Chapter 13

Graves nervously shoved a note into Fate's hands that morning. He was munching on toast and sucking down coffee and cigarettes alike. Fate looked at the yellowish envelope, which had a crest he recognized as Noxus' insignia. "What's this?"

"Some delivery boy brought it," he snapped. Fate noticed he seemed more on-edge than usual, in stark contrast to the day before, when he seemed to let his worries wash away with the rain.

But today the shafts of sunlight invaded their retreat from danger, and while Noxus seemed strangely bright and cheerful, Graves' mood darkened. "Did you read it yet?" Fate asked.

"No, it's probably from that damned lady of your's," he tossed his arms up in disgust. "I have to make sure our stuff is in order. You deal with that." He stormed off.

Fate broke the seal and unfurled the parchment. Uniform cursive spanned the page, with another Noxian crest at the top. Fate read:

Twisted Fate,

You are to wait for a carriage to be sent for you tonight. It will take you to the Grand Gala. Be sure to dress your best. See you there…

Your friend

The note was not signed, but punctuated with a cherry lipstick kiss. His eyes scanned the post-script.

P.S.

I hope I didn't scare off your tough friend

Fate wondered what she meant by that last part, but guessed that she suspected Graves was reluctant to commit to the job (he had pointed a gun at her, after all.) He took a gulp of coffee as he tucked the letter into his jacket. It's gonna be a long day, Fate groaned to himself.

He found Graves in the cellar, draining what wine they had left. His eyes were bloodshot as he tipped his head back and drank deeply from a bottle of pinot noir. "C'mon, Malcolm, we need to be sober for tonight. This is important," Fate reprimanded.

Graves grunted as he let the empty bottle drop roughly beside him. "Important for you maybe. What's important ta me is seeing the light o' day tomorrow."

"Graves, the worst is behind us, all we gotta do is get Vuler to roll the right dice and then plant the regular dice somewhere incriminating." Fate spelled out the plan. "Then we can blow outta there before the heat even shows up!"

"What's even the point Fate?" Graves moaned as he reached for the shelf. "We're just gonna end up risking our necks agin and agin and agin…"

Fate looked sadly at his drunken partner. Had Graves been pondering the same thing? Could their swindling days be brought to an abrupt end? Was tonight the night?

Graves gazed up at Twisted Fate with glazed eyes. Fate put a hand on his shoulder. "Malcolm, whatever happens at the Gala, there's only one salty con-artist I trust to do the job right. We'll figure out what comes after."

"Ya think?"

"We always do," Fate stated simply.

Graves looked at the unopened bottle in his had briefly before stumbling onto his feet. "Ya gonna get me some coffee or do I have to do everything myself?"

"I got it," Fate scurried off to the kitchen, "Things will work out, I promise."

"Yeah, yeah," Graves grumbled as he pulled out a cigar.

Graves fumbled with his black bowtie for the third time, pulling it tight against his neck. He glanced down at the rest of his outfit in the mirror. "Do we really have to wear this?" Graves called to Twisted Fate in the other room.

"What's the matter, Malcolm? Can't stand lookin' pretty for one night?"

Graves just grumbled and went back to fussing with his tie. He ran a hand through his wet hair, slicking it back one more time. He didn't think a man should smell as flowery as he did right now. As he refilled his cigar case and stuffed it into his jacket pocket, he watched his reflection stare back at him. He was probably staring at a dead man as far as he was concerned. But Fate had reassured him in a way that no one else could; he may not have known it, but he was gambling on Graves, and a gamble from someone as insanely lucky as Fate may as well be a blessing.

Graves pondered again. Should he really be fooled into this situation, based on Fate's faith alone? You've gotten in this deep. She knows you're involved already.

Her. The voice returned to his head again. Good bye for now, Malcolm… He shivered involuntarily. She doesn't want me there…?

He took a deep breath, staring intently at his reflection. Brown eyes glowered back at him, daring him to run. Go on, head for the hills again, it said, What will you make of yourself then?

His contemplation was interrupted by a knock at the door. "Sirs, your carriage has arrived!" A foppish voice called.

"C'mon Malcolm," Fate said from the doorway, "Time to go."

They walked down the creaky steps to the front entrance. The evening light fell through the door as they opened it. In front of the gate they saw a magnificent black carriage being towed by two white stallions. A short man stood on the stoop, beckoning them to approach. "Welcome sirs. The Gala awaits."

"I hope this isn't a mistake," Graves murmured.

Fate beamed. "Let's find out."

The cold, marble steps of the entryway to Noxian Palace were filled with extravagantly dressed people. Women were draped in the finest silk and lace, with precious stones of all colors decorating their skin. The men, too, had donned sharp black suits, and many were in their finest military uniform, complete with shining medals. The sound of happy chatter billowed into the air.

One woman made her way through the crowd. While others exchanged glances and pleasantries with everyone they met, this woman ignored all others, smoothly picked through the crowd relatively unnoticed. She wanted a clear view of the long line of carriages, dropping off all the important nobility and officials. She noted the particularly important—and sometimes particularly pesky—people as they arrived. There was the DuCouteau girl, clad in a thin, crimson dress, clashing brilliantly with her red hair in its loose bun. The woman noted her movements, reminding herself to steer clear. She glanced back at the line of carriages.

A black carriage had rolled up, and out of it stepped two gentlemen she also recognized. She grinned. "I'll be damned," she whispered herself, "They showed up.

They stepped down in white and silver boots. They wore bright white tuxedos, accented with jet black bowties. The gruff one had his hair slicked perfectly back, his unruly beard had been trimmed. The other had a matching white hat, with an ace tucked into the hatband.

The woman carefully retreated into the crowd, rethinking her plan. Things just got more interesting.