by Kate Novak
Throughout the report, the Faceless sat in repose, white-gloved hands resting comfortably on the sides of his throne. After the portly Night Master finished, there was a short silence, as there always was. Then the Faceless’s metallic voice rasped across the table. “Are all these reports accurate?”
Ten masks bobbed around the table, and ten voices replied in varying tones, “Yes, milord.”
The Faceless drummed his fingers on the slick obsidian of his throne’s armrest. “What of the matter of Jamal the Thespian?” he growled.
“Still …” Gateside hesitated, as if his words had caught on something, “under review,” he finished. It was apparent that he’d been hoping this matter would not come up. “Her home was set afire,” he reported, “and the clothing merchant who not only rented her a room but refused our protection was killed as a warning. We have yet to discover if she survived the blaze.”
“She survived,” the Faceless intoned.
Gateside held hands out, protesting, “We are as yet unaware—”
“I said, ‘She survived,’ ” the Faceless repeated, raising his voice just a fraction, silencing Gateside. “She was rescued by a red-haired swordswoman, who was aided by a lizardlike creature with a staff. Jamal fled the burning building for the quarters of an ally, the sage Mintassan, whom we are unwilling to directly confront. The red-haired woman and the lizardman joined Jamal at Mintassan’s.”
Gateside tried to interrupt, saying, “We had no knowledge of—”
“If you had followed procedure,” the Faceless reprimanded, “and confirmed both the burning and casualties by posting eyes, you would have known. Instead you waited for the watch’s report to be smuggled to you, as you have done in the past. Had you posted eyes, your man might have been able to finish off the woman as she fled. I requested her tongue be silenced. As it stands, the wretched banshee is still loose, unharmed, as is her tongue and her annoying troupe of ragtag performers.”
Gateside, his eyes now fixed on the tabletop, replied, “I apologize for my carelessness.”
“On a related matter,” the Faceless continued, turning to face the Night Master in charge of Enforcement, “What news is there of our naked assassins?” Gateside exhaled slowly in relief while Enforcement pursed his lips until they nearly disappeared.
The other nine Night Masters looked puzzled. The Faceless nodded in Enforcement’s direction to indicate he should explain.
“External Revenue’s people requested the elimination of two out-of-towners,” Enforcement reported. “External Revenue’s people failed to inform my people that these out-of-towners were heavily armed. Consequently the team who took the assignment was overpowered. The targets stripped my agents naked and forced them to run through a street fair.”
There was an uneasy shifting of the other Night Masters. None were amused by the embarrassment suffered by the agents; the cost to the brethren’s reputation was too high.
“And these targets,” the Faceless prompted, “which gave External Revenue’s people trouble and then gave you such trouble … describe them.”
“Well,” Enforcement replied, “one was a red-haired woman, the other was a—” Enforcement paused as he realized his description was about to match the one given of the pair who’d interfered with Gateside’s hit on Jamal, “—um, it was a lizardman, carrying a staff.”
“I see,” said the Faceless calmly. “And you did not think this was an important enough matter to bring to our attention?”
“I hesitated to broach the matter, since External Revenue did not include the pair in her report,” Enforcement explained.
The Night Master who managed External Revenue spun in her seat and gave Enforcement a hard glare. Despite her mask, it was clear that she gave her companion a warning.
“External Revenue,” the Faceless said, “Enforcement chose not to mention this pair in deference to your silence. Why didn’t you bring them to our attention?”
External Revenue rose to her feet, “It is not uncommon for out-of-towners, especially of the adventuring sort, to resist the import agents. Once an elimination is called for, the victims’ revenue becomes the purview of Enforcement. I left it for him to report the pair. I was unaware that the Enforcement people had mishandled the contract.” Here she shot a stern glance at her comrade. “That Enforcement’s people did not succeed seems to indicate they were more cocky than competent.”
The Faceless motioned for External Revenue to be seated. He sat back and addressed the whole assembly. “Well, there are a number of swordswomen in Westgate, some with red hair, but not, I think, more than one who travels in the company of a lizardman. Here we have a pair of adventurers making trouble for three separate departments, yet not one department reported on the pair, even though they cost us revenue, shamed us, and interfered with our plans. Just coincidence, you may think. Well, such coincidences interfere with the smooth working of our operation. We live by fear and intimidation, by making individuals perform our bidding out of consideration of the consequences. When an operation fails, when it publicly fails, then we lose our effectiveness, and we pay the price in revenue. Enforcement, I trust you have plans to avenge this humiliation. Where are the swordswoman and lizardman now?
“We, uh, don’t know,” Enforcement said, visibly nervous. “She seems to elude all our eyes.”
“Even the magical ones?” the Faceless pressed.
“Even the magical ones.” Enforcement took a deep breath. “Especially the magical ones. We think she may have fled the city.”
“That’s highly unlikely,” the Faceless countered. “Since they’ve outmaneuvered us three out of three times, they can hardly feel threatened by us. I fear we must make an example of them.”
