4

I wandered restless and buzzy, deeper and deeper into the ballroom. A cordial hello here; a restrained elbow-shake there. I did not intrude and in turn was not particularly intruded upon. Not a very good social networker was I.

This far into the banquet hall, I could finally tell that the back of the room was actually made up of a series of arching bay windows, which looked out over one of the keep's adjoining courtyards. Glass doors at the base of each window opened onto a garden promenade lined with softly glowing lampposts. I considered heading that way for a few lungfuls of unperfumed air and then decided to stay the course to Zelda's suggested destination. Might as well keep some sort of goal structure in place.

There was a certain glitter in the air that I found vaguely annoying. That sparkle of life and sublimated excitement I associated with school dances and first dates. And there I was – the presumed belle of the ball – lost as an abandoned puppy.

I migrated dispassionately toward tables piled with assorted hors d'oeuvres and pre-supper palate cleansers. Just as my jaunt through the kitchens had foretold, it was truly an astonishing spread – and this wasn't even the meal proper.

There were: Heaps of berries resting beside lagoons of sweet cream. Fat loaves of bread in varieties ranging from spongy black to flaky white. Tubs filled with shelled, hardboiled cuccoo eggs. Bowls of pickled root vegetables and olives. Crumbly stacks of steaming flatbread and homemade crackers. Pots of jams and marmalades. Trays of nuts and spice-encrusted, dried legumes. Vinegar-glistening salads of fresh greens and shredded, alien squash.

My gut folded in on itself with an audible bubbling. I successfully suppressed a groan – but just barely.

Out of my line of sight, someone began tuning a stringed instrument. There followed a slow warm-up song – a kind of classical guitar arrangement that was by turns peppy and contemplative. Its notes slowed my steps and caressed my foggy brain.

As I inspected the waiting edibles, an obtrusively gangly shape disgorged itself from the milling crowd. A man of not inconsiderable height, navigating the human currents with movements that were at once gawky and calculated. He threw elbows and juked his knees in a way that could almost – almost – be considered graceful. His passage drew looks and mutters from the hangers-on about the tables. Viewed in concert with the introspective strumming of that distant not-guitar, the fellow's entrance was almost dramatically farcical.

The man wore a traditional suit in decidedly nontraditional colors. In an inversion of the dominant style, his jacket was a crisp, vanilla white. It stood out like an exclamation over a coal-colored vest and inner shirt. The stranger's cravat hung from his neck in easy, arterial-red loops.

Whippet-limbed, he stumble-walked his way to the edge of the refreshments trailing soft apologies in his wake. His blonde hair was tussled with deliberate pseudo-messiness. In one hand he clutched a glass tumbler half-full of a liquid like dark honey. Those green eyes seemed to run across every detail in the room with a languid precision. He was slim-faced, clean-shaven, and undeniably handsome.

This was, I realized, the same dapper fellow who had been hanging out with Renaldo Baeleus during my first audience with the Court and Council. The association was unpleasant, but I couldn't take my eyes off him as he faux-bumbled up to the trays of appetizers. In a room full of stiff backs and furtive gazes, the goofy exaggeration of his gestures was almost unsettling.

Standing at last before his quarry, the man in white considered the available foodstuffs with keen consideration. Then he set to work. As I looked on, the nobleman layered bread, boiled egg, plum salad, and a piece of unleavened cracker into a kind of jury-rigged sandwich. He inspected his handiwork with a cocked eye, smiled, and proceeded to take an enthusiastic chomp out of the creation. This warranted a slow, hearty nod of approval.

Well, that's interesting, I thought. My belly chewed on itself noisily.

Fuck it. If Hylian Tom Wolfe over there could stuff his craw without feeling self-conscious, so could I. If I didn't get something in my stomach, I'd be out the back door vomiting in the courtyard in no time flat.

