Domus Publica
| Return of the Silver Fox |
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Masquerade!
There are gala balls throughout the year, to be sure, as the rich and powerful love nothing more than to associate with
the rich and powerful and revel amongst themselves. They mingle together, confirming to one another their own
importance and places in society. It is as true under the Empire as it had been under the Republic, and it will be true
when the Empire too passes away. The flimsiest excuse will be seized upon to throw a party, to dress in one’s most
expensive and gorgeous finery, to dance amidst the sounds of revelry and music.
But the annual masquerade is special. It is the spectacular culmination of the traditional New Year’s Fête Week. For
many, the year does not truly begun until there has been the masquerade ball.
And Josef Moff Powellyne, Governor of Cingetorix Sector, does not disappoint.
It’s a fine ball this year, with a particularly distinguished turnout. The Grand Moff and Lady Selit are here, a mark of
favor not to be taken lightly: Selit is Powellyne’s immediate superior in the chain of command. Selit has a dozen Moffs
under his jurisdiction, but here he is now, celebrating the new year as a guest of Powellyne. And of course, where Selit
goes the others follow, and tonight’s gala presents the singular spectacle of a dozen Moffs and their wives in attendance.
There’s the Deputy Chief of Naval Operations for Personnel, one of the highest-ranking Naval officers in the entire
Imperial State. As his date for the evening he’s brought no less than the Vice Chairwoman of the New Order Galactic
Committee. Just over there, to Assistant Minister Carivus’s left, is media mogul Mahd Windcaller, owner of the
Millennium Entertainments media empire and one of the Galactic Emperor’s staunchest supporters from his days as
Supreme Chancellor. And over there, enjoying a drink with Imperial Intelligence’s Sub-Director (Analysis), is no less
than Arkady Krylenko, His Imperial Majesty’s Attorney General for the Imperial State.
Yes, quite a distinguished group of visitors. And if the names on the guests list aren’t enough, if the exquisite music is
not enough, then the costumes surely are. The fantastical costumes are quite amazing this year, rich in vibrant colors and
creativity. Nowhere in the Empire will you find a better masquerade ball than this one here, that much is quite certain.
Powellyne has managed even to outdo the Iron Marquess’s ball on Imperial Center, rumors that the Galactic Emperor
himself might attend that particular event notwithstanding.
Powellyne decides to take a break from the dance floor. He steps aside and snaps his fingers, and immediately a liveried
footman steps up with suitable liquid refreshment. At just that moment he sees his chief of security drawing near. The
Moff sighs; he’d hoped to make it through the evening without interruption. Apparently that was too much to ask.
“What is it?” he says testily.
“Excellency, Special Agent Chambertin is here to see you,” the man says. “She says it’s extremely urgent.”
The Moff sighs again. Tallisibeth Chambertin is one of those walking headaches that the ISB seems to have in endless
stock. Surely, she’s punctual, professional, scrupulous, and an expert pistol shot. Unfortunately, she’s also a fanatical,
card-carrying New Order partisan, wont to lecture anyone on the merits of the Party’s latest manifesto at the drop of a
hat. She’s been assigned by the ISB Central Office as the special agent in charge of dealing with Cingetorix Sector’s
“special problem,” and she is completely obsessed with it. Powellyne rather likes her — beneath all that fanaticism,
there’s a supremely competent counterinfiltrator and policewoman, not to mention a fine, hardworking, and intelligent
woman — but he privately wonders if she sleeps at all except by accident.
“Very well,” the Moff says. “Send her to the library.”
He’s not surprised to see that she’s already there when he enters the library. She’s standing in front of a couch, staring
at a holoprint of Powellyne with the Galactic Emperor, taken during the ceremony when he’d received the Emperor’s
Will, the highest decoration awarded by the Imperial State. Powellyne smiles tightly at her face: Chambertin has
something like a schoolgirl’s awe in her round, blue eyes.
“The holo doesn’t do him justice, you know,” Powellyne says, taking the opportunity to remind her that he’s actually
met the great man in person.
