The Shattered Mask s-3

by Richard Lee Byers

  The spellcaster tossed sparkling powder into the air, and beams of multi-colored light sizzled from his fingers in a fan-shaped burst. Shamur wrenched herself behind the cover of the mainmast, but a shaft of scarlet radiance grazed her shoulder even so. She felt dizzy and weak for a moment, and then the sensation passed.

  She darted from her place of concealment, intent on distancing herself from the warlock as rapidly as possible, but he was already jabbering and twirling his arms again. Magic moaned and crackled through the air.

  Suddenly, she had no idea why she'd been in such a rush to get away. The wizard seemed such a nice fellow, she ought to stay and make friends, see if she could oblige him in some way-

  "No!" she shouted, and the enchantment lost its grip on her mind.

  Shamur decided she couldn't just run and give him the chance to hurl yet another spell at her retreating form. She noticed a bucket-a bait bucket, judging from the fishy smell- sitting near the foot of the mainmast, snatched it up, and threw it.

  The missile bashed the bald man on the temple, and, dazed, he collapsed to his knees. Grinning, she headed for the other side of the ketch, and then something struck her calf, stuck there, and yanked her off her feet.

  As she slammed down on the deck, she saw that it was a long, sticky tongue that had caught her, and at the other end was a goggle-eyed frog as big as a man. The spell-caster's pet or familiar, she supposed. Despite its size, with its natural ability to change color to match its surroundings, she hadn't noticed it crouching in the gloom, and now its tongue dragged her closer, its huge mouth gaping to swallow her whole.

  She wrenched herself around into position to cut at the creature's tongue. One swing gashed it deeply and a second hacked it in two to lash about, showering blood.

  The frog croaked, hopped into distance, and tried to bite her. Gripping her sword with both hands, she thrust at the creature's throat. The blade plunged in almost to the hilt, and the amphibian collapsed.

  Shamur scrambled to her feet, took hold of the weapon, and tried to pull it from the carcass. But even when she tugged with all her might, the broadsword wouldn't slide free.

  She knew she had no more time to fool with it, not with the bravo racing farther away every second. Grimacing, she abandoned the weapon, drew her dagger, and ran on.

  She finally caught up with the tattooed man at the very edge of the floating city, where the clustered vessels gave way to open water. Naturally, the crafts farther in were unable to move until their assembly dissolved at dawn, but those here at the verge could depart at will, and, standing aboard a small sloop, using a boat hook to push off from the vessel next to it, the bravo was endeavoring to do so.

  Another waterman, the rightful master of the vessel, presumably, lay motionless on the deck. Shamur assumed that he at least hadn't been interested in helping her quarry escape, and so the bravo had found it necessary to subdue him in order to commandeer the sloop. And thank Mask for that, because if something hadn't delayed the wretch, she never would have caught up with him in time.

  One final leap across the black water landed her on the sloop, which rocked as it took her weight. The tattooed man pivoted to face her, his neck bruised where she'd struck him the night before. His eyes widened in surprise, and he smiled.

  "Where's your friend?" he rasped. Apparently the blow to the throat had roughened his voice as well.

  "On his way."

  "But too late to help you," he said, and Shamur realized he was right. The sloop was still drifting away from its neighbor, and the gap was now too wide for Thamalon to jump. "And you, baggage, have lost your sword."

  She expected him to reach for his short swords, but he whipped out a dagger with a curved blade instead.

  Shamur doubted it was chivalry prompting him to opt for a shorter blade like her own. He was probably proud of his skill with a dagger, proud enough to rely on it whenever practical. Whereas, though she had some experience with all the white arms, as bladed weapons were called, she was most confident with the sword. She knew the basics of knife fighting, but no more.

  Well, she told herself, that would just make it more interesting, as would the fact that while he would have no compunction about killing her, she must take care not to give him a mortal wound. Otherwise, she wouldn't be able to interrogate him afterward.

