Masquerades h-10

by Kate Novak

  Kimbel raised an eyebrow. "House Thalavar remains one of the most powerful rival houses. Forging an alliance with Lady Thistle could prove most useful when the council of merchants elects the next croamarkh."

  Victor snorted. "Croamarkh! Once I charm that key from little Dervish, I can be king, with or without her support. Although… she could prove very useful, as the swordswoman was useful. She's popular, lovely- can't swing a sword, but at least she's of the proper class. And she is young and impressionable. She could be easily swayed by the interests of a kind and dashing noble, eh?"

  "Assuming that said noble — wasn't still supposed to be mourning his last love," Kimbel noted with a chill tone.

  "I should call on Lady Thistle. We can commiserate with one another over our losses. A girl like that will do wonders to help assuage the sorrow I feel over the death of dear Alias."

  Twenty-One

  New Contracts

  Kimbel insisted it should not appear as if the new croamarkh was singling out Thistle for special attention. He arranged for Victor Dhostar to pay a courtesy call on each grieving noble family to express his sympathies. The calls took two full days. Htfcuse Thalavar had been scheduled last, and Victor came to think of it as a reward for the ordeals he suffered at all the other houses. At each call, one of the ruling survivors button-holed him with some demand, request, or poorly veiled threat involving the family's continued support. Victor could only shake his head sadly at these people as if to reprimand them for sullying such a solemn occasion with common business.

  He was received in the main hall of Castle Thalavar by Lady Thistle herself. The new head of House Thalavar was flanked by a pair of the ever-present halflings that plagued her particular household.

  Victor recognized the halfling on Thistle's right as Alias's ally, Olive Ruskettle. The halfling's suspicious questions in the Faceless's lair remained ingrained in his memory. When he saw the icy look in her eyes, he wished he had thought to include her somehow in the party that had "disappeared" with Alias in the sewer. The furry-footed creature could have no proof of anything, but that might not keep her from spreading rumors. He reassured himself with the knowledge, delivered by Kimbel, that the halfling seemed to be handling her grief over the swordswoman's death by crawling into an ale keg.

  The other halfling was a reed-thin, stiff-backed girl dressed in a black gown so austere that she reminded Victor of the deceased Lady Nettel. As if that weren't enough to make him uncomfortable, the halfling's bright green eyes seemed to pierce Victor to his soul, looking for any smudge of evil with the relentless nature of a paladin's gaze. The nobleman found himself unconsciously reaching to feel for his amulet of misdirection to be sure he was warded from her penetrating glare.

  If these two were Thistle's advisors, Victor knew he might have an uphill battle for the lady's affection. Lady Thistle, however, proved to be as charming as her bodyguards were sullen. She was dressed in mourning, but her golden hair shone in the afternoon light, and her face was flushed with excitement. She wore the green feather brooch that had once been her grandmother's.

  Victor expected Thistle to try to show him how mature she was, and she did not disappoint him. Once she'd led the croamarkh out onto the veranda overlooking the city, she asked if he would prefer tea or wine. After the other three visits he'd made today, Victor really felt like wine, and he was really curious to see what effect it might have on-Thistle, but the looks on the faces of the halfling bodyguards cooled his desires. He asked for tea. Thistle rang for a servant and ordered a tea tray, then motioned for Victor to take a chair opposite her. The servant who returned with the tea tray politely disappeared back into the castle, but Thistle's two bodyguards remained standing behind her, like attack dogs restrained only by their mistress's will.

  The talk was irritatingly small, as it always was when dealing with other nobles. It started with stilted condolences on each other's losses and then shifted to the weather. They discussed in a guarded way their latest shipments in from Thay or caravans from Amn. They speculated on whether or not the Night Mask threat had abated or even disappeared entirely. Thistle expressed the opinion that if it were so, they owed it all to Alias. Victor agreed completely, giving him a chance to appear more aggrieved as he added that he wished the price had not been so high. In the end, to the apparent alarm of both halflings, Victor got what he'd really come for, a dinner date with Thistle for the next evening.