I too left a bread-crumb trail of apologies behind me as I shouldered through packs of loiterers and up to the expanse of enticing dishes. I hesitated, unsure of the codes of decorum governing pre-supper snacking. Sure, the guy in the ice-cream suit did whatever he pleased, but he was probably some high-ranking Count, diplomat, or majordomo. It was doubtful that I could get away with any other faux pas without the rumormongers going into overdrive

So, I inched down to the end of the table and set my wine in an unoccupied portion of creamy tablecloth. Nonplussed, I scooped up a fine crockery dish from a waiting stack. I triple-noted the location of the goblet so as not to forget it once I had gathered the requisite plate of food.

It all looked so wonderful. Decide, Linus. At my back, playful notes turned mournful, and then playful again.

Some straight-up fuckin' fresh bread might do my booze-soaked gut some good, I decided. I moved to the closest basket full of dark loaves. The rich, yeasty aroma wafting from within nearly made me dizzy.

A problem made itself manifest: with only one hand to work with, I had to set the plate down before snagging anything for it. So, how was I going to eat – much less keep a hold on a cup of wine at the same time?

Hmmm. This was going to be more difficult than I first thought.

I glanced up from these semi-drunken logistics to see the green-eyed fellow staring down the table at me. He chewed a mouthful of food with introspective abandon. He nodded as we locked eyes. I glanced away, back to the starchy conundrum before me. When I looked back up:

Oh, God. He was sauntering over. An unhurried strut. In one hand a dish full of bizarre sandwich; in the other, his unknown cocktail.

I had just enough time to snatch a heel of black bread – still warm to the touch – and drop it unceremoniously onto my plate. My hand blindly shot out for something else, even though I continued to watch the blonde ambler make his way to my side. Too late to eject now – he came to a waggling stop just a few feet away.

Without setting down the tray, he took a full-bodied gulp from his drink. Then he said, "Sir Olsen, I presume."

His voice was strong, confident, and almost ridiculously affected. Every syllable enunciated; each sentence ended with a clear vocal stop. The elocution of a wealthy aesthete.

I muttered, "Yeah, that's me." I looked down to find my absently questing hand had landed in a bowl of quite large, greenish nuts. Without thinking, I snagged a fistful and dropped them onto my plate with a sound like hail on a slate roof. "Can I help you?"

The stranger grinned mordantly and pronounced, "If I might be so bold, old fellow . . . well, it looks as if you're the one who could use a spot of help."

"I'm fine," I coughed. "Really. No worries."

"Are you certain? My instincts tell me that you might find it a bit of a bother to eat all that with only one hand."

Yes – well. Stop rubbing it in.

I shrugged and said, "Just gotta prioritize. Never said it'd be easy – but I don't think I need anyone to hold my plate for me." I speared what appeared to be a hunk of cold roast beef and had to wiggle the skewer to drop it onto the plate.

The stranger let loose a single, clipped laugh. "Oh, quite," he smiled. Another thoughtful glug of liquor. In the same motion as the drink, he slid his plate of food onto the tablecloth and extended his hand. "Anton Baeleus at your service, old bean. Though we have shared a room or two, I haven't had the pleasure of actually meeting you."

Baeleus. Fuck. Zelda had known he would be over here, hadn't she? Double-fuck!

Without realizing it, I gazed about wildly for some glimpse of the handmaiden – as if I would find her waiting in the wings, a prankster's smile on her lips. Of course not. She was nowhere that I could see. I found myself toying absently with absurd plans for revenge.

To my credit, I quickly regained my composure. I set my face to as neutral an expression as humanly possible, stood straight, and grabbed his spindly elbow. "Hey, nice to meet you," I said. I heard the strain in my voice and hated myself a little for it. We shook arms as cordially as was possible for the situation – especially considering how badly I wanted to turn around and vanish into the crowd.

Apparently not one to waste a moment, Anton Baeleus proceeded, "Are you sure about the assistance, old boy? I would hate to see you falter this evening – especially considering your fine service to the nation and all that."

