Masquerades

by Kate Novak

  Olive looked with some surprise at Winterhart. “Think fast!” she snapped and threw her half-full mug at the younger halfling.

  Miss Winterhart dodged slightly to her right, her left hand snaking up and snaring the mug by its handle. She set it down smoothly without spilling a drop and slid it back in Olive’s direction.

  Olive’s reflexes were too deadened by drink to stop the mug in time. It slid into her lap, drenching her with its contents of liquor-laced ale. Olive stood up and cursed.

  “Drinking is a filthy habit,” Winterhart declared. “I have no truck with it.”

  Olive cursed some more as she tried unsuccessfully to brush the liquid from her leggings.

  “And bad language is another thing,” Winterhart added primly. “Foul words lead to foul deeds.”

  Olive did not reply. She studied Winterhart as carefully as she was capable of in her inebriated condition. The girl had fast reflexes and a strong will. If she was telling the truth about being skilled with weaponry and proved to have a modicum of halfling sense, she might be just the sort of woman suitable to take over as Thistle’s bodyguard.

  There was something else about Winterhart that impressed Olive. It was not the woman’s sobriety and primness, but what Olive sensed, or imagined she sensed, lay behind those traits. Winterhart had been hurt somehow, in the past, and she held herself tightly in check so that she didn’t fall apart. It didn’t make her a powerful ally, but it meant she had just the sort of strength Olive lacked. Nothing, Olive realized, could take away the pain of Alias’s death. With Winterhart behind her, however, Olive knew she would find the courage to avenge the swordswoman’s death. She would make the Night Masks pay for Alias’s murder, and if she found out Victor Dhostar was involved, she would make him pay, too.

  Had Olive been sober, such an unrealistic goal might never have occurred to her—she was far too cautious. She was not sober, though, and she saw in Winterhart not just a halfling seeking employment, but a sign from the gods.

  “Mistress Ruskettle, do you have an answer for me?” Winterhart demanded.

  Olive smiled grimly at the other halfling. “All right,” she agreed. “I’ll give you a trial period. But I’ll be watching you like a hawk!”

  Miss Winterhart nodded. “I don’t fear being watched, Mistress Ruskettle. As for trials—” Winterhart’s eyes focused on something in the distance, and her voice trailed off as she spoke. “—I am quite used to trials,” she said.

  Olive watched the younger halfling’s gaze as it followed the progress of the new croamarkh’s carriage away from the Tower. “Some trials are more difficult to bear than others,” Olive muttered, though she spoke not to Winterhart, but for her own benefit.

  “Blast them all to Baator!” Lord Victor thundered as he strode into the main hallway of Castle Dhostar. He threw his cloak at the footman. The butler appeared briefly, but upon seeing the look on his master’s face, he retreated back into the servants’ quarters, unwilling to deal with the young lord unless called upon to do so.

  Victor stormed into the library, where Kimbel was calmly reviewing piles of Mintassan’s books and scrolls. In the center of the table hovered a glowing sphere that the assassin had stolen from Blais House when he’d retrieved the swordswoman’s armor.

  “Difficult day running the city?” Kimbel queried as he rose and crossed to a sideboard. He poured a generous amount of Evermead into a glass and carried it to his master.

  Victor had thrown himself in a chair and sat there brooding.

  “I think this land was once completely forested,” the croamarkh muttered. “Then the bureaucrats invented paperwork.” He took the glass of Evermead, gulping it down like water. “There is a form for everything, sometimes two forms, on occasion, three. And gods forbid you sign anything without reading it, or else some clan might receive a windfall and the other clans will start screaming for your blood. And while you’re reading every bloody piece of paper the city clerks put in front of you, the other clans are robbing you blind, since you haven’t got the time to address your own business. Why can’t they just learn to shut up and follow my orders? That’s why they made me croamarkh, after all.”

  “Interim croamarkh,” Kimbel corrected softly.

  “Maybe I didn’t kill enough of them,” Victor mused. “Any charges we can trump up against one or two of them? Make an example of them to keep the others in line.”

