Sergius had been enjoying the light breeze, bringing with it the smell of the gardens. It was pure out here, innocent and fresh in comparison to the chaos within. A few moments after this, he would be prepared to go back inside, to mingle with the other guests. It was what he was expected to do, and so do it he would. After all, Knaiz Viktor Tzakev was a popular man, a witty man with friends in the Court. He would be expected to talk, or at least, drunk and sing loudly, with those who he could recognise. He had no doubt that he would soon guess who lay behind at least some of the masks, if not by reputation, then at least by drunken exploits. He had already gathered that it was Jean-Paul De Tresé face-down the the flower-beds, stripped to the waist and only visible due to the reflected light on his sweating shoulders.
And then he was disturbed from his thoughts, rudely awakened from them by a young woman, one whose voice he could not place, although her accent was strange, and one whose costume was unfamiliar to him, who shouted across at him from the balcony only a metre or so away. He did not recognise the dress, nor the mask, but he could not have been expected to have bribed every tailor in the city for their designs, after all, he had only time to visit the more popular of silk-workers and satin-cutters, feather-arrangers and sequin-sewers. And it was possible that the items had come from somewhere else, or been made a season ago, or been somehow over-looked. But there was no harm in meeting new friends, allies, or possible marks. "Bonsoir, mademoiselle, appréciez-vous la soirée?" He called back towards her, his French lilted by his Russian accent, moving to lean on the stone railing that lined the balcony, leaning towards her and her own little balcony.