The Shattered Mask

by Richard Lee Byers

  Bundled up in an ermine-trimmed cloak, his breath steaming and his cheeks ruddy, Thamalon waited by one of the ice-sealed horse troughs, chatting with Erevis Cale, his butler. The Uskevren lord was a man of average height with a slight stoop, still muscular and fit despite his more than sixty years. His arresting dark green eyes set off his white hair, but his brows were vivid black. He stood and moved rather stiffly and deliberately, in a manner that somehow conveyed a sense of his authority and strength of character

  Pasty and bald, his severe garments too voluminous for his gaunt frame, Erevis loomed over his employer like some sort of apparition. He too carried himself stiffly, but in his case, the rigidity reminded one of a jointed wooden doll. Some of Thamalon’s servants made fun of the butler behind his back, mocking his awkward appearance and somber demeanor, but Brom recognized just how competently Erevis performed his duties, and the high regard in which Thamalon held him. In consequence, he rather admired Cale.

  Two grooms clad in white and gold Uskevren livery led a handsome pair of saddled horses forth from the passage that ran to the stable. The roan gelding was one of Thamalon’s favorite mounts. The jet-black mare, an exemplar of the celebrated line of horses bred by the Foxmantle family, was one of Shamur’s.

  “Well,” said Thamalon, smiling, “my wife’s horse is ready. If she herself were here, we could get underway. Not that I’m such a fool as to expect a woman to arrive on time.”

  Erevis smiled ever so slightly in acknowledgment of his master’s humor, and then, as if on cue, Shamur Uskevren appeared, the hem of her hooded russet mantle sweeping along just above the pavement.

  Though half a century old, Thamalon’s lady was one of the most striking women Brom had ever seen, tall and slender with long, ash-blonde hair, lustrous eyes, and a fine-boned, intelligent face. Her clear, unlined skin made her look younger than her years, though at the same time, her austere manner could make her seem older. In Brom’s opinion, Shamur was a cold one, who, though courteous and often even kind, never shared her innermost self with anyone. Though she played the role of a grand dame of Selgaunt society with skill and seeming relish, the wizard suspected she was profoundly lonely and unhappy underneath.

  Shamur greeted Thamalon and Erevis, thanked the groom who was holding her mare, then swung herself into the saddle. She was an expert rider, but it seemed to Brom that on this occasion, she didn’t mount quite as nimbly as usual. He thought he detected a hitch, as if something had momentarily impeded the action of her legs.

  Thamalon climbed onto the gelding, and two servants opened the sturdy, iron-bound gates. Someone had swept the hexagonal paving stones of the courtyard clean, but Rauncel’s Ride, the thoroughfare outside, still wore a shroud of snow, its whiteness much defaced by footprints, hoof marks, and wheel ruts.

  Brom had grown up a cooper’s son and was still learning the ways of a great House of the Old Chauncel, as the nobility of Selgaunt called themselves. Thus, it only now occurred to him that, though he’d been informed that Lord and Lady Uskevren planned an excursion into the countryside, they evidently intended, in breach of the usual practice, to ride forth without an escort.

  With the realization came a pang of unreasoning apprehension. He scurried out in front of the horses, slid on a stray patch of ice, and had to flail his arms to keep his balance. Thamalon’s reddish gelding whickered and shied.

  The Old Owl smiled wryly down at his retainer. “What is it now, Brom?” he asked in his pleasant bass voice.

  “I don’t think you should venture outside the city walls without a contingent of the guards.”

  Thamalon arched an eyebrow. “Why not?”

  Brom hesitated, for in truth, he couldn’t explain why not. He simply had a feeling, and he suspected that alone would carry very little weight with Thamalon, whose life was in large measure founded on logic and common sense. He was still trying to frame a persuasive reply when, rather to his surprise, Erevis shambled up to support him.

  “Master Selwick does have a point, my lord,” the butler said. “It might be prudent to take an escort.”

  Ever willing to consider advice, especially from Erevis, Thamalon tapped his chin with his forefinger, pondering. Shamur gave him a melancholy smile. “Perhaps they’re right, my lord. I was hoping we could enjoy these next few hours alone together, but there will be other chances, I suppose.” Her frosty breath veiled her mouth as she spoke.