“No image could,” she says, a slight tremble in her voice. Powellyne arches his eyebrows; it’s one of the only times he’s
ever seen her lose her normally iron self-control and composure. Amazing, that the ruthless icewoman turns into an
innocent doe when presented with the Galactic Emperor’s image.
He also notes with interest – and annoyance – that there is mud caked on her boots.
She turns to him and her eyes immediately harden. “Excellency, the Silver Fox is here.”
He stares at her dumbly. “What do you mean, the Silver Fox is here? You mean now? In the Palace?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“That’s impossible! Surely Armand would have – ”
“This is the Silver Fox we’re talking about, Excellency,” she says flatly. “The fact that your security has not been
breached does not mean that he isn’t here.”
“You’re certain he’s here?”
“I am absolutely certain, Excellency.”
“How do you know?”
She hesitates for a moment. “It’s... complicated,” she says unsteadily. “This city’s sewer system is not pleasant.”
Powellyne’s eyes find their way back to her boots and the stains she’s leaving on the costly carpet. He covers his eyes
with his hand. “Never – Never mind. I don’t want to know.”
“The important thing is that he’s here. Right now. I’m having the access sealed now. We have him, Excellency!”
Powellyne’s mind is reeling. To catch the Silver Fox, at long last! But where is he? Hiding amongst the guests? At a
masquerade?
“Excellency, I need you to seal the Palace.”
He stares at her. “Excuse me, young lady? Seal the Palace?”
“Yes, Excellency. We can isolate and interrogate every person on the Palace grounds and the Silver Fox will be ours at
last.”
“No,” he says immediately. “Absolutely not. Absolutely out of the question.”
Now it is Chambertin that’s surprised. “But – Excellency, we can have him before the night’s through!”
“Chambertin, do you have any idea who’s here tonight?” She just stares at him. “Grand Moff Selit and his wife are here.
Kazîglu Bey and Naraku are here. Senator Sãbir is here. Arkady Krylenko is here, for Omega’s sake! I can’t put the
Palace on lockdown and interrogate these people! They’d have my guts for garters.”
Chambertin’s eyes flare. “Excellency, I’ve been assigned by the Central Office to oversee the hunt for the Silver Fox. I
cannot do that if you aren’t willing to cooperate – ”
“Careful, young lady,” Powellyne says, tapping the rank plaque on her tunic. “Don’t forget your place. You’re talking
to a member of the College of Moffs, not some nearsighted datapusher.”
“Excuse me, Excellency, I did not mean to be rude. Could you at least have your guests unmask? We can identify
anyone not a member of your household staff or on the guest list.”
“What, and let the other Moffs know there’s something afoot? What do you think this is, a Biscuit Baron drive-
through? Chambertin, this is the masquerade. Talk to my security chief, and quietly check the partygoers. Do not – I
repeat – do not make a scene. Under no circumstances are you to overtly manhandle a guest.”
Her eyes flash again. “Oh, spare me the drama, Chambertin,” he says. “Think of yourself: Can you imagine what would
happen to you if you accost Bey or Naraku? Or if you manhandle Krylenko because you don’t recognize him under the
mask? How much do you think your whiteshirt will protect you then?”
His point is well taken.
So she’s quietly checking each guest, engaging in the time-honored and tedious game of name the face. She’s making little
progress – Moff after Moff, Governor after Governor, functionary after functionary. All on the guest list. She retreats
to the periphery of the dance floor to check with Powellyne’s chief of security, she takes out her datapad to compare
notes when suddenly she finds herself whisked away in powerful arms to the center of the dance floor.
The tempo has picked up from the classic waltz they were dancing; somebody has requested a tango. She has to move
quickly to avoid losing her feet and falling, making a total fool of herself and drawing undue attention to her working
uniform and soiled boots. It’s a moment or two before she’s comfortable enough with the movement to actually look at
her self-appointed dance partner.