“But if my men cannot find them,” Enforcement argued, “how can we—”
“I said we out of courtesy,” the Faceless interrupted. “This is a matter for my own personal agents, not lesser merchants who play at the games of their betters.” There was silence around the table, and a few faces reddened with embarrassment. “I’ll determine what is to be done about the out-of-towners by our next meeting. As for the quality or lack thereof of certain reports this evening—”
Gateside, External Revenue, and Enforcement all held their breaths.
“Should there be any more glaring omissions in future reports, there will have to be changes in the ranks,” the Faceless threatened. “As for the failure to subdue two unknown outsiders, that could happen to anyone. You, though, Gateside, were assigned to take care of Jamal the Thespian, a simple, little actress with no extraordinary strengths. You announce she is marked, then fail to confirm her demise, and finally simply presume she’s expired according to your wishes. Now that she is forewarned, I will have to assign my own agents to handle her. Because of your carelessness and the subsequent inconvenience to me, you will sacrifice half your share of income this month.”
Gateside opened his mouth to protest, but caught himself. After a long, brittle moment, he nodded his head in compliance.
“The meeting is adjourned,” the Faceless snapped.
The Night Masters rose and filed toward the exit. External Revenue and Enforcement smiled menacingly at one another. Gateside glowered, but the others were careful to avoid making eye contact with him.
The Faceless remained seated as his agents departed. Each Night Master took a smoky torch from a sconce in the wall and traveled down the tunnel leading away from the meeting chamber. No one spoke, even in the tunnel, for fear that the Faceless would overhear.
The Faceless rose and paced across the dais. When the sound of footfalls ceased from down the tunnel, the Night Mask lord pushed a panel in the rear of his throne. Behind the throne a section of stone slid back silently, revealing a secret passageway carved through the bedrock.
The Faceless picked up a torch and strode down the passage as the secret door slid closed behind him. He stopped after fifty paces, just before the passage opened into a great underground sewer. Dark wat
er swirled below, and something just beneath the surface made a wake, which splashed up the sides of the sewer. The Faceless drew out a small ivory ball intricately carved with the twisting form of a sea serpent. A gleaming ruby represented the creature’s eye. The Faceless pressed on the ruby and stepped out onto the narrow span that crossed the upper regions of the sewer.
On the opposite side of the span, a second, shorter passageway led to a cavern more vast than the meeting room of the Night Masters. Here were stored the Night Masks’ treasury and arsenal. The Faceless strode by the piles of riches and weaponry without a glance.
At the far end of the cavern, the Faceless halted before a large pool of water. A fountain identical to those in the squares in the city above splashed on the surface. Stones enchanted with magical light spells had been tossed into the bottom of the pool so the water shone with an eerie green radiance and the light played on the wall with every ripple of the water.
The Faceless bent over the pool and peered within its depths. Something large and shadowed floated suspended between the bottom and the surface. “Mistinarperadnacles Hai Draco,” the Faceless whispered.
The large, shadowy thing rose, breaking the water like an island rising from some primordial sea. Water slid down its gleaming white surfaces, dripped from the tips of its horns, poured from two empty eye sockets, then two nasal chambers and finally streamed from between the huge fangs of the great, gaping jawbone. The disembodied skull of the dragon Mistinarperadnacles Hai Draco hovered over the surface of the water. A sickly yellow light spun about in its eye sockets, a light that sprang from the necromantic powers animating the dead monster’s remains.
A voice seemed to whisper in the air above the fountain, “What is your will, milord?” The dead dragon’s words did not emanate from her remains, but seemed to drift about the room.
“When I first summoned you from your eternal sleep and bound you to my service,” the Faceless said, “you told me something of a pair you held responsible for your demise, a lizardman and a red-headed swordswoman.”
“It was a saurial, not a lizardman,” the dead dragon’s voice whispered.
“Do not play games with me, Mistinarperadnacles. Tell me what you know of this swordswoman and her companion.”
There was a slight pause, and the glow in the dead creature’s eye sockets strengthened.
“The woman called herself Alias of the Inner Sea, Alias of Westgate, and Alias the Sell-Sword. She travels in the company of a noble saurial warrior she quaintly calls Dragonbait. His name among his own people could roughly be translated as Champion of Justice. He and Alias share some magical bond.”
“Just how good are they?” the Faceless asked.
“They were each able to defeat me in combat, albeit not without some minor help. That’s why I died in their service. Champion’s skills are unsurpassed among his own people. This Alias, though, is the luckiest sell-sword I’ve ever witnessed in battle. Lady Luck, the goddess Tymora, must keep an eye on her.”
“How can they be scried?” the Faceless asked.
“As far as I know, they cannot. Apparently there’s some enchantment cast on Alias that hides her from friends and enemies alike. Even King Azoun’s wizard Vangerdahast couldn’t locate her.”
“Do they have any Harper connections?”
“It’s possible. Neither Alias nor the saurial wore the Harpers’ little pin, but the saurial said Elminster the Sage had given Alias a magical stone, and a bard told me Alias had taught her certain songs, which I recognized as belonging to Finder Wyvernspur.”
“Who?”
“Finder Wyvernspur. He was a Harper, one of the founders of the Harper revival in the north three centuries back. Fell into disgrace, I believe.”
“So would you say this woman and her companion would be formidable foes?”
