Masquerades

by Kate Novak

  The audience, and it was a small one, appeared unimpressed as the Faceless put the collected Night Masks through a precision drill. They dropped to the floor as one and jumped around like frogs while Jamal sounded the beat with the pounding stick. Victor noted that the various puppets representing the noble families were not in use, and that there was nothing mentioning the new croamarkh, either good or ill. He wasn’t sure whether to be pleased by that or not. Jamal might have complained about her eviction from Mintassan’s, but she might also have at least given the new croamarkh credit for the relative peace in the city, even if she didn’t seem to believe the Faceless was deceased.

  Then up popped a figure wrapped completely in black bandages, save for its right arm, which was bare. The arm was marked with Alias’s tattoo and wielded a wooden sword. Jamal’s Faceless quailed in the presence of Alias’s disembodied spirit and sent the Night Masks out to stop it. The thieves were quickly bested, one after another. Then the spirit chased the Faceless himself around the small stage until he tripped. As the villain lay on the ground, the arm pressed the sword into his breast. The shrouded figure cried out, “Heroes never truly die!” and lunged forward. The Faceless shuddered and expired.

  Scattered, bored clapping broke out in the crowd, but that did not prevent Jamal and her troupe from bouncing nimbly to their feet and bowing to the applause.

  Victor grinned with delight. Most of the populace was sick of the Night Masks, bored with dead heroes, tired of Jamal’s proselytizing theater. If something happened to Jamal, there would be fewer questions.

  Of course, destroying potential threats took a low priority with all the other work to be done. With a sigh, Victor, signaled his driver to continue on to the Tower.

  There, annoyed at being kept waiting by the croamarkh, a Thayan representative awaited, a female Red Wizard who really only wanted to be reassured that trade would continue as it had under Luer’s administration. The Thayan was followed by a Sembian, various Dalesmen, and representatives of King Azoun’s court. Each, in turn, was similarly reassured. One of the surviving old nobles, Maergyrm Thorsar, had scheduled an appointment to lecture the croamarkh on Waterdhavian moneylenders. Victor was afraid he’d fall asleep before he was able to show the old bore the door. After Thorsar came the widow of Ssentar Urdo, who was protesting a rumor she had heard that Alias would get a statue when none was being erected for the widow’s dear, departed husband and sons. Then, when Victor thought his schedule was finally cleared, Durgar arrived with the arrest reports, which required the croamarkh’s attention due to the delicate nature of some of the arrested persons.

  As it was, Victor was drained, both mentally and physically, when he finally escaped back to his castle. Yet not even then could he rest. He stood wearily as Kimbel bedecked him in his heavy, dark robes, tied on the porcelain mask that protected him from magical discovery, and finally covered him with the coin mask, which transformed him into the Faceless.

  With a sigh, Victor stepped up to and then through the mirror in his chambers. The reflective surface parted for him like a pool of still water and deposited him in his latest secret lair. This one lay in a rough-hewn sub-basement beneath the currently empty Vhammos Castle.

  The Night Masters were as restless as halflings waiting for dinner. The irregularities of the days since the ball had strained their self-discipline to the limits. They spoke out of turn, often all at once, questioned his every command, and made demands of their own. They made the nobles in the surface world seem like reasonable, rational beings. For a moment, Victor considered turning his remaining golems loose among them, but only for a moment, for he still needed the Night Masters to keep the peace among the Night Masks. Later, he thought, when they’ve outlived their usefulness.

  “When can we get back to business?” Harborside asked.

  “Do you realize how much money I’m losing?” Thunnside whined.

  “People are saying that witch Alias killed you. Why aren’t you doing something about it?” Noble Relations clamored.

  “How do we know you really are the Faceless? Can you give us proof?” Enforcement demanded.

  Victor let his frustrations drain away as he embraced his Faceless persona. Once again he was demanding, powerful, and sure of himself. He turned his face toward Enforcement.

  “Would you like the same demonstration I gave to Gateside?” the Faceless queried, a certain amount of amusement creeping into his magically disguised voice.