He’s dressed in the ubiquitous classical evening wear, de rigueur for males. White gloves cover his hands all the way up
to his cuffs; she can’t even tell what color his skin is. He wears a red Hendanyn death mask, sculpted so carefully and
fitted so perfectly to his face that it emotes just as though it were his face. “A poor costume, milady,” he says, his voice
mellifluous and rich, his accent cultured and clipped – he speaks with the Received Pronunciation. A Core Worlder? Or
just someone educated in the Core?
Her eyes flash, but she tries to play the part. She smiles sweetly – at least, she hopes it’s sweet. “Milord will forgive
me, I did not have time to prepare a costume worthy of tonight’s gala.”
The death mask smiles wryly. “The lack of a mask makes you quite easy to recognize, Tallisibeth.”
Her heart misses a beat. “Milord?” How does he know her name? Only Powellyne and his chief of security deal with
her normally. Nobody else here would know her, except –
“Yes,” he says. “I am he.”
She tenses, preparing to break from his grip, but he stops her with a word. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,
Tallisibeth. Not unless you want something untoward to happen. Krylenko’s just behind me, you know,” he says, still
smiling. “Ordinarily I only ‘kidnap’ your helpless victims, but the Incorruptible’s chief lawyer is a tempting prize. Let
us finish our dance, no?”
Her eyes flare and she feels her face twitching with rage. Nevertheless she obeys, trying to carry on with the dance as
though nothing at all were wrong. Dimly, some part of her brain notes that the Silver Fox is an excellent dancer. He must
have taken classes.
“Where did you get that costume?”
“This?” The mask smiles graciously. “I am always prepared for any eventuality, Tallisibeth, you know that. I’d
planned to attend tonight’s festivities anyway. You only accelerated my timetable. Of course, you don’t know that I’m
telling the truth, do you?”
She clenches her teeth. “I don’t need your word, criminal,” she hisses through her saccharine smile. “You’ll never
escape. I have the Palace surrounded. You can’t leave with me, and as soon as you leave me, I’ll alert my men.”
He chuckles. “Oh, I’ve thought of that, I assure you. I could just drug you and walk through the front gate, you know –
you feel that ring I’m wearing? It’s a Kuati crest ring – no, I’m not Kuati, I just like having the ability to drug people
while holding hands. As you are no doubt aware, this is why shaking hands is unauthorized for Imperial Naval officers.”
So he knows specific Naval regulations, does he? Is he a former officer, perhaps?
How long is this tango? Her eyes dart around to see if she can perhaps get the attention of one of her men or the Palace’
s security guards. Even if he’s telling the truth, if he’s on the guest list, they’ll probably never identify him from that.
As Powellyne stressed, this is the masquerade; everyone here is rich and powerful. She’s willing to risk it, but her
supervisors in the ISB simply aren’t. She has to catch him red-handed, or she’ll never catch him at all. He knows this;
that’s why he’s taunting her with this dance.
“So, after all your posturing, you’re nothing but a common crook after all,” she says. Attacks on his ego may make him
angry and cause him to make mistakes. “Drugging defenseless women and slinking away like a coward – ”
“I’d hardly call you defenseless, Tallisibeth. Your service record says you’re a phenomenally good pistol shot. Not to
mention that all whiteshirts receive training in unarmed self-defense – only don’t get ambitious, because I assure you
that the ISB’s basic hand-to-hand instruction is no match for K’tara and Teräs Käsi. I’ve had a lot more time and money
to invest in my personal betterment than you have, Tallisibeth.” Obviously! Teräs Käsi, if he’s telling the truth, is
extremely rare and difficult to learn, as masters of the art are few and far between; K’tara is a favored special forces
martial art, known for its speed and stealth. Where would he have learned that?
He smiles again – not a mocking smirk, but a warm and charming grin. “And I’d never drug you, it would be
ungentlemanly. No, instead – ”
Abruptly the music stops and the lights go out. Immediately she moves closer to try to keep a hold on her elusive
quarry, but he manages nevertheless to slip from her grasp. The lights come back on, revealing the revelers standing
about unorganizedly, disappointed that the music has stopped. After a moment or two they begin milling about, moving
off the dance floor. Chambertin looks about her hurriedly, trying to find him. She sees the red death mask making a
quick but firm line for one of the doors, and hurries after him. She catches hold of his wrist. “Leaving so soon, milord?”