  Victor rose to leave just as a message arrived for Thistle, so Olive was assigned the task of escorting the croamarkh from the castle. Victor paused at the door and turned to the halfling. "I know you're hurt by what happened to Alias," he began. Olive scowled. "How nice of you to-remember her."

  Victor took a deep breath and pressed on, "She knew the risks, and all of Westgate is in her debt. I want to propose a statue in her honor. Would you like that?"

  Olive was silent for a moment, then asked, "Lord Victor, have you mistaken me for a child?" "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I missed something."

  Olive sniffed. "Yes, you did," she agreed coolly, "and now I miss something as well. If you'll excuse me."

  Victor bowed and stepped outside. Olive shut the door firmly behind him. He's sorry, he says, the halfling thought cynically. "If I find out he had anything to do with Alias's death, he'll be sorry, all right," she muttered as she stalked down the hall.

  Even if he weren't involved in Alias's death, Victor Dhostar was a vain jackass. Statue, indeed! He may have deceived Alias, but he was not going to ensnare Thistle, Olive resolved. Not if she had anything to say about it.

  Unfortunately, Thistle made Alias's impulsive nature seem positively reasonable. When Olive returned to the veranda, the young noblewoman was in a heated discussion with Miss Winterhart.

  "I felt a little sorry for him," said Thistle. "He's like one of those tragic figures in a sad, romantic opera. He strives to break up the Night Masks, yet on the eve of his triumph, he loses both his father and his love."

  "Triumph!" Winterhart laughed in an imperious tone that in any other household might have gotten her bounced down the front steps. "What triumph?"

  "Why, over the Night Masks," Thistle responded, flustered by Winterhart's attitude. "Everyone agrees that since everything has quieted down so, the Faceless must be dead and the Night Masks in chaos."

  "Really?" Winterhart exclaimed. "Did you think thieves observed a period of mourning?" She looked at Olive. "Is she old enough to hear about the Grayclaws?"

  "She runs House Thalavar. I guess she must be. The Grayclaws," Olive began before Thistle could lose her patience, "is the name of the thieves guild in Tantras. Tantras is a dead magic zone, so murder is just a little more common there than in other cities. Should the Grayclaws' guildmaster meet an untimely demise, as happens every few years in that city, everyone knows about it-immediately. There's blood in the streets for weeks while various factions vie for control of the guild. The Tantrans call it a spell of red weather. I suppose there's a very slight possibility that it's different here in Westgate. It could be that the Faceless ran everything so tightly that his minions are afraid to make a move without him. It's much more probable, however-"

  "— that the Faceless is still around," Winterhart concluded, "and his grip on the Night Masks is as tight as ever."

  Thistle considered their assessment silently for several moments. "It would be awful if that were true," she said at last. "That would mean that Victor lost both love and father for nothing. That poor man."

  Winterhart gave Olive a frustrated, angry look. The elder halfling shrugged, resigned to the battle to come. It was going to be a fight to keep Thistle away from Victor, but at least she seemed to have a reliably informed ally in the very proper Miss Winterhart.

  Victor noted that the door closed a trifle fast behind him-not enough to merit an insult, but enough to make the halfling's point. In a few weeks, he thought, it might be reasonable for the Night Masks to make a reprisal attack on the halfling who was the friend of the woman
responsible for killing their leader.

  Victor climbed into his carriage and set off for the Tower. He didn't know how much longer he could tolerate the interminable paperwork and meetings. He spotted Jamal's street troupe giving a performance, and, overcome by an urge to procrastinate, ordered the driver to stop.

  The Faceless lived, at least on stage, though Jamal had replaced her stolen prop mask of coins with a veil of golden fabric. She was ordering her Night Masks about with a large wooden spoon, ordering them to "be still." The Night Masks would freeze in impossibly ridiculous positions under the Faceless's merciless eye. Jamal's Faceless would smack an offender for twitching or swaying, and he would go catapulting forward. One Night Mask tried to surreptitiously pick a fellow thief's pocket, but was spotted and received a smack for his action.

