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“See, that’s what I’m saying!” Favreau gesticulated with his arm wildly, sloshing some of the sparkling beverage across the counter. Was he a little drunk? Perhaps. But after a night like tonight, there wasn’t a single sober face in those kitchens. It was starkly obvious even behind the haphazard masks still decorating their visages. “Who even invites a goose to a ball?! S’not some…fairytale.”
“Heard the goose was well-trained as any Antivan Crow,” the cook said, hiding her laughter behind the glass pressed against her lips.
Favreau held up a finger. “Not a crow. S’a goose.” He drew out the ’s’ in ‘goose’ until it died in a hiss on his tongue.
“Th’goose wasn’t even the worst of it!” an older elven server remarked, his words slurring. “The crystal in the chandelier was…i’was hand-cut, you know.” Favreau thought his name was Marius. He’d been with the family since their eldest was still a baby. Hard to believe the boy was married now. “And the cake, too…”
The baker leaned over and swiped her finger across the beaked nose of Favreau’s mask. It came away covered in frosting. “What a waste,” she sighed. Elsbeth—the one who had slaved over the massive wedding cake for days on end—brushed the sugar from her fingers onto her apron. “D’you know how many favors I had to pull to get access to a large enough oven?” She pursed her lips in a pout. Beneath her white mask, there was bright color in her cheeks, the only sign of her drunkenness.
“I didn’t even wanna be here tonight,” Favreau groused, resting his cheek against his fist. “Wasn’t even suppose’ta be swerve—seerv—servvvving drinks! S’posed to be….at ‘ome. Ssssleeeping.”
Oh, yes. If Terese hadn’t been called away to tend to her ailing aunt, it would’ve been her spattered in frosting and nursing little cuts on her fingers from picking up shattered glass. Instead it was him, Favreau, who had been forced to step in on his supposed first night off!
He recalled the exact moment his evening took a turn for the worst…
~~~
“Favreau!”
The sound of his name pierced Favreau through the chest, skewering him in place. Slowly, he turned his head, schooling his expression (masked though it was) to one of careful neutrality. “Yes, steward?”
The steward approached with precise, clipped steps, polished shoes clacking over the marble floors of the servant’s hall. “I have just spoken with the lady of the house regarding the ball this evening.”
“Ah, yes,” Favreau began quickly, hoping to head off any invitation to join, “A spectacle to rival the last one, I’m sure. I do wish you all the best of luck with hosting such a grand event. Seeing as the time off I requested some months ago has finally come around, I am regretful that this event overlaps—”
“Postpone your vacation, Favreau,” the steward cut through his words like scissors snipping thread. “Your services have been requested for this evening’s proceedings. We are short-staffed.”
Short-staffed?! The Montmartes were never short-staffed. Which could mean only one of two things. First, that they were grossly over-exaggerating their need for servants. Or, second, they had finally overextended themselves on this one.
He was inclined to believe the latter, given all the activity around the estate he’d been willfully ignoring. All that had been a problem for the other servants. He wasn’t one for big parties, perhaps an ill-suited temperament to have while working for House Monmarte. But he had always managed to avoid them…
Until now.
Still, he made a desperate attempt to talk his way out of it, futile though he knew it was. “Are you certain the lady is in need of my services, specifically? She is the one who granted me this vacation.”
The steward scowled at him, the expression amplified by the permanently furrowed brow of his mask. “She asked for you by name. Suspecting, perhaps, that you would attempt to weasel out of the responsibility otherwise.”
Well, it had been worth a shot.
He sighed. “When do the guests arrive?”
“Within the hour. You better get dressed in more…presentable attire.” His eyes scanned Favreau’s notably casual accoutrements.
“Of course, steward.”
The steward followed Favreau all the way back to his quarters, apparently not trusting him not to find another route to the exit.
Smart man.
Unfortunately for Favreau, that meant he truly wasn’t getting out of this.
