Masquerades

Fifteen The Lair of the Faceless

The fog that had drifted through Westgate’s streets the night before now climbed as high as the city’s wall and poured into the outlying countryside. The midday sun, covered with layer after layer of clouds, was powerless to burn off the mists. From the top floor of the Tower Alias surveyed the few islands of solid matter high enough to poke above the gray shroud: the towers of the merchant nobles’ castles, the heaven-aimed spire of the Temple to Ilmater, the Westlight, and the Tower, where she stood.

She’d come to the Tower to see Durgar, but he’d gone out to investigate the remains of last night’s mysterious fire. Taking one last look at the covered city, Alias hurried back downstairs to meet Dragonbait and Olive, who had waited for her in the reception hall below.

The halfling, who had regained consciousness soon after they’d left the secret tunnel, now paced up and down the hall, unable to hide her eagerness to hunt for the Faceless’s lair. She bore a long, jagged scar on her leg, but Dragonbait had healed her wound sufficiently so that it gave her no pain. Dragonbait stood very still beside the gate, but from the twitch in his tail Alias could see that he, too, was anxious to be going. He had even grown less annoyed by Alias’s promise to Melman that she would free him later; an attitude that would hold only as long as it appeared Melman had been truthful with them.

“Looks like we go alone,” Alias said after explaining Durgar’s absence. “The watch captain on duty says he doesn’t have the authority to send a patrol out to investigate unless the peace is being disturbed.”

The three adventurers donned their heavy cloaks, and Olive lit the lantern she carried before they went outside. Westgate was like a ghost city, for the fog shrouded commerce as well. There were no booths or carts set up in the market; very few shops appeared open, and those that were had no customers. Even those people hardy enough to venture the streets at night remained indoors in the fog. Alias wondered if even the Night Masks avoided working in the fog.

The sound of their footsteps was muffled by the water in the air so that the adventurers appeared to be three wraiths gliding along the streets. Dragonbait squinted, concentrating on using his shen sight so that they wouldn’t be surprised by anything coming out of the fog. They strode due east on Silverpiece Way to the bridge that crossed the River Thunn.

Five stone arches supported the River Bridge, and the road across it was wide enough for two large wagons and several extra pedestrians to use at once. The bridge was not only a masterful feat of engineering but a dumping ground for stone carvings looted from King Verovan’s castle when he had died. Brooding gargoyles held out stone braziers flickering with oil flames, which pushed ineffectually at the foggy darkness. Curling sea serpents made up the bridge’s railings. The statues of ancient historical figures lined the center, dividing it into two distinct lanes.

At high tide, the river below would slam into the rising waters of the sea, creating a surging wave that ran the width of the river just downstream from the bridge. Now, at low tide, the two bodies of water collided near the mouth of the bay, no more than a mere rill on the water’s surface. The river level also dropped down a few feet, uncovering a wide expanse of muddy sandbank beneath the bridge. The adventurers veered from the bridge and made their way down to the sandbank.

“This must be a good place to dig for clams,” Alias noted.

Olive shook her head. “According to the halflings in the Thalavar household, there’s some sea serpent called the quelzarn that lurks in these waters. People who come down here tend to disappear.

“Disappearances no doubt arranged by the Faceless to conceal his lair,” Alias guessed. She pulled Melman’s key from her pocket, and, holding the key loop up to her eye, scanned the stone embankment. She pointed to a featureless spot a little ways downstream at the foot of the embankment. “There,” she said, handing the key to the halfling.

Olive peered through the key loop. It was like looking through a soap bubble. Rainbows of color swirled before her eye, but when she looked toward the spot where Alias pointed, a hot white light shone before her eye. She offered the key to Dragonbait, but the saurial declined to use the magic item, disdainful of handling any Night Mask magic unless absolutely necessary. Out of habit, Olive ran her finger down the teeth of the key, registering its shape, before returning it to the swordswoman.