  Brom’s brown eyes narrowed in puzzlement. Among the Uskevren retainers it was generally believed that if Shamur had ever loved Thamalon, that love had withered long ago. The wizard couldn’t imagine why she suddenly seemed to crave her husband’s company.

  But apparently Thamalon, who, gossip held, still yearned for Shamur’s affection, wasn’t disposed to question his good fortune. Smiling, he said, “It’s all right, love. We’ll have our outing as planned.” He gazed down at Brom and Erevis. “I appreciate your concern, but we’ll be all right. Things have been peaceful ever since the city got rid of that infestation of ghouls. Perhaps our rivals have finally resigned themselves to the fact that the Uskevren have returned to Selgaunt to stay. And if Shamur and I should encounter any trouble, we both have fast horses, and I’ve got this.” He tapped the scarred nickel crossguard of his long sword, a plain blade in a worn leather scabbard whose lack of ornamentation stood in contrast to the richness of his garments.

  “As you wish, my lord,” said Erevis. The butler stepped clear of the horses and Brom reluctantly did the same.

  As his lord and lady rode out, Brom felt another upswelling of dread, this one even stronger than the first. He almost cried a warning, then realized that Thamalon and Shamur were already gone, and the servants already pushing shut the gates.

  When she and Thamalon reached the street, Shamur breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment she’d feared that Brom and Erevis would ruin everything. But happily, her scheme was still on track, and, intending to keep it that way, she turned and gave her husband another smile.

  “Well,” he said, grinning back at her, “I hope we don’t come to grief. Otherwise we’ll look like proper fools.”

  “I know,” she said, guiding her steed around an ox cart heavily laden with rolled carpets. “But I think you’ll agree that what I’ve found is unusual. Unusual and possibly so valuable that for the time being, it might be wise to keep it a secret even from our own retainers.”

  She’d told Thamalon that on a social outing the previous day, when she’d momentarily strayed from her fellow gentlewomen, the lackeys, and the guards, she’d noticed a fallen pillar lying almost invisible within a thick tangle of brambles. The cracked, weathered column bore Elvish inscriptions, and when she’d curiously approached and touched the stone, she’d experienced a rapid, dizzying succession of visions. Though she hadn’t truly understood them, it had seemed to her they might be glimpses of the future. If so, then who knew, perhaps the column could be induced to provide foreknowledge that a merchant lord, a speculator in grain, wine, olive oil, and other commodities, might exploit to his profit.

  She fancied it was a clever lie, just the bait to lure the man riding along beside her. But now, rather wistfully, he said, “And that’s why we truly set out alone, to safeguard a treasure. Not because my wife is eager to have me all to herself.” He sounded as if the pleasure of her society, not the prize she’d dangled before him, was his primary reason for accompanying her.

  She marveled anew at the skill with which he counterfeited love, kindness, and honor so convincingly that occasionally, down through the years, she’d found herself warming to him in spite of everything. How astonishing—and maddening—to discover that he was as adept a pretender as herself.

  But she mustn’t let him guess that she’d seen the cruel face lurking beneath his facade of decency. To the contrary, she must do everything in her power to maintain his trust. Even feign a desire for reconciliation, if that would please him, no matter how the pretense churned her stomach.

  She smiled at him an
d said, “You don’t give yourself enough credit. It is pleasant to have some time alone with you. I … I sometimes wish that we were closer.”

  “Indeed?” His green eyes brightened. “So do I.”

  She continued to cozen him as they traversed the busy streets of Selgaunt, the richest city in Sembia, and, in the opinion of its inhabitants at least, the grandest in all the world. Signs of wealth and commerce abounded on every side: Magnificent temples. The mansions of the nobility. The tallhouses of prosperous burghers and aristocrats like Talbot, who desired a refuge away from their kin. Taverns, theaters, and street performers. Open-air marketplaces, shops, manufactories, warehouses, and strolling vendors. A host of wagons and pack animals that, when loading, unloading, or simply creeping along, often slowed traffic to a crawl.

