Masks

by E. C. Blake

  FOR A MOMENT Mara didn’t answer, too shocked to say a word.

  “I know you’re there, I heard you,” the voice said: a young voice, a boy’s voice. “I warn you, I’ve got a knife—”

  “So do I!” Mara squeaked. A lie, of course, but he wouldn’t know that. “What are you doing down here?”

  “What are you doing down here?” the boy countered. Mara thought he was about ten feet away. His voice didn’t echo much; the cellar must be small.

  “It’s after curfew,” Mara said. “There were Night Watchers coming.”

  “You’re not Masked?” The boy sounded relieved.

  “No,” Mara said. Not for another week. “Are you?”

  “No!” The word exploded from him. “No! And I won’t be, either.”

  Mara stared at the place where the voice came from. “But—”

  “The Masks are evil. The Masks are . . . are wrong. I won’t wear one.”

  “But when you turn fifteen—”

  “I am fifteen,” the boy said. “I turned fifteen a week ago.”

  “But then—”

  “I ran away. The night before my Masking. I’ve been hiding ever since.”

  Mara gasped. “But—but if they catch you—”

  “They won’t catch me,” the boy said. “This is my last night here. I have a way out of the city.”

  “You have to be Masked in the country, too!”

  “Watchers can’t be everywhere,” the boy said. “There are places you can go. People who . . .” He stopped. “Who are you?” Suspicion flooded his voice. “Are you a spy for the Watchers?” She heard a shuffling sound, and then his voice sounded much closer. “What are you doing out after curfew?”

  “I’m not a spy!” Mara protested. If this boy had run away from his Masking, he probably really did have a knife . . . and if he thought she might turn him over to the Watchers he’d probably use it, too. “Honestly! I just sneaked out. For fun.”

  “Fun for you,” the boy growled. “Life and death for me if you led the Night Watchers here.”

  “If they’d seen me stuff myself into that chute, they’d be down here already!”

  Silence for a moment. “I suppose so.” Another pause. “What’s your name?”

  Mara hesitated, but saw no reason to lie. “Mara,” she said. “What’s yours?”

  “Keltan,” the boy said instantly.

  “Keltan?” Mara blinked. “That’s the name of the Autarch’s horse!”

  “You don’t think I’m going to tell you my real name, do you?” “Keltan” countered. “Besides, it’s a beautiful horse. The only good thing about the Autarch is that horse.”

  Mara gasped. She’d never heard anyone criticize the Autarch before. But I suppose if you’re already risking your life . . .

  “Why wouldn’t you take your Mask?” she said. “Why would you run away? You’ll be a fugitive the rest of your life if you—”

  “Because,” the boy said. “The Mask changes you.”

  Mara, hearing her own fears coming from someone else’s lips, fell silent.

  “Oh, they tell you it doesn’t. They say it only shows what’s inside you, that it’s for public safety, so the Watchers know who’s a threat, blah blah blah. ‘You’ll be the same person afterward,’ they tell you. But it’s not true!” The exclamation came out like a curse. “My best friend was Masked two months ago. And he’s not my friend anymore.”

  Like Sala, Mara thought, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the dank cellar. “He’ll be a full apprentice now,” she said, echoing her mother’s words. “More responsibility. He’s an adult. That’s all—”

  “That’s not all,” Keltan snarled. “He’s not acting like an adult. He’s acting like a completely different person. He acts like we never did all the things we did. Like he doesn’t remember all the fun we had. All the secrets we shared. He . . .” He stopped. “He told me to go away and quit bothering him. He said he didn’t want to see me again. That was the day before I was supposed to be Masked.”

  “And that was enough to make you run away?” Mara said. “To risk your life?”

  “There are other reasons,” Keltan said. “But they’re none of your business.” Suddenly he was right beside her. His hand found her wrist in the dark and squeezed it so hard she gasped in pain. “My knife is right here,” he said. “Now tell me why you’re really here, ‘Mara.’ If that’s your real name. And don’t . . .” He jerked her arm, hard. “. . . lie.”