Favreau changed quickly, careless of his attire. The steward stopped him at his door twice, forcing him to return to the mirror and fix up his appearance until it passed the steward’s judgment.
After all, as servants, they were representatives of the house. They couldn’t afford to look sloppy, particularly while introducing one of the Monmarte children to high society and celebrating the marriage of their eldest son.
“The mask is unfortunate, but it will do,” the steward finally said, then marched Favreau to the kitchens.
He heard the noise long before he saw the activity within. When the doors opened, he was assaulted with such a cacophony he had to struggle not to cover his ears.
Servants and chefs darted left and right, rushing to prepare everything for the incoming guests. Elsbeth was putting the final touches on the cake, flour and frosting coating her hands.
“Look lively! Less than twenty minutes before the first guest arrives, and our first course better be ready five minutes before then!” The cook, a jovial elven woman with a sharp attitude and quick smile, spotted Favreau and the steward first. “Ah! Pardon the commotion, you know how it is, coming down to the wire.”
“Mariana!” Despite her commanding presence and commitment to the house (in contrast to Favreau’s own lackadaisical approach), he liked the cook. The elven woman had been like a second mother to him when he’d been prenticed to the house. Even used to sneak him treats for work well done. “Running a tight ship as always, I see,” he shouted.
A puzzled look squeezed the corners of her eyes through the rose-hued mask. “And you’re helping work that ship tonight? I thought you were off!”
“I was…” Favreau cast a meaningful glance towards the steward.
“It was at Lady Montmarte’s request. We are short-staffed on drink servers,” the steward answered.
Mariana nodded sagely. “Of course, of course. It’s an important night after all! Everything must be perfect.” She turned her gaze back to Favreau. “We’ll put you to work in short order. Report to Pierre. He is managing the drinks.”
And with that, she turned back to her kitchen staff and continued barking orders.
“I will leave you to it, then,” the steward said, seemingly satisfied that Favreau wouldn’t be able to sneak away now, stuck in the busy kitchens with so many watching eyes. “I must attend to the Lord and Lady.”
He clicked his heels together and turned to walk back through the double doors leading from the kitchens to the ballroom.
~~~
Even if balls were a complete bore, and Favreau loathed walking about the room like a moving ornament, carrying a tray full of drinks until his arm went numb with the effort, there was one benefit to his suffering.
The gossip.
Because nobles seemed to perceive servants as little more than decoration, they weren’t particularly careful about being overheard by them. Or, perhaps they considered it a part of their Grand Game, dropping little hints for the servants to pass on to their masters. After all, every ear was a listening ear at a ball.
Favreau made his rounds of the upper levels, doing his best to catch small snippets of conversation as he passed out drinks to the guests.
“…heard the Grand Royeaux Players will be performing this evening!”
“Really? Isn’t that rather gauche, reserving an entire theater’s troupe for a simple wedding announcement?”
“But this is also to celebrate their eldest daughter, surely you wouldn’t begrudge them…”
He passed seamlessly through the tight knot of nobles, three drinks disappearing from his tray before he left them in his wake. He didn’t care what they thought of the Monmartes’ tendencies towards excess when it came to their balls. Despite their complaints, those nobles would be watching in awe alongside everyone else. It was empty criticism, meant to disguise their jealousy.
His ears pricked as another conversation came into his range of hearing.
“…introduced me to Madame Volant only last week. She could be a valuable resource, don’t you think?” A woman was whispering.
The man beside her scoffed. “Oh, please. I’ve never heard of this Miss ‘Volant.’ Do you truly believe she has worthwhile connections?”
As Favreau set drinks on their bistro table, swiping the empty glasses in the process, he leaned in slightly to hear her lowered voice, “They say she held connections with the Inquisition. Strong ones. A small organization now, perhaps, but one that forged many lasting connections…”
The man picked up his fresh glass and hummed uncertainly. “Let me meet her first. Is she in attendance this evening?”
“Oh, yes…”
Favreau passed beyond a pillar, losing the rest of their words to the general din. It didn’t do well to linger too long, or else the guests would grow suspicious. Still, he filed away that tidbit for later.
