Masquerades

Ten Power Plays

If Alias had been more attuned to city politics, the puppet show might have served her as a warning. Unfortunately, she hadn’t understood the show completely, so she headed unwittingly into the storm.

As usual she’d risen late in the morning, but this morning she did not feel rested. She’d slept badly, due, she knew, to the halfling’s death. Upon waking she remembered Jamal’s comment that the Night Masters had magic to kill or free any of their people imprisoned by the watch. Alias thought about the arrogant but ineffectual Night Mask swordsman. While she couldn’t believe he would be worth the Night Masters bothering over, she became too uneasy and restless to return to sleep. She decided to visit the Tower and assure herself that Durgar was dealing adequately with the thief.

Dragonbait had left her a note that he’d be with Mintassan, so she snatched up some breakfast rolls and set out for the Tower, where the watch and Durgar were headquartered.

At the edge of the market, a Turmishwoman was hawking short wooden skewers laden with roasted, spiced meat. The smell was not only enticing, but brought back memories of her old friend Akabar, who had once prepared her meat the same way. The Turmishwoman caught her eye and thrust out a stick laden with meat, saying, “Lady, you look hungry.”

Alias laughed. “I am,” she admitted. She bought two sticks of meat, and while she was wolfing down the dripping lamb, she noticed Jamal’s troupe. They were set up in the corner of an open-air cafe, apparently with the owner’s blessings, for he was doing a booming business selling chowder in bread bowls to the audience.

There was no sign of the Faceless. Evidently Jamal was still in no condition to perform and her understudy did not feel up to the role. The actress who usually played Alias was present, as were the halfling juggler and the actor wearing the Dragonbait costume.

On the stage were six small kegs stacked in a pyramid, representing, Alias realized, the barrels of wine in the Thalavar warehouse. One of the three stage Night Masks carried on her shoulders a cyclops head puppet—the symbol of House Urdo.

Alias tried to figure out the appearance of the Urdo puppet. Was House Urdo behind the raid? To get the wine?

There was the usual slapstick swordplay until the Night Mask carrying Urdo blew up a paper bag and popped it in the halfling’s face. Black powder billowed from the bag, and the halfling and the other two Night Masks dropped to the stage and lay still.

Alias swallowed back a return of last night’s grief. The audience reacted with an angry mutter, but their anger was not with the serious turn the troupe had suddenly taken; it was aimed at the Night Masks. Although human-halfling relationships were sometimes strained in Westgate, the general consensus was that only a coward would kill a halfling.

In the play, Alias’s reaction was swift and sure. She yanked the Urdo puppet away from the remaining Night Mask and kicked the thief off the stage. The Night Mask lay still at the audience’s feet. Dragonbait pulled out a miniature prison stocks, and Alias locked the Urdo puppet in it. The audience participated immediately, throwing scraps of food and rocks at the puppet and booing loudly.

The halfling rose from the stage and called out, “This collection’s for the family of Maxwell Berrybuck. He’s left behind a wife, a stout son, and two fine little girls.” As the musicians played a dirge, the Night Mask actors yanked off their masks. All the actors took up the small kegs and plowed their way through the audience, collecting far more coin than Alias had ever seen any of Jamal’s shows earn.

There was the trill of a watch whistle in the distance, and the entire acting troupe looked up. While Jamal might go toe-to-toe with the local authorities, her people obviously recognized the better part of valor. Wrapping themselves and their kegs of coin in their cloaks, they disappeared down one alley, the musicians down another. Although the actors had plenty of time, they made no effort to retrieve the food-spattered Urdo puppet, but left it sitting in the stocks.

Discretely, Alias stepped into the shadow of a building and looked down the street in the direction of the whistle. A phalanx of guards, headed not by Sergeant Rodney, but by the humorless, freckle-faced officer, bore down on the cafe. Of course, by the time they arrived, there was no one but innocent cafe customers picking at their chowder-soaked bread bowls and a puppet. The freckle-faced officer’s reaction to the puppet locked in the stocks surprised the swordswoman. He pulled the puppet out and ordered one of his men to hide it beneath his cloak. The patrol then turned and marched back toward the Tower.

