Masquerades

by Kate Novak

  “Durgar recapped the events of last evening, giving us the final tally of the dead,” Olive reported. “The heads of Houses Guldar, Ssemm, Thalavar, Urdo, and Vhammos were killed by the Night Masks’ iron golems. Houses Ssemm, Urdo, and Vhammos also lost their recognized heirs. The croamarkh wasn’t at the ball, but Durgar claims that a golem got him anyway and carried his body into the sea. Then Lord Victor says that his hireling Alias, with her companions Dragonbait and Mintassan, found a clue last night that led them into the sewers to search for the Faceless. Finally, at Durgar’s suggestion, the heads of the merchant houses—mostly inexperienced cousins and youths—unanimously voted Victor Dhostar in as interim croamarkh. They’re supposed to make an official proclamation tomorrow, after the funerals.”

  “Durgar said a golem killed Luer Dhostar?” Jamal asked.

  Olive nodded. “Yes. Why?”

  “I think it’s time we throw all our cards on the table and see if we come up with a full deck,” Jamal suggested. “I’ve got a source in the watch who says they found the Faceless dead, stabbed in the ribs. Durgar unmasked him, and it was Luer Dhostar, but Durgar has ordered the watch to keep mum about it.”

  Olive laughed. “Making all Lord Victor’s hard work in vain. Victor Dhostar knew his father was the Faceless. He’s been feeding Alias clues, hoping she’d unmask Luer for him. Then the nobles would be disgraced by the knowledge that the Faceless turned out to be their own elected croamarkh, and they’d have to pick a candidate popular with the people.”

  “Alias?” Jamal asked in astonishment.

  “No,” Olive corrected, “the noble responsible for hiring her—the noble who’s wearing her token—Victor Dhostar.”

  “Well, that’s how it ended up, anyway,” the actress said.

  “Not exactly,” the halfling replied. “The nobles haven’t been disgraced, and they’ve only made Lord Victor interim croamarkh. If anything, the Night Masks’ attack last night has made people feel more sympathy for the nobles.”

  “No kidding,” Jamal said. “I tried a puppet show this morning portraying the nobles as sheep running from the wolf. It was not well received.”

  “You should have known better than to kick a dog when it’s down,” Olive retorted.

  “Even I make mistakes,” the actress replied with a shrug. “So, Lord Victor was planning to turn on his own kind and reveal all, but Durgar stopped him. If we could get him out from under Durgar’s influence, he might prove useful—a noble who cares what the people think.”

  “The only one Victor Dhostar cares about is Victor Dhostar,” Olive snapped. “He was manipulating Alias into uncovering the Faceless, he manipulated Durgar into proposing him as the new croamarkh, and, given half a chance, he’ll manipulate you and anyone else in Westgate fool enough to support him. He doesn’t just want to be croamarkh. He wants to be king.”

  Jamal raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Never happen,” she replied. “Not in Westgate. Not after Verovan. No one will ever go for it. Not the merchant lords, and certainly not the people.”

  “Wrong,” Olive retorted. “If the people start clamoring for it and the merchant lords are weakened, they might have no choice.”

  “The people don’t want a king. They want to rule themselves,” Jamal argued.

  “Jamal, I’ve studied you humans for years. Humans don’t want to rule themselves. Only a few humans want to bother with the mess it takes to rule themselves. The rest want to be left alone. Your average Westgate citizen wants the Night Masks taken care of, but for over fifteen years they’ve been waiting for the merchant nobles to handle it. Some of them look at a nation like Cormyr, with a king who’s managed to purge the land of assassins and who exiles convicted thieves, and they think maybe the gods favor monarchies. Should a popular candidate come along, some of them might start dusting off Verovan’s regalia,” the halfling concluded.

  Jamal looked for a moment as if she might explode. Olive knew she’d just called into question a basic tenet of the actress’s beliefs. A moment later, though, Jamal sighed. “Just because people won’t take charge of their own lives doesn’t mean they can’t,” she argued.

  “I’m not saying that,” Olive replied.

  “Well, you may be right about the king thing,” the actress conceded. “I have heard people talking about Azoun of Cormyr as if he were the gods’ gift to the people. Are you sure about Victor Dhostar, though? Alias seemed to think he was all right.”

