Peace Talks (The Dresden Files, #16)(85)

“Hell, yes,” Ramirez said. “Guy’s a goddamned monster. But he’s slippery as hell.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Someone’s going to get him, sooner or later.”

“Can’t be soon enough for me,” I said. “So what’s the deal with another reception? I thought that was last night. Is one party not enough?”

“Oh, God no,” Ramirez said. “That was just an icebreaker. Tonight is opening ceremonies.”

“Which is another party.”

“Obviously. The Accords provide space for a lot of business at a summit meeting. New applicants, addressal of grievances, public announcements, explicitly stating the purpose of the summit, that kind of thing. That’s what opening ceremonies are for, before the actual haggling starts.”

I grunted. “Whee.”

“Don’t you like parties, Harry?” Ramirez asked. A ghost of his old humor came into his voice and face.

“Well,” I said. “I heard that at least there will be cute girls.”

Wham. It was nearly audible, how fast his expression became a closed door.

“ ’Los?” I asked.

He shook his head once and said, “Just hurting. I’ll get some painkillers after the reception.”

I nodded. Like fire, pain was something that seemed to have its own extra-heavy existential mass. Magic could dull or erase pain, but not without side effects that were nearly as serious as those of medicinal palliatives. It took someone with centuries of experience in that kind of magic to do it safely, and that was neither one of us. I had eight years on Carlos, but by wizard standards, both of us were entry-level noobs in a lot of ways. It made sense that he wouldn’t want to have his senses dulled on a night like this one.

Which made what I was about to do difficult, as well as painful.

And necessary.

I put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Hang in there, man. Once we get through this, maybe we should get Wild Bill and Yoshimo and go camping again or something.”

“Sure,” he said in a neutral voice. “That might be good.”

He didn’t notice the little ampule in my hand, or how it broke and spread the liquid inside onto his cloak and my skin. No one would notice one extra splash of liquid on his clothes. I lowered my hand, palming the broken ampule, and Ramirez didn’t notice a thing.

Why would he?

He was a friend. He trusted me.

I felt sick.

“Are you sure you can pull that off on another wizard, Dresden?” Lara asked, her voice intent.

“No reason it shouldn’t work,” I said. “And if I do it to anyone but another wizard, I’m definitely crossing the line, just like that stupid bastard with the violin.”

“If you’re caught—”

“If any of us are caught, we’re all screwed,” I said. “No risk, no reward.”

“Point,” Lara said. “What next?”

“Next is plausibly getting you both out of the reception,” Murphy said.

“What do we use to do that?” Lara asked.

Murphy smiled grimly. “Expectations.”

We passed by Childs and his security dog again, to reenter the great hall. Once more, the room had been arranged by camps, borders subtly marked by style of furniture and swaths of overhead silk, giving the whole place a bit of a circus atmosphere, with a single difference—in the exact center of the room, at the focus of all the camps, a small circular speaking stage had been erected.

Music was playing, violins again. Evidently Marcone had managed to replace the offending Sidhe fiddler from the night before. Or maybe the guy lived. I had the same emotions either way.

Speaking of which, the man himself was present tonight, sitting and speaking with Etri on a deep green and dark carved-redwood old-world leather sofa, stuffed thick with cushioning, with gold studs as upholstery pins. Baron Marcone was a handsome man of middle years dressed in an immaculate grey business suit. Perhaps slightly taller than average, he had barely changed in all the years I’d known him. The few marks of age that had come upon him only made him look more reserved, severe, and dangerous.

He was flanked by Sigrun Gard and Hendricks, like always. Gard was a woman who was tall enough to play basketball and built like a powerlifter, visibly girded with muscle. She wore a suit that was every bit as nice as Marcone’s, and her golden blond hair was held back in a tight, complicated, neat braid that left nothing much to grab onto. The lines of the suit were marred by the axe she wore strapped to her back, but it didn’t look like the fashion police were going to have the courage to give her a hard time about it.

Hendricks, who stood at the other end of the couch, was a ginger Mack truck wearing a suit. He had a heavy brow ridge and had grown out a short beard that had come out several shades darker than his hair, and he had hands like shovels. His suit had been custom-made, but not to fit him—it was spending all its time trying not to show off the weapons he was doubtless carrying underneath it.

Marcone glanced up as the White Council’s delegation entered together, and he looked at me for a moment, his expression neutral. The last time I’d taken a big case, I’d done considerable damage to his vault’s exterior, if not much to the contents inside, and one of his people had been killed by the lunatics I’d been working with. I’d paid the weregild for the man’s death—but appeasing someone and being at peace with them were two very different things.