Masquerades

by Kate Novak

  “So why is he called the Faceless?” Alias asked.

  “According to the branded Night Master, the first Faceless had a face like a lump of clay. The Night Master thought the first Faceless might have been a doppelganger. The new Faceless’s face is a blur of colors. The Temple to Leira, goddess of illusion, once possessed a magical helmet that caused exactly such an effect. The helmet was of mesh chain covered in platinum coins struck with the goddess’s glyph. Shortly after the Time of Troubles Leira’s temple was looted and burned and the magic helmet went missing.”

  Dragonbait asked, “Will it really hurt the Night Masks if Alias captures the Faceless, or will it only make room for some Night Master to take the place of their lord?”

  Alias translated the paladin’s question for Jamal.

  Jamal was silent for several moments as if considering her answer very carefully. Mintassan drummed his fingers on the tabletop in the silent pause. Finally the actress replied, “I think if you can seize the Faceless’s treasury, you’ll have dealt them a mortal blow. According to the branded Night Master, the treasury contains an artifact discovered by the first Faceless. It protects his identity and that of all the Night Masters. With it, Durgar could detect them or any who tried to take their place. My sources estimate there are at least two thousand Night Masks, but without the Faceless and the Night Masters they won’t be anywhere near as organized. Also in the treasury are magical items the Night Masks have used to rescue or kill members who know too much and who’ve been caught by Durgar’s watch.”

  Alias sipped her tea thoughtfully.

  “If I might make a suggestion,” Jamal said.

  “Murf?” Dragonbait prompted the actress.

  “House Thalavar brought in a wine shipment yesterday,” Jamal explained. “One hundred twenty barrels of fire wine from the Old Empires—dark, strong, spicy, and worth more with every mile it moves west. If the wine makes it to the tables of Waterdeep, it means a major profit for the Thalavars. If not, they stand to lose a great deal. It’s sitting in the Thalavar warehouse until it can be loaded on caravan wagons tomorrow morning. Odds are good that the Night Masks will try to steal it or destroy it. Instead of roaming the streets looking for trouble tonight, why not see if you can get trouble to come to you. Stand guard in the warehouse. My guess is you’ll round up at least a dozen Night Masks, and if it rains, you’ll stay nice and dry.”

  Alias tilted her head suspiciously. “You know, I smell a halfling behind this plan. Probably the same one who took your copper pieces for her story about yesterday’s incident on the docks. I don’t suppose it came from an annoying redhead named Olive Ruskettle.”

  “Oooh, I can feel my ears burning all the way out in the street,” a new voice declared from the doorway. Alias didn’t need to turn around to know that Olive Ruskettle had entered Mintassan’s shop. The halfling joined them at the table, climbed into a chair, snitched a sugar cube from the tea tray, and popped it in her mouth.

  “Olive tells me you’re well acquainted,” Jamal said.

  “Oh, yes,” Alias replied. “I hadn’t realized until now that you knew her, too.”

  “We’re both in the entertainment business,” Olive explained.

  “So, you’re expecting me to do your guard duty for you?” Alias asked the halfling.

  “No. Thalavar halflings can do their own guard duty,” Olive retorted sharply. “As a matter of fact, Lady Nettel is secretly going to put all her available guards on this consignment at the risk of leaving her other properties undefended. We’re not worried about defending the wine, but capturing Night Masks is a little harder work. Since you’re so keen on sending them in to Durgar, I thought I’d offer you this opportunity. You won’t find more Night Masks roaming the streets tonight. It’s already started to drizzle. They’ll all be tucked in front of warm fires sipping ale—except for the ones assigned to plunder House Thalavar.”

  “She may have a point, Alias,” Dragonbait said.

  The swordswoman succumbed to Olive’s logic. Privately, however, she suspected she might actually find a fruitless evening of hunting in the rain more enjoyable than hiding out in a warehouse with a gang of halflings.

  Alias and Dragonbait met Olive shortly after sunset at the gates to Lady Nettel’s castle. The family sheds were located in a shallow vale between castles Thalavar and Ssemm. Olive, however, led Alias and Dragonbait outside the city walls to the Thalavar stockyards. There, in a horse pen beside the city wall, sheltered from view by a copse of trees, was a secret tunnel leading beneath the city wall. The halfling guided them through the tunnel to a ladder that climbed up into the warehouse inside the city walls, where the wine was being stored.