  “Most unwise,” Kimbel replied. “It would be bad for business, and the reaction of those remaining would be distrust rather than fear. These are not Night Masters, but nobles, and even the young and inexperienced ones have believed all their life that power is their right. Besides, you already eliminated the most likely candidates.”

  “The irony,” Victor snarled, “is that I’ve kissed up to them for years to assure myself this rotten job, only to discover that I have to keep kissing up to them to keep it. We need a monarchy around here. I’m tired of all this open rebellion.” He turned to Kimbel sharply and asked, “Did you recover my mask?”

  Kimbel nodded. “Durgar stashed it in a desk drawer, no doubt unable to come to grips with having covered up Luer Dhostar’s infamy. I replaced it with a stage prop of Jamal’s, which I looted from Mintassan’s lair. It may be some time before Durgar realizes it’s not the genuine article. And, of course, I knew you’d appreciate the irony.”

  Victor allowed himself a smile. “Good old Durgar. There’s some more irony. I think I impressed him, arguing that we should tell the ‘truth.’ about Father. But Durgar is so anxious to preserve the established order that he concealed all father’s crimes.” An unsettling thought occurred to the young lord. “You don’t think he doubts that Father was the Faceless, do you?”

  “He does not appear to be pursuing the matter,” Kimbel replied, pulling a heavy tome from the pile and opening it to a page marked with a red ribbon. “Now, this is fascinating,” the assassin said as he perused the page. “A fortuitous coincidence, no doubt, considering your interest in monarchy.”

  “What?” Victor said.

  Kimbel motioned for the croamarkh to come and look.

  With some annoyance, Victor rose from his lethargic sprawl. He leaned over the tome, which had of late belonged to the sage Mintassan. The book was quite old, its cover cracked and frayed, its binding nearly disintegrated, its pages loose, covered in ornate, sweeping script.

  “The writing is Elvish and dates back to the last days of King Verovan.” Kimbel explained, but Victor held up a hand to silence him.

  “I can see that for myself,” the noble snarled. “You know Father insisted I learn all the subhuman languages—the better to trade with them, he would say.”

  Victor frowned with concentration as he pored over the text. “This describes the procedures and protocols of King Verovan’s court.”

  “I direct you to the fourth paragraph,” Kimbel said, “on the right-hand page.”

  “Hmmm.” Victor ran his finger along the script, mouthing the words silently, too self-conscious to translate aloud in front of the assassin. “It’s about Verovan’s treasure hoard!” he whispered excitedly. “It’s under, no, tucked away in an interdimensional demiplane, guarded by a … portion of the king’s own soul!”

  “Planes and dimensions were a specialty of young Mintassan’s,” Kimbel remarked.

  “At the top of Verovan’s castle, there is a portal into this plane,” Victor translated.

  “Matches the common folklore,” Kimbel said. “Verovan’s castle—that would be Castle Vhammos now, wouldn’t it? How terrible that the population of House Vhammos was decimated by the iron golems. The new lord of the castle is still, I believe, on business in Waterdeep, leaving the castle prey to all sorts of thieves. I presume the new croamarkh will want to step in and offer to protect this landmark until the new lord’s return.”

  “The key to open the passage to the demiplane is described as a copper feather,” Victor said. “The new croamarkh would need such a key before he tried anyth
ing so blatant. What’s this scrawl in the margin?”

  “I believe that is a notation of the late, unlamented Mintassan,” Kimbel said dryly.

  “But what does it say? ‘Lily Netted’? Why do sages always have such awful handwriting?”

  Kimbel bent over the book, peering at the notation. “I believe it says, ‘Lady Nettel.’ ”

  “The symbol of House Thalavar is a green feather, and the Thalavars are distant relatives of the Verovan line,” Victor said excitedly. “Copper patina is green. Doesn’t—didn’t Lady Nettel always wear some kind of a garish green brooch? You don’t suppose they buried it with her, do you?”

  Kimbel shook his head. “I believe Lady Thistle is now in possession of it. She was wearing it at her grandmother’s funeral.”

  “King’s Verovan’s treasure hoard.” Victor laughed with fiendish glee. “The loot gathered from a lifetime of sucking Westgate dry. Why, the gold alone would be sufficient to build a small empire. And the key hangs on dear little Dervish’s bosom—that sweet young girl who’s been left all alone in the world.” Victor chuckled nastily.

