Fate's Edge

a pirate. He made his money robbing other ships, stole a fortune, and married her. Her family is noble but poor. He practically bought her. Can you imagine?”
    George cleared his throat carefully. “You don’t say.”
    “Trust me, the man is a savage. He treats her like a slave.”
    “Perhaps you should be more careful with the display of your affections,” Kaldar suggested. “Saltlickers are known for their temper.”
    “He can’t do anything to me.” Francis pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m the baron’s guest. She’s chained to that monster. A woman so refined, so delicate, should be shielded from the rigors of the world, so they don’t bruise her. She is completely helpless, you see . . .”
    Jack choked on his food and made some coughing noises that sounded suspiciously like feline laughter.
    “Did I say something funny?” Francis peered at him.
    “Not at all,” Kaldar said. “Please continue.”
    “She should be free to make her own choices.”
    “And are you determined to liberate her?” Kaldar asked.
    “Indeed I am.”
    “You have a noble heart,” George said.
    Francis preened. “Any man of honor in my place would do the same.”
    The naive idiot. Cerise was playing a dangerous game. Francis could do something rash, then William would kill him. “Perhaps you would listen to the advice of an older and jaded man?”
    “Of course.”
    “In my experience, despite what outer appearances may indicate, married couples are much more alike than people realize. Take care, my friend. Tread softly.”
    “I thank you for your counsel.” Francis raised his chin. “But I have nothing to fear.”
    Young moron.
    The last of the dessert had been finished. The double doors opened, revealing a wide ballroom. Morell was doing this party by the book: they were permitted to mingle, treated to a dinner, and now, predictably, they would be given the opportunity to dance under the watchful eyes of the Texas sharpshooter’s magically augmented rifles.
    Kaldar rose. “My young lords, it is time to dance.”
    Jack rolled his eyes. “Do I have to?”
    “I’m afraid so, master.”
    Jack sighed and made his way to the ballroom. George followed him.
    “Youth is wasted on the young . . .” Kaldar mused, but Francis’s gaze was fixed on Cerise.
    “Excuse me,” he muttered, and trotted over to her.
    And so he was left to his own devices. Kaldar started toward the ballroom.
    He positioned himself near the wall and watched the gathering. Music rolled through the disguised loudspeakers on the walls. The rhythm was brisk and familiar. The dancers were making a hash of it on the floor: some tried to dance according to the Weird’s customs; others were attempting a Broken waltz. George was whisked away almost instantly by a young girl with too much mascara and a prom gown that put her square into Broken territory rather than that of the Weird. As soon as the dance ended, another candidate, this one at least three years older, stepped up to claim his attention.
    Morell wanted a court. He wanted a taste of the upper-crust life—blueblood or those who reached their status by merit, he didn’t particularly care. He had a beautiful castle, but the means by which he’d obtained it would get him barred from most polite gatherings across realms. So he made his own court. He invited his neighbors, robbers, added a few attractive young people with ambitions and an eye toward climbing the social ladder, and lured the lords and ladies of the Weird and movers and shakers of the Broken with promises of fine art that couldn’t be bought anywhere else. Now they sized each other up, and Morell watched the culture clash with great amusement.
    There was an odd mix of extravagance and ironic self-awareness in the entire affair. For a man who liked to watch other people, the ballroom was paradise. Kaldar couldn’t recall the last time he was so entertained.
    Morell watched his guests as well, moving from one group to the next until he finally reached him. Kaldar bowed. The baron inclined his head. A moment later, George was released by his latest dance partner and approached them.
    “You don’t dance, Master Brossard?” Morell asked.
    “I’m afraid it’s not one of my better skills.”
    “Nonsense,” George said. “You’re an excellent dancer, Olivier.”
    What the hell is the kid up to? “Most of the gathering is above my station,” Kaldar said.
    “What about that lady in green?” George