He turns back to face her, the mask revealing surprise and curiosity. “A poor costume, milady,” he remarks.
“Haven’t we just finished this dance?” she says, her eyes narrowing, careful to keep her voice low so none of the other
guests realize what’s happening. She lowers it still further so that only he can hear her. “You’re not leaving yet. How
did you get in here, anyway?”
The mask twists into a bemused expression, something interesting for a skull to do. “I was invited, milady. I assume
there’s an interesting story about your boots, but I suspect I don’t want to know the answer.”
“You know perfectly well why my boots are dirty,” she hisses.
Somebody brushes against her from behind and she hears a gentle whisper, “Thank you for the dance, Tallisibeth.” She
stiffens, drops the man’s wrist, and immediately turns around. She’s surprised to see nobody there, and turns back to
the other man – who is also no longer there. She feels blood rushing to her head and rage boiling inside of her. Where has
he gone? She looks around furiously, hoping to catch sight of the mask. She reaches into her pocket to find her comlink,
only to find it unaccountably missing. Her face twitches with anger – the Silver Fox is a pickpocket!
She sees Powellyne near the grand staircase, trying to get her attention. She obediently moves toward him.
“You’re not helping my blood pressure at all, young lady,” he says, gesturing toward her boots and the tracks she’s left
all over the dance floor. “Special Agent or no, this is intolerable.”
She’s veritably shaking with rage. She’d been so close, so very close – ! But the Silver Fox has escaped again.
“Ah, so you really are ISB,” says another voice, and she’s surprised to see that it belongs to the wearer of a red
Hendanyn death mask; his voice is similar to the Silver Fox’s, but she can definitely tell the difference. He extends his
hand to shake. “Arkady Krylenko, attorney at law,” he says.
She slaps her hand over her eyes. “Excellency, do you have a comlink?”
Krylenko is more than a little surprised that he’s been left hanging. “Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry, Attorney General,” Powellyne says quickly. “Special Agent Chambertin has been exceptionally busy
tonight. She’s out of sorts.”
“A comlink, Excellency,” she says more insistently. He produces one from some pocket in his coat and hands it to her.
“Security,” she says into it. “Is the Attorney General still here?”
Krylenko’s mask adopts a bewildered expression. “Of course I’m still here. I’m standing right in front of you.”
Armand’s voice comes back through the comlink. “Negative, Special Agent. The Attorney General has left the building.”
A thousand curses verge on the tip of Tallisibeth’s tongue. “Signal the Municipal Police to stop that speeder
immediately, arrest everyone in it, and search it thoroughly.” It’s no use, though, and she knows it; the Silver Fox isn’t
aboard the speeder. He’s already escaped.
A squawk of outrage escapes the mask’s lips. “How dare you – ?”
“I’m sorry, Attorney General, but there’s a known criminal and Enemy of the Empire masquerading as you tonight, and
if you’re here, then he’s the one who’s left in your speeder,” she explains quickly.
“How do you know he’s disguised as the Attorney General?” Powellyne asks, confused.
“Because, Excellency, that’s how he looked when he danced with me,” she explains, flustered.
“He danced with you?”
“Yes, Excellency, he danced with me. I accidentally stopped the Attorney General afterward, but he said something
from behind me, and I was distracted. That’s when he escaped.”
Powellyne regards her as though she’s just sprouted a second head. “Young lady, do you seriously mean to tell me that
the Silver Fox infiltrated my Palace specifically for the purpose of dancing a tango with you?”
Krylenko smiles. “And I enjoyed every minute of it. We should do this again sometime.”
The lights drop out a second time. “Incidentally,” the masked man adds, “I’m not just a pickpocket, I’m also a
ventriloquist.” When the lights come up, he’s gone.
Powellyne’s face shows pure shock. Chambertin’s normally fair skin is turning dark red from anger. Her comlink
squawks insistently.
“Special Agent Chambertin,” the voice says urgently, “The Attorney General would like to know why you’ve ordered
his arrest.”
