Brio leaned close to the glowing glass, squinting. “Oh, that’s a ‘Triton’s Embrace’ from the Zaldin workshop, isn’t it? Early-era, definitely. See the way the seafoam curls? Too neat. And the sheen on the conch shell is all wrong. Probably a salt-cured bronze, same as the junk Vanto was peddling out of our vault.” He tapped the slate. “We can’t just let him sell that. It’ll make the Brinehearts rich enough to buy every politician from here to the Sunken Straits.” Mina, still wiping grime from her nail-gun, grunted. “So we crash the party. How? We’re down here, they’re up there, and I don’t think my wrench makes a very good accessory for a black-tie event.” Brio’s smile stretched, taking on a dangerous edge. “Oh, we’re crashing it in style, little barnacle. The kind of style Vanto won’t ever forget.” He turned to Talia, who was already tracing lines on the catacomb map. “Talia, any way up that isn’t crawling through a sewer pipe?” “The service corridors,” Talia responded without looking up. “There’s a utility lift leading directly to the gallery staff changing rooms. From there, it’s a direct shot to the main hall, but it’ll be heavily guarded after Vanto’s broadcast.” She looked between Brio’s grease-stained shirt and Mina’s oil-splattered overalls. “And you both look like you just wrestled a giant squid.” “Perfect!” Brio clapped his hands. “We’ll need clothes. The fanciest, most ridiculously uncomfortable clothes we can find. And some of that… patina-stripper solvent. You know, the good stuff that eats through fake bronze like a hungry mud-crab.” Talia watched him, a flicker of something like exasperated amusement in her sharp gaze. “You have a plan involving highly corrosive chemicals and stolen couture, don’t you?” “Always, fiancée mine!” Brio winked, then started jogging toward the utility lift, Mina rolling her eyes but following. “Come on, barnacle! Time to make an entrance!” The staff changing rooms were a chaotic jumble of discarded uniforms and garment bags. Brio began rifling through the racks of tailored evening wear. He pulled out a suit of shimmering teal silk, its lapels embroidered with tiny, glittering pearls. “This! This is magnificent! Imagine the shimmer on the dance floor!” Mina, holding up a form-fitting gown of stiff, silver lamé, shuddered. “Are you serious? I’d rather wrestle a thresher shark in a burlap sack. This feels like it’s made of tinfoil and bad intentions.” “It’s called haute couture, Mina! You wear the garment, the garment doesn’t wear you!” Brio insisted, attempting to force his broad shoulders into the teal jacket. It strained across his back, pulling tight against his biceps. “A little snug, perhaps. But it accentuates the… robustness! You, my dear barnacle, need something equally striking.” He tossed her a dress that looked like it was spun from spun gold, with a neckline that plunged to an alarming degree. Mina caught it with a grimace, then promptly discarded it in favor of a dark, tailored jumpsuit she found in a back corner, muttering about “mobility” and “not looking like a gilded fishwife.” Brio, meanwhile, found a pair of impossibly shiny, lacquered dress shoes that pinched his toes. He decided a size up was just fine, despite the cavernous space at the heel. “Comfort is for the uninspired, Talia!” he declared, trying to walk with a dignified stride that quickly devolved into a clumsy shuffle. Talia, who had found a sleek, obsidian gown that fit her perfectly, merely pinched the bridge of her nose. “Just try not to trip over your own feet and spill corrosive liquid on a senator’s bespoke suit.” “Corrosive liquid?” Mina finally asked, having wrestled herself into the jumpsuit. It was surprisingly elegant, though she’d already unzipped it halfway down her chest. “What’s that for?” Brio brandished a champagne flute he’d pilfered from a discarded catering cart. “Ah, the pièce de résistance! Remember the ‘Brineheart Burner’ formula Papa used to strip the fake patinas off his ‘ancient’ bronze urns? I found a whole supply of it in the conservator’s lab. Perfect for ‘cleaning’ Vanto’s masterpiece.” He poured a viscous, almost clear liquid from a labeled jug into the flute. It looked harmless enough, like water, but the label clearly read: “Zethrine Patina Stripper – Industrial Grade.” Talia surveyed the scene: Brio, a vibrant, ill-fitting teal disaster, clutching a flute of potent solvent; Mina, a chic, angry shadow, ready to fight in her jumpsuit; and herself, in understated elegance. “Right,” she sighed. “Etiquette lesson. Rule number one: do not shout. Rule number two: maintain an air of bored superiority. Rule number three: if you must compliment someone, make it vague and slightly condescending.” “Bored superiority! I can do that!” Brio puffed out his chest, which only made the teal silk pull tighter. “Like, ‘Oh, my dear Lady Celdra, what an… audacious choice of neckwear. So… bold.’” He practiced a smarmy smile that looked more like he’d just eaten something sour. Mina snorted. “You just sound like you swallowed a bad oyster. I’m just going to stare at people until they look away. That usually works.” “No, Mina, that makes you look hostile. You want to look unimpressed. Like you’ve seen it all before, and it was probably better the first time,” Talia instructed, adjusting a stray strand of hair. “And Brio, for the love of the Sunken Empress, do not loudly compliment anyone’s ‘audacious’ wardrobe choices. Just nod gravely. Or, if you absolutely must speak, ask them about their rare antique collection. Everyone loves to talk about their acquisitions.” “But their collections are probably full of fakes!” Brio protested, genuinely puzzled. “And their clothes are horrendous! That Viscountess Paven has a dress that looks like a flock of diseased sea-birds migrated onto her shoulders. I simply must tell her how unique it is!” Talia groaned, running a hand through her hair. “No! You absolutely will not! Just… smile. A small, polite, utterly insincere smile.” They made their way through the labyrinthine service corridors, the muffled roar of the crowd growing louder with each step. The air grew thick with the scent of expensive perfume and even more expensive desperation. Brio, despite Talia’s exasperated coaching, couldn't resist a few loud whispers about the “atrocious wallpaper” and the “questionable taste” of the hall's interior design. “Remember, quiet confidence,” Talia hissed, just before they reached a heavy, gilded door. “No sudden movements. Blend in.” Brio simply grinned, a flash of white teeth in the dim light. He pushed the door open with a dramatic flourish, revealing the dazzling, cacophonous main hall. Chandeliers blazed, jewels sparkled, and a thousand conversations hummed beneath the gavel-caller's booming voice. Every eye, it seemed, was fixed on the stage, where Vanto Cazar was waxing poetic about the ‘Triton’s Embrace’. But as Brio, in his resplendent, too-tight teal silk, strode onto the gala floor, Mina a sharp, dark contrast beside him, and Talia, a vision of calm elegance, trailing slightly behind, a few heads began to turn. Brio’s grin widened. He caught sight of Vanto on the stage, mid-sentence, his eyes darting to the unexpected interruption. With a triumphant, utterly un-aristocratic wave, Brio lifted his champagne flute, sending a tiny, almost invisible splash of the potent patina-stripper arcing through the air. His eyes met Vanto’s, and he laughed, a loud, clear sound that cut through the polite murmurs, a promise of chaos echoing across the hall.

High Society Sabotage