The number of drinks on his platter were swiftly depleting, so he angled himself back towards the kitchens. As he descended the stairs, he picked up another bit of conversation.
“…heard his name was ‘Lord Sanscoeur’,” a middle-aged woman was saying from the shadows at the staircase’s edge. “Of course, I don’t believe a word of it. All that nonsense about underground passages that help him traverse secretly through Montsimmard. Nor about the women’s hearts he collects—figuratively speaking.”
“Lord Sanscoeur is quite the mysterious figure, though,” her companion, a tall gentleman dressed in silver, returned. “I heard Lady Sybille had a tryst with the fellow. Don’t tell her husband, though. It would be terrible to ruin her reputation over such baseless gossip.”
“Of course. Nor would it be prudent to mention to Lady Evangeline’s consort that she has been seen dallying with this mystery man.”
‘Lord Sanscoeur,’ hmm? A false name if Favreau had ever heard one. Nobles often chose such pseudonyms to hide their less savory activities and protect their reputations.
He stiffened when he felt the hidden pair’s eyes alight on him. He had lingered too long and they were beginning to notice him.
He offered a bow and proffered his platter.
They watched him carefully as they took his final two drinks.
Favreau turned quickly on his heel and headed for the kitchens.
~~~
“Eh! Keep your hands out of the food, Favreau!”
“Ow!” Favreau rubbed at his smarting fingers, looking over at the cook with a hurt expression.
“Those are for the guests,” she said sternly, though not unkindly, one hand on her hip. “We kitchen staff can eat what’s leftover at the end of this evening’s festivities, all right?”
Favreau bit his lip to hide his pout. He hadn’t pouted since he was a child. But he couldn’t help letting the unfairness of it all overwhelm him. He shouldn’t even be here. The least he could do was enjoy the food!
“Favreau!” Pierre called. “We need more drinks circulating! The fireworks are beginning soon!”
His arms were tired, his feet were tired, and the night had barely even begun.
The gossip so far had done little to pique his interest, either. Minus that bit about Sanscoeur, but there was no telling if the man even really existed. For if he did, he would have already shown himself at the ball.
“All right, all right. I am going.” He picked up a fresh platter, and pushed through the doors to brave the party once again.
~~~
The fireworks were a spectacle to behold. He wasn’t fond of the noise they produced, but the lights over the water? Absolutely gorgeous.
With all the guests so enraptured, he heard barely a scrap of gossip as he wove through the crowd, hands absently grasping at the stems of his glasses.
When he reached the other side of the crowd, his tray was empty, and Pierre was there to hand him a new one.
Back in he went.
He dared not spend too much time watching the fireworks, lest he risk treading on some noblewoman’s skirts, or spilling the drinks down the front of someone’s shirt.
At one point during his traversing, he thought he heard the distinctive honk of a goose.
But that was strange, because the Monmartes did not keep geese. They preferred other sorts of game.
He traded out his empty platter for another fresh one, and returned to the crowd.
There it was again!
Almost imperceptible between the booming cracks of fireworks. He looked out over the water, expecting to see a flurry of white wings.
Again, he heard it. But not from the water’s direction.
From behind.
He glanced back through the crowd, puzzled. The interior was dimly lit, lights brought down to accommodate better viewing.
But there, in the balcony, behind a curtain. He thought he saw a flash of feathers.
Favreau made his way slowly out of the crowd, keeping the balcony in his periphery. But by the time he was clear enough to look more closely, it was empty.
His imagination…?
“Favreau!” a whispered entreaty caught his attention.
Pierre was pointing to his platter, empty of drinks.
Right.
He needed to keep moving.
~~~
Hours already, and they hadn’t even brought out the celebratory cake. Lady Monmarte had introduced her daughter to the gathered nobles, helping her meet guests and make her first high society connections. But her son and daughter-in-law were nowhere to be seen.