Okay, I thought. Just indulge the usual pleasantries, find an opening, and then get the fuck out. You have no idea what this guy's game is. If he's anything like his high-and-mighty relative – assuming they are related – this Anton dude is probably about to unsheathe his claws. Best keep this short and sweet.

"Naw, man," I fake-smiled. "I think I'll let the tables do all the helping tonight. I might not be able to mingle much, but it's better than going hungry."

I popped one of the nuts from my collection into my mouth and chewed. It had a tough-to-crack outer layer that I briefly mistook for a shell, but this soon gave way between my molars. Beneath was a robust, somewhat chewy nut-meat reminiscent of a chestnut. Definitely a keeper.

Raising his eyebrows in some approximation of approval, Anton raised his drink in what might have been a mocking salute. "A self-reliant man. I like that," he said. "I've heard much and more about you, Sir Olsen. Damned fine reputation you have – though a bit mixed in my company, if you don't mind my frank opinion. It seems that a fascinating melange of tales follows you every which way. I was hoping to get a few moments with you tonight to become better acq – ah, hello there, chum."

His eyes suddenly slipped past my shoulder and locked onto a figure roving about the finger foods on the other side of the table. A red-haired, barrel-chested, iron-jawed man in a legionary dress uniform. The unknown man glowered even as he scooped pickled onions onto his plate. After a moment of overly intense hunter-gathering, he glanced about like a thief on the prowl and stomped back through the wall of partygoers.

Uh . . . huh. I ripped off a chunk of bread with my teeth and chewed confusedly. Suddenly eager for something to wash down my repast, I took as few steps as was polite and plucked my goblet from the end of the table. Its volume was distressingly low.

Anton Baeleus turned his gaze back to me. A nakedly mischievous twinkle danced about his eyes. He purred, "Exquisite specimen. Absolutely bloody toothsome." The glass tipped back. "I wonder if he's the, ah, easily persuadable sort. If you know what I mean."

The nobleman gazed at me with a cocked eye, as if gauging my emergent reaction. A playful smirk stalked the edges of his mouth.

I took another bite of bread, wide-eyed and perplexed. Well, this was certainly new. "Um," I said, mouth half-full.

Heedless, Anton exposited, "Absolutely fine night for that sort of thing, old boy. A bit of the old stalk and chase – pounce and merry. Grand occasions make for grand sport. And that fine fellow we just spied? The dandiest sort of prize, I assure you. I assure you, indeed."

I crunched irritably on a handful of nuts. Once I swallowed, I growled, "Oh, hey. You're messing with me, aren't you? Funny. Goddamn hilarious."

His voice went sly and coy and playful. He narrowed his eyes and murmured, "Oh, am I? I was not aware as such, Sir Olsen. You'll have to forgive me if I gave that impression."

No – no. None of this. I was not going to be toyed with tonight. Enough of this Haze-the-New-Guy horseshit.

"So," I said sloshily, "are you supposed to be one of those gay guys who can't shut up about the dudes they wanna boink? Just totally out and proud and really annoying about it?" I leaned casually and swirled the wine in my goblet as if I were discussing the stock index.

Anton Baeleus blinked rapidly. "Begging your pardon, Sir Olsen, but I understood almost none of that."

I gestured meaninglessly with my cup. I said, "Way I see it, it's one of two things: You're either the type of straight dude who's always trying to screw with people's heads by acting like you're gay, or." Glug. "Orrrrr you're really homosexual and like to flaunt it. Also to screw with people's heads."

Sudden dismay scrunched up the man's features. He tentatively said, "Still not quite following you, fellow. I think I understand the gist of your assertion, but these, ah, identifying terms. Does 'homosexual' mean what I think you are implying?" By the end of the question, he was frowning deeply. An abrupt timidity lurked in the undercurrent of his voice.