Once more Alias held the key up to her eye. She strode purposefully toward the stone embankment. Olive could detect only slight, irregular frost cracks in the rock. Alias reached out with her hand and touched a spot on the rock. “There’s some sort of keyhole here,” she said. Then she guided the key to the hand she held on the wall like a woman trying to unlock a door in the dark.

The key slid smoothly into the rock; Alias twisted it, and from beneath the ground came the sound of a huge bolt being thrown.

The erratic pattern of cracks joined in the shape of a rough-hewn door some three feet across by five feet high. The door popped a few inches out of the wall. Dragonbait grasped its edge and muscled it open.

Behind the entrance lay a tunnel several feet wider and higher than the door. Alias looked around. An outcropping of rock in the muddy bank blocked any view from the bridge. The riverbed widened considerably just below the bridge, so no one standing on the opposite shore at night would be able to see more than the light of their lantern. It was a location well hidden in plain sight.

Olive thrust her lantern into the inky black tunnel. Brickwork lined the walls, floors, and arched ceiling as far back as they could see. All three adventurers drew their blades and slipped through the door. Dragonbait growled the command for his blade to ignite.

There was a ring attached to the back of the door. Alias gave it a tug, pulling the door nearly closed so that it did not attract visitors behind them, but leaving enough of a gap that they could flee the tunnels easily should the need arise. Then the trio plunged into the darkness.

Thirty feet down, the passage emptied into a larger tunnel with an uneven floor and a canted ceiling cut directly into bedrock. This tunnel appeared to be far older. Along its length were several side passages, all of which were bricked up. The older tunnel went on for some distance straight ahead.

Finally the passage widened slightly. On one side were ten empty sconces, and on the other, ten empty pegs.

“At last we’ve found the cloak room of the Faceless,” Olive joked.

Another ten feet ahead, the passage spilled out into a large vault cut out of the solid stone. The walls were bare, and the furnishing was sparse but impressive: a massive obsidian table streaked with veins of gold, polished to a liquidlike luster. Ten large wooden chairs, five to a side, stood about the table, and at the head, on a raised dais, stood a throne of the same black-and-gold material as the table. On the table sat a brass brazier, unlit but stoked with fresh charcoal. Beside the brazier lay a black cloth covering a small object.

Alias lifted the black cloth. Beneath it was a white porcelain mask, a domino mask painted about the eyes and a glyph on the forehead.

“The mark for Gateside,” Alias noted. “Melman’s district.”

Olive proceeded around the room, tapping the walls and looking for secret access ways.

“Is the Faceless simply letting the others know of Melman’s death or informing them that he himself was responsible?” the paladin mused.

Alias shrugged and laid the black cloth back over the mask.

“Yes!” Olive whispered from the wall behind the obsidian throne. She knocked again, and they all heard the distinct hollow sound. Olive could just make out with her fingertips the hair-thin crack that betrayed the edges of a secret passageway. After several minutes searching, though, she was still at a loss for a handhold, button, or switch to open it. Alias pushed on the edges of the door in case it pivoted, but without result.

“Try Melman’s key,” the halfling suggested.

Alias peered at the closed passage through the handle of the iron key. “Nothing,” she reported.

“Guess it was too much to hope that Melman would have access to the Faceless’s inner sanctum,” the halfling muttered.

“We may need a mage for this,” Alias said with a sigh, wondering just how many times she was going to have to go to Mintassan for help.

“Boogers,” Olive cursed.

There was a sharp crack, and the entire wall panel swung slightly outward and upward, revealing another stone passage.

Alias looked at the halfling, stunned.

“I guessed the secret word!” Olive cried out excitedly.

From behind them came the clicking sound of the saurial’s laughter. Dragonbait was standing behind the obsidian throne with a clawed finger resting on a panel in the back of the throne. As they watched, the saurial pushed the panel and the door swung closed.

“I would have thought of that next,” Olive said with a sniff.

Dragonbait reopened the door. Just inside was another empty sconce. Most notable about this passage, though, was the damp, pungent smell, not of the sea, but of sewage. Wrinkling their noses, the adventurers proceeded through this new tunnel, Olive in the lead, with Alias and Dragonbait just behind her.