  “I told you the truth!” Mara squeaked. “I just came out for fun. We used to do it all the time—”

  “We?” Keltan jerked her arm again.

  “My friend Sala and me!”

  “And where is she?”

  Gone, Mara thought, remembering how Sala had cut her dead in the market that morning. Like your friend. “Masked,” she said out loud. “Masked.”

  Keltan let go of her as suddenly as he had grabbed her. She rubbed her sore wrist. “Then you know. They’re lying to us. The Masked ones. The grown-ups. The Maskmakers—”

  “No,” Mara said. “My father—” She bit off her defense before it fully emerged, but not soon enough. Suddenly Keltan had her wrist again.

  “What about him?”

  “Nothing!”

  He squeezed so hard she couldn’t stifle another gasp. “What about him?”

  “He’s a Maskmaker,” she yelped. “I’m going to be his apprentice.”

  His hand loosened on her arm. “You’ve got the Gift?”

  “Yes! And I know the Masks don’t change you. My father told me so.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “He’s my father!”

  Keltan snorted. “All the more reason not to trust him. He wants you to change. He wants you to be a good little drone in the Autarch’s hive like him, like all the rest of them. Especially if you have the Gift. You have to be obedient, and the Mask will make sure you are.”

  “But my father is making my Mask himself.”

  “So? Doesn’t he wear a Mask?”

  Mara said nothing.

  “You see? It’s a perfect scheme. The Masked creating more Masked, while the Autarch rules with an iron fist and nobody is ever able to challenge him, or even think about challenging him. Except for the . . .”

  He stopped again.

  “The–the what?” Mara asked in a small voice.

  “The unMasked Army,” the boy said, barely whispering.

  If he’d shouted obscenities Mara would have been less shocked. “They’re a myth! A tale from a storybook!”

  “No,” Keltan insisted. “They’re real. And I know how to find them.”

  “How would—”

  “I’m not telling you anything else.” He moved away from her. “Get out of here. Go.”

  “Love to,” Mara said fervently. “But how, exactly?”

  His voice came from even farther away. “You might try the door.” A click, and for the first time, light entered the cellar: faint, flickering, but bright as a torch to her eyes after so long in the dark. “I can get you back on the street. After that, you’re on your own.”

  “I can find my way home,” Mara said. She scrambled to her feet, stray bits of coal clattering to the floor.

  But Keltan still blocked her way, a black silhouette in the doorway. Something in his hand glinted as he pointed it at her. He hadn’t been bluffing about the knife. “Don’t tell anyone you met me. I’m warning you—”

  “I won’t tell,” Mara said. “Who would believe me? I don’t even know your real name.”

  She squinted at him, but with the light behind him, she still couldn’t see his features. He was a good head taller than she was and his hair stuck out in all directions, shining blond in the illumination behind him.

  “You’d better not,” he s
aid. He pointed the knife at her. “And don’t think you can send anyone back here to find me. I won’t be staying. I’ve got other hiding places.”

  “I already said I won’t tell anyone,” Mara snapped. “For one thing, I’d have to admit I was out after curfew!”

  Keltan turned abruptly. “This way.”

  The light came from a barely alight gas lamp at the end of a short corridor and the bottom of a flight of stairs. Keltan led her up the steps to a landing. The stairs turned and continued up, but he stopped there, by a bolted wooden door. He put a finger to his lips. She could see his face a little better now. Thin and freckled, it was punctuated by a sharp nose. He wore a short black jacket over a nondescript white shirt above equally ordinary trousers and plain brown boots. Coal dust smudged his face.

  She looked down at herself. Her tunic, arms, legs, and feet were every bit as black. How am I going to hide all this from Mother? she thought in a bit of a panic, then pushed the thought away. She’d worry about her mother once she’d gotten past the Night Watchers.