Alias gave them a friendly nod as they went marching past her, but they all kept their eyes locked forward and did not acknowledge her presence. She shook her head with disdain at their rigid attitude. Not wanting to arrive at the Tower on the heels of the patrol, Alias strolled more casually through the market.

The market was a rainbow of tents and stalls erected each dawn and removed, by order of the watch, before sunset. Here all the merchants of Westgate were out in full force, extolling the virtues of their wares and pressing them into view of all potential customers. Even merchants who had a shop in town kept a stall in the market to hawk their best items.

A bolt of shining yellow fabric caught Alias’s eye, and she paused for a moment to finger the shimmering cloth. A moment was all the stall’s salesman needed to notice her interest and descend on her. He was a short young man in saffron robes and a long, long plait of hennaed hair. He had the most ridiculous patter about how silk from Kara-Tur was harvested from great purple worms herded by giants and spun into cloth with the aid of magic.

Alias had fought purple worms before and knew that the beast’s tail was armed with a scorpionlike stinger, not spinnerets, but she knew better than to reply. She’d learned from Akabar that such fanciful tales were a common merchant’s trick along the southern coast. If the potential buyer believed the tale, the product was enhanced. If not, any time spent arguing about the tale kept the buyer looking at the product, and, hopefully, increasing her desire to own it. Alias smiled wordlessly at the merchant and passed on. She could hear him tell another passerby how Mulhorand silk was made from moonspiders who tried to snare Selune each night from her orbit.

The swordswoman paused by a jewelry stall. As she lingered over a large display of silver and gold earrings, she began wondering what she would wear for the Dhostar boat party. She traveled light, and she suspected that nothing in her backpack would be suitable. She’d brought plenty of money to buy something, but there wasn’t time to have anything sewn.

Lost in her own thoughts, it was a few moments before Alias noticed the stall’s saleswoman, a southerner who, being quite tall and dressed in a gown splatter-dyed with every imaginable color, was hard to miss. Yet while the woman watched Alias curiously, she kept a respectful distance, allowing the swordswoman to browse without pestering her.

Alias examined three sets of earrings. The first was a pair of tiny daggers with blue stones in the pommels. The daggers were beautifully crafted, but Alias decided they were too fierce. The second set of earrings was a moon engraved with Selune’s face, matched with a dangling set of tears—the shards that followed the moon across the sky. The moon and tears, while clever, reminded her uneasily of the arguments she’d had with Finder Wyvernspur over his song The Tears of Selune. The third pair, a set of interlocking stars, reminded her of the stars in the Dhostar trading badge. Victor, she thought, would appreciate the connection. She held out the earrings to the saleswoman asking, “How much?”

“No charge,” the large woman said, shaking her head, “I recognize you. You’re Alias.”

“I couldn’t do that,” Alias replied with a smile as she reached for her purse.

The saleswoman’s face clouded for a moment with hurt, “Please, take them,” she insisted. “You have done so much good. Consider them a gift on behalf of all of Westgate.”

Alias chuckled, “The last time I received a gift on behalf of a whole town, I’d just killed a kalmari. I haven’t done that much yet here.”

“Hmmph,” the woman said dismissively. “Kalmaris are nothing. Night Masks, they’re trouble. You take those. Don’t feel bad. Once I tell people Alias-Who-Unmasks-the-Night wears my jewelry, I’ll sell it all.” She smiled broadly, revealing two rows of perfect white teeth.

Alias grinned at the woman’s sales acumen and nodded in agreement. As the merchant held up a mirror of polished steel, Alias pulled out and pocketed the emerald studs she normally wore and slid in the silver wires attached to the stars. She shook her head and smiled with satisfaction. She could hear the small, interlocked stars jingling softly, and they twinkled in the light. Now all I need is an outfit to go with my jewelry, she thought. Bidding the merchant farewell, she strolled deeper into the heart of the market, toward the Tower.

The Tower was a circular stone keep five stories high situated on a low hillock in the center of the market. The hillock, Alias suspected, was artificial, built up to cover not only the tower’s foundation wall but the first level of dungeons beneath. Two later additions abutted the east side, made of similar though not perfectly matched stone. The larger addition held rooms for public business: the registry offices for imports, exports, and other licenses and the courtroom. The smaller addition was a guarded entrance into the tower itself. Within the Tower the city kept its counting house and treasury, the nobles kept offices and meeting rooms, and the watch kept its armory and some barracks. Beneath the tower, an unspecified number of subterranean levels served as jails and dungeons.