Despite the lantern she carried, Olive did not see the chasm that abruptly crossed the passage until she was right on top of it. Fortunately, the stench and the sound of running water had warned her to slow down and she was able to back away from the edge before she stepped into the yawning void. Alias and Dragonbait halted beside her, and they all peered downward. Across their path lay a circular sewage tunnel lined with brick. They stood near the top of the tunnel. On the other side, nearly twenty feet away, the passageway to the Faceless’s lair continued on. Ten feet below them the sewage of Westgate churned and surged past.

“You’d think the Faceless would be concerned that a sewer inspector might stumble on this place,” Olive quipped.

“Cities the size of Westgate have enough underground sewers, pipes, and cisterns to confuse a dwarf. They probably built this tunnel before King Verovan’s time and promptly forgot it,” Alias retorted.

“How’re we going to cross it?” the halfling asked.

Alias shrugged. “The Faceless must have some way across,” she said.

Dragonbait picked up a handful of pebbles from the floor and tossed them into the chasm. They skittered horizontally in midair, some finally tumbling into the dark water below, but others remained suspended, resting on an invisible surface.

“Aren’t you clever,” Alias said, smiling at the saurial.

The paladin shrugged. He could detect the bridge from the way it masked the heat flowing up from the sewage below.

Alias stepped out into the void. Assured that the bridge was sturdy beneath her feet, she continued across, using her sword as a cane to tap out the edges of the bridge. It was only two feet wide, but flat and smooth. Nonetheless, when she reached the opening in the sewer wall at the opposite end and stepped off the bridge, she breathed a sigh of relief. She turned and waved for the others to follow.

Olive began crossing next, using her own sword as a guide. The halfling moved more quickly than the swordswoman had, but when she was halfway across the bridge, she froze.

Alias furrowed her brow in puzzlement. Olive had never been afraid of heights, yet now she stood motionless, looking down into the water. “Come on, Olive!” the swordsman whispered urgently.

“I can’t,” Olive retorted through clenched teeth. “I want to move, but I can’t! Feels like magic, maybe some kind of trap.”

Alias had just set one foot back on the bridge when something erupted from the water below. By the light of Olive’s lantern the swordswoman could make out a great serpentine beast—its body stretching out far longer than the lantern light could make out. Its back was covered in a diamond pattern of green and brown scales, and a green fin ran the full length of its eel-like body. It reared its head, revealing a yellow belly, and filthy water dripped from the slimy moss coating its scales. Thrusting upward toward Olive, it roared with a mouth large enough to swallow the halfling in a single gulp. Needle teeth glistened by the light of the halfling’s lantern. In the beast’s eyes Alias imagined she could detect intelligence and cunning. “It’s the quelzarn!” Alias shouted. “Olive, you have to move!”

Olive, unable to comply, looked into the maw, wondering if she could cut her way out from the inside. She realized with a sickening dread that her chances of doing so were not good even if the magic that now held her disappeared once she was swallowed.

Just as the sea serpent’s head arched over Olive, the saurial scooped the halfling up in his arms and dashed across the bridge to the other side. The quelzarn snapped its jaws on empty air, squealed with annoyance, and slid back into the water.

Dragonbait set Olive down gently. The halfling was breathing so heavily that Alias was afraid she might pass out before she regained control.

“Why do these things always happen to me?” the halfling moaned. “Why didn’t it use magic to hold you in place?”

“Maybe it just wanted a light snack,” Alias teased. “It probably noticed your lantern. I went across without one.”

“Or you’re more resistant to its magic.” The enchantment holding Olive dissolved suddenly, and she started like a sleeper in a dream. “Boy, I really hate magic, sometimes. Now I’m all pins and needles,” she complained, rubbing her limbs.