  Keltan eased the bolt back and opened the door a crack. He peered out. “All clear.” He pulled the door further ajar. “Go,” he said. “Get home.” He paused, looking at her, his gaze traveling from her face down the length of her skinny body to her dirty bare legs and feet and back up again. She felt herself blushing and wished she’d worn a longer tunic. “You’re older than I thought,” he said, looking into her face once more. She found herself wondering what color his eyes were; she couldn’t tell in the dim light. “Your Masking must be soon.”

  “Pretty soon,” Mara said.

  “Think about what I’ve said,” Keltan said. “You won’t be the same person after you’re Masked. You could run, too. The unMasked Army would—”

  “The only place I’m running is home,” Mara said. “Good-bye.” She slipped out into the street, looked up and down its length to make sure it was deserted, then turned and said, impulsively, “Good luck.” Then she darted away.

  She had no more encounters with Night Watchers, and now that she was paying attention, quickly found her way back to familiar streets. Soon she was clambering up through the tree onto the wall behind her house; a moment after that she was on the roof and letting herself down onto her bed. She lifted the skylight window back into place, then stepped quietly down onto the floorboards to avoid any thump, stripped off her soot-stained clothes, and stuffed them under her bed to dispose of later. Then she washed herself as best she could with the cold water from her basin, pulled on a clean nightgown, and climbed beneath the covers. Her stuffed cat Stoofy, who had shared her bed since she was a baby, lay by her pillow; she pulled him to her chest and held him tightly, staring up at the square of stars she could see through the skylight’s glass.

  Keltan’s warnings about the Mask uncomfortably echoed her own doubts. But . . . run away? If she missed her Masking, she’d be sentenced to death. Whatever life was like behind the Mask, it had to be better than no life at all!

  She hoped Keltan was right, and an unMasked Army was waiting to take him in. Because otherwise . . .

  ...otherwise, his naked body might soon be hanging from the gallows by the Traitors’ Gate.

  She shuddered. No. She would not run. She would take the Mask, just as she was supposed to, join her father as his apprentice, and put away her childhood. There really was no other choice.

  Besides, she thought muzzily as sleep at last claimed her, Father has been working so hard on my Mask . . . I can’t let him down.

  And I can’t wait to see it.

  FIVE

  The Masking

  THE NEXT MORNING Mara stumbled down to breakfast, yawning and stretching, once again wearing the staid blue skirt and white blouse her mother preferred, though she hadn’t gone so far as to put on shoes. To her delight, her father stood at the counter, his back to her.

  “Daddy!” She ran up behind him and threw her arms around him. “Eat breakfast with me!”

  She felt him stiffen, freezing in the middle of whatever he was doing. She squeezed him tighter.

  “Let go of me, sweetie,” he said, his voice a little hoarse.

  She gave him a final squeeze, then let go and stepped back. He turned around, a steaming mug of black-bean tea in his hand, and she almost gasped: unshaven, with dark shadows under his eyes, he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “I wish I could, Mara, but I’ve got too much work to do.” He didn’t seem to want to meet her eyes: his gaze slid past her, and he started toward the stairs.

  “My Mask, right?” Mara called after him.

  He stopped, one foot on the stairs. “That’s right,” he said after a moment.

  “What does it look like?” Mara knew that by tradition no one knew what their Mask looked like until the moment it was presented to them, but she was desperate to keep her father talking to her, starved for the sound of his voice. “Is it beautiful?”

  From where she stood, she could just see the mug of tea in his right hand. It trembled. “It is what it is,” he said at last, still without looking at her. Then he resumed climbing the stairs. A moment later she heard his workshop door close—and lock.

  Mara blinked back tears. At least when I’m Masked, I’ll have my father back.

  She went to the sideboard, where her mother, who seemed to be out, had left cheese and bread and a couple of hard-boiled eggs. She took an egg, a chunk of cheese, and a slice of bread back to the table, poured oil into a small bowl, dipped the bread into it, and chewed on her breakfast while also chewing over the conversation with the boy in the cellar the night before. By morning light, his fears about the Masks seemed silly, and so did hers. So Sala had been a bit standoffish. So what? People changed. Sala really did have more responsibilities now. She was officially an adult, and adults were different than children, weren’t they? It wasn’t a bad thing. It was just the way things were.