Outside the entrance hall flew the banners of those in residence at the moment: the watch, Durgar, several other noble lords, and the croamarkh. The doorway of the entrance was a stone oval, which could be barred by an iron portcullis, which hung overhead, a security design repeated at the other end of the hall—at the entrance to the tower itself. There wasn’t a speck of rust on the heavy gates, and the chains that operated them were dust free and gleamed with oil. Durgar, Alias realized, must run a tight ship to keep in perfect working order gates that hadn’t been necessary for decades.

The entrance hall was abuzz with people coming and going—the watch, messengers, servants dressed in the livery of their respective noble houses, local petitioners and foreign merchants waiting to speak with the nobles, and, on occasion, an individual whose wealthy garb and wake of bodyguards, supporters, and supplicants indicated a member of a noble family. Only nobles and their parties were allowed to pass through the second portcullis unchallenged. All others seemed to be required to register their name and business at a desk stationed with three watch officers before being told to wait or go ahead. There was a long line before the desk.

Alias took her place in line behind a woman dressed in the full crimson regalia of a Red Wizard of Thay, who was speaking in hushed tones with a dwarven mercenary dressed in black. Two Turmish merchants, complaining in their native tongue about some tariff, took their place behind her.

The swordswoman wondered uncertainly if she might not be wasting her time. While she really wanted to be sure the Night Mask swordsman was sentenced severely, Durgar might get officious on her and refuse to discuss his prisoner. He might even be too busy to see her. Just as she considered stepping out of the line, a member of the watch came up to her—the first female member she’d seen.

“Alias the Sell-Sword?” the guard asked.

“Yes,” Alias said with a nod.

“I’m Rizzi, Ma’am. I’m to fetch you up to the croamarkh.”

“Actually,” Alias explained, “I’ve come to see Durgar.”

“He’s with the croamarkh, Ma’am. Please, follow me.”

Alias did as requested, glad at least to be free of waiting in line.

As she stepped through the entrance into the main section of the keep, someone going the other way slammed into her, hard, jamming his elbow into her side. More surprised than harmed, Alias retreated back two steps and instinctively checked for her money pouch.

A short but powerfully built, scar-faced man with annoyingly familiar, but unplaceable features stood before her. He was dressed all in gold and black, with a huge black opal set in a medallion around his neck.

“Terribly sorry,” the man snarled, his eyes glittering with undisguised hatred. “You had better be more careful,” he added. It was the most threatening apology Alias had ever heard.

With a sense of confusion, the swordswoman watched the man and his entourage stream out of the tower until Rizzi touched her shoulder and whispered, “Ma’am?”

Alias turned and followed the guard across the vast, open hall on the first floor of the tower and up one of the two staircases that climbed along the outer wall. What, she wondered, did the croamarkh want? Merely a congratulatory meeting? Considering the croamarkh’s emphasis on performance, that was unlikely. Perhaps some command for special protection of some place or thing. The swordswoman studied her escort for a moment before asking, “What’s going on?”

Rizzi shook her head. “Better you should speak with the croamarkh, Ma’am.” At the top of the first flight of stairs there was a curved hallway with a doorway at each end and a third along the inner curve. Two of the doors were solid oak, but the one at the far end of the corridor was oak carved with dragons and stiff-limbed elves. Rizzi led her to the more ornate door and knocked softly. Durgar opened the door, and, upon seeing Alias, motioned the swordswoman through the door. The priest dismissed Rizzi with a quick nod and closed the door.

The room was a meeting suite decorated in neutral colors. Consequently, while everything was impeccably matched and well built, the room hadn’t the least hint of creativity. The rugs on the oaken floor were a mottled black, gray, and white. The pattern woven into the tapestries covering the walls was a repeating abstract in cream, tan, and brown. No one’s mind was likely to wander staring at the floors or walls. The round oaken table was covered with a white cloth and surrounded by twelve oaken chairs padded with white cushions. The chairs were of the heavy, thronelike variety favored by merchants in cities where they had no need to worry about a king who might take offense that they sat in cushier chairs than royalty.