There are gala balls throughout the year, to be sure, as the rich and powerful love nothing more than to associate with
the rich and powerful and revel amongst themselves. They mingle together, confirming to one another their own
importance and places in society. It is as true under the Empire as it had been under the Republic, and it will be true
when the Empire too passes away. The flimsiest excuse will be seized upon to throw a party, to dress in one’s most
expensive and gorgeous finery, to dance amidst the sounds of revelry and music.
But the annual masquerade is special. It is the spectacular culmination of the traditional New Year’s Fête Week. For
many, the year does not truly begun until there has been the masquerade ball.
And Josef Moff Powellyne, Governor of Cingetorix Sector, does not disappoint.
It’s a fine ball this year, with a particularly distinguished turnout. The Grand Moff and Lady Selit are here, a mark of
favor not to be taken lightly: Selit is Powellyne’s immediate superior in the chain of command. Selit has a dozen Moffs
under his jurisdiction, but here he is now, celebrating the new year as a guest of Powellyne. And of course, where Selit
goes the others follow, and tonight’s gala presents the singular spectacle of a dozen Moffs and their wives in attendance.
There’s the Deputy Chief of Naval Operations for Personnel, one of the highest-ranking Naval officers in the entire
Imperial State. As his date for the evening he’s brought no less than the Vice Chairwoman of the New Order Galactic
Committee. Just over there, to Assistant Minister Carivus’s left, is media mogul Mahd Windcaller, owner of the
Millennium Entertainments media empire and one of the Galactic Emperor’s staunchest supporters from his days as
Supreme Chancellor. And over there, enjoying a drink with Imperial Intelligence’s Sub-Director (Analysis), is no less
than Arkady Krylenko, His Imperial Majesty’s Attorney General for the Imperial State.
Yes, quite a distinguished group of visitors. And if the names on the guests list aren’t enough, if the exquisite music is
not enough, then the costumes surely are. The fantastical costumes are quite amazing this year, rich in vibrant colors and
creativity. Nowhere in the Empire will you find a better masquerade ball than this one here, that much is quite certain.
Powellyne has managed even to outdo the Iron Marquess’s ball on Imperial Center, rumors that the Galactic Emperor
himself might attend that particular event notwithstanding.
Powellyne decides to take a break from the dance floor. He steps aside and snaps his fingers, and immediately a liveried
footman steps up with suitable liquid refreshment. At just that moment he sees his chief of security drawing near. The
Moff sighs; he’d hoped to make it through the evening without interruption. Apparently that was too much to ask.
“What is it?” he says testily.
“Excellency, Special Agent Chambertin is here to see you,” the man says. “She says it’s extremely urgent.”
The Moff sighs again. Tallisibeth Chambertin is one of those walking headaches that the ISB seems to have in endless
stock. Surely, she’s punctual, professional, scrupulous, and an expert pistol shot. Unfortunately, she’s also a fanatical,
card-carrying New Order partisan, wont to lecture anyone on the merits of the Party’s latest manifesto at the drop of a
hat. She’s been assigned by the ISB Central Office as the special agent in charge of dealing with Cingetorix Sector’s
“special problem,” and she is completely obsessed with it. Powellyne rather likes her — beneath all that fanaticism,
there’s a supremely competent counterinfiltrator and policewoman, not to mention a fine, hardworking, and intelligent
woman — but he privately wonders if she sleeps at all except by accident.
“Very well,” the Moff says. “Send her to the library.”
He’s not surprised to see that she’s already there when he enters the library. She’s standing in front of a couch, staring
at a holoprint of Powellyne with the Galactic Emperor, taken during the ceremony when he’d received the Emperor’s
Will, the highest decoration awarded by the Imperial State. Powellyne smiles tightly at her face: Chambertin has
something like a schoolgirl’s awe in her round, blue eyes.
“The holo doesn’t do him justice, you know,” Powellyne says, taking the opportunity to remind her that he’s actually
met the great man in person.