  Just before turning off Rauncel’s Ride, Shamur glanced back for one last look at Stormweather Towers, her home and prison for more than two decades. She felt a twinge of jumbled emotion, but didn’t bother trying to understand it. It didn’t matter. Nothing did, nothing but hate and the cold weight resting against her leg.

  As the Uskevren neared the north wall, the homes and shops became more modest. Once they passed through Klaroun Gate, however, they found themselves atop the most imposing structure in all Selgaunt: the High Bridge. Arching far above the wide blue waters of the River Elzimmer, lined with houses, taverns, and emporia, including its famous fish market, the stone span was an important precinct of the city in its own right, and, for commoners, one of the more desirable addresses. People liked to live there for the view.

  At the other end of the bridge lay Overwater, where traders from other cities and lands stayed while conducting business with their counterparts in the city. It was a noisy confusion of inns, tents, and paddocks, of strange clothing, accents, smells, and customs. To most of the smug, sophisticated citizens of Selgaunt, Overwater was a pit of gaucherie if not outright barbarism. Shamur, however, had once wandered the Dalelands and the southern shores of the Moonsea, and she generally enjoyed the foreign sights and sounds to be found there. They reminded her of better times.

  Yet that afternoon they didn’t attract her in the slightest. She and Thamalon only had a little farther to ride, and that realization filled her with a feverish impatience. She touched her mount with her spurs, and the spirited black mare plunged forward, scattering a flock of squawking chickens that had wandered out into the road.

  Thamalon cried, “Ho!” and galloped after her. In a trice they left the confines of Overwater, and thus, Shamur reflected, Selgaunt as well. She’d departed the city of her birth once before, and, against all expectation, eventually returned. This time, however, she was certain she would never see the place again.

  She led Thamalon off the broad artery of trade that was Rauthauvyr’s Road, across snowy fields shining almost painfully bright in the light of the westering sun. At last they came to a patch of woods. Stirred by a breeze, the leafless branches of the oaks and maples scratched feebly at the sky.

  Shamur took a deep breath, steadying herself. Making sure her rage wouldn’t seep into her voice, for it was becoming harder and harder to maintain control.

  “Why don’t we leave the horses here? They’d have a difficult time trying to move through the trees.” In reality, she wanted to make sure Thamalon wouldn’t have the opportunity to scramble onto the roan and flee.

  “Whatever you say,” he replied. “You’re the guide on this expedition.”

  They dismounted and tied the animals. Cautious as usual, her husband removed a horn lantern from his saddlebag, just on the off chance they might find themselves still in the woods when darkness fell. Shamur reflected that he was wiser than he knew. One of them would indeed remain there through the night and perhaps forever after.

  She led Thamalon into the trees. The afternoon was colder and darker in their shadow. It seemed quieter as well, as if the snow crunching beneath their boots, the susurrus of their breath, and the occasional rustle or snap of a branch were the only sounds left in the world.

  The sky was darkening by the time they entered the clearing she’d selected for her work. A hidden arena far removed from all his minions, where no one would see or interfere.

  “We’re here,” she said.

  Thamalon peered about. Standing behind him, Shamur unfastened her cumbersome cloak and let it drop to lay on the snow like a pool of drying blood. The winter chill bit into her flesh, but she reckoned exertion would warm her soon enough. She lifted her skirt, removed the broadsword she’d concealed beneath it, unsheathed the blade, and discarded the scabbard. It would have been child’s play to drive the sword between her husband’s shoulders, but that had never been her way. Besides, she wanted to watch his face as he perished.

  “All right,” he said, puzzlement in his voice, “where is the pillar?”

  “There is no pillar,” she replied, now making no attempt to keep her malice from sounding in her voice. What a joy to discard her mask at last. “Turn around and face me.”

  He turned, and his brows knit when he beheld the weapon. “Is this a joke?” he asked.

  “Far from it,” she replied. “I recommend you draw and do your best to kill me, because I certainly intend to kill you.”

  “I know you haven’t loved me for a long while,” he said, “if indeed you ever did. But still, why would you wish me dead?”

  “Because I know,” she said.