  All voices were silenced immediately. The Faceless motioned for all to be seated.

  “Alias is dead. Of that you had proof. Perhaps you would like me to leave her arm on this table as a centerpiece for a few weeks. Alias’s allies and the croamarkh who hired her are also dead. It is hardly my fault that people are fools enough to believe she succeeded in destroying me. Nonetheless, for the moment it suits my plans for people to believe in my demise. The new croamarkh is far more pliable than his father was, and he will serve us well, but it is important that his power be more firmly established. Therefore we will let him take credit for my destruction, for the time being.

  “As for how much money you are losing, Thunnside, I really don’t care. You’ve earned more wealth in this position than a dragon could hoard in its lifetime. If you could contain your urge to gamble, you would still have all that wealth. And, last, but not least, Harborside. Your business at the moment is to contain your forces. This is essential to your continuing in your current position. I guarantee it will be worth your while.”

  Having poured oil on their turbulent waters, the Faceless pressed on. “As a direct result of our success against Alias and her allies, information has come into my hands regarding the treasure hoard of King Verovan.”

  There was a collective gasp, just barely audible, but unmistakable. The Faceless smiled. Now he had them by their pocketbooks. Verovan’s legendary hoard was the secret fantasy of every thief in Westgate.

  “The young fool Mintassan discovered the secret,” the Night Masters’ lord explained, “though the sage never investigated it. Just as legend has it, there is a magical gate from the battlements above. Unlike all who have tried before me to locate this gate, I have discovered the location of the key. Once I have that key, Verovan’s hoard will be ours to pillage.”

  A murmur of approval rose from the nine surviving Night Masters, but the Faceless was not finished. He silenced them with a stroke of his hand. When they grew silent, their master continued. “I want you to call together your lieutenants, their assistants, and their assistants’ minions, along with whatever fighters, priests, and wizards you trust and choose to reward. We will gather in the main hall of Castle Vhammos in three nights’ time to loot Verovan’s hoard. Then there will be no doubt that it is the Night Masks who truly rule Westgate!”

  Harborside led a round of applause, which silenced any other questions or doubts. The Night Masters filed out, congratulating themselves on their good fortune.

  Seated on his stone throne, Victor, the Faceless, cradled a heavy head in his hand. It was exhausting managing a city, a family business, a criminal cartel, and a seduction all at once. When he finally had Verovan’s treasure, he would turn loose his golems on this nest of thieves. Then there would be nothing standing between him and his eventual empire.

  Twenty-Two

  The Gathering Storm

  Olive’s attempts to steer Thistle away from Victor were thwarted by the hard-line attitude of her supposed ally, Miss Winterhart. The halfling newcomer, while capable, intelligent, and alert, had to be the most tactless halfling in Faerûn. Unfortunately, Olive did not discover this flaw until the morning after Thistle’s dinner date with Victor Dhostar, and by then it was too late.

  That morning Olive was headed toward the dining hall, her mind on mushroom-and-chicken omelets, when she heard Thistle, angry and strident, shout, “It is none of your business what Victor and I did last night.”

  All thoughts of breakfast took a back seat to whatever potential disaster was br
ewing with the mistress of the house. Olive veered in the direction of the shout. She spied Thistle seated on the veranda, cornered by an irate Winterhart.

  “It is very much my business if it threatens you or your household,” Miss Winterhart snapped back just as Olive stepped outside to join them.

  “Something amiss?” Olive asked helpfully, hoping to instill some calm in the air before the other halflings in the household heard the argument and began gossiping about it.

  “This new halfling of yours,” said Thistle, her eyes squinting with annoyance, “is prying into my private affairs. Her manner has gone beyond mere halfling cheek, and verges on full-fledged impertinence.” If Thistle had been standing, Olive was sure she would have stamped her dainty little foot, but she was not, and so Olive was spared that bit of theatrics.

  “She sneaked out to dine with Victor Dhostar last night without a chaperon or a bodyguard,” Winterhart explained to Olive, “and she did not return until well after the midnight bell.

  “I am mistress of this house,” Thistle retorted shrilly. “I will not be given a curfew.”