“No image could,” she says, a slight tremble in her voice. Powellyne arches his eyebrows; it’s one of the only times he’s
ever seen her lose her normally iron self-control and composure. Amazing, that the ruthless icewoman turns into an
innocent doe when presented with the Galactic Emperor’s image.
He also notes with interest – and annoyance – that there is mud caked on her boots.
She turns to him and her eyes immediately harden. “Excellency, the Silver Fox is here.”
He stares at her dumbly. “What do you mean, the Silver Fox is here? You mean now? In the Palace?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“That’s impossible! Surely Armand would have – ”
“This is the Silver Fox we’re talking about, Excellency,” she says flatly. “The fact that your security has not been
breached does not mean that he isn’t here.”
“You’re certain he’s here?”
“I am absolutely certain, Excellency.”
“How do you know?”
She hesitates for a moment. “It’s... complicated,” she says unsteadily. “This city’s sewer system is not pleasant.”
Powellyne’s eyes find their way back to her boots and the stains she’s leaving on the costly carpet. He covers his eyes
with his hand. “Never – Never mind. I don’t want to know.”
“The important thing is that he’s here. Right now. I’m having the access sealed now. We have him, Excellency!”
Powellyne’s mind is reeling. To catch the Silver Fox, at long last! But where is he? Hiding amongst the guests? At a
masquerade?
“Excellency, I need you to seal the Palace.”
He stares at her. “Excuse me, young lady? Seal the Palace?”
“Yes, Excellency. We can isolate and interrogate every person on the Palace grounds and the Silver Fox will be ours at
last.”
“No,” he says immediately. “Absolutely not. Absolutely out of the question.”
Now it is Chambertin that’s surprised. “But – Excellency, we can have him before the night’s through!”
“Chambertin, do you have any idea who’s here tonight?” She just stares at him. “Grand Moff Selit and his wife are here.
Kazîglu Bey and Naraku are here. Senator Sãbir is here. Arkady Krylenko is here, for Omega’s sake! I can’t put the
Palace on lockdown and interrogate these people! They’d have my guts for garters.”
Chambertin’s eyes flare. “Excellency, I’ve been assigned by the Central Office to oversee the hunt for the Silver Fox. I
cannot do that if you aren’t willing to cooperate – ”
“Careful, young lady,” Powellyne says, tapping the rank plaque on her tunic. “Don’t forget your place. You’re talking
to a member of the College of Moffs, not some nearsighted datapusher.”
“Excuse me, Excellency, I did not mean to be rude. Could you at least have your guests unmask? We can identify
anyone not a member of your household staff or on the guest list.”
“What, and let the other Moffs know there’s something afoot? What do you think this is, a Biscuit Baron drive-
through? Chambertin, this is the masquerade. Talk to my security chief, and quietly check the partygoers. Do not – I
repeat – do not make a scene. Under no circumstances are you to overtly manhandle a guest.”
Her eyes flash again. “Oh, spare me the drama, Chambertin,” he says. “Think of yourself: Can you imagine what would
happen to you if you accost Bey or Naraku? Or if you manhandle Krylenko because you don’t recognize him under the
mask? How much do you think your whiteshirt will protect you then?”
His point is well taken.
So she’s quietly checking each guest, engaging in the time-honored and tedious game of name the face. She’s making little
progress – Moff after Moff, Governor after Governor, functionary after functionary. All on the guest list. She retreats
to the periphery of the dance floor to check with Powellyne’s chief of security, she takes out her datapad to compare
notes when suddenly she finds herself whisked away in powerful arms to the center of the dance floor.
The tempo has picked up from the classic waltz they were dancing; somebody has requested a tango. She has to move
quickly to avoid losing her feet and falling, making a total fool of herself and drawing undue attention to her working
uniform and soiled boots. It’s a moment or two before she’s comfortable enough with the movement to actually look at
her self-appointed dance partner.
He’s dressed in the ubiquitous classical evening wear, de rigueur for males. White gloves cover his hands all the way up
to his cuffs; she can’t even tell what color his skin is. He wears a red Hendanyn death mask, sculpted so carefully and
fitted so perfectly to his face that it emotes just as though it were his face. “A poor costume, milady,” he says, his voice
mellifluous and rich, his accent cultured and clipped – he speaks with the Received Pronunciation. A Core Worlder? Or
just someone educated in the Core?