Croamarkh Luer Dhostar sat at the far end of the table, dominating the room with ill humor. He glared like a basilisk as the swordswoman entered, and drummed his fingers impatiently on the arm of his chair as he waited for her to approach. Victor, seated on his father’s right, looked nervous and worried, but smiled weakly. Kimbel, who stood behind the croamarkh, to his left, blinked like a lizard. Alias strode over to the table and stood behind one of the large chairs.

“Last evening you attacked a group of individuals breaking into the Thalavar warehouse,” the croamarkh announced.

Alias wondered if she should nod in confirmation, but the elder Dhostar stormed on, “One of these individuals was Haztor Urdo, the youngest son of Lord Ssentar Urdo. Lord Ssentar has just been in here to demand an apology for your mistake.”

With a flash of insight, Alias realized that Lord Ssentar must be the rude merchant noble who’d slammed into her as she entered the tower. And Haztor … “Haztor Urdo?” she asked. “He wouldn’t be an arrogant young man with mediocre skill with a blade and black hair that pigeons could nest in, would he?”

“That’s him,” Victor agreed in a whisper.

“I made no mistake,” Alias said coolly. “Haztor Urdo may be a pitiful excuse—”

“You made a mistake!” the croamarkh interrupted with a bellow. “I know you made a mistake, because Lord Ssentar informed me that his son is innocent. And because I need the support of the Urdo family in council, I had to a-pol-o-gize.” Lord Luer spat out each syllable of the last word as if it were poison. “Apologize for someone in my employ, even if her position is on a trial basis.”

Angrily Alias replied, “As I was saying, Haztor Urdo may be a pitiful excuse for a thief, but he is a Night Mask, albeit a petty one.”

“He is not a Night Mask!” exploded the croamarkh.

“Because Lord Ssentar said so?” Alias asked in disbelief.

“Lord Ssentar is a long-time ally from a noble merchant house. His word holds more weight than that of a common little sell-sword who blew in on the wind,” the croamarkh snapped.

Alias smiled the tight smile that came to her lips whenever she was about to lose her temper. She pulled out the chair before her and sat down in it. This not only established her attitude that she was on equal footing with the merchant lord, but kept her from lunging across the table and wringing his arrogant neck. The seat cushion was warm, which probably meant the chair had just been vacated by Lord Ssentar or a member of his retinue. Alias laid her hands on the table, one over the other, looked Luer Dhostar in the eye, and spoke. “A sell-sword I am, and common those may be, but I, Lord Luer, am not common, a fact you no doubt recognized when you offered me a thousand gold retainer for ten days of work. Should you wish to break our contract, I will accept two hundred as a penalty fee and two hundred for the two days of service I have rendered to date.”

Luer Dhostar looked astonished by the swordswoman’s nerve, but there was also a hint of dismay in his expression. He quickly returned to the offense, though, insisting loudly, “I have no intention of canceling our contract. I want you to fulfill the terms without harassing any of the merchant houses.”

“So you’re going to let Haztor Urdo go free?” Alias asked.

“He’s already been released,” Durgar said from the doorway.

“Well, then, Lord Luer, I don’t see the problem,” Alias replied with her tight smile. She kept her voice at a low rumble as she explained, “I will continue hunting Night Masks. Should any of them turn out to be Haztor Urdo or some other thieving noble merchant scion, you may feel free to apologize all you want to their parents and grant them freedom. That’s your business. I will not, however, agree that I have made any mistakes just to soothe your misplaced anger. I’ve fought assassins, a sorceress, a lich, an ancient dragon, a mad god, and a fiend from Tarterus, and all in my first year as an adventurer. If you think you can subdue me simply by shouting, you are most amusingly mistaken.”

The croamarkh heaved himself to his feet and glowered down at the swordswoman as he growled, “In all my life, I’ve never had so disrespectful a hireling.”

“Or, I’ll wager, one with an eye for detail equal to your own,” Alias answered.

“Detail? What detail?” Luer demanded, leaning over the table toward the swordswoman.

“The Night Masks used a smoke powder explosive last night. Recently you caught House Urdo attempting to smuggle smoke powder.”