They finally got Olive back on her feet again and continued onward. The passageway on this side of the sewer sloped upward, ending in a short staircase. Alias wondered if they might be climbing into the basement of a building by the river, but she realized they must be somewhere beneath a hill when they reached the top of the stair and they stood in one more underground cavern carved out of solid bedrock. Magical lanterns bathed the cavern in a bright yellow glow, leaving them no doubt that they had discovered what they’d been seeking.

“Jackpot!” Olive whispered in awe.

Alias nodded in agreement.

The Faceless’s treasury made Melman’s hoard look like the collection plate at a dead god’s church. Great sea chests, closed and locked, were stacked against one wall. A multitude of weapons, from swords and polearms to wands and staves, hung from another. Dozens of open amphoras stood in an alcove, stuffed to overflowing in the southern fashion with jewelry and gems.

On a workbench in the center of the room stood a rack like a tree—with twelve long pegs branching out from its central pole. Hanging from the peg branches were eleven white porcelain masks, each with a different glyph painted over the domino mask markings about the eye slits. A twelfth branch was empty—no doubt the one that had once held Melman’s mask. A large mirror was mounted on the wall to the right of the workbench. To the other side stood two rows of statues. Behind the workbench a fountain pool gushed water in a burbling rhythm.

“I always say there’s nothing like the sound of a fountain for relaxing at the end of a hard day’s extortion and murder,” the halfling joked.

Alias held up a hand to silence the halfling. She thought she saw movement near the statues. She motioned for Dragonbait and Olive to take up positions on either side of the workbench as she moved around it.

The statues were iron, covered with a thin film of oil to ward off rust. They were about twice Alias’s height, molded in a humanoid form but with dragon heads. Alias was sure they were some sort of golem—automatons capable of serving as deadly guards. Those constructed of iron often breathed poisonous gas, and Alias found herself holding her breath as she approached them.

She reached out and touched the nearest statue. It was cool and remained immobile. If the statues were iron golems, they did not appear to be activated. They were set in a military formation, two rows deep. It was in the back line where she thought she saw movement.

The warrior woman slid between the two ranks, moving as silently as a cat. She saw a flash of light on metal behind the second rank. Swinging around the line, Alias raised her sword, prepared to skewer whatever skulked back there.

Fortunately, her mind analyzed what she saw before her instincts took over. She recognized the man in fine silk vestments who stood before her gripping with white knuckles a sword held out in an awkward defensive position.

“Victor!” Alias gasped.

Victor Dhostar lowered his sword and held his other hand over his heart as if to keep it from leaping out of his chest. His eyes were wide with both fear and astonishment. “Alias!” he exclaimed, breathing a sigh of relief. “Am I glad to see you!”

“Come on out,” Alias ordered, holding her sword level, still ready to strike. Magical creatures sometimes used the face of a friend as a ploy to get adventurers to lower their guard.

Victor stumbled forward sheepishly, nodding at the saurial and the halfling as they approached him warily. “Dragonbait. Mistress Ruskettle. How do you do? I was afraid you were the Faceless.”

Alias looked at the paladin for some confirmation of Victor’s identity.

Dragonbait concentrated his shen sight on the man before him. There was nothing but the sky-blue of grace in his soul. If he was not Victor Dhostar, he was his twin in all respects. The saurial nodded.

Alias exhaled and sheathed her sword. Then she leaned in toward Victor and snapped angrily, “What are you doing down here?” Her voice rang through the chamber like a bell clapper.

Victor sighed. “Being a damned fool,” he answered. “I thought I could help you find the Faceless’s lair. I followed up a few clues and found this place. I was investigating it when I heard a voice down the hall. I hid because I thought it might be the Faceless.”

“How did you get past the quelzarn?” Olive asked suspiciously.

Victor blinked twice. “There was a quelzarn? I mean, there really is one?” he asked.

“Perhaps it didn’t attack because it failed to hold him magically, just as it let me across,” Alias suggested.

Olive was not mollified. “So how did you get in?” she demanded of the merchant noble.

“This,” Victor said, pulling out from his vest pocket a key on a pink ribbon. He handed the key to Olive. It appeared identical to the one Alias had from Melman. “There’s a secret door on the banks of the Thunn. You look through that hole in the grip to see it, then the key opens the door.”