“Say, Elsbeth, when are we supposed to bring out this cake, anyways?” Favreau asked the baker.
She shrugged, not bothering to look up from the piping she was still adding to the edges of the sweet behemoth. “Towards the end of the evening, I believe. The lady wished to begin by introducing her daughter and end by introducing her daughter-in-law. Or so I heard. Another one of those noble mind games they play.”
Showing clear favor for her own flesh and blood by introducing her first, hmm? It would be just like a noble to pull that stunt.
“And when, exactly, is the ‘end’ of the evening?”
“When the other nobility grow tired of their entertainment, I suppose. A few more hours?”
“Sooner than that, I’d wager,” said Marius. “I’ve already overheard some of the guests discussing leaving early.”
Oh, that wouldn’t please Lady Monmarte in the least.
Though Favreau would be glad of it. The sooner they got this over with, the sooner his vacation could finally begin.
A servant suddenly burst through the doors, eyes wide behind her green mask. “Favreau! Come look!”
“What is it, Olivia?” The freckled elven girl was a childhood friend, someone who’d prenticed alongside Favreau in the house.
“I believe it is that man you were telling us about earlier! This Sanscoeur!”
“What?” Favreau stood immediately, almost forgetting to pick up his drink platter on the way out.
So the man was more than just a myth? Huh.
Olivia led the way through the doors into the main ballroom. On the stairs stood a man dressed all in black, silk cloak draped like wings across his shoulder, a wide-brimmed cap shading his masked face. The mask was in the shape of a skull, stark white in contrast to his attire. He held himself aloof, as though he were above all the others in attendance.
Everyone nearby had fallen silent to watch him descend the stairs. Even the musicians had stopped playing. Whispers of ‘Lord Sanscoeur’ rippled through the crowd.
The ballroom was still as a painting.
Until the man spoke. “Please, do not halt your festivities on my account,” he said, his Orlesian slightly accented. “Eat, drink, and be merry! This is a celebration, is it not?” His dark eyes glinted red.
Uncertain mumbling coursed through the crowd.
Then Lady Monmarte stood up, holding a glass aloft. “Lord Sanscoeur, I presume,” she called in a clear alto. “I do not recall sending your invitation. All the same, I thank you for taking the time to attend our little soiree.”
Favreau suppressed a snort. This gathering was anything but ‘little.’
The lord in question inclined his head. And that seemed to be all it took for everyone to assume he was, indeed, the fabled Lord Sanscoeur. Conversation erupted across the room, and the musicians kicked up their lively tune again.
“See?” Olivia leaned up to whisper in Favreau’s ear. “Did I not tell you?”
It was interesting enough, he supposed. It would keep the rumor mills weaving threads of gossip for weeks to come. But exciting? Not precisely.
When he looked back at the stairs, the man seemed to have melted into shadow. Almost as if he’d been a figment of their collective imaginations.
A scream tore through his thoughts.
“Somebody! Come quickly!”
A hand grabbed Favreau by the arm and began dragging him off in the direction of the commotion.
The butler had him in a vice grip.
Why? He was just a servant. He hadn’t asked for this. Unless of course, they needed someone to clean up a mess…
“I found him like this, on the floor,” a distraught woman was saying, holding a fan before her face to hide the downturn of her lips. “He isn’t moving.”
Hold on, wasn’t this the balcony where he’d thought he’d heard a goose?
“Favreau, I know you are less…er, put off…by the sight of blood than the rest of us,” the butler was saying. “Perhaps you could inspect the man’s vitals?”
Of course this would be his evening.
Bloody nobles and their bloody assassins.
“Very well.” He passed his tray to the butler and pulled off his gloves — no sense in dirtying them and receiving the ire of the steward. He bent beside the body and felt for a pulse.
Nothing.
Next, he turned over the body and inspected the wounds. He’d been stabbed twice in the stomach, but what puzzled him were the myriad slashes below the height of his knee.
And across the floor…white feathers.