Her eyes flash, but she tries to play the part. She smiles sweetly – at least, she hopes it’s sweet. “Milord will forgive
me, I did not have time to prepare a costume worthy of tonight’s gala.”
The death mask smiles wryly. “The lack of a mask makes you quite easy to recognize, Tallisibeth.”
Her heart misses a beat. “Milord?” How does he know her name? Only Powellyne and his chief of security deal with
her normally. Nobody else here would know her, except –
“Yes,” he says. “I am he.”
She tenses, preparing to break from his grip, but he stops her with a word. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,
Tallisibeth. Not unless you want something untoward to happen. Krylenko’s just behind me, you know,” he says, still
smiling. “Ordinarily I only ‘kidnap’ your helpless victims, but the Incorruptible’s chief lawyer is a tempting prize. Let
us finish our dance, no?”
Her eyes flare and she feels her face twitching with rage. Nevertheless she obeys, trying to carry on with the dance as
though nothing at all were wrong. Dimly, some part of her brain notes that the Silver Fox is an excellent dancer. He must
have taken classes.
“Where did you get that costume?”
“This?” The mask smiles graciously. “I am always prepared for any eventuality, Tallisibeth, you know that. I’d
planned to attend tonight’s festivities anyway. You only accelerated my timetable. Of course, you don’t know that I’m
telling the truth, do you?”
She clenches her teeth. “I don’t need your word, criminal,” she hisses through her saccharine smile. “You’ll never
escape. I have the Palace surrounded. You can’t leave with me, and as soon as you leave me, I’ll alert my men.”
He chuckles. “Oh, I’ve thought of that, I assure you. I could just drug you and walk through the front gate, you know –
you feel that ring I’m wearing? It’s a Kuati crest ring – no, I’m not Kuati, I just like having the ability to drug people
while holding hands. As you are no doubt aware, this is why shaking hands is unauthorized for Imperial Naval officers.”
So he knows specific Naval regulations, does he? Is he a former officer, perhaps?
How long is this tango? Her eyes dart around to see if she can perhaps get the attention of one of her men or the Palace’
s security guards. Even if he’s telling the truth, if he’s on the guest list, they’ll probably never identify him from that.
As Powellyne stressed, this is the masquerade; everyone here is rich and powerful. She’s willing to risk it, but her
supervisors in the ISB simply aren’t. She has to catch him red-handed, or she’ll never catch him at all. He knows this;
that’s why he’s taunting her with this dance.
“So, after all your posturing, you’re nothing but a common crook after all,” she says. Attacks on his ego may make him
angry and cause him to make mistakes. “Drugging defenseless women and slinking away like a coward – ”
“I’d hardly call you defenseless, Tallisibeth. Your service record says you’re a phenomenally good pistol shot. Not to
mention that all whiteshirts receive training in unarmed self-defense – only don’t get ambitious, because I assure you
that the ISB’s basic hand-to-hand instruction is no match for K’tara and Teräs Käsi. I’ve had a lot more time and money
to invest in my personal betterment than you have, Tallisibeth.” Obviously! Teräs Käsi, if he’s telling the truth, is
extremely rare and difficult to learn, as masters of the art are few and far between; K’tara is a favored special forces
martial art, known for its speed and stealth. Where would he have learned that?
He smiles again – not a mocking smirk, but a warm and charming grin. “And I’d never drug you, it would be
ungentlemanly. No, instead – ”
Abruptly the music stops and the lights go out. Immediately she moves closer to try to keep a hold on her elusive
quarry, but he manages nevertheless to slip from her grasp. The lights come back on, revealing the revelers standing
about unorganizedly, disappointed that the music has stopped. After a moment or two they begin milling about, moving
off the dance floor. Chambertin looks about her hurriedly, trying to find him. She sees the red death mask making a
quick but firm line for one of the doors, and hurries after him. She catches hold of his wrist. “Leaving so soon, milord?”