Okay, so . . . this was honestly new territory for me. It yanked away words and made me feel slightly bad about myself. In turning the tables on this guy, I was setting off into a region that I had not yet really familiarized myself with. In my old life – back in Los Angeles – I had no gay friends to speak of. Hell – I didn't even know if I had any gay acquaintances. Though I professed to a neutral opinion in the whole Culture War "issue" of homosexuality, in all honesty the whole concept unnerved me a little bit. There was no justification for the feeling of anxiety that homosexuality – as an idea and a preference – summoned in me. At the same time, I had no philosophical problem with it. It just kind of weirded me out.

And here I was, about to throw the whole thing back in this guy's face. I suddenly felt like the most wretched sort of homophobic douchebag.

So: I hesitated, choked on whatever crap insult was about spout past my idiot lips, and instead drank nearly the rest of my wine. With a deathly sigh, I muttered, "Where I come from, 'homosexual' means someone who prefers the same gender for, um. You know. Sex. Intercourse. Coitus."

I realized I was blushing – for some fucking reason.

"Anyway. 'Gay' is kind of slang for homosexual, I guess. Same with 'queer' and a bunch of other words that are mostly insulting, but whatever. You know, I think I'll shut up now."

"Gay?" Anton repeated stone-facedly. He perked up immensely. "Ah, so there's a label for it, then! Splendid." He flashed a dazzlingly devil-may-care smile. "I like your homeland already, Sir Olsen."

"Yes. Well, it is pretty great. I think you're the first person in Hyrule to agree with me."

Quick as a cat, Anton snatched up his pseudo-sandwich and ripped a chunk from it. Bits of plum and egg stuck in his teeth as he spoke. "If you must know, I dare say it's a bit of both prospects."

"Bwuh?"

"Your two assertions about my sincerity," Anton said. "Whether I was jesting in order to throw you off guard, or whether I am so enamored by the male form that I must profess my love of it at every turn. I must admit that both suppositions have more than a bit of truth to them. I do enjoy both the company and appreciation of the lads! But, more to the point, I have a tendency to, ah – how shall we say – thrust it in people's faces to gauge their reaction. To be blunt, a man of my wealth and privilege is allowed to have such eccentricities.

"Of course, my sort aren't even supposed to exist you know. Not really. No labels for old Anton here in Hyrule. It's a lot of silly bollocks, my dear boy. It's not as if there aren't stories about us – which is to say, my type, I guess. Veiled stuff like 'The Princess and Her Handmaid' and that old saw about the Hero of Time taking his own shadow as a lover. Jolly stupid, if you ask me."

For all the tension I had felt in the initial offing of this meeting, I laughed. Despite his name, I suddenly didn't want to be rid of this man. Perhaps he was trying to disarm me, but his easy manner had helped to smooth out what had otherwise been an interminably rough patch.

Still, I did need to suss out exactly who and what he represented. I decided to soft-pedal my investigation – just in case. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

"So are you, um, here with anyone?" I asked hesitantly. In retrospect, I can see exactly how poorly that came out.

Anton's face slackened. Rose-colored patches bloomed along his cheekbones. "I, err," he stammered. "I don't know – ah, hrrm. How unfortunate. I must confess that I did not see this coming. You know that – ah – errm – I am quite flattered. But, as it turns out, Sir Olsen, I am." He took a flummoxed bite of food. "Which is to say – I am not in the least bit attracted to you."

Aw, shit. I was such an idiot.

"See," Anton continued, carried away on his own momentum, "you simply aren't the sort of, ah, fellow I am usually prone to pursuing. Which is not to say that you are not a, err, handsome man. No sir. I am not saying that at all."

Could this get any more awkward? Wait – don't think that. It can always get more awkward. I wanted to crawl under the tablecloth and hide there for the rest of the evening. Instead, I made a spurious attempt at Bad Phrasing Damage Control.

"I didn't mean to –" I blurted.

Anton barreled on, his expression strained and mortified. "There's a kitchen lad here in the palace, you know, who you might be interested in. An absolute appalling trollop, that one. Gives it up for any fellow who so much as glances his direction. Hahaha!" The nobleman finished his drink and looked around desperately – perhaps for a refill. The shoe was indeed on the other foot now.