“Foes. You don’t want them as foes, milord. They are not going to be frightened or defeated by mere thieves. They fight dragons and ancient gods and live.”
The Faceless drummed his fingers on the ledge around the pool of water. “If they are as dangerous as you say, then perhaps they would make useful allies,” he suggested.
The air all about the cavern rang with laughter.
The Faceless scowled. “I fail to see the humor,” he barked.
“I forgot, your language does not carry the subtleties of my own. I’ll explain slowly enough for your mammalian brain to comprehend. As I said, the saurial warrior’s true name translates roughly as ‘Champion of Justice.’ In other words, he serves the god Tyr. I called him a noble warrior because he has dedicated himself to Tyr’s noble cause.”
“Like a paladin?” the Faceless asked in surprise.
“Not like one, is one. Or would be if he were human. Saurials with such dedications have gifts similar to human paladins,” Mist explained.
“Including the Sight?” the Faceless queried.
“The near equivalent,” said the dragon, “More akin to my own race’s ability to detect the unseen. He discerns the roiling mass of an individual’s thoughts, feelings, and desires that make up the soul and the spirit, and is able to divine with a certain accuracy the individual’s intentions. It is called shen sight. I don’t imagine he would have remained with Alias all these years unless the shen sight of her was pleasing to him. He called her his soul’s sister.
“So you see, I do not think they will become allied with you. Here I give you advice unbidden, milord,” the dragon’s dead spirit offered. “Do not pursue them, as I did, down the path to your own destruction. They are like gale winds or floodwaters. You must stay out of their path and wait them out.”
“That may not be possible. They rescued Jamal the Thespian tonight, indicating they must be involved with her somehow. Knowing Jamal, she will use them to encourage the people to interfere with my plans. I must use them to further my plans, and I know just how to bring them to serve me.”
“The Night Masks who serve you are all motivated by their greed, their cruelty, their sloth, and their arrogance. These two have none of these traits,” the dragon’s skull argued. “What can you possibly offer them?”
“The chance to serve the cause of justice.”
The dragon skull remained silent. Mist had long ago learned not to argue with the Faceless’s mad-sounding schemes.
The Faceless slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. “A powerful force this Alias may be, but I know now how to bring her to rein. And when the time comes, I will destroy her.”
Five
House Dhostar
Mintassan offered Alias and Dragonbait quarters in his own home, but Alias, uncomfortable with accepting the flirtatious mage’s hospitality, declined and remained firm against the sage’s insistence. Finally they reached a compromise. Mintassan surrendered their company when Alias agreed to stay at an inn two blocks away, which the sage recommended.
Blais House did not advertise as an inn, but when they walked in the front door, as Mintassan had told them to do, they were greeted politely, albeit with some surprise at their appearance, by the night manager. The inn was as elegant as any Alias had ever seen. In the foyer, the inlaid tile floor gleamed in the light of a great crystal chandelier. Alias suspected that Blais House did not ordinarily cater to adventurers, but at the mention of Mintassan’s name the night manager became instantly cordial.
The price of a room was surprisingly reasonable, causing the swordswoman to wonder what it might have cost had they not used Mintassan’s name. Alias slid four gold coins across the front desk.
The night manager, a slight man dressed in a red-and-white silk tabard and black hose, bid them to follow him as he picked up a gold-plated candelabra. He led them up a white marble staircase and down a corridor made soundproof by its plush red carpeting. At the end of the corridor he produced a key, unlocked the door on the right, and led them in. Setting the candelabra down on a table, he assured them that should they want anything at all, they had only to pull the bell cord gently. The bath, he inf
ormed them as he stepped out of the room, was at the end of the hall. Then he pulled the door shut and left them alone.
The room was spacious; the expanse of white plaster walls broken only by idealized watercolors of the city. The ceiling timbers were whitewashed and decorated with painted garlands of flowers. The fireplace was lined with local ceramic tile. The beds had thick, comfortable mattresses with heavy down filling and soft sheets tightly woven of Mulhorand cotton. The great windows were made of green-stained splinter-glass set in the patterns of trees and opened out over the entrance of the inn. The armoire was Sembian, the pair of comfortable reading chairs Waterdhavian, and beneath the beds were Cormyrian-forged copper chamber pots with porcelain lining. A small bookshelf held several well-thumbed popular reads, including Aurora’s Catalogue and a complete set of Volo’s Guides.
All the luxury was lost on Alias, who sat down on the edge of her bed, shucked off her boots by stepping on the heels, let her sword belt slide to the floor, fell back on the bed, and was softly snoring, still wearing her chain mail, in under three minutes.
Dragonbait locked the door and windows, ascertained that there were no secret passages in the walls or assassins in the armoire, and tucked the case with the crystal ball under the bed. He flipped a corner of the coverlet over Alias’s shoulder and blew out the candelabra. Lying in the dark on his bed, he prayed that if they could not be delivered soon from this city, at least they be delivered safely.
The saurial always slept lightly, so it was he who awakened at the sound of someone knocking. It was a soft, hesitant rapping, not on the door, but on the door frame—as if the knocker did not really want to be responsible for waking up a skilled swordswoman and her sharp-clawed companion.