  She assumed a stance similar to the one she employed when fighting with a sword, her weapon hand in the lead. Smiling knees slightly bent the bravo minced toward her with his empty hand leading, and poised to guard his abdomen, his dagger hand cocked back. He sucked in his midsection to make it less of a target.

  Shamur retreated, using her longer reach to threaten him and slow his advance, meanwhile studying his technique. She knew she couldn't keep evading him for long, not in the cramped arena of the deck, but she hoped that if she figured out his style before he closed, she could turn that understanding to good advantage.

  The bravo glided forward with stylized steps reminiscent of an allemande, sometimes tossing his weapon from one hand to the other. Once he twirled, momentarily giving her his back, then snapped back around with a cut that would likely have taken her in the throat, had she accepted the invitation to attack.

  He did indeed appear to be a master of the dagger, tricky and sufficiently confident of his skill to be flamboyant. Shamur reckoned that she might be in even more trouble than she'd thought.

  In the few seconds she'd spent studying him, he'd nearly backed her up into the very end of the bow. Unwilling to let herself be cornered, she sidestepped, and that was the instant the bravo attacked in earnest.

  His hand streaked at her, and she made a cut intended to intercept it. But his thrust stopped short, her counterattack missed, and she saw at that same instant that his fist was empty. Somehow, without her seeing it, he'd transferred his dagger to his other hand, and now she glimpsed it plunging toward her abdomen.

  She twisted, wrenching herself aside, and the thrust missed by a hair. With her left hand, she grabbed for his wrist, seeking to immobilize his weapon, but in one graceful blur of motion, he spun his arm away and danced back safely out of distance.

  Shamur pursued him back toward the stern. She stepped and thrust, stepped and thrust, accustoming him to the pace at which she was advancing, then sprang forward with a sudden burst of acceleration which she hoped would catch him by surprise.

  It didn't. He instantly dropped to one knee, and her dagger and outstretched arm flew over his head. Meanwhile, his blade drove up at her stomach.

  With her own impetus driving her toward his point, she had no time to parry, but could only attempt to dodge. Once again, she was fortunate, for the dagger missed her flesh, though it snagged in her cloak and yanked her off balance before it ripped free. She grabbed one of the lines to steady herself, heard his noisy breathing coming up behind her, and spun back around to face him.

  The dagger leaped back and forth between his hands. She sensed that he wanted her to attack at that instant when the blade was in flight, and refused to respond to the invitation. After a few seconds, he suddenly abandoned the ploy and lunged to stab her in the chest.

  She attempted an evasive movement of her own, pivoting on her front leg to avoid his point while thrusting at his throat. His initial attack missed, but he blocked with his left arm and took her weapon out of line as well. To her surprise, he sprang closer, seizing her with his unweaponed hand and lifting his knife arm high.

  With his black-bearded features only inches from her own, blocking out everything else, she couldn't see his right hand performing its next manipulation, but she didn't have to. She understood very well what it must be doing. Spinning the knife, reversing his grip so he could drive the point into her spine.

  Her own weapon was passe and out of position for an instantaneous stab at his back, nor did she think she could break free of his hold in the split second remaining. So she butted him in the face.

  His nose broke with a crack, his body jerked, and, thanks be to M
ask, his dagger didn't slam down into her flesh. She instantly followed up with a second head butt, a stomp to the foot, and a knee to the groin.

  His grip slackened. Shoving him back, she tore herself free, gave him a snap kick to the knee, and, seeing that he was staggering, too hurt and dazed for the moment to wield his dagger, stepped in and slammed the pommel of her own weapon against his forehead.

  The bravo fell, and she grinned in satisfaction. Many would say she'd been lucky to defeat such an opponent, but she preferred to think that while he had been the better dagger fighter, she was the stronger combatant in general, and that was what had yielded her the victory. "Ho!"

  Shamur turned. Thamalon was standing aboard a catboat at the edge of the floating city. He had his buckler in his left hand and his throwing knife in his right, and although the watermen who inhabited the craft were regarding him sourly, they weren't making any hostile moves.

  "By the time the ruffian reached this part of the cluster," Thamalon said, "it was obvious he didn't intend to make for the docks. So I followed after you."