  He shook his head. “I don’t understand, and I don’t believe you truly do either. Rather, you’re ill and confused. Consider what you’re doing. You have no idea how to wield a sword. Even if we did fight—”

  She deftly cut him on the cheek. “Draw, old serpent. Draw, or die like a sheep at the butcher’s.”

  For an instant he stared in amazement at her manifest skill with her weapon. Then he stepped back and reached for the hilt of his long sword.

  CHAPTER 2

  A tenday earlier

  Bileworm passed one of his misty gray hands through the other, then inserted his long, gnarled fingers into the bulging brow of his wedge-shaped head. It was his way of fidgeting when he was bored.

  Perhaps he ought not to be bored, for after all, he’d rarely visited the world of mortal men. The stars in the black sky were a wonder, and so was the air, which carried the scents of wood smoke, horse dung, and a hundred other novel aromas, but was entirely free of the tang of brimstone. Even the temperature was peculiarly mild. He’d been surprised to overhear humans complaining of the winter cold.

  But Bileworm’s was not a contemplative nature. He had a restless need for activity, and when the brown spaniel with the floppy ears came ambling down the street, stopping periodically to sniff at a gatepost or the base of a tree, the gaunt, shadowy creature with the slanted amber eyes couldn’t resist the opportunity for a bit of sport.

  The dog was handsomely groomed with a wavy, silken coat. It was well-nourished, and wore a black leather collar with a brass buckle. Evidently it had somehow gotten loose from one of the pleasant homes lining this quiet, horseshoe-shaped boulevard. Bileworm was glad that someone loved the animal. He hoped he could make the spaniel run so far away that its doting owner would never see it again.

  The spirit was crouching behind the alabaster statue of a trio of weeping maidens that some householder graced with more money than taste had seen fit to place at the arched entrance to his property. The lachrymose damsels currently dripped icicles, as if their tears had frozen. Abandoning this hiding place, Bileworm crept stealthily along on his toes and fingertips, his belly a scant inch above the cobblestones. He wanted to see how close he could approach before the spaniel noticed him.

  As it turned out, not very, even though he’d moved silently and was downwind of his quarry. Beasts could sometimes sense the presence of beings of his ilk, and the dog abruptly wheeled in his direction. The animal growled and bared its fangs.

  Bileworm hissed, exposing his own black, needle-like teeth, and pounced six feet closer. The span
iel turned and fled.

  When he gave chase, Bileworm discovered that a dog can run faster than a man. Or himself in his present shape, for that matter. He sprang upright and his legs stretched until he looked as if he were pacing along on the longest stilts ever fashioned.

  Now a single stride carried him over the dog and set him down in front of it. Its nails clicking on the cobbles, the animal scrambled about and ran in the opposite direction. Bileworm stepped over it again and again, blocking its escape no matter which way it tried to run.

  The trapped dog whimpered and piddled, tingeing the air with the sharp stink of urine. To further heighten the spaniel’s terror, Bileworm stretched his arms long enough to reach the ground and pretended to try to snatch the animal up. His ethereal hands were incapable of trapping a creature composed of such coarse matter, but happily, the spaniel didn’t know that, and in any case it would find his touch abominably unpleasant.

  Suddenly, agony blazed up Bileworm’s leg. Toppling, he lost control of his form, whereupon his limbs shrank to their normal length. When he slammed down on the pavement, his shadowy flesh splashing, the spaniel bolted.

  The pain faded sufficiently for Bileworm to pull his body back together into something approximating its normal shape, roll over, and see what had happened to him. As he’d suspected, his master had stalked up behind him and thrust the iron ferule of his long black staff into his familiar’s ankle. Wisps of violet light still crawled on the magical weapon.

  Master was a compactly built man of average height. In this world, he’d opted to dress plainly and unremarkably in a deep blue fustian cloak and buckram robe, as if he were nothing more than an itinerant spellcaster of no extraordinary talent. His hands were white and delicate, almost the hands of a lady, and he wore an iron ring on the thumb of each. He’d concealed his face behind a crescent-shaped papier-mâché mask of the Man in the Moon, such as revelers often wore at festival time, or when embarked on a night of mischief. Within the shadowed sockets of the false face shone his most unusual feature, deep-set eyes with irises so pearly gray they were virtually white.