  Kimbel raised an eyebrow. “House Thalavar remains one of the most powerful rival houses. Forging an alliance with Lady Thistle could prove most useful when the council of merchants elects the next croamarkh.”

  Victor snorted. “Croamarkh! Once I charm that key from little Dervish, I can be king, with or without her support. Although … she could prove very useful, as the swordswoman was useful. She’s popular, lovely—can’t swing a sword, but at least she’s of the proper class. And she is young and impressionable. She could be easily swayed by the interests of a kind and dashing noble, eh?”

  “Assuming that said noble wasn’t still supposed to be mourning his last love,” Kimbel noted with a chill tone.

  “I should call on Lady Thistle. We can commiserate with one another over our losses. A girl like that will do wonders to help assuage the sorrow I feel over the death of dear Alias.”

  Twenty-One

  New Contracts

  Kimbel insisted it should not appear as if the new croamarkh was singling out Thistle for special attention. He arranged for Victor Dhostar to pay a courtesy call on each grieving noble family to express his sympathies. The calls took two full days. House Thalavar had been scheduled last, and Victor came to think of it as a reward for the ordeals he suffered at all the other houses. At each call, one of the ruling survivors button-holed him with some demand, request, or poorly veiled threat involving the family’s continued support. Victor could only shake his head sadly at these people as if to reprimand them for sullying such a solemn occasion with common business.

  He was received in the main hall of Castle Thalavar by Lady Thistle herself. The new head of House Thalavar was flanked by a pair of the ever-present halflings that plagued her particular household.

  Victor recognized the halfling on Thistle’s right as Alias’s ally, Olive Ruskettle. The halfling’s suspicious questions in the Faceless’s lair remained ingrained in his memory. When he saw the icy look in her eyes, he wished he had thought to include her somehow in the party that had “disappeared” with Alias in the sewer. The furry-footed creature could have no proof of anything, but that might not keep her from spreading rumors. He reassured himself with the knowledge, delivered by Kimbel, that the halfling seemed to be handling her grief over the swordswoman’s death by crawling into an ale keg.

  The other halfling was a reed-thin, stiff-backed girl dressed in a black gown so austere that she reminded Victor of the deceased Lady Nettel. As if that weren’t enough to make him uncomfortable, the halfling’s bright green eyes seemed to pierce Victor to his soul, looking for any smudge of evil with the relentless nature of a paladin’s gaze. The nobleman found himself unconsciously reaching to feel for his amulet of misdirection to be sure he was warded from her penetrating glare.

  If these two were Thistle’s advisors, Victor knew he might have an uphill battle for the lady’s affection. Lady Thistle, however, proved to be as charming as her bodyguards were sullen. She was dressed in mourning, but her golden hair shone in the afternoon light, and her face was flushed with excitement. She wore the green feather brooch that had once been her grandmother’s.

  Victor expected Thistle to try to show him how mature she was, and she did not disappoint him. Once she’d led the croamarkh out onto the veranda overlooking the city, she asked if he would prefer tea or wine. After the other three visits he’d made today, Victor really felt like wine, and he was really curious to see what effect it might have on Thistle, but the looks on the faces of the halfling bodyguards cooled his desires. He asked for tea. Thistle rang for a servant and ordered a tea tray, then motioned for Victor to take a chair opposite her. The servant who returned with the tea tray politely disappeared back into the castle, but Thistle’s two bodyguards remained standing behind her, like attack dogs restrained only by their mistress’s will.

  The talk was irritatingly small, as it always was when dealing with other nobles. It started with stilted condolences on each other’s losses and then shifted to the weather. They discussed in a guarded way their latest shipments in from Thay or caravans from Amn. They speculated on whether or not the Night Mask threat had abated or even disappeared entirely. Thistle expressed the opinion that if it were so, they owed it all to Alias. Victor agreed completely, giving him a chance to appear more aggrieved as he added that he wished the price had not been so high. In the end, to the apparent alarm of both halflings, Victor got what he’d really come for, a dinner date with Thistle for the next evening.