He sighed. “Have the body moved to the chaise lounge—cover it first!—and then close the curtains to this balcony. Station someone here to turn away guests until the body can be identified.”
The butler nodded, though he paled significantly when his eyes snagged on the body.
“I cannot afford to dirty my clothes as I am serving tonight. Have some of the house staff move the body.” At least he had a reasonable excuse to avoid interacting more with it himself.
Then, the butler turned to the onlookers, wringing his hands and wearing a broad, if strained, smile. “Lords and ladies, worry not! We will deal with this little upset. Please, return to the festivities.”
Favreau looked down at his blood hands and tsked. He’d gotten a droplet on his sleeve. “Have someone take my tray. I must wash my hands before I can continue serving.”
~~~
“Did you really find a dead body up there?” Marius asked, arms crossed.
“Where else did you think all this blood came from?” Favreau asked as he washed up at the fountain in the side yard. Going into the kitchens like that would have been unthinkable.
Marius whistled. “In all my years of service, I’ve never been witness to any of the assassinations.”
“Count yourself lucky, then,” Favreau groused as he dried his hands on a towel. “I’ve had enough excitement for a lifetime tonight, and the evening’s only half over!”
Marius laughed heartily, pounding Favreau on the back. “Don’t worry, I’m sure nothing else will go wrong tonight.”
“Don’t even say that,” Favreau replied, aghast. “Now you’ve ensured that another mishap is going to occur!”
“Bah! Superstition. Come on, now, those drinks won’t distribute themselves.”
~~~
The more Favreau made the rounds, the more he thought he was seeing that damned goose out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t even pay proper attention to the gossip.
First, the goose on the arm of a beautiful woman. Then, sitting in a chaise lounge with other nobles in one of the alcoves. Finally, in the shadows of the statues imported from the college of arts. But each time he looked closer, the goose would be gone.
He must be going mad.
It was the overwork, surely. Too long circulating the party, his arm gone numb long ago.
He needed a vacation.
“Sera! Get down from there!”
Oh, great. One of the guests was drunk.
Favreau steered clear of the voices, deciding it was best not to bring more drinks to already drunk guests.
Then he heard the clinking of glass.
Don’t look. You will regret it. You don’t need to know.
Favreau turned.
Oh, Maker above!!
An elven woman in plaid dangled from a chandelier, laughing delightedly while an exasperated man stood below her. “You’re going to get us kicked out,” he said in a clipped, Tevinter accent.
The Tevene man’s guest, standing a few feet beyond the commotion, hid a smile with his hand.
Meanwhile, the short-haired woman who was now hanging upside-down merely stuck out her tongue. “Oh, suuure they are. Inquisition still carries some clout around here, don’t it?”
Inquisition?
Maker, were they Inquisition?
Favreau cursed silently, then went to alert the butler. “Can you please send someone to deal with that before we shoulder the blame of another wrecked chandelier?”
The butler looked over in the direction Favreau pointed and, for the second time that night, visibly paled. “Right. Good thinking, Favreau. I will alert the guards.”
And the butler was off.
Must he do everything around here? Favreau rubbed his face through the mask.
Another loud honk rang through the ballroom.
Favreau turned just in time to see a group of mages—the ones who’d done the fireworks show—chasing a masked goose across the balcony. The goose seemed to have one of their staffs in its beak.
No. Nope. Nuh-uh. He wasn’t touching that one.
~~~
“Elsbeth, is the cake ready?” Mariana the cook demanded as Favreau traded out yet another empty tray. He had perhaps loitered a bit longer than necessary in the kitchens this time, his energy waning at the evening drew on towards midnight.
“Just put the finishing touches on the top!” Elsbeth said. She got off her ladder and stood back to admire the cake. “Some of my best work, if I do say so myself.”
Mariana nodded appreciatively. “I’d say so, too. You’ve done House Monmarte proud.”
The chatter outside the kitchens suddenly fell quiet.