"Lord Baeleus . . ." I gabbled. "That's not what I meant. Seriously. I'm sorry that it sounded like that – I just –" God in heaven was I awful at this. "I wasn't hitting on you. I swear on all that is holy that I was not making a pass."

Like an intervening angel come to right the world's wrongs, a servant appeared beside us. He sported another pitcher of red wine and an expression of stupendous boredom. "Sirs?" was all he said – and that's all that was needed.

For a moment, both Anton and I stared at him silently. Then the white-coated nobleman cleared his throat and asked, "I don't suppose that you have a spot of Twill whiskey on you, old sport?"

"Just this wine, sir," the servant said dryly. "A Lower Vale vintage – Year 90. Quite a fine summer for Vale grapes, I'm told."

Nodding exaggeratedly, Anton said, "Oh, I see. I have no idea what that means, I'm afraid. Much more of a, ah, whiskey man than wine. But it will have to do for the moment. Give it here, if you please."

The servant glanced at Anton's outstretched cocktail glass with naked distaste. With some hesitation, he tipped the flagon and filled the tumbler with liquid burgundy. In return, Anton raised the cup in toast. "Cheers, good fellow. A fine evening to you."

"And you, Sir Olsen?" By name, even!

"Yeah, fill me up. Please." There was still a little wine in the bottom of my goblet. It appeared to take all of the servant's willpower to pour some of his undoubtedly expensive vintage into the mystery swill lingering in my cup. I thanked him and he wandered off quickly, with an air of evanescent disgust.

After Anton and I had tipped back hearty throatfuls of that undeniably fine wine and taken bites off our plates of food, I tentatively tried to right the ship. With my last attempt at social hopscotch such a goddamned disaster, I was more than a little apprehensive about reentering the conversation.

"So," I said.

"Yes," he said.

"Well," I sniffed, "that was unbearable."

"Indubitably."

"I think we can pretend that it didn't happen."

He nodded eagerly. "Indeed."

"Wanna start over?" I hazarded.

The nobleman attempted a smile. "That would be smashing."

I offered him my hand and we shook again, for the first time. "I'm Sir Linus Olsen the Link. Please call me Linus. I'm still not used to the title," I said.

"Anton Baeleus. Likewise on the title, old bean. In all technicality, I'm not a Lord."

"Anton, then?"

"Much obliged – Linus."

An uncertain pause. I ripped fervently into the cold roast beef lingering on my plate. However bizarrely this particular social call had gone, I could at least admit that the appetizer table had done me a world of physical good. Though I still felt a bit tingly and disconnected, full-on drunkenness had probably been postponed a while. Well – that was if I kept pacing my drinking appropriately. If I tried to keep up with the man before me, it might end up an early night indeed.

Weighing my options, I decided that the direct route was probably the way to go with Mister Baeleus. I said, "When I asked the question that led to the, um, misunderstanding, I just wanted to figure out whether you know Renaldo Baeleus. Uh, General Baeleus, I mean."

Anton grinned, "Why, I should think so! He is my older brother, after all."

Good thing my goblet was nowhere near my lips – it was an awfully good moment for a classic spit-take. As it was, I felt a turgid wave of dread wash down my back.

Shrugging dramatically, Anton clucked, "I take it from your somewhat gray expression that this information does not make you happy."

"It's – I mean –" I struggled to find the right words, if any existed. "Shit. I dunno."

"I suppose that we shan't beat about the proverbial bush. You and my brother do not exactly see eye to eye."

"No," I admitted.

A touch of that wry, almost predatory humor crept into Anton Baeleus's words. "Come now, Linus Olsen. I am not my brother. And I can guarantee – absolutely locksmith it, sir – that he is not me. Were it up to dear Renaldo, I would have been ejected from the old Baeleus clan years and years ago. I vouchsafe that your opinion – no matter its essence – is safe with me. I want only to hear your thoughts on that greatest of the Baeleus men. You may think on it, if you like."

I did indeed think about it. Well – fuck it. Here's to social suicide.