  "Good," she replied. "Bide there a moment."

  Shamur scrutinized the bravo. Whimpering, he seemed to be conscious, but incapacitated nonetheless. She dropped his dagger and short swords over the side, and, keeping a wary eye on him, found a sweep and rowed the sloop up to the catboat. The two hulls banged together, and one of the watermen cursed.

  "Sorry," she told him, then turned to Thamalon. "Climb aboard. We might as well chat with our friend here privately, without any other misguided boaters attempting to interfere with us."

  "Good idea." Thamalon stepped onto the sloop, and she pushed off with the oar.

  Once she was sure they were drifting away, Shamur glanced around to catch Thamalon staring at her with a strange expression on her face, and for some reason, his regard made her feel self-conscious. "What?" she demanded.

  The nobleman blinked. "Nothing." He stooped to examine the waterman from whom the bravo had attempted to steal the sloop. "This fellow should be all right. It looks as if our friend just knocked him out."

  "He's lucky the bastard didn't stick a knife in him," said Shamur. "Perhaps he had qualms about killing a fellow boater. Anyway, let's talk to him." She nudged the captive with the toe of her boot. "We know you're awake. Let's chat."

  The captive warily opened his eyes. "What do you want with me?" he croaked. "You talk like I'm some sort of ruffian, but I haven't done anything wrong."

  "You bolted as soon as you heard that two strangers were seeking you, ostensibly to give you a reward,"

  Thamalon said. "Is that the act of an innocent man? To me, it seems more like the jumpiness of a blackguard who took part in the assassination of two nobles less than twenty-four hours ago."

  The bravo swallowed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "You're lying," Shamur said, "and there's no chance of you convincing us otherwise. It was dark when you saw us last, and we've changed our appearances since, but look at my face. Look closely."

  The bully did as she'd bade him, then blanched and cringed. "You people are dead!"

  "No," said Shamur, "just very annoyed. We can vent our spleen on you, or you can tell us who hired you and your fellow toughs."

  "I don't know. I was just a member of a crew," the waterman said, "just doing as I was told. I never heard the wizard's name, nor saw him without the moon mask."

  "Then tell us how you wound up working for him," she said.

  He hesitated. "I can't. If I turn nose, the others will kill me."

  "Do you think we won't?" she replied. "Husband, I believe this fool needs to be convinced that we're in earnest." She hefted her dagger. "What shall we take, a thumb?"

  "An eye," said Thamalon with a lightness that served well to reinforce the bluff. "It always gets a man's attention when you pop an eye."

  "Very well."

  They flung themselves onto the bravo, who screamed and flailed wildly, but who, spent and battered as he was, could do little to keep them from pinning him to the deck.

  "Try to avoid any further struggling," Thamalon advised the rogue. "If you thrash about, the blade could plunge too far down, all the way into your brain."

  "No!" the bravo shrieked. "Get off me! I'll tell! I'll tell!"

  "Drat," said Shamur, "I never get to have any fun. All right, then, spill it."

  "The thing is, I belong to the Quippers," the ruffian said.

  The nobles exchanged glances. Named for a species of savage freshwater fish that, traveling in schools, posed a threat to even the largest animal, the Quippers were a notorious outlaw fraternity operating chiefly on the waterfront, where their crimes often involved smuggling, theft, and extortion. The gang had been in existence for a long while; Shamur had had dealings with them in her youth, and in recent years Thamalon had occasionally tried to suppress them and so eliminate a threat to honest merchants.

  'Then was the murder scheme a reprisal against me?" Thamalon asked.

  "No," the bravo said. "We were hired, just as you first supposed, but I swear, I don't know by whom."

  "Then we'll have to ask some of your cohorts," Shamur said. "Where do the Quippers have their stronghold these days?"

  "In the Scab," the ruffian said.

  Thamalon frowned. "That's unfortunate, but never mind. Let's discuss your future. You've already said yourself that your cronies will kill you for informing on them, and I personally will make sure that the Scepters start hunting you tomorrow. If you want to live, I'd advise you to flee Selgaunt this very night."