“How did you find the secret passage beyond the meeting room?” Olive demanded, running her fingers along the teeth of the key before handing it back.

“The latch behind the throne. King Verovan had something like that over a hundred years ago. Now it’s a fairly standard release for the merchant houses to use in their treasuries.”

“Where did you get the key?” Olive demanded.

Victor looked down at his hands as if examining them for dirt. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” he said coolly.

“Can’t or won’t?” Olive pressed.

“Olive,” Alias said in a cautioning tone.

Victor met Olive’s intense gaze. “Won’t,” he retorted. “Certainly not to an employee of a rival house.” He looked at Alias. “I will explain all to you later,” he said, “when we are alone.”

Alias accepted the noble’s terms with a nod, but she had to ask, “Lord Victor, if you had some clues, why didn’t you contact me?

Victor sheathed his sword. “There was some indication that another noble house was involved, so I thought I had better check it out first, to spare you another incident like yesterday’s with the Urdos,” the young man explained.

“You shouldn’t have come down here alone. You could have been killed!” the swordswoman exclaimed.

“I realize you think of me only as a merchant, but I am capable with a sword and I can take care of myself,” Victor replied.

There was a chill in the nobleman’s tone that stung Alias like an icy rain. I’ve offended his pride, she realized, and although she couldn’t help think of the awkward way he’d held his sword up only a moment ago, she knew she couldn’t bring herself to challenge him. “Victor, this isn’t about your being able to take care of yourself,” she began carefully. “This is about your life being too important to risk on such a reckless excursion. Your father, the croamarkh, needs you. Westgate needs you.” The swordswoman held his eyes with her own and, in a whisper, added, “I need you.”

“How absolutely precious,” a harsh whisper echoed through the cavern. “I’d nearly forgotten how amusing mammal love is.”

Alias and Dragonbait held their swords up at the alert and wheeled back to back in a long-practiced maneuver. Without discussion they kept Lord Victor between them. Olive ducked quickly into the shadow of the iron statues.

The pool at the far end of the room began to bubble and hiss, and from it rose a great dragon’s skull. “Hello, children.” The words seemed to come from the dragon’s skull. Its tone was mock cheerfulness. “It’s good to see you again, even in my reduced circumstances.”

It took only moments for all three adventurers to place the voice, but it was Olive who replied first.

“Misty!” the halfling chirped, sheathing her sword and stepping out from the shadows. “Long time!”

“So nice to be remembered,” the dragon skull said as the water finished dripping from its sides. “I have not forgotten you either, Mistress Ruskettle. Or you, Champion. Or you, Alias, you red-headed witch.”

Alias moved cautiously toward the skull. “Mistinarperadnacles. You’re an ally of the Faceless, aren’t you?”

“No, witch. I’m merely a pawn,” the dragon skull answered. “Just as is everyone in this city, yourselves included.”

Victor stepped forward. “I am no man’s pawn, dead thing,” the young lord declared.

Mist’s laughter rang all about them. “You are one of the biggest pawns of all, Dhostar pup. Pawn to your father, pawn to your ambitions, pawn to your … desires.

“As for you, Alias of the Inner Sea, you are a pawn of the Faceless’s. He has plans for you. He will make himself your master.”

“An evil sorceress, a lich, a fiend from Tarterus, a mad god, and an assassins’ guild all tried to master me. All are now dead,” Alias retorted.

“True,” Mist replied. “If your luck is still as it was, you may defeat the Faceless. I will aid you in exchange for a boon.”

“What boon, wyrm?” the swordswoman demanded.

“Swear that you will free me from this bondage of my spirit so that I may rest in peace, and I will tell you three of the Faceless’s secrets.”

“I so swear,” Alias agreed. “First. The device that shields the Faceless and the Night Masters from detection. Tell me all you know of it.”

