Chapter 35 – The Masquerade of Ink
Civilization didn't smell like pine and blood. It smelled of lavender and lies.
Three days after the battle at the Weeping Pass, Uzo Melbourne stood at the iron gates of the House of Mystery.
He wasn't wearing a tuxedo. He didn't own one.
He was wearing his battered leather trench coat, cleaned of mud but still smelling of ozone. Underneath, his clothes were simple gray wool.
He looked like a stain on a silk sheet.
"Name?" the doorman asked. He was a construct made of polished brass, holding a ledger.
"Uzo Melbourne," Uzo said. He tapped his left ear the deaf one out of habit.
The brass man didn't check the list.
"High Lord Vane is expecting you. Enter."
The gates groaned open.
Uzo stepped inside.
The House of Mystery wasn't a building; it was an Escher painting.
Staircases spiraled into the ceiling and led nowhere. Chandeliers floated without chains, dripping glowing blue wax that evaporated before it hit the floor. The floor itself was made of glass, revealing a deep, dark ocean beneath where bioluminescent fish swam in patterns that spelled out riddles.
And then, there were the guests.
The Gala was in full swing.
Hundreds of nobles from the Seven Houses drifted through the hall. They wore masks made of porcelain, feathers, and solidified smoke.
They spoke in hushed whispers, their voices amplified by magic so the room sounded like a hive of bees.
Uzo walked into the room.
The hive went silent.
It wasn't because he was famous. It was because he was Wrong.
In a room of silk and velvet, he was leather and grit.
In a room of masks, he showed his face.
And his face...
One eye was brown. The other was the color of a dead television channel.
"Is that him?" a woman in a swan mask whispered.
"The Glitch," a man in a red suit muttered. "I heard he killed the Eclipse."
"Impossible. He looks like a street rat."
Uzo ignored them. He kept his hand in his pocket, gripping the Lexicon.
He scanned the room.
He wasn't looking for food. He was looking for the man who had sent the Crow.
"Over here."
The voice was bored. Lazy.
It came from a secluded alcove near a floating fireplace.
Uzo walked over.
Sitting on a plush velvet couch, looking like he would rather be asleep, was a man who radiated exhaustion.
He was young—maybe mid-twenties—but his eyes were ancient. He wore a mask pushed up onto his forehead, revealing a face that was sharp, intelligent, and completely uninterested in the party.
He was playing a game of solitaire with cards that were constantly changing suits.
High Lord Vane.
"You're late," Vane said, not looking up from his cards. "Or early. Time is subjective in this House."
"I walked," Uzo said, stopping in front of the table.
"How quaint."
Vane finally looked up. His eyes were gray—not the static gray of the Void, but the flat gray of a cloudy sky.
"You made quite a noise in the Weeping Pass, Mr. Melbourne. Drums? Really? Subtlety is a lost art."
"I survived," Uzo said. "That's art enough for me."
Vane chuckled. It was a dry sound.
"Survival is boring. Everyone survives until they don't."
He flicked a card. It turned into a butterfly and flew away.
"I invited you here because I have a problem," Vane said, leaning back. "The King is writing a new chapter. He calls it 'The Great Silence.'"
Vane gestured to the room full of nobles.
"These idiots think they are characters in a romance novel. They don't realize they are being written out. Lazarus plans to unify the Kingdom by erasing the Seven Houses and establishing a single House of Order."
Vane looked at Uzo sharply.
"I am too lazy to fight a war, Uzo. Wars are messy. They require paperwork."
He picked up a wine glass.
"I prefer to edit the manuscript before it gets published."
"And what am I?" Uzo asked. "Your red pen?"
"No," Vane smiled. "You are the Typo. The King cannot predict you because you don't follow the rules of Syntax."
Vane pointed a lazy finger across the room.
"Do you see that man? The one in the white robes? The one who isn't wearing a mask?"
Uzo looked.
Standing near the balcony, alone, was a man in pristine white robes.
He wasn't drinking. He wasn't talking.
He was holding a red quill, staring at the guests like they were words he wanted to delete.
His eyes were wide open, unblinking, and purely white.
Grand Scribe Nero. (The "Margin Walker").
"That is Nero," Vane whispered. "The King's Head Editor. He is here to assess the House of Mystery. If he decides we are 'redundant'..."
Vane made a cutting motion across his neck.
"I need you to distract him," Vane said.
"Distract him?" Uzo scoffed. "How?"
Vane smirked.
"Go start a fight. You're good at that. Make a scene. Make a mess. Force him to use his Red Pen."
Vane closed his eyes, looking ready to nap.
"I need to see his margins, Uzo. I need to know his rules so I can break them."
Uzo looked at Nero. The man felt dangerous. Even from here, the air around him felt thin, like oxygen was afraid to get too close.
"And if he kills me?" Uzo asked.
Vane shrugged.
"Then you were a poorly written character after all."