He turns back to face her, the mask revealing surprise and curiosity. “A poor costume, milady,” he remarks.
“Haven’t we just finished this dance?” she says, her eyes narrowing, careful to keep her voice low so none of the other
guests realize what’s happening. She lowers it still further so that only he can hear her. “You’re not leaving yet. How
did you get in here, anyway?”
The mask twists into a bemused expression, something interesting for a skull to do. “I was invited, milady. I assume
there’s an interesting story about your boots, but I suspect I don’t want to know the answer.”
“You know perfectly well why my boots are dirty,” she hisses.
Somebody brushes against her from behind and she hears a gentle whisper, “Thank you for the dance, Tallisibeth.” She
stiffens, drops the man’s wrist, and immediately turns around. She’s surprised to see nobody there, and turns back to
the other man – who is also no longer there. She feels blood rushing to her head and rage boiling inside of her. Where has
he gone? She looks around furiously, hoping to catch sight of the mask. She reaches into her pocket to find her comlink,
only to find it unaccountably missing. Her face twitches with anger – the Silver Fox is a pickpocket!
She sees Powellyne near the grand staircase, trying to get her attention. She obediently moves toward him.
“You’re not helping my blood pressure at all, young lady,” he says, gesturing toward her boots and the tracks she’s left
all over the dance floor. “Special Agent or no, this is intolerable.”
She’s veritably shaking with rage. She’d been so close, so very close – ! But the Silver Fox has escaped again.
“Ah, so you really are ISB,” says another voice, and she’s surprised to see that it belongs to the wearer of a red
Hendanyn death mask; his voice is similar to the Silver Fox’s, but she can definitely tell the difference. He extends his
hand to shake. “Arkady Krylenko, attorney at law,” he says.
She slaps her hand over her eyes. “Excellency, do you have a comlink?”
Krylenko is more than a little surprised that he’s been left hanging. “Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry, Attorney General,” Powellyne says quickly. “Special Agent Chambertin has been exceptionally busy
tonight. She’s out of sorts.”
“A comlink, Excellency,” she says more insistently. He produces one from some pocket in his coat and hands it to her.
“Security,” she says into it. “Is the Attorney General still here?”
Krylenko’s mask adopts a bewildered expression. “Of course I’m still here. I’m standing right in front of you.”
Armand’s voice comes back through the comlink. “Negative, Special Agent. The Attorney General has left the building.”
A thousand curses verge on the tip of Tallisibeth’s tongue. “Signal the Municipal Police to stop that speeder
immediately, arrest everyone in it, and search it thoroughly.” It’s no use, though, and she knows it; the Silver Fox isn’t
aboard the speeder. He’s already escaped.
A squawk of outrage escapes the mask’s lips. “How dare you – ?”
“I’m sorry, Attorney General, but there’s a known criminal and Enemy of the Empire masquerading as you tonight, and
if you’re here, then he’s the one who’s left in your speeder,” she explains quickly.
“How do you know he’s disguised as the Attorney General?” Powellyne asks, confused.
“Because, Excellency, that’s how he looked when he danced with me,” she explains, flustered.
“He danced with you?”
“Yes, Excellency, he danced with me. I accidentally stopped the Attorney General afterward, but he said something
from behind me, and I was distracted. That’s when he escaped.”
Powellyne regards her as though she’s just sprouted a second head. “Young lady, do you seriously mean to tell me that
the Silver Fox infiltrated my Palace specifically for the purpose of dancing a tango with you?”
Krylenko smiles. “And I enjoyed every minute of it. We should do this again sometime.”
The lights drop out a second time. “Incidentally,” the masked man adds, “I’m not just a pickpocket, I’m also a
ventriloquist.” When the lights come up, he’s gone.
Powellyne’s face shows pure shock. Chambertin’s normally fair skin is turning dark red from anger. Her comlink
squawks insistently.
“Special Agent Chambertin,” the voice says urgently, “The Attorney General would like to know why you’ve ordered
his arrest.”
This short story was originally published in February 2005. It was republished on 26 January 2007.
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