Marius popped his head in through the door. “They’re about to make the toast,” he announced. “Favreau, Olivia, get those drinks circulating again! There should be a drink in every guest’s hand before the announcement is made! Elsbeth, give the cart to me, I will roll out the cake!”
Finally, the night was almost over. To Favreau’s mind, this moment couldn’t come soon enough.
With renewed energy, he took up his final tray of drinks, and followed Olivia out the door.
“…glad to have Lady Georgine joining our family!” Lady Monmarte was announcing to the gathered nobles. “To celebrate this union, we have a beautiful dessert for all of you! Handcrafted by the best baker in all of Orlais!”
A smattering of polite applause filled the room as Marius pushed the cart into the center of the ballroom. He parked it beneath the glittering chandelier, making it the centerpiece of the gathering.
“Now, before we partake, my son has a few words to share.” Lady Monmarte took a step back, and the young Lord Monmarte and his lady Georgine stepped forward.
“Lady Georgine has been my sun these past years at the college. Her warmth and encouragement kept me going through the long nights of study. Her quick wit made her the perfect conversationalist. With her, I was never bored.”
Favreau wove through the tables, leaving fresh drinks at each place for the toast, returning swiftly to the kitchen for his next tray, and continuing on.
When he came back out, the lord had gone down on one knee. “Though we are already wed, it was my desire to give you our family’s greatest treasure, a ring passed down through generations, tonight. With all these people as witnesses!”
Favreau rolled his eyes. It was another ploy, this time by the young lord, trying to show his mother that regardless of her own views, he, at least, considered Georgine to be close as family. More important, even, than his younger sister.
The Grand Game, in Favreau’s view, was a colossal waste of time. It was just an excuse for nobles to be petty to each other.
Soon, he wouldn’t have to be thinking about the Grand Game. He would be taking his respite by a beautiful mountain lake, far away from the wheelings and dealings of the Orlesian Court.
“What’s this?” the lord muttered, sounding puzzled
A gasp ran through the crowd, washing past Favreau as whispers picked up.
“The ring.”
“Missing?”
“How could it be missing?”
“And all that bluster, too.”
“Clumsy oaf.”
Favreau stopped between two tables to look back at the couple.
Had his lord misplaced a priceless heirloom?
Certainly not! He was not so careless. Then, how—?
“AH!”
Screams erupted at a cacophony of clinking glass and a rushing sound filled the room. Seconds later, the chandelier collapsed on top of the cake, sending Elsbeth’s hard work spattering in all directions.
The drink tray slipped from Favreau’s hand as he wheeled backwards out of the way of the scattering debris, the fluted glasses shattering on the marble floor.
For a moment, there was only silence. Then, a single voice, familiar and Ferelden, shouted, “Yeah! Got ‘im!”
All hell broke loose.
….
“Let’s all agree, this has been the longest night of our careers,” Mariana finally said into the moody silence that had followed Favreau’s complaint. “At the very least, it’ll make for some good gossip, won’t it?”
“Oh, don’t even get me…ssssstarted on th’gossip!” Favreau said with a glare. “I’was a’the center of allofit!”
Olivia patted him consolingly on the shoulder. “There, there. A’least y’get to start your vacation t’morrow, no?”
A familiar sound of clipped steps echoed across the kitchens.
The steward stopped before the table of drunken servants and regarded them seriously through his scowling mask. “Well, then! I hope you are all proud of yourselves after tonight’s spectacle,” he spat.
Like it was their fault, and not the bloody nobles and their stupid Grand Game. Favreau didn’t have the energy to argue, though.
“Lady Monmarte is beside herself with humiliation,” the steward continued. “I expect you all to show up bright and early tomorrow to clean up this mess!” He turned his glare onto Favreau. “And I do mean all of you, Favreau.”
The steward stalked off with his precise steps, and Favreau buried his face in his hands. Would this never end?
For him, apparently not.
He lifted his head, shedding his mask in the process, and pointed at the half-empty bottle of wine.
“Mariana. Gimme ‘nother drink. I’mmmm gonna need it.”