  “Of course not, Lady Thistle,” Olive agreed. “Yet midnight is a little late for a dinner engagement to run, even in Westgate. Surely you can understand how Miss Winterhart must have worried for your safety.”

  “There was nothing to worry about,” Thistle replied, her voice softening a little. “It was just a dinner aboard The Gleason, a farewell banquet for the captain and the officers. Afterward we climbed up the lighthouse, just for the view. That’s all.”

  “A likely story,” Winterhart exclaimed.

  “I beg your pardon?” Thistle said with a shocked expression.

  “You heard me,” Winterhart replied. “He didn’t take you up there for the view. He took you up there so he could give you his little speech about how he dreamed of finding Verovan’s treasure so he could use it to make Westgate the greatest city in the Realms—greater than Waterdeep. How he’ll make Westgate safe, fill it with scholars and musicians, irrigate the fields.”

  Thistle started at the mention of Verovan’s treasure, but her tone was as cold as the Great Glacier when she answered. “I do not appreciate my own staff spying on me. How dare you follow us?”

  “Did you believe him when he told you he felt he could conquer the world with you by his side? When he asked if he would have the support of a clever, beautiful lady, what did you tell him? Have you given him a token of your esteem?” Winterhart asked snidely.

  The girl reached without thinking, to feel the feather brooch pinned to her gown. “I find this petty espionage most unappealing,” she snapped back, but her face flushed scarlet as she spoke.

  “How else can I be expected to protect you from such a devious scoundrel?” Winterhart demanded.

  “Victor,” Thistle replied icily, “is … not … a … scoundrel. Mistress Ruskettle, I think you should find some other duties for Miss Winterhart. I simply cannot tolerate her as a lady’s maid.” The girl rose and strode imperiously back into the castle.

  Olive surveyed Thistle’s untouched breakfast tray and plucked a piece of bacon from the plate. She crunched on it as she thoughtfully appraised Winterhart.

  The younger halfling glared back at her. “How can she be such a fool to fall for that arrogant, conniving greengrocer?” Winterhart growled.

  “She’s a girl, Winterhart,” Olive said, picking up a forkful of fried potatoes. “Remember when you were a girl? When you argued with your mother about the relative worth or worthlessness of some boy who took your fancy? When you were certain you could take care of yourself without anyone’s help? When no one could reason with you?”

  “I was never like that,” Winterhart argued.

  “Never? I’m beginning to wonder about you, Winterhart,” Olive said and wolfed down the forkful of potatoes.

  She motioned for the other halfling to follow her down to the lower courtyard, where Kretschmer, one of the few surviving members of Lady Nettel’s guard, was drilling the new recruits Olive had hired. Olive pulled two wooden swords off the rack and tossed one to the prim halfling. Winterhart caught the practice weapon smoothly.

  “It’s time I assessed your reputed skill with a blade,” Olive said.

  “Is this another trial, Mistress Ruskettle?” Winterhart asked.

  “No. Just a little exercise while we discuss tactics.” Olive gave Winterhart’s wooden blade a smack with her own. Winterhart responded by weaving her sword warily.

  “I applaud your initiative following Lady Thistle last night,” Olive said. “I can’t, however, say I think much of the way you gave yourself away.” She struck a blow aimed at Winterhart’s thigh.

  Winterhart parried the strike easily. “Does this mean you will try to convince Her Ladyship to keep me on as her personal maid?”

  Olive shook her head, parrying a blow of Winterhart’s aimed directly at her heart. “I can’t afford to invite censure on myself. Someone’s got to undo the damage you’ve done.”

  “Damage I’ve done?” Winterhart squeaked, lunging with her blade at Olive’s shoulder. “Victor Dhostar is the one who’ll being doing all the damage. That man is a menace,” the younger halfling snarled.

  “Agreed,” Olive replied, leaping backward to avoid the lunge.

  “If you know I’m right, you have to keep me close to Lady Thistle,” Winterhart said, pressing her advantage, lunging again with her blade at Olive’s shoulder. “Did you see how she blushed when I asked her if she’d given him a token? Did you notice she left the veranda instead of ordering me away? Even she knows I’m right.”