"Your brother," I said determinedly, "is a dog rapist."

Anton considered this for a moment. "So," he began, "does that mean he's a dog who is also a rapist? Or a man who rapes dogs?"

"Can't he be both?"

"I would venture that that would defeat the point, old boy."

"Then the second one. The pet-rapey option."

"Ah," Anton said. "Well, I can assure you that he is no such thing. Renaldo has never had any trouble with finding female companionship. They all but swoon at the sight of him – the cad. He ended up causing more than one internal feud between the girls of the manor staff back in old Kakariko Town. Drove our father half to madness. No – the ladies love Renaldo and he loves them in turn. No violator of canines is he."

"Whatever. Not really the point," I grumbled. "He's an asshole."

"Well, quite."

A golden-hued fairy suddenly shot between us, wing-tips nearly slapping my nose. It let out an exasperated, "Hmph," dipped down to the tabletop, and snatched up a plump, purple twillberry. Compared to its carrier, the bite-sized fruit was the size of a cannonball. Off the fairy flew, leaving behind it a trail of electric humming.

The white-suited nobleman's lip curled. "Eugh. For such a frightfully snobbish lot, Quee fairies have absolutely profligate manners. Give me a base ruffian of Xen any day. At least they know how to throw a party."

"Uh, what?" I laughed.

The lip relaxed; an eyebrow unfurled. Anton asked, "Surely you are aware of the rivalry between this great city's two fairy colonies?"

"Dude, what I don't know could fill a book. Three books. Ten." I was just glad that the conversation had shifted away from this man's cockface of a brother.

Without missing a beat, Anton said, "Perfectly understandable, your opinion of Renaldo."

God . . . damnit.

"After all, dear fellow, his rants against your person are quite legendary. Half of Midtown must have heard his most recent ravings. To put it lightly, the old General dislikes you intensely."

"I can imagine."

"Can you? Renaldo tends to bellow things in private that he would never say even in the confidence of his own legionary officers. When we sit down for a drink each time he comes to Hylium Town, his grievances are long and exquisitely profane."

By now, I noticed that all but a stray nut had disappeared from my plate. I stabbed another slab of cool beef and picked a strip of it off with my fingers. You bastards want a barbarian? Well, I'll give you King Fucking Conan. I washed it down with wine that I had to admit was really fucking excellent.

Twing-twang-twang, went the stringed music. A sardonic stinger for a thoughtfully absurd moment.

"Wait," I chuffed. "Just a little bit ago, you said that Renaldo wanted to kick you out of the family. Implying that he, like, disapproves of your, um, lifestyle choice." I pointed at Anton brazenly, not particularly giving a shit about his reaction.

Rather than draw back in offense, the nobleman grinned like a triumphant demon. He raised his glass like a gambler and chuckled, "I may have exaggerated for dramatic effect, old bean."

To my surprise, I laughed. Genuinely – fully – from the bottom of my belly. It was probably the wine, but I didn't much care.

"Jesus!" I giggled. "You're something else, you know that?"

Proudly, "Why, I stake my reputation on it, dear boy. Renaldo always had his swordplay and heroism. The youngest Baeleus lad had to make his way in the war of words. And whiskey drinks, I suppose. Something I am missing immensely at the moment, in all honesty."

He sighed and rested an elbow against the table, as if it were the edge of a bar. "I will reveal the truth, then: Renaldo and I are actually not on terrible terms. Each of us has his life and respects the other's domain, as it were. He defends the honor of Hyrule and House Baeleus from his seat in the Royal Legions. I maintain our noble bloodline's interests here in Hylium, as we ride out the duration of our damnable exile.

"It is true that Renaldo disapproves of the, ah, unquantifiable nature of my social leanings. In turn, I wish that he didn't exercise judgment on any and all men that pass beneath his supposedly august visage. He should try acting less like a Lord and more like a General, if you ask me. But other than that? Big brother and I are on more than amiable speaking terms. Apologies for the tricksterish use of hyperbole, dear boy."