  The building was a windowless fortress of solid stone walls and a clay tile roof. There was one door large enough for a wagon and a smaller one for people, both bolted shut. The only other way in, aside from the trapdoor in the floor that led to the secret tunnel, was through one of the five skylights used for ventilation. These were covered with hinged doors, also bolted shut.

  The Thalavar halflings were all hidden behind crates stacked in the loft overhead. Olive and Alias took up a position beside the cribs holding the wine barrels, while Dragonbait paced the perimeter of the shed, both upstairs and down, checking on the halflings stationed about and using his shen sight on the walls around them. Then they waited.

  Alias wrapped her cloak around her. For a summer evening the air was cool, and cooler still inside the warehouse, like an outpost on the edge of the Negative Material Plane. By the light of the hooded lantern beside her, the swordswoman could see her own breath. She was beginning to think it might have been warmer out in the rain; it certainly would be less boring. She lost track of time in the dark, but it seemed as if she’d been here for hours.

  “Apricot?” Olive offered. The sweet, pungent aroma of the dried fruit rose from the sticky paper bag she held out. Alias waved her hand to refuse the fruit. Already tonight Olive had consumed numerous bags of various comestibles, including hazelnuts, Moonshae chestnuts in syrup, candied cherries, pears, carrots, mushrooms of Brost, golden raisins from Berdusk, and a bag of what looked like chocolate-covered spiders.

  Alias steamed. “This could be a colossal waste of time. We don’t even know they’re coming.”

  “Day’re cummin’,” Olive mumbled through a mouthful of apricot. When she had swallowed, she reiterated, “They’re coming. This shipment’s worth a small fortune. The Night Masks won’t be able to resist. They’re compulsive about their vengeance—”

  Something thumped somewhere overhead.

  “Alias!” Dragonbait called out in Saurial. “They’re climbing to the roof.”

  Alias translated for Olive, who pocketed her apricots and whispered a warning to the other halflings to put out their lights and take their places. Hooded lanterns all about the warehouse went dark.

  Alias slipped behind a stack of crates by the wagon door. Olive had disappeared into the darkness. The warehouse felt colder in the dark and, oddly enough, closer, as if ghosts were pressing in around them.

  In a minute Alias could hear feet scraping across the tiles above. She couldn’t estimate from the sound how many thieves there were, but one of them was heavy-footed and not very agile, stomping up the roof, sliding down, then stomping back up again. Alias wondered if they’d brought an ogre for a backup.

  Next came the sounds of nails popping and wood cracking as thieves armed with crow bars made short work prying the skylight doors from their hinges. A more artful crew, Alias thought, might have found a way to slide back the bolts using a drill and a wire, but the Night Masks seem to prefer brute strength and destruction.

  Rain began to drizzle into the warehouse as the skylight shutters were thrust aside. Someone above lowered a lantern down to the warehouse floor, and a moment later whispered, “All clear.” Five rope ladders rolled down into the warehouse, and five figures began climbing down each ladder. They all wore dark clothes and caps and domino masks—
the costume of the Night Masks.

  All but one of the Night Masks were armed with daggers and heavy dwarven hammers. The one exception was a tall, heavy man with long, puffed-out black hair, which he had not bothered to tuck into a cap. Inexplicably, he wore a scabbard and sword. The scabbard caught in a ladder-rung, and its wearer, while extricating it, lost his footing and fell the last three feet to the warehouse floor. He landed with a thump and a curse.

  Alias had to cover her mouth to keep her laughter in. Several other Night Masks laughed, but one, apparently their leader, hissed, “Silence,” and they all shut up instantly.

  “We’re in,” the leader called up to the roof. Someone above cut loose the rope ladders and slid the hatch doors back over the skylight. He’ll keep lookout from up there, Alias realized. She made a mental note to collect him from the roof when they’d taken the others.

  The leader pointed to three men, saying, “You open the wagon door and take care of the watchman out there. The rest of you start shifting the wine.”