  “Even Alias makes mistakes, something I intend to correct just as soon as she and Dragonbait get back from the sewers,” Olive said. “In the meantime, Lady Nettel’s dying request was that I protect her granddaughter. House Thalavar lost three halfling bodyguards to the golems last night, so I’ve spent the last twelve hours not letting Thistle Thalavar out of my sight. I think the girl was getting tired of me. After making all the arrangements for her grandmother’s funeral, she locked herself in the study to go over House Thalavar’s account books and Lady Nettel’s personal journal. I should be getting back to Castle Thalavar to keep an eye on visitors offering their condolences. When Alias gets back—”

  “You’ll hear from me,” Jamal promised.

  It was nightfall before the actress sent Kel around with a message for the halfling, but all the note said was that Alias had not returned, and neither had Dragonbait nor Mintassan. Olive penned a reply that Jamal should sit tight. The sewers were vast. It might take a little more time to explore them. The halfling did her best to keep from sounding worried when she handed the message to Kel.

  Thistle finally came out of her grandmother’s study for supper. Olive pressed her for permission to hire more bodyguards. The young girl fingered her grandmother’s brooch like an amulet, then nodded her agreement.

  The next morning brought a similar note from Jamal. Alias had not returned, but a fisherman had relayed a rumor that Alias was seen battling a fire elemental in the plaza around the Westlight. Jamal had checked with the watch stationed around the lighthouse, only to learn that some itinerant wanderer had started a trash fire by the water to keep herself company.

  That afternoon, after Lady Nettel’s funeral, one of the Thalavar halflings returned to the castle with the rumor that the Faceless was holding court in a tavern in Gateside. With Thistle again locked in the study with her account books, Olive hurried down to the tavern in question, but discovered only an outlander in a heavy cloak. He was not holding court, only recruiting bodyguards for a caravan going south, and he kept his face covered with the hood of his cloak to hide a particularly ugly scar received from brigands.

  Olive spent the afternoon interviewing halflings to serve as guards for the castle, for the warehouses, and, most especially, for Thistle. While she found several sturdy, sensible recruits worth training, no one with any real combat experience came forward.

  By evening, Jamal sent another negative note. The adventurers had not returned. A beachcomber down by the river claimed to have seen Dragonbait battling the quelzarn in the water below the bridge. After interviewing the witness, Jamal had concluded he was into his third tankard of ale and was seeing anything the actress could suggest to his vivid imagination and besotted brain.

  The third morning after the ball brought a new rumor to the servants’ quarters of Castle Thalavar: the Faceless was dead. Night Mask activity was so low for the past two days, people had begun to believe that perhaps the Night Masks were in mourning for their leader. Speculation was rife that perhaps one of the deceased nobles had been the lord of the Night Masters. Olive wondered if Victor had had a hand in spreading the rumor.

  Kel appeared at the Thalavar castle gate right after breakfast. Olive realized he brought something more than rumor. The boy had been crying. This time he hadn’t brought a note. “Jamal’s at the Old Beard,” he reported. “She says come now.” Still crying, Kel ran off.

  Olive arrived at the tavern near the river just as House Dhostar’s massive carriage was pulling away. People were pouring out of the tavern. Olive hur
ried inside. Jamal was sitting at a table, looking pale and shaken.

  “What is it?” the halfling asked.

  “A fisherman found it near the Athagdal docks,” Jamal explained, “where the Thunn runs into the harbor.”

  “Found what?” Olive demanded.

  “Alias—Alias—her—oh, gods!” The actress broke into sobs.

  Olive looked up at the tavern’s host. “It was an arm,” the man explained, “covered with a tattoo of thorns and waves, with a rose at the wrist.”

  “I found it floating in the water,” a young fisherman said. “ ’Tweren’t chewed up or anything. Someone had hacked it off at the shoulder. It had a domino mask clutched in its hand—in a death grip.”

  “Where is it?” Olive demanded through clenched teeth.

  “Croamarkh Victor took it,” the tavern owner said. “Wept over it like it were the lady ’erself. Wrapped it up in a piece o’ velvet and said it would be laid to rest in the Dhostar family crypt in honor o’ ’er service to the croamarkh.”