“We confiscated that shipment. The Night Masks did not get it,” Lord Luer snapped.

“Not that shipment, but no doubt there have been others you’ve missed. That’s why you’ve finally decided to hire a mercenary, someone for whom you did not have to be fully accountable. Fourteen years ago, the Night Masks were just an annoying thieves guild, so you ignored them. In the past few years, however, smoke powder has become less rare, like Amnite sugar cubes. Ordinary thieves can do more damage with it than powerful wizards can with fireballs. You realize that more and more smoke powder is being smuggled in. Whether it’s brought in by House Urdo or House Anybody, you can’t afford for the Night Masks to build a reserve, because if they do, it’s just a matter of time before they start deciding who the next croamarkh will be. With the right threats, they might convince some of the houses to vote for a compromise candidate—Haztor Urdo, now wouldn’t he be perfect. His father certainly stands behind him.”

Luer Dhostar waved his finger in Alias’s face. “You take care of the Night Masks. I’ll take care of the merchant houses,” he said. “Victor will see that you receive your full retainer today so that there will be no more discussion of broken contracts.” The croamarkh motioned with his finger from his son to the door. “That will be all,” he finished and sat back down in his chair.

Alias rose and followed Victor to the door.

“Durgar,” the croamarkh said, “please assign some members of the watch to escort this not-so-common sell-sword back to her hotel with her retainer. We wouldn’t want her robbed.”

“Yes, Your Lordship,” Durgar replied. He opened the door and followed Victor and Alias from the room. Once he closed the door, Victor clapped Alias on the shoulders. “You were wonderful,” he said. “Wasn’t she wonderful, Durgar?”

Durgar raised an eyebrow, but did not reply.

“I’ve never seen anyone square off against Father as well as you. Fifteen minutes ago, he was threatening to fire you, now he demands you remain. You should be a merchant. Shouldn’t she, Durgar?”

“Considering that House Dhostar is paying her a hundred times the salary of a guard of the watch, she certainly has the financial outlook,” the priest replied dryly.

“House Dhostar isn’t paying me to be a watch guard, Your Reverence,” Alias retorted. “They’re paying me to bring down Night Masks. As to your father’s firing me, Victor, it wasn’t likely. He knows that if he did, and I continued to catch Night Masks, he couldn’t take the credit for it.”

“That may be so, but he was sorely tempted,” Durgar said as he motioned for Alias to climb the staircase to the next level. “The noble merchant houses are sacrosanct as far as Lord Luer is concerned, as well he should be.”

Alias turned and climbed the stairs backward as she looked back down on the priest and Victor behind him. “Are you saying you approve of freeing Haztor Urdo, Your Reverence?” she asked with some surprise. “I would have thought you of all people would expect the law to apply to all.”

“I am a pragmatist, young woman. I understand the importance of bending some laws so that society remains orderly. The croamarkh is elected the first among his equals, his equals being the other noble merchant lords. Some nations obey their monarch because they believe he has a divine right to rule. Tyrants hold sway with armies or fell magic. Here in Westgate, the croamarkh rules by the consent of the noble merchant houses. He needs their support to rule, and without him to rule, there would be anarchy in this city.”

“You mean the common people might be free to block traffic if they want to watch a puppet show?” Alias teased.

“And powerful merchant families with money to hire mercenaries would be free to run those common people down with impunity,” Durgar retorted. “The croamarkh’s laws protect the weak as well as the strong. Now you must excuse me, I have other duties. I will arrange for two guards to meet you at this door with a porter. Good day.” The priest continued down a corridor, leaving Victor and Alias standing at a guarded doorway.

Victor pulled out a key hanging around his neck and unbolted one lock of the doorway. The guard, with his own key, unbolted a second lock and pushed the door open. The room within held two accountants, four more guards, and enough coin to satisfy a young dragon. Victor wrote out an order for Alias’s payment, and the guards gathered up twenty small sacks filled with fifty gold each and piled them into a box.

Alias signed a receipt and hefted the box under her arm. As she and Victor left the room, Alias could hear the guards on the other side relocking the bolts. She and Victor sat on a bench beneath a window beside the counting room door.

“So what do you think of all this?” the swordswoman asked the young merchant.