I nodded, curiously unperturbed. Despite all my instincts, I was convinced.

"And you? What's your position on uh . . . me?" I asked.

Anton's smile was as charming as any I'd ever seen. "Why, I have no idea. Though I must say, sir, that your cavalier attitude regarding my earlier, ah, jests does place you in my good graces for the nonce. Few have ever reacted with such droll panache."

"So you're not actually gay?"

"Heavens, what gave you that idea?" he chuckled. "On that subject alone am I as honest as old Alvin. Your curious appellation is as solid a label for my romantic interests as any I've ever encountered."

A grim little procession of robed gorons made its way past the tables. I thought I spotted Elder Thum of Oloro Town among their number, and then wondered if I was simply being racist.

"I know that Renaldo is a difficult man to appreciate," Anton reflected. "The goddesses know that he makes it so. All the same, I encourage you to give him space to come around to you. He has his reasons for distrusting your claim to the title of Hero. Some legitimate, others . . . well, a tad a ridiculous." His smile turned wan and perhaps a bit sad.

"It'd be a lot easier for me to 'come around' to the fucker if he wasn't always calling for me to be thrown in prison," I griped.

"Thus, your initial reluctance at my greeting."

"Yeah. Guilty as charged on that one."

Anton made a gesture that I associated with releasing a bird into flight. "We are far lesser bastards than you take us for, Linus. My brother has simply embraced the rather serious traditional iconography of our House. Honor, duty, stoicism, and all that other claptrap. Why, had the gutless mongrels of Drex not co-opted it, dear Renaldo would probably still be wearing the moon's-face broach favored by our father. You know – the Baeleus colors are silver and crimson. Colors of the moon, old chap. An old symbol. Very respectable until late."

I nodded emptily.

Magnanimously, "Would you allow me then to try to, ah, thaw relations between our houses, so to speak? If it is not too forward a suggestion, I do think that you need to expand your stable of allies here in Hylium Town."

I tilted my head, took a sour drink, and stuffed the rest of the cold cut in my fingers down my gullet.

"Sure," I chewed. "What the hell."

"Splendid. Then allow me to properly introduce you around, Sir Olsen. If I might be so bold, you seem a bit adrift here."

Try as I might, there was no argument to be mustered against that assertion.

"Actually," I sighed, "that would be awesome. Like you said, I'm kind of floundering tonight."

"Curious manner of expressing it, but I cannot agree more. You need to learn to be bold and a little bit brusque with this crowd."

Anton's expression was at once beneficent and Mephistophelian. He swept an arm out like an usher and announced, "I have just the plan of attack necessary for you, old bean. Trust me – after I'm through with you, these fussy, tall-hat types will be eating out of the palm of your hand."

I followed the invisible beam projected by the suave nobleman's hand. It led into a smash of suits and colorful gowns – figures in drab hoods – scuttling servants – clouds of chattering fairies – candlelit estuaries of conversation in sepulchral tones – women so beautiful they seemed unearthly – alchemist-wheelers negotiating deals in riotous costume – the brief flash of a ghostly scarlet dress. Scattered among it all were the great Lords and political movers of Hyrule – men who perhaps even now expected me to pay them my respect.

All this was framed by the huge, twilit windows of the back gallery and gardens. The supple glow of the ballroom chandeliers struck down shadows and made them slinking, subservient things. A surreal softness pervaded every edge and angle.

"All right," I heaved. "Let's do this."

He snapped his fingers and crowed, "Marvelous! You'll have a fine time of it yet, Sir Olsen. Linus, rather. And who knows? Perhaps we shall even find someone who can fix us with a proper bit of whiskey for the duration."

Anton Baeleus struck out like a white-coated band leader, glass of wine extended before him as if it were a lamp to lead the way. Men and women alike stared at his progress as if he were a curious part of the night's entertainment.

I followed him into the tumult, feeling less like a lost puppy and more like Dante on the heels of Virgil.