  “It doesn’t matter who is right to a girl like Thistle,” Olive said with a sigh, smacking the hilt of Winterhart’s sword away from her body. “It matters who makes her feel good about herself. Dhostar makes her feel like a woman. You made her feel like a child. You’ve practically driven her into Dhostar’s arms. I’ve got to try to make her feel like a lady before Dhostar makes her forget her position.” She struck a blow against Winterhart’s hip.

  Winterhart’s blade whipped back before Olive had a chance to parry. The tip of the younger halfling’s weapon slid across Ruskettle’s throat.

  Olive stepped back and saluted with her practice weapon. “You have the drive and the skill and the reflexes,” she told Winterhart, “but you still have to learn when to pull back. I’m assigning you to help Kretschmer drill the new recruits. That would be a better use of your skills, I think.”

  Winterhart glared at Olive.

  More softly, Olive added, “Should you happen to show any more initiative and follow Lady Thistle about, without getting caught at it, or letting her know afterward, that would probably be the best use of your skills.”

  Winterhart smiled slyly and saluted Olive with her own wooden blade.

  Kimbel stood in the center of the Faceless’s new lair, turning slowly, surveying the contents of the room. From inside his shirt he pulled out a golden rod and began tapping it against all the magic in his sight, against the remaining iron golems, against the masks worn by the Night Masters, against the enchanted staves and weaponry hanging on the wall. A tiny spark jumped from the wand each time it touched a magic item.

  A bell chimed, and Kimbel turned to face the magical portal mirror as a figure stepped through and entered the lair.

  “You’re late,” the assassin noted calmly to the new arrival, a comely halfling dressed very primly.

  “I’ve been reassigned,” Winterhart explained. “Ruskettle’s got me drilling the Thalavar castle guard. You’ve never seen a sorrier bunch of would-be warriors. I couldn’t get away until lunchtime.”

  “You aren’t eating with the others? Someone might suspect you’re not a halfling,” Kimbel said.

  “It will be over before anyone guesses the truth,” Winterhart replied.

  “So you aren’t Lady Thistle’s maid anymore? Do you think you’ll get a chance to snatch her brooch in your new position.”

  “No, but despite my warni
ngs, Thistle is obviously crazy about your master. I’m sure he’ll have no trouble sweet-talking her into handing it over to him. He’ll probably enjoy that more than receiving it from one of us.”

  An evil chuckle drifted around the pair. “So true,” a disembodied voice agreed.

  Kimbel whirled about, the little golden wand in his hand held out at the ready, but Winterhart stayed his hand. “It’s only the dragon skull,” the halfling woman said. She turned to the corner of the room where the dragon’s skull sat balanced on an iron tripod, its eyes glowing like hot coals. “Hail, Mistinarperadnacles Hai Draco,” the halfling said coolly.

  “Hail, servants of the Faceless,” Mist replied and chuckled again.

  “And what amuses you so?” Kimbel asked the creature.

  “I have lost my life, my body, and my freedom, yet I still have my sight,” Mist replied, “and a dragon’s sight is not easily deceived by invisibility, illusion, or other magic.”

  “Prove it,” Winterhart challenged. “Tell me what you know.”

  “Very well. You, Miss Winterhart, are no more a halfling than I, but I know what and who you are,” Mist retorted. “As for Kimbel, I think the Faceless would be very interested to know the truth about his magically enslaved assassin. There is a way, however, to ensure my silence. You know what it is.”

  Winterhart nodded. “Once the Faceless has obtained Verovan’s hoard for the Night Masks, I will grant you your boon.”

  Victor Dhostar sat in his office in the Tower, listening to one of the city’s accountants explain why the budget for the preceding month had been exceeded by twenty thousand gold pieces, but how the deficit for the current month would only be half that amount if the croamarkh passed the oar and sail tax. Fortunately, the croamarkh was delivered from having to deal immediately with the budget nightmare by a knock on the door.