“Well, no one loathes Haztor Urdo more than I,” Victor said with a laugh, “but my father and Durgar have a point. The croamarkh must stand united with those who’ve elected him. We’ve had a croamarkh ever since Verovan’s death. For a hundred and twenty years, that’s protected us from another tyrant. Any of the merchants would be better than someone like that, and Father is the best of all of them.”

“How about a croamarkh who isn’t a merchant, elected and supported by all the people?”

Victor looked at Alias with astonishment. “You can’t be serious. Where did you get such an idea?”

“It’s the way Dragonbait’s people elect their leaders,” Alias said.

“Alias, I don’t know much about the saurials, but they must be different from humans. Not all humans are able to make important decisions like voting.”

“Human adventuring groups elect their leaders that way, too,” Alias argued.

Victor shook his head. “It could never work, not for a city like Westgate,” he said. “I’m glad you’re with us, though. The other merchants will look after themselves, but with you we can look after the weak, like Durgar said.”

“How do we do that?” Alias asked.

“By fighting the Night Masks. It’s true, they prey on the merchants, but it’s the common people they hurt the most.” Victor’s voice grew more impassioned, though unlike his father he did not need to raise his voice to reveal the intensity of his feelings. “When the Night Masks rob or burn the warehouse of a bigger merchant, the merchant loses some goods, perhaps some guards, a little business. It’s a nuisance. But when the Night Masks go after the common folk, it devastates their lives. To the common people, a bolt of fabric or a crate of wine could be their whole inventory, a wounded guard is a breadwinner without work, a little business is the whole profit margin. If we can take care of the Night Masks, the people will be better off.”

The young merchant spoke with the same earnest and hopeful tone he had when he’d revealed his dreams to find Verovan’s treasure and use it to improve Westgate. Alias put her hand on his. “We will take care of the Night Masks,” she assured him.

“I know. Do you think, as a favor to me, you might try at least to keep from offending the merchant houses while you’re doing it. I’m not saying letting scum like Haztor Urdo go, but, um, maybe you could let me in on your plans, then if there’s anything politically treacherous involved, I could at least warn you.”

Alias withdrew her hand from Victor’s. Although she truly wanted to please the young lord, she was unable to resist the sarcastic comment that came to her lips. “Maybe I should just work the Shore,” she suggested, referring to the slums just outside the city’s western wall, “since there’s nothing there any merchant could want.”

“Yes. That would be good,” Victor agreed, oblivious to her sarcasm. “The Shore is full of transients who don’t like to get involved with the watch. The watch doesn’t even patrol there regularly, so the Night Masks strike at the inhabitants with the most impunity.”

Alias smiled at the innocent way Victor had taken her suggestion.

“That’s settled then,” the merchant lord said. “Now, about the party on the ship tonight. You will still come, won’t you?”

Alias grimaced. “Perhaps I’d better not. The other merchant houses might object to the presence of a common little sell-sword who’s arrested one of their own.”

“You know I don’t feel that way. You’ve performed your duties with honor, and I think you deserve respect. I want to set an example by hosting the hero of Westgate on our cruise.”

“Thank you, Lord Victor. I’d be honored to accept.”

“It will be my honor to show off the most intriguing, lovely woman in all of Westgate.”

Alias laughed at the flattery. “I’ve been looking forward to showing off my new earrings, so I may as well come.”

Victor leaned closer, examining the earrings. “Three stars. They’re very becoming on you,” he whispered with his mouth so near her ear that she could feel his breath move the tiny stars. “Might I hope you choose them in honor of the Dhostar trading badge?”

“I choose them in honor of you,” Alias whispered.

Someone nearby coughed politely.

Alias and Victor moved away from one another and looked up. Sergeant Rodney and the watch guard Rizzi stood at the top of the stairs; the porter stood behind them.

“His Reverence sent us to serve as escorts, Your Lordship,” Sergeant Rodney said to Victor.

“Just a moment, please,” Victor told the guards. Turning back to Alias, he said, “I must be on the pier to greet all our guests, but I’ll send my carriage to your hotel a little before sunset.”

“I’ll meet you at the pier,” Alias agreed. The porter came up and hefted her box of gold on his shoulder. Alias gave Victor’s hand one last squeeze before she followed her gold and her escorts down the stairs.