  Olive nudged Jamal to her feet, anxious to get her away from the somewhat crowded tavern.

  As they walked down the street, Jamal explained. “I sent Kel as soon as I heard. I thought you might be able to tell for sure—tell if it were hers. You said it was a magic arm. You could tell if it were a fake, couldn’t you?”

  “Maybe,” Olive said. “Why’d you let Dhostar take it?”

  “He was weeping. He asked the fisherman and the people in the tavern if they would let him take it. No one could turn him down. If he’s really as bad as you say, he’s the best actor in Westgate,” the actress said. “I don’t think I could show more grief than he did.”

  “If you’re not careful, he’ll make your troupe obsolete,” the halfling snarled.

  If rumors flew before, now they teleported from place to place. Some said that the severed arm meant that Alias had battled the Night Masks and lost. Others insisted that the fact that the arm’s fist clutched a domino mask meant she had won, even though it had cost her her life. A third faction held that she, her companions, and all the Night Masters, including the Faceless, had never fought at all, but just been eaten by the quelzarn.

  Olive told herself Alias could have survived losing her arm. Dragonbait and Mintassan might be with her even now. It was impossible, though, to come up with a reason why they didn’t return, why Mintassan didn’t just teleport them back to his home to reassure their friends that they were safe. Olive’s hope began slipping away.

  Five days after the ball, Olive Ruskettle, captain of the House Thalavar guard, self-declared bard, and self-declared Harper, was making a halfhearted attempt to drink herself to death. She sat on the open patio of the Black Eye tavern, with its excellent view of the market and the Tower. Three days had passed since the funerals of the croamarkh and the other felled merchant lords. The official period of mourning completed, the market was once again blanketed by a tapestry of motley—the wares of both minor and noble merchants being offered for sale.

  That, if no other reason, was enough to keep Olive ordering round after round of a highly potent southern drink known as Dragon’s Bite. She was disgusted by the way this city shrugged off its losses and returned diligently to the task of making money. There had been no funeral for Alias, Dragonbait, or Mintassan, no official period of mourning for the heroes who had so selflessly risked their lives for this town of money-grubbing greengrocers. Not that three days of mourning could be enough to honor adventurers of their caliber—adventurers who’d been her friends.

  She wanted to blow this festhall of a city, to leave it to fester in its own greed, to head north where adventurers weren’t treated like carpets for merchants to wipe their feet on. Still, Westgate held her in its thrall. She had business here still.

  First, of course, she felt obligated to honor Lady Nettel’s dying request to protect Thistle. Lady Nettel had been really decent. She would have made a good halfling. As for Thistle, Olive had actually grown to like the human child. She was a serious, hardworking girl, something Olive admired without actually emulating, of course. Three days of interviewing the halfling population of Westgate, and even some of the humans, had left Olive with the certainty that there was really no one else as qualified as she was to be the girl’s bodyguard.

  Yet Thistle had walled herself up with her books, and there wasn’t much challenge in guarding a hermit. Olive had wiled away hours outside the door of Thistle’s study reorganizing every aspect of security for House Thalavar, its castle, its warehouses, its stockyards and its docks. The halfling was distracted to the point of madness waiting for the Night Masks to renew their vengeful attacks, but the thieves guild really did seem to be on hiatus. Thistle Thalavar, her castle, and all her property remained undisturbed.

  The tension was enough to drive a halfling to drink. Olive drained her glass and thumped it on the tabletop, demanding a refill. House Thalavar would pick up the tab, making it possible to order drink after drink without actually plunking any money down or keeping track of how much one spent on liquor. Olive wasn’t sure that was a good thing, but it was certainly a comforting one.

  Her second order of business in Westgate was what to do about the new croamarkh, Victor Dhostar.

