of substances on her belt before settling on the pale orange powder that she has just brewed up. She hands the vial to Marco. “Here. Magic powder. You throw it in someone’s eyes and it lets you alter their vision. Make them think they’re ten yards further ahead, or that left is right and right is left. Might come in handy. You breathe on it to activate.”
Marco regards the vial with an uncertain expression. “So I just think really hard about it?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand how that works, how does the powder know what I want it to do?”
“You don’t have to understand how it works. It’s magic, that’s the point.”
Still skeptical, Marco places the vial onto his belt as Gabriel takes out a few additional objects from her own. He recognizes the miniature pots with the tufts of fabric sticking out. Ozbek smoke bombs. Gabriel holds a pair in one hand and her crossbow in the other.
“I take it from all of the knives and the boots of leaping that you’re the acrobat around here, is that right?”
“More or less.”
She bobs her head in a nodding motion. “I’m going to make a distraction, and you’re going to get up on the balcony. Wait for my signal. The signal will be easy to see, because it’ll be a big cloud of smoke. Sound good?”
Marco nods and they make their way up the stairs. The crowd has mostly returned to their regular activities, back to casual conversation now that there is nothing more to see. The guards maintain their wall of shields on the staircase, however, cutting of the easiest route. Marco, still sporting the waiter’s outfit, heads off in one direction, and Gabriel heads off in another. A moment later, there is an explosion of white smoke emerging from the middle of the crowd.
As the voices of the ballroom rise again in an excited frenzy, Marco stands under the ledge of the balcony, a good distance away from the staircase and the guards. He glances back to see the eyes of a hawk watching him from across the room. There is a second explosion, and the bird person’s face disappears behind another cloud of the chalky white substance. Taking a deep breath, he jumps upwards, the boots propelling him all the way onto the balcony.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
The situation above is a little less chaotic than it is below. Several soldiers of both McCappon and Seraphim affiliation are running into view, but all of them are headed towards the staircase. Unsure where to go but with no one in his way, Marco wanders down the hall and opens the first door he sees. He draws both of his swords as he steps into the room.
Once again, a painting of Fitzgerald Fauntleroy McCappon is staring at him, though the image is a little different this time. Here is a younger Fitzgerald, no more than thirty, and missing his usual monocle. He is standing next to what appears to be his brother, another young man holding a javelin in hand, and his father, an older man with a large bushy beard and top hat. They are all looking forward with the same toothy smile as they stand over the body of a yeti they have just hunted.
Standing in front of the large desk that takes up most of the room, Marco is transfixed on the image in the painting. There is something different about the version of McCappon in the painting, an eagerness and determination that the years seem to have worn away. It takes a moment for Marco to focus himself back on the task at hand, turning back to keep searching. When he does, he finds the doorway to be blocked. The present-day Fitzgerald McCappon looks at him with a deranged grin, a golden rapier in his hand. “I knew that there was something afoot when you walked into my party. Have at you.”
McCappon lunges forward with his rapier. Marco, taken off guard, just manages to bring up his shortswords and parry the blow, stepping out of the way. The old man moves with an astonishing agility that he hasn’t seen in an opponent for a long time. Blow after blow, Marco is forced into the defensive, only managing a few useless swipes with his second sword as he fights for his life. McCappon backs him into the desk, which he rolls over to avoid a ferocious swipe. There is a pause as both stand on either side of this barrier.
“Don’t just stand there,” McCappon shouts, “come and fight like a man!”
“You come and fight,” Marco says.
“Typical cowardly commonfolk behavior. No sense of honor.”
Marco throws a sword across the gap, and McCappon ducks out of the way with unnatural grace. The sword knocks off his top hat, revealing a head of thinning white hair. Eyes wide with determination, McCappon hops onto the desk and vaults himself towards Marco, who just manages to block his blade. Marco kicks off with his boots to leap over the desk towards the front of the room. McCappon hops off of the desk and charges forward, grinning widely as he unleashes a fury of blows. On the last strike, when Marco blocks his attack, McCappon twists his rapier around to launch the sword out of Marco’s hand.
“Is that the best you can do? Come on, boy!”
Marco rolls across the floor as McCappon stabs forward, and ends up once more against the desk. He throws out two knives that McCappon easily deflects. The old man is having the time of his life, experiencing a thrill that has for the longest time eluded him. Marco starts to feel how the yeti may have felt. Scrambling, he grabs the first thing that he can off of his belt: the vial of pale orange powder. Marco rips off the top, blows inside it with a few scattered thoughts, and throws it against the wall behind his attacker. McCappon is engulfed in a cloud of shimmering orange smoke.
“Gah! What kind of back-alley tricks are you pulling? Fight me, scum!” McCappon raises his rapier in preparation for a duel, only his opponent appears to be the wall to the left. After standing for a moment in a defensive position, he jabs forward, and his rapier bends against the force of the wall. Confused, he slashes again, and once more comes up against this strange barrier. On the third time, he starts to panic. McCappon runs back towards the door. Unfortunately for him, where the door appears in his vision is several feet to the right of the actual exit. He crashes spectacularly into the wall face-first, bending his nose and shattering his monocle. “Gah! Guards! Guards! There has been an assault! An intruder! Seize him!”
“So much for honor,” Marco says.
At the moment, no guards are bursting into the room. As McCappon regains his bearings, Marco grabs his two shortswords and runs out of the (real) door and into the hallway. He continues his search as the chaos continues above and below.