  Alias put two fingers to her tongue and whistled.

  At that signal, twenty halflings pulled back the shutters on their lanterns, bathing the Night Masks in a bright yellow glow. The Night Masks all jumped in surprise, but lost no time drawing their weapons and turning outward in a defensive circle.

  Alias stepped out from behind the crates and into the light. She held her sword at the ready. “If you put down your weapons and surrender, you won’t be harmed,” she said.

  “It’s that common she-dog the Dhostars hired,” the Night Mask with the sword shouted, advancing on Alias with his blade. “Kill her now and our names are made!”

  All around the warehouse, the restraining locks on the halflings’ crossbows clicked off. The swordsman halted in his tracks.

  The Night Mask leader, a tall, well-muscled, fair-skinned woman, pulled the man back by his shirt. “Let’s be reasonable,” she said, addressing the halflings in the loft rather than Alias. Her accent screamed Zhentil Keep, and Alias instantly detested her. “There is more than enough here for all. What say you arrived late, chased us off, and managed to save only, mmm, a third of the shipment? Yes, a third would be reasonable. Or we can arrange to move that amount for you, privately, if you wish to tell Lady Nettel you lost everything.”

  “You seem to forget,” Alias said, stepping forward until she was directly in front of the tall woman, “that we have you surrounded.”

  The Zhentish woman grinned wolfishly at Alias. “You forget, we have your precious wine hostage.” She motioned swiftly with her hand, and, before any of the halflings could react, one of her men slammed his heavy dwarven hammer into the base of the nearest wine barrel, smashing the wood to splinters.

  Instead of wine gushing to the floor, only dry bits of wood clattered about the hammerer’s feet. In a fury, he smashed at a second barrel. Without warning, the lid of a third barrel popped open, and a slightly rattled Olive Ruskettle rolled out, shouting, “Surrender or die!”

  The hammerer aimed a blow at the halfling, who yelped and dived for cover as half a dozen crossbow bolts pierced her would-be attacker. The hammerer fell to the floor and remained still.

  About half the Night Masks threw down their weapons, but the rest dived for the cover of the crates. Six were hit by more crossbow bolts and joined their comrade on the floor. Three of those remaining began making for the halflings in the loft. The first one up the ladder to the loft caught a crossbow bolt and a halfling foot in his face. He fell back, landing with muffled thump.

  Alias chased the Zhentish Night Mask leader and the clownish sword-wielder down an aisle of crates. She cornered the pair against the warehouse wall. The Night Mask leader gave the sword-wielder a slap on the shoulder, and he stepped forward to challenge Alias with his blade. He adopted a first-year swordsman’s training position.

  Alias snarled with annoyance that she would have to deal with this fool while the Night Mask leader was climbing a wall of crates to the loft.

  “Now you will die for challenging the true rulers of Westgate,” the swordsman announced dramatically.

  Alias snorted derisively, but resisted the temptation to run him through. She feinted high with her sword, and when the Night Mask caught her blade on his own she closed in on him and delivered a punch to his belly. Assured that the man wore no armor, she slugged him twice more before he collapsed in a groaning heap at her feet.

  Free from distractions, the swordswoman began climbing the crates, following the Night Mask leader.

  The Zhentish woman had leaped from the top of the pile of crates into the loft. She was bending over a lantern when Alias came up on her. Alias poked her sword in the woman’s back. The Night Mask whirled around, holding a tube of metal with a burning candlewick hanging from one end.

  Alias froze. She’d never seen the device the woman held, but she’d heard about it. It was some magical explosive made with smoke powder, so simple that even a thief could use one. It could be deadlier than a wizard’s fireball. The Night Mask leader backed away until she stood in the section of the loft above the cribs of wine barrels.

  “Kiss your wine good-bye, Dhostar lackey,” the Night Mask said with a laugh.

  “The wine’s not in those barrels,” Alias replied with a smirk. “It’s hidden behind the crates on the other end of the warehouse.”

  The Zhentish woman glared at her opponent. She glanced back down at the warehouse floor, where two halflings stood guard over the Night Masks who had surrendered. They’d made the Night Masks lie with their faces to the floor. The Night Mask leader scowled down at her former troops who had surrendered so easily.