  The audience, and it was a small one, appeared unimpressed as the Faceless put the collected Night Masks through a precision drill. They dropped to the floor as one and jumped around like frogs while Jamal sounded the beat with the pounding stick. Victor noted that the various puppets representing the noble families were not in use, and that there was nothing mentioning the new croamarkh, either good or ill. He wasn't sure whether to be pleased by that or not. Jamal might have complained about her eviction from Mintassan's, but she might also have at least given the new croamarkh credit for the relative peace in the city, even if she didn't seem to believe the Faceless was deceased.

  Then up popped a figure wrapped completely in black bandages, save for its right arm, which was bare. The arm was marked with Alias's tattoo and wielded a wooden sword. Jamal's Faceless quailed in the presence of Alias's disembodied spirit and sent the Night Masks out to stop it. The thieves were quickly bested, one after another. Then the spirit chased the Faceless himself around the small stage until he tripped. As the villain lay on the ground, the arm pressed the sword into his breast. The shrouded figure cried out, "Heroes never truly die!" and lunged forward. The Faceless shuddered and expired.

  Scattered, bored clapping broke out in the crowd, but that did not prevent Jamal and her troupe from bouncing nimbly to their feet and bowing to the applause.

  Victor grinned with delight. Most of the populace was sick of the Night Masks, bored with dead heroes, tired of Jamal's proselytizing theater. If something happened to Jamal, there would be fewer questions.

  Of course, destroying potential threats took a low priority with all the other work to be done. With a sigh, Victor, signaled his driver to continue on to the Tower.

  There, annoyed at being kept waiting by the croamarkh, a Thayan representative awaited, a female Red Wizard who really only wanted to be reassured that trade would continue as it had under Luer's administration. The Thayan was followed by a Sembian, various Dalesmen, and representatives of King Azoun's court. Each, in turn, was similarly reassured. One of the surviving old nobles, Maergyrm Thorsar, had scheduled an appointment to lecture the croamarkh on Waterdhavian moneylenders. Victor was afraid he'd fall asleep before he was able to show the old bore the door. After Thorsar came the widow of Ssentar Urdo, who was protesting a rumor she had heard that Alias would get a statue when none was being erected for the widow's dear, departed husband and sons. Then, when Victor thought his schedule was finally cleared, Durgar arrived with the arrest reports, which required the croamarkh's attention due to the delicate nature of some of the arrested persons.

  As it was, Victor was drained, both mentally and physically, when he finally escaped back to his castle. Yet not even then could he rest. He stood wearily as Kimbel bedecked him in his heavy, dark robes, tied on the porcelain mask that protected him from magical discovery, and finally covered him with the coin mask, which transformed him into the Faceless.

  With a sigh, Victor stepped up to and then through the mirror in his chambers. The reflective surface parted for him like a pool of still water and deposited him in his latest secret lair. This one lay in a rough-hewn sub-basement beneath the currently empty Vhammos Castle.

  The Night Masters were as restless as halflings waiting for dinner. The irregularities of the days since the ball had strained their self-discipline to the limits. They spoke out of turn, often all at once, questioned his every command, and made demands of their own. They made the nobles in the surface world seem like reasonable, rational beings. For a moment, Victor considered turning his remaining golems loose among them, but only for a moment, for he still needed the Night Masters to keep the peace among the Night Masks. Later, he thought, when they've outlived their usefulness.

  "When can we get back to business?" Harborside asked..

  "Do you realize how much money I'm losing?" Thunn- side whined. ft

  "People are saying'that witch Alias killed you. Why aren't you doing something about it?" Noble Relations clamored.

  "How do we know you really are the Faceless? Can you give us proof?" Enforcement demanded.

  Victor let his frustrations drain away as he embraced his Faceless persona. Once again he was demanding, powerful, and sure of himself. He turned his face toward Enforcement.

  "Would you like the same demonstration I gave to Gateside?" the Faceless queried, a certain amount of amusement creeping into his magically disguised voice.