  "How?" the bravo rasped. "The way your woman beat me, I can hardly walk."

  "I'm sure you'll manage," Shamur said. "Meanwhile, you're a waterman, so make yourself useful. Bring this boat back around to link up with the others."

  Groaning and grunting the while, the bravo obeyed. When the sloop floated next to the catboat once again, Thamalon waved his hand, bidding the man with the ring in his lip begone. Perhaps fearing that his captors would change their minds, the ruffian limped quickly away.

  "I hope he doesn't run and warn his gang," Shamur said.

  "I doubt he will," Thamalon replied. "He meant it when he whined that they routinely kill informers. In any event, we couldn't very well maintain the pretense that we're dead and turn him over to the Scepters, also.

  Nor could we drag a prisoner around with us. So unless you had the stomach to kill him in cold blood…"

  "No," she said. "Anyway, I assume our next stop is the Scab."

  He looked at her, and once again, she noticed that same odd quality in his gaze. "I hope you don't mean tonight. At the risk of you curling up your lip and calling me 'old man' again, I have to say that after what we've been through, I've had enough cold weather and exertion for a while. I'd rather repair to one of those shabby little inns along the harbor, and tackle the rest of the Quippers tomorrow."

  She smiled. "I must confess, I'm not quite as young as I once was, either, and I daresay that's not such a bad idea."

  Chapter 13

  Bileworm had spent much of his existence in proximity to colossal fortresses built of iron, basalt, and sorcery, but even he had to admit that the playhouse called the Wide Realms presented a pleasing spectacle, if only in a tawdry, terrestrial sort of way. The entrance to the theater, a ring-shaped structure with a tiring house and stage at the rear and a pair of multi-level galleries curving out and around to meet at the gate in the front, shone like a jewel in fields of magical light, as did the gaudy pennants flying and banners hanging from the thatched roof. The humbler patrons had all packed inside prior to the start of the performance, but a few aristocrats were still arriving, pulling up in their carriages, on horseback, or strolling behind torch-bearing linkboys in scarlet capes. Music, the declamations of the actors, and, periodically, applause, cheers, laughter, catcalls, and booing, drifted up through the open space in the center of the building.

  Of course, Bileworm hadn't come to admire the view but to scout the d
isposition of the enemy, and having accomplished his task, he supposed he'd better return to Master and report. He turned and skulked along the rooftops, a shadow moving virtually invisibly against the night sky, until, lengthening and then shortening his leg, he stepped lightly down into the alley where the wizard and his mortal henchmen waited.

  Garris Quinn, clad tonight in a plum-colored hat with an upturned brim and yellow plume, a loose, thigh-length mandilion overcoat in the same colors, and baggy galligaskin breeches, glanced around, discovered Bileworm leering at his elbow, yelped, and recoiled.

  Not the least bit startled by his aide's outburst, or at least not betraying it if he was, Master casually turned toward his familiar. "What have you learned?" the masked wizard asked.

  "They're guarding the lad," Bileworm said, "just as you expected. They have warriors hiding in four buildings adjacent to the Wide Realms, six to ten in each detachment. I imagine other guards are waiting inside the playhouse."

  "Thank you for giving us the benefit of your tactical expertise," said Master, a hint of impatience perceptible in his tone. He'd been out of sorts since Thamalon Uskevren's eldest boy had escaped him earlier that day. "Then it's a trap," Garris said uneasily. Master sighed. "I'm surrounded by strategists, it seems. Naturally it's a trap. Did you think that with young Talbot's parents missing, and his brother already assaulted, his retainers would let him wander off to do his acting unprotected? But we're going to trap the trappers."

  Garris nodded. "All right. Do we attack?" The bravos massed behind him stirred.

  "Not yet," said Master. "Since I want to neutralize all the warriors outside without giving any of them a chance to warn their compatriots inside, Bileworm and I will attend to that particular chore by ourselves while you fellows wait here."

  The spirit sniggered. "I thought you promised I could take it easy from now on."