Page 194 of Gates of Tartarus

“Back in a mo!” I chirp at Kavi and Emlyn. “Try not to miss me too much.”

“We won’t,” Emlyn assures me, winking.

“Pfffft!” I stick out my tongue at him and take Jorge’s arm, while Kavi clips Emlyn lightly on the back of the head.

The server’s almost at the door, and we have to move quickly to catch up with him. He really must be worried about using the office without permission. We follow him through the Court Room and down the stairs to Reception, which is thankfully less busy, although there are still pockets of people chatting, waiting for partners to emerge from the cloakrooms or going to the Courtyard for a vape. We turn left and are walking into another hallway when a door on the right suddenly opens and another server comes hurrying out with a tray. Someone calls out behind her, and she turns her head to answer, walking straight into Jorge. There’s a cry and then a muffled crash as glasses drop to the carpet, spilling their contents over Jorge on the way down. I squeal and jump back.

“Uy!”

I look up. Poor Jorge’s tuxedo has been liberally splattered with champagne, and one of his shoes is soaked. I put my hand to my mouth, eyes goggling.

“What the… You idiot!” Fallon comes marching over from Reception. “Why weren’t you watching where you were going?” She starts tearing into the hapless server, now on her knees trying to gather up the glasses and stammering apologies. The poor girl is almost in tears, and I feel a stab of pity, my chagrin on Jorge’s behalf vanishing as she wilts. “I’m sure…” I begin.

“Clean this up and then get out,” Fallon rages. “And don’t even think about asking for your wages.”

“Please,” Jorge intervenes, holding one hand up. “There’s no need for that. If someone could just get me a towel?”

“There are plenty of towels in the men’s cloakroom, just behind reception, sir. And a hand dryer.” Fallon’s voice is now respectful. “I’m so sorry about your outfit. Gaia will of course cover any cleaning bills. You!” she says, addressing our guide, “Show this gentleman to the cloakroom.”

“Actually,” Jorge demurs, “if you’d just bring me a towel, I can dry off here.”

“Sir!” Fallon’s eyes dart past Jorge, where a few other guests have started gathering in response to the commotion. “Of course, but…”

“I’ll come with you and stand just outside the door,” I suggest. “Kailani won’t mind.”

“Ms. Reed is waiting for you? If you like, I can give her a message,” Fallon offers, shooting another look at the crowd. Her face is mottled, and her hands are starting to flutter. One of the men looks a little worse for the wear and is grumbling about the “shocking waste of champagne”.

I turn to her: “Oh, thank you. Could you just tell her that I’m on my way and won’t be more than a few minutes? She’s in the…” I look quizzically at our guide, “Beadle’s Room?”

At that, Fallon pales. “The… Beadle’s Office?” She rounds angrily on our guide. “That is out of bounds. How did you get in?”

The man starts to stammer about finding a private place for Ms. Reed and the door being ajar, but Fallon’s narrowing her eyes and hissing about public spectacles and embarrassing Gaia, and I can tell she’s on the verge of firing him too.

“We’ll come with you now,” Jorge interjects calmly. “If you’ll just bring me a towel, I can dry off while Ms. Driscoll fixes Ms. Reed’s dress.”

“Oh, but, sir!” Fallon flaps about as another group exits from the garden, looking interestedly in our direction. “You really should– oh, sir, your hand!”

I look down and gasp: “Oh, Jorge! That looks deep.” One of the glasses must have shattered as they fell and sliced the edge of his palm open.

Fallon glares daggers at the girl, who is now heaping the last of the debris onto the tray, as the male server bows to Jorge. “Sir, if you’ll come with me, there are some bandages in the cloakroom.”

“Go,” I shoo him. “You should wash that out and check for any shards. And if Kailani isn’t decent, you definitely aren’t.” My eyes dip briefly to his crotch, and I make a sympathetic face as Jorge frowns.

Fallon glances down at her phone, then back up again. “I can show the gentleman. I’m needed upstairs. One of the guests is demanding a Dalmore 64 Trinitas single malt, and the master sommelier is asking what to do…” She waves her phone. “If you’ll come this way?” She motions back towards Reception.

“Go take care of that cut! I’ll meet you in the Wardens’ Room. It’s just there,” I gesture to the door at the end of the short hallway with a smile.

“Alright,” Jorge reluctantly concedes, shaking his cuff experimentally. “I’ll be quick.”

“Take your time. I’ll need at least aminuteor two to fix Kailani’s dress. I’m good, but I’m notthatgood.”

Jorge snorts and shakes his head at me, then turns to follow Fallon, and I look at the server. “Could you show me where the Beadle’s Office is? I’m sure Kailani will be wondering where I am, and the sooner I can fix her dress, the sooner we can get out of there.”

He bows again. “Of course. The quickest way is actually through here.”

We go through the door his colleague had used and past a couple of staff members, who seem to be on a break, and then down a hallway. There are a few offices on either side, desks and computers visible through interior windows, and, judging from the clinking of glasses and cutlery, a kitchen or food prep area nearby. “It’s just ahead,” he murmurs. He knocks on the door. “Ms. Reed? Ms. Driscoll is here.” He turns back to me. “If I may, I’ll leave you now and go help Emily finish cleaning up.”

“That’s absolutely fine! Thank you for showing me the way.” I walk past him and open the door, stepping through. “Hi, Kailani! Hi, Jonah! Never fear, never fear – the cavalry is here.” Looking around the L-shaped room, I can see a framed Victorian print of a railway station on one wall, above a large, slightly battered, oak desk, a bookshelf crammed with files and manuals, a rubber plant, and two grey tartan tub chairs next to a glass coffee table. I can’t see round the corner and crane my head. “Hello?” Suddenly uneasy, I turn to leave, to go find Jorge, when a bag comes over my head. For a moment, I’m shocked into immobility, then Seef’s training kicks in, and I open my mouth to scream, only to gag on the sickly sweet smell that I can suddenly sense. It’s like breathing in concentrated nail-polish remover, and I immediately feel light-headed. Still, I manage a high-pitched, if muffled, shriek. The bag tightens, and I feel a hand come over my mouth. Heart pounding so hard I can feel the pulse at my temple, I bend my knees, just like Seef taught me, sagging to throw my attacker off balance. A muscular arm comes about my waist, hauling me up, and I thrash, trying to bite the hand over my mouth, to elbow my attacker in the stomach, shaking my head and then snapping it back. “It’s taking too long,” a low voice growls. “I thought you said they’d fixed the formula.” Another voice mutters “mask” as I continue to flail and twist, reaching up to scratch at the hand over my mouth. “Stop that,” the first voice hisses, hand tightening. Desperately, I raise my knee and kick back with the stiletto, aiming low, remembering my lessons… and strike bone. There’s a howl, and I throw my weight forward, trying to break my attacker’s hold. “Oh, Maela,” Elizabeth sighs, “what a mess you’re making.” I’m dragged back to a livid “Fuck this!” and am dropping down again when I feel a vivid, crashing pain in my head and my world goes black.

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