“It sits there on that table,” Mist answered, turning so that one eye socket seemed to look at the tree rack hung with the white porcelain masks. “It was crafted by the priests of the temple of Leira, the deceased goddess of illusions, and stolen by the priests of Mask, god of thieves. A doppelganger imitating the Shadowlord of Mask’s temple stole it and used it to build the Night Mask guild. The masks must hang there on that rack for a day to recharge their magical powers. Anyone wearing one of the masks for one hour is protected from all magical detection and divination for four days. The Faceless sets them out for the Night Masters to wear just before the meeting they attend every other night so there is no chance of their being discovered. Even the Faceless dons one beneath the coin mask he wears to conceal his features from his own servants, including myself.”

“So you don’t know who old Faceless is. Too bad,” Olive sighed.

“She didn’t say that, Olive,” Alias replied. “She said the Faceless concealed his features from her. But an old wyrm like you can see with more than her eyes, can’t you, Mistinarperadnacles?”

“So true,” the dragon said. “Is that the second secret you wish me to reveal?”

Alias hesitated, sensing a trick on the dragon’s part. Mist had no love for her. Vengeance might still override her desire for a peaceful death.

“We don’t need her to answer that,” Victor declared. “All we need to do is destroy these masks—” The young lord yanked a mask from the tree rack.

“Victor, no!” Alias shouted. “It could be a trap!”

“Oh, yes,” Mist said. “Did I fail to mention the masks must be removed from the rack in a particular order?”

With a shocked look, Victor set the mask back on the tree rack, but it was too late. The floor began to shake as all around the cavern hidden gears and levers of massive proportions began to turn and move. A panel in the workbench slid open and the tree rack containing the masks dropped down into it. An iron gate dropped down over the alcove where the gem-laden amphoras were kept. Larger grates dropped over the walls with the sea chests and weaponry.

Mist laughed. “Oh, dear. It does not look like we shall be able to complete our little transaction after all. Ah, well. I have no regrets, knowing this will be your end. Die well, Alias of the Inner Sea. And fond good-byes to you, Mistress Ruskettle, Champion. Lord Victor, it was a pleasure dealing with you.” The dragon skull sank back into the pool.

The level of water in the pool began to rise until it poured over the edge, splashing to the floor.

“This doesn’t sound good,” Olive whispered.

The sound of the gears grinding stopped and there was a moment of relative silence. Then they all heard it: the sound of rushing water, as loud as the ocean itself.

Vast amounts of water began pouring down on the adventurers from the ceiling, extinguishing Olive’s lantern. The force of the flow was enough to knock Olive off her feet. Dragonbait grabbed the halfling by her cloak and helped her stand upright.

“We’ve got to get across the bridge!” Alias shouted. She sheathed her sword and snagged Victor’s arm, pulling him toward the stairs to the bridge. Dragonbait splashed behind her with the halfling in tow.

The stairs had become a rushing cascade of water, and Dragonbait’s flaming sword was their only light now. The swordswoman was forced to press her hands against both sides of the narrow corridor in order to keep herself upright. She could feel Victor, Dragonbait, and Olive bumping into her from behind. As Alias touched down on the last step, she felt it shift beneath her feet. With a sickening dread, the swordswoman tried planting her feet more firmly on the slick stone, but to no avail.

A wave of water crashed down from the ceiling above the stair, knocking all the adventures off their feet and carrying them at a breakneck speed down the corridor toward the bridge and the sewer.

First Alias could hear the water plunging down into the sewer. Then there was a sense of weightlessness as the current shot her out across the chasm of the sewer. Just as she took a great gulp of air, she had a glimpse of light—Dragonbait’s flaming sword. Finally, there came the flesh-bruising impact of her body against the fetid sewer water below.

Alias’s lungs were screaming for air before she managed to break the surface and take a gulp of the foul air. The water was flowing faster, fed by the stream from the Faceless’s water trap, carrying her with it.

“Dragonbait!” Alias screamed. “Victor! Olive!”

She spotted the paladin first, still clutching his flaming sword. Olive bobbed alongside him.