  When the evil mage Flattery had disintegrated her friend Jade, Olive had wasted no time avenging Jade’s death. Of course, then she’d had some formidable allies: Giogi Wyvernspur, who could shapechange into a wyvern; the mage, Cat; and the wizard, Drone. Here her only allies were an aging actress, a boy who had only just retired from his career as a Night Mask, and a castle full of pampered halflings. Then there was the question of popularity. No one had liked Flattery—all agreed he was a sick menace to society. Victor Dhostar, though, was a slick piece of work, friendly, smiling, concerned. Whatever emotion or reaction was appropriate to the situation, he could summon it to the surface. Even Alias had been fooled. Milil’s Mouth, he even had me charmed that first day, Olive recalled. On top of all that charm, he was croamarkh. While he was not quite a king, plotting his destruction certainly smacked of regicide, a serious crime even in a place like Westgate.

  More importantly, without more information, she couldn’t really assess the extent of Victor’s guilt. He might not have anything to do with Alias’s death. The swordswoman was, after all, always taking risks. The Night Masters might have destroyed her whether or not Victor Dhostar was a nice guy. Victor could just be a selfish, power-hungry jerk who’d used Alias. The world was full of them. Olive fumed whenever she thought of the way he’d carried off the swordswoman’s arm, as if he owned it. Victor Dhostar was definitely one more reason to drink.

  A pottery mug of Dragon’s Bite hovered at eye level, carried by a slim female halfling about half Olive’s age. The younger woman was dressed like a Luiren schoolteacher, in a long, black divided skirt and a starched white blouse buttoned tight at the wrists and to the top of its high collar. Her reddish blonde hair was twisted into a severe bun at the back of her head. She wore a bitter, no-nonsense expression on her severely angular face, which Olive thought might actually stop a beholder in its tracks, if beholders could leave tracks.

  “You’re drinking too much,” the younger halfling said, setting the mug down none too gently. She sat down at the table across from Olive.

  “Never would have guessed,” Olive snarled, taking a long pull on the fresh mug. She glared across the table at the new arrival until it became clear that her guest was not going to politely evaporate. “Was there a shift change? Are you my new waitress?” she asked.

  “I’m not a waitress,” the newcomer informed her. “You’re Olive Ruskettle,” she said, not really questioning, but not quite certain either.

  “Maybe,” Olive muttered.

  “And you’re employed by House Thalavar.”

  “Maybe,” Olive said with a sigh. She took another gulp of her drink.

  “And you were a friend of Alias of the Inner Sea,” said the other halfling.

  Olive sl
ammed her mug down hard. “What in the Abyss do you want, child?”

  The other halfling blinked for a moment, as if shocked by Olive’s outburst. Finally, she replied, “My name is Winterhart. I met Alias last summer in the Dalelands. I understand she is dead, and you were her friend. Please accept my condolences. I am also seeking employment. I’ve spent most of my days as an adventuress, so I have little experience as a servant, but Alias said I could use her as a reference. Does House Thalavar have use for a capable halfling?”

  Olive seethed silently. The friend-of-the-dead trick was an old halfling con. She was insulted that someone thought she was good enough to play it using Alias’s name, and insulted that anyone thought her fool enough to fall for it. “You were a friend of Alias, too, hmm?”

  “We met and talked,” Winterhart responded calmly. “I was impressed by her. I am truly sorry she is dead.”

  Well, Olive thought, at least she’s smart enough not to claim that Alias was an old friend from way back. Aloud she asked, “And you knew her from the Dalelands?”

  “Yes.” Winterhart’s head bobbed just a tad.

  “Then you know what song she first sang in the taproom of the Old Skull Inn,” Olive said offhandedly.

  “It was The Standing Stone,” Winterhart said, displaying the first trace of a smile, “an old elven tune with words by Finder Wyvernspur, the Nameless Bard. That was an easy one. Want to ask what her favorite color was?”

  “Her favorite color was blue,” Olive lied, waiting for Winterhart to take the bait.

  “Red,” Winterhart corrected. “Blue reminded her of her tattoo, which she thought of as a symbol of her previous enslavement. Shall I tell you how she first met Elminster, or how she nearly skewered Giogi Wyvernspur, or in which boot she kept her throwing dagger?”

  Olive smiled, delighted to be convinced of something for a change. “What is it you can do, Winnie?” she asked.

  “The name is Winterhart, and I prefer Miss Winterhart,” the younger halfling corrected. “I would make a suitable lady’s companion. I am trained in human customs and dress. I am also skilled with the sword, dagger, and bow, and can provide protection for the young mistress.”