AND…WE’RE IN! Creeping through the basement. The ceiling is low and the whole place smells like wet dirt. Lamont leads the way, obviously. He knows this place from top to bottom. The basement has passages that lead off in every direction. Here and there, I see signs with old-fashioned lettering—STORAGE, UTILITIES, PUMP, TOOL ROOM. I can picture Lamont designing them himself.
At the end of the corridor is a set of wooden stairs. Lamont waves me forward. Am I still invisible? The only way I can tell is the feeling in my brain. It’s like a low-level hum. My personal generator.
When we reach the door to the first floor, Lamont slowly nudges it open. We peek out. The hallway is buzzing with ministers and assistants scurrying back and forth. Even from the little sliver I can see, this place is amazing. The floors are so polished, they glow. The chandeliers look like they’re made from icicles. It looks more like a castle than somebody’s home.
We wait until the hall is almost empty, then slip into the hall and close the door behind us. My heart is beating fast. I’m still adjusting to the idea that even though I can see Lamont, nobody else can. People coming down the hall look right through him. And me. So weird.
Right away, we can see that the center of activity is a room down the hall.
A bunch of men in suits are huddled together near the doorway. More servants in white uniforms are wheeling in carts of wine.
“This way,” whispers Lamont. “The dining room.”
I follow close, but not too close. I don’t want to step on his heels. When somebody approaches on our side, we press ourselves against the wall and suck everything in to make ourselves as thin as possible. So far, so good.
Now we’re at the entry to the dining hall. Inside, through a huge wooden arch, I can see a long wooden table with chairs set all around it. I can hear people talking in a bunch of different languages. Lamont slips into the dining room, staying close to the wall. I follow his route exactly. The center of the table is filled with the kind of food I’ve only seen in pictures. Enough to feed my neighborhood for a month, with plenty left over. Platters of seafood. Baskets of fruit. Huge piles of bread.
Lamont leads the way to a winding staircase at the back of the room, up to a small balcony that overlooks the table. I’m tempted to reach out and swing from a chandelier, but that would be a dead giveaway. Stay focused. Stay calm. Don’t stretch it.
Now all the people from the hallway are streaming into the dining room. About twenty people or so, mostly men, just two or three women. I can’t understand what anybody is saying. They’re all talking at once and I can only pick out a few words.
Suddenly, the buzz in the room goes quiet. A man in a dark suit walks in.
Holy crap! It’s Sonor Breece! He moves toward the head of the table and takes the first seat on the right—the second most important seat in the room.
A few seconds later, the host arrives.
I’ve only seen his face on posters and video screens. He’s taller than I expected, and—I hate to say it—better-looking. As soon as he walks in, everybody stands at attention and lowers their eyes. He looks around the table slowly, like he’s counting heads. Nobody says a word. Nobody moves a muscle. Total silence. Total fear.
“That’s him!” I whisper to Lamont. “That’s Nal Gismonde!”
“No,” he says. “That’s Shiwan Khan.”