  Victor rose to leave just as a message arrived for Thistle, so Olive was assigned the task of escorting the croamarkh from the castle. Victor paused at the door and turned to the halfling. “I know you’re hurt by what happened to Alias,” he began.

  Olive scowled. “How nice of you to remember her.”

  Victor took a deep breath and pressed on, “She knew the risks, and all of Westgate is in her debt. I want to propose a statue in her honor. Would you like that?”

  Olive was silent for a moment, then asked, “Lord Victor, have you mistaken me for a child?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I missed something.”

  Olive sniffed. “Yes, you did,” she agreed coolly, “and now I miss something as well. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Victor bowed and stepped outside. Olive shut the door firmly behind him. He’s sorry, he says, the halfling thought cynically. “If I find out he had anything to do with Alias’s death, he’ll be sorry, all right,” she muttered as she stalked down the hall.

  Even if he weren’t involved in Alias’s death, Victor Dhostar was a vain jackass. Statue, indeed! He may have deceived Alias, but he was not going to ensnare Thistle, Olive resolved. Not if she had anything to say about it.

  Unfortunately, Thistle made Alias’s impulsive nature seem positively reasonable. When Olive returned to the veranda, the young noblewoman was in a heated discussion with Miss Winterhart.

  “I felt a little sorry for him,” said Thistle. “He’s like one of those tragic figures in a sad, romantic opera. He strives to break up the Night Masks, yet on the eve of his triumph, he loses both his father and his love.”

  “Triumph!” Winterhart laughed in an imperious tone that in any other household might have gotten her bounced down the front steps. “What triumph?”

  “Why, over the Night Masks,” Thistle responded, flustered by Winterhart’s attitude. “Everyone agrees that since everything has quieted down so, the Faceless must be dead and the Night Masks in chaos.”

  “Really?” Winterhart exclaimed. “Did you think thieves observed a period of mourning?” She looked at Olive. “Is she old enough to hear about the Grayclaws?”

  “She runs House Thalavar. I guess she must be. The Grayclaws,” Olive began before Thistle could lose her patience, “is the name of the thieves guild in Tantras. Tantras is a dead magic zone, so murder is just a little more common there than in other cities. Should the G
rayclaws’ guildmaster meet an untimely demise, as happens every few years in that city, everyone knows about it—immediately. There’s blood in the streets for weeks while various factions vie for control of the guild. The Tantrans call it a spell of red weather. I suppose there’s a very slight possibility that it’s different here in Westgate. It could be that the Faceless ran everything so tightly that his minions are afraid to make a move without him. It’s much more probable, however—”

  “—that the Faceless is still around,” Winterhart concluded, “and his grip on the Night Masks is as tight as ever.”

  Thistle considered their assessment silently for several moments. “It would be awful if that were true,” she said at last. “That would mean that Victor lost both love and father for nothing. That poor man.”

  Winterhart gave Olive a frustrated, angry look. The elder halfling shrugged, resigned to the battle to come. It was going to be a fight to keep Thistle away from Victor, but at least she seemed to have a reliably informed ally in the very proper Miss Winterhart.

  Victor noted that the door closed a trifle fast behind him—not enough to merit an insult, but enough to make the halfling’s point. In a few weeks, he thought, it might be reasonable for the Night Masks to make a reprisal attack on the halfling who was the friend of the woman responsible for killing their leader.

  Victor climbed into his carriage and set off for the Tower. He didn’t know how much longer he could tolerate the interminable paperwork and meetings. He spotted Jamal’s street troupe giving a performance, and, overcome by an urge to procrastinate, ordered the driver to stop.

  The Faceless lived, at least on stage, though Jamal had replaced her stolen prop mask of coins with a veil of golden fabric. She was ordering her Night Masks about with a large wooden spoon, ordering them to “be still.” The Night Masks would freeze in impossibly ridiculous positions under the Faceless’s merciless eye. Jamal’s Faceless would smack an offender for twitching or swaying, and he would go catapulting forward. One Night Mask tried to surreptitiously pick a fellow thief’s pocket, but was spotted and received a smack for his action.