You'll certainly cut an impressive figure. Or look like you're desperate to impress. One or the other.
You wait for Salar to meet you at your lodgings, as you arranged. And wait. And wait. It begins to occur to you, as the hour grows later, that he may not be coming. Perhaps he's thought better of this. Or found his own way inside. In which case, you had better meet him there.
You proceed cautiously through the streets toward the palace. The upper city is well lit, although in the theater district there are fewer revelers than you'd expect.
Once you ascend to the more rarefied ring of the city, you can hear the sound of music drifting out from windows and see the glow of lamps. Those who haven't received invitations, and who don't have your determination to find their own ways inside, are making merry with their equally less-than-elite friends.
The winter air is crisp, and the steps of the palace are rimed with frost. Through the wide-flung doors, you can see gleaming lamplight and swirling silk, and smell the tantalizing odors of spiced wine and roasting meat. Fabulously gowned notables are being handed down from litters and the occasional heavily gilded carriage. Parties of young aristocrats are loitering on the stairs, dressed in their brightest festival finery.
The footmen at the door are taking invitations from the attendees, and an invitation is exactly what you haven't got.