  Before you know it, she’ll be married, she thought. Before you know it, so will I. And then we’ll have children of our own . . .

  Again she pushed that uncomfortable thought aside. Time enough to worry about that later.

  Much later.

  The important thing was that when they were both Masked, she and Sala could be friends again. As for all that stuff about the Masks changing people . . . nonsense, and she knew it. Her father was making her Mask, and he would never make something that would harm her. He might be a bit preoccupied right now, but she knew he loved her. She had a lifetime of memories of cuddles, of storytelling and laughter, of running to Daddy for comfort when she’d skinned her knee or been stung by a bee, to prove it. Whatever he makes for me will be beautiful.

  As for “Keltan,” well, he was . . . delusional, that was the word. All that crazy talk about the unMasked Army. The unMasked Army is a myth! She felt sorry for the boy, risking his life for nothing. And she would keep her word and not tell anyone she’d met him. He might be crazy, but she didn’t think that would matter to the Watchers, and she didn’t want him to end up hanging on a gibbet outside the Autarch’s Palace.

  She shuddered at the thought. Ugh. Not the best thing to think about at breakfast. She pushed away what was left, half a slice of oil-soaked bread and a good-sized chunk of boiled egg, got up, and took the dish to the sideboard. She put the leftover food into the compost, then pumped water into the bronze sink and fired the rock-gas burner underneath it. As the water heated, she looked out at the bright blue sky. Another warm day, she thought, and her arms and legs itched at the thought of wearing a long skirt and long sleeves. But she felt guilty about sneaking out the night before, and promised herself she’d be extra-good all day to make up for it.

  Besides, she only had two short tunics: one was wadded up in the garden shed, and the other was crumpled up under her bed, black with coal dust.

  The water wasn’t as hot as her mother would have made it, but hot enough for Mara. She turned off th
e burner, took the hog’s-bristle brush from its hook just below the windowsill, and began scrubbing her dirty dishes. I’ll have to figure out some way to wash that tunic, she thought. And my sheets. They were black when I—

  “Good morning, Mara,” her mother said from behind her. She jumped, then turned to see her mother smiling at her from the archway leading into the front room.

  Mara forced a laugh. “You scared me!” She hoped she didn’t look as guilty as she felt. “Good morning, Mother.”

  “Come in here,” her mother said. “I have something to show you.”

  Mara dried her hands on the blue towel hanging on a peg beside the window and went over to her mother. “What is it?”

  “Close your eyes,” her mother said.

  Mara blinked at her, then giggled and said, “All right.” She closed her eyes. Her mother took her hand and led her into the front room.

  “Now . . . open them.”

  Mara opened them, and gasped.

  In a patch of the bright morning light that poured through the diamond panes of the tall windows stood a dressmaker’s dummy, wearing the most beautiful dress Mara had ever seen.

  Shimmering green, sparkling with tiny glittering stones sewn into the fabric, it seemed almost to float above the dummy. It had a high waist and a low back and no sleeves. A shawl, so delicate it might have been made of blue smoke, its fringe glittering with more of the tiny gems, more drifted above than hung from the shoulders. On the floor beneath the dummy rested two silver shoes, with open toes and high heels.

  Mara took it all in with an open mouth, then suddenly remembered to breathe. “For me?”

  “For you,” said her mother. “For your Masking.”

  “Oh, Mommy!” Mara flung her arms around her mother and squeezed her tight. “It’s beautiful!”

  “Would you like to try it on?” her mother said.

  “Would I!”

  She dropped her skirt and blouse where she stood, then, wearing only her thin drawers, pulled on the dress. Her mother watched her, a strange expression of mixed amusement and sadness playing around her lips. When Mara had everything on, tottering a bit on the heels, the shawl over her shoulders, her back feeling daringly exposed, she looked at her mother and said, “How do I look?”