“Where’s Victor?” she shouted.

“Here,” the nobleman called from just behind her.

Alias strained to face the young lord’s direction, relieved to see that he seemed to know how to stay afloat. Her chain mail shirt made treading water tiring enough. She didn’t think she could manage helping a fully grown man as well.

“Try to stay close to the near wall,” the swordswoman shouted to the others. “There have to be some side passages we can—”

Alias gasped. Something large had pushed against her, and she knew what it had to be.

The quelzarn’s head broke the water just beside Dragonbait, attracted perhaps by the light from the paladin’s sword. The sea serpent’s teeth gleamed in the flaming light.

Alias screamed the paladin’s name in his own tongue. The quelzarn dived down, taking the saurial with it. The sewer darkened, but a dim light shone beneath the water’s surface.

The female warrior took a deep breath and plunged beneath the surface, heading for the light. As long as it shone she knew Dragonbait had not yet been swallowed.

The foul water stung her eyes, and visibility below the surface wasn’t more than a few feet, but that was enough to detect a great shadow looming before her. Alias grabbed the monster’s fin and hung on with all her might as it wriggled and writhed beneath her. With her arms aching from the strain, the swordswoman pulled herself along the length of the fin, making for the quelzarn’s head. Just when the fire in her lungs grew too intense to bear, the creature broke the surface of the water again, and Alias was able to gasp for air. A dark stain seemed to be flowing from the light beneath the surface. Alias was sure it was blood, but whether the saurial’s or the sea serpent’s she could not tell.

The creature looped backward on itself, and Alias had a clear glimpse of Dragonbait. The saurial had one clawed foot jammed against the beast’s lower gum and one hand thrust between two needlelike teeth of the upper jaw so that the monster could not snap its jaw shut and swallow its prey. Blood poured from the paladin’s foot and hand as well as from a gash in his thigh. With his flaming sword the paladin was lacerating the monster’s upper palate.

Alias pulled her dagger from her boot and launched herself at the quelzarn’s head. She managed to catch the fin beside its gill. She could still not reach the beast’s eyes, so she tore a V-shaped gash into the flesh behind the gill. Then she began pulling back on the flesh, stripping it away like whale blubber.

The beast breached from the water with a shriek and slammed itself and the swordswoman against the sewer wall, dislodging the saurial in its mouth and the human woman at its gill.

Alias wasn’t sure what happened in the moments she was stunned, but when she next opened her eyes, Dragonbait, his hands clenched in her hair, was holding her head out of the water. The saurial was a powerful swimmer, and he was towing the swordswoman toward a side sewer where Olive and Victor stood shouting.

The side sewer was eight feet in diameter; the water level in it was only two feet high, so the adventurers’ could work their way against the current. The halfling and the nobleman helped pull the warriors inside. They moved down the tunnel about ten feet, but had to stop to catch their breath and tend to their wounds.

Dragonbait, after first assuring himself that Alias had suffered no life-threatening injury, handed his weapon to the swordswoman and turned his attention to the wounds the quelzarn had given him.

As the scent of the paladin’s prayer filled the air, a great roar blasted down the tunnel. The quelzarn thrust its head a few feet into the side passage. Victor, who stood directly in its path, fumbled in the tangles of his cloak, trying, Olive thought, to reach his sword in its scabbard.

The halfling was sure the young lord was about to become the last of the Dhostar line when the quelzarn slid back out of the tunnel and disappeared.

Victor gulped and backed farther from the tunnel exit. “That was too close for comfort,” the nobleman said. “If the tide were in and the water higher, it would have come in after us for sure,” he said.

Olive nodded, her eyes wide with amazement at the young man’s close call. She followed him down the corridor, wondering with suspicion what he seemed to be holding with his hand, which remained buried in his cloak pocket.

“I believe we should be able to follow this sewer to an opening near a street,” the nobleman said.

“Yes,” Alias added. “And if we’re lucky, the fog will still be thick, and no one will notice us.”

“They’ll smell us before they see us,” Olive predicted.