  She dropped the explosive tube down on their backs.

  “No!” Alias screamed. “Get behind the crates!” she shouted at the people below. One of the halflings looked up at her with a confused look on his face.

  The tube exploded with a flash and a great boom, which rocked the empty wine barrels and the crates in the loft overhead. Smoke poured up from the floor of the warehouse.

  As Alias turned around to confront the Night Mask leader, the Zhentish woman smacked her on the side of the head with her hammer. The swordswoman reeled backward and lost her grip on her weapon. Her attacker lunged toward her, dagger drawn. Alias lashed out with a kick, catching the Night Mask squarely in the chest. The Zhentish woman toppled over the low loft railing, landing with a sickening, deadly thud on the stone floor below.

  Through the clearing smoke Alias could see Dragonbait examining the bloody carnage of bodies below. Intent on a prayer to heal a bleeding halfling, the paladin was oblivious to the recovered Night Mask swordsman, who was now sneaking up behind the saurial. Just as Alias cried out in Saurial, Olive Ruskettle dashed out from behind a pile of crates and smashed the Night Mask on the knee with a hammer pillaged from one of his compatriots. He crashed to the ground, swearing profusely. Dragonbait continued praying over the halfling.

  With their leader dead, and most of their party killed—eight of those torn apart by the explosive device wielded by their own leader—the remaining Night Masks were easily rounded up and convinced to surrender.

  The second halfling caught in the explosion was beyond help from even Dragonbait’s prayers. The other halflings glared at their remaining eight prisoners, muttering angrily. Olive had the sense to send the two halflings who muttered the loudest out for the watch, and two more to fetch down the Night Mask on the roof.

  Despite the hostility of his captors, the Night Mask swordsman could not resist taunting Alias. “You’ll only live long enough to regret your interference in this matter,” he declared.

  Alias tried to ignore him as she watched the halflings cover the face of their fallen companion.

  “You don’t know who or what you’re dealing with.” The swordsman sneered.

  Alias whirled around and closed on the arrogant captive. The halflings standing guard over him with loaded crossbows all held their breath, half anxious, half eager for her to hit him.
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  Alias snatched off the swordsman’s domino mask. “I don’t care who you are, because I know what you are. An ugly brute who’ll stand accused as the accomplice of a dead murderess. Fortunately, I don’t have to deal with you. That’s Durgar’s job.”

  The Night Mask snorted. “Durgar. That old relic can’t touch me.”

  Fearing she would lose out to her anger and hit the arrogant thief, Alias left the prisoners to Olive and the halflings. Just outside the warehouse door, six halflings swarmed over an empty wagon meant to carry away the Thalavar wine. The halflings held the driver and his companion at crossbow-point.

  Alias raised her head to the sky, letting the raindrops cool her face and wipe away the tears she couldn’t stop. Dragonbait came up beside her and stroked the tattoo on her arm.

  “If I hadn’t taunted that Zhentish witch about the wine being hidden, she would have just blown up the empty barrels,” the swordswoman accused herself.

  “There were other halflings around the barrels, Alias,” the paladin reminded her. “Someone would have gotten hurt anyway. More halflings might have died if you hadn’t been here.”

  “Fifteen Night Masks dead, thirteen captured, and all it cost was one halfling’s life. Was it worth it? If Jamal is right and there are nearly two thousand Night Masks, are we getting anywhere? I’m beginning to know how Durgar must feel,” the swordswoman whispered.

  “Their leader, the Zhentish woman, was very evil, as bad as Kimbel. It’s good that she can’t hurt anyone else,” the paladin replied. “I’m sure by stopping her you’ve dealt the Night Masters or the Faceless a direct blow. You’ve hacked off a bough of this evil tree.”

  “But the Faceless is the root. I have to find some way to get him,” Alias insisted.

  Somewhat later, in the subterranean meeting hall of the Night Masters, the mood was angry and close to mutinous as each district reported on the detrimental effect the Dhostars’ sell-sword was having on their trade. Usually intimidated victims were showing more spine, and there were more than a few reports of agents being set upon by mobs of townsmen. The report given by the head of Enforcement did nothing to quell the passions of those present.