  All voices were silenced immediately. The Faceless motioned for all to be seated.

  "Alias is dead. Of that you had proof. Perhaps you would like me to leave her arm on this table as a centerpiece for a few weeks. Alias's allies and the croamarkh who hired her are also dead. It is hardly my fault that people are fools enough to believe she succeeded in destroying me. Nonetheless, for the moment it suits my plans for people to believe in my demise. The new croamarkh is far more pliable than his father was, and he will serve us well, but it is important that his power be more firmly established. Therefore we will let him take credit for my destruction, for the time being.

  "As for how much money you are losing, Thunnside, I really don't care. You've earned more wealth in this position than a dragon could hoard in its lifetime. If you could contain your urge to gamble, you would still have all that wealth. And, last, but not least, Harborside. Your business at the moment is to contain your forces. This is essential to your continuing in your current position. I guarantee it will be worth your while."

  Having poured oil on their turbulent waters, the Faceless pressed on. "As a direct result of our success against Alias and her allies, information has come into my hands regarding the treasure hoard of King Verovan."

  There was a collective gasp, just barely audible, but unmistakable. The Faceless smiled. Now he had them by their pocketbooks. Verovan's legendary hoard was the secret fantasy of every thief in Westgate.

  "The young fool Mintassan discovered the secret," the Night Masters' lord explained, "though the sage never investigated it. Just as legend has it, there is a magical gate from the battlements above. Unlike all who have tried before me to locate this gate, I have discovered the location of the key. Once I have that key, Verovan's hoard will he ours to pillage."

  A murmur of approval rose from the nine surviving Night Masters, but the Faceless was not finished. He silenced them with a stroke of his hand. When they grew silent, their master continued. "I want you to call together your lieutenants, their assistants, and their assistants' minions, along with whatever fighters, priests, and wizards you trust and choose to reward. We will gather in the main hall of Castle Vhammos in three nights' time to loot Verovan's hoard. Then there will be no doubt that it is the Night Masks who truly rule Westgate!"

  Harborside led a round of applause, which silenced any other questions or doubts. The Night Masters filed out, congratulating themselves on their good fortune. Seated on his stone throne, Victor, the Faceless, cradled a heavy head in his hand. It was exhausting managing a city, a family business, a criminal cartel, and a seduction all at once. When he finally had Verovan's treasure, he would turn loose his golems on this nest of thieves. Then there would be nothing standing between him and his eventual empire.

  T
wenty-Two

  The Gathering Storm

  Olive's attempts to steer Thistle away from Victor were thwarted by the hard-line attitude of her supposed ally, Miss Winterhart. The halfling newcomer, while capable, intelligent, and alert, had to be the most tactless halfling in Faerun. Unfortunately, Olive did not discover this flaw until the morning after Thistle's dinner date with Victor Dhostar, and by then it was too late.

  That morning Olive was headed toward the dining hall, her mind on mushroom-and-chicken omelets, when she heard Thistle, angry and strident, shout, "It is none of your business what Victor and I did last night."

  All thoughts of breakfast took a back seat to whatever potential disaster was brewing with the mistress of the house. Olive veered in the direction of the shout. She spied Thistle seated on the veranda, cornered by an irate Winterhart.

  "It is very much my business if it threatens you or your household," Miss Winterhart snapped back just as Olive stepped outside to join them.

  "Something amiss?" Olive asked helpfully, hoping to instill some calm in the air before the other halflings in the household heard the argument and began gossiping about it.

  "This new halfling of yours," said Thistle, her eyes squinting with annoyance, "is prying into my private affairs. Her manner has gone beyond mere halfling cheek, and verges on full-fledged impertinence." If Thistle had been standing, Olive was sure she would have stamped her dainty little foot, but she was not, and so Olive was spared that bit of theatrics.

  "She sneaked out to dine with Victor Dhostar last night without a chaperon or a bodyguard," Winterhart explained to Olive, "and she did not return until well after the midnight bell.