Masquerades

Twelve Maiden Voyage

Olive accompanied Alias and Dragonbait back to their inn, making plans for a little breaking and entering. Although the halfling agreed it would be safer to wait until long after dark, she was disappointed that they could not leave immediately. Alias suspected that were she and Dragonbait not on the scene, the normally cautious halfling might have plunged recklessly ahead even before sunset. There was an eagerness in Olive that went beyond a desire to check out the Night Mask Melman’s hoard of ill-gotten gain. Olive really wanted to bring the Night Masks down. It was a side of the halfling that Alias would never have expected to see when the two first met, eleven years ago.

Inside Blais House, Alias hurried to wash up as Dragonbait escorted Olive to their room. When Alias joined them, fresh from her bath, she noticed Olive eyeing the sacks of gold containing her retainer from the Dhostars. “You should have gotten more,” the halfling said.

“Olive, you know I don’t need the money,” the swordswoman argued as she pulled her new silk tunic over Jamal’s white undergown. “Neither do you, for that matter. I might have ended up fighting the Night Masks even if the Dhostars hadn’t offered to pay me.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Olive insisted. “Never sell yourself cheap, and always charge rich humans through the nose. The Dhostars are richer than old Misty was. It’s up to people like you to see to it that their floor doesn’t give under the weight of all that coin.”

“Is that what you’re doing for Lady Thalavar?” Alias asked as she slipped her new earrings back in her ears. “Seeing to it that her floorboards don’t give?”

“House Thalavar is nothing like House Dhostar,” Olive insisted. “Lady Nettel has more noblesse oblige in her pinkie than all of the remaining merchants in this city combined. She makes a profit, yes, but she doesn’t invest in things just to see an obscene return. She invests in little businesses so the owners can make a living and patronizes musicians and artists and donates wells and fountains and park land to the people of Westgate.”

There was a knock on the door, and Olive opened it. Mercy stood on the threshold, eyeing the halfling with the same wide-eyed look she’d given Dragonbait and Alias on their first day as guests. The girl, Alias thought, must have too few opportunities to meet other people. The swordswoman introduced Olive as a long-standing friend. Mercy curtsied politely, then informed Alias that there was a carriage waiting downstairs.

“Please tell him I’ll be down in a few minutes, Mercy. Then you can come back and take Olive and Dragonbait’s orders for dinner.”

The half-elf hurried off to do as she was bid.

Alias slid her scabbard onto the lower of the two belts Jamal had loaned her and secured her sword to the scabbard with a piece of silk ribbon tied in an elaborate knot that she could release instantly by pulling it in just the right place. She tugged on the white silk slippers and ran a comb quickly through her hair. Turning about, she asked the others. “How do I look?”

“Very nice,” Dragonbait replied.

“Better than Lord Victor probably deserves,” Olive answered.

Alias hurried downstairs and out to the street. The reins of Victor’s carriage were in the hands of the same old man who’d held them at the Harbor Tower that first day she’d met Victor. The bent, gray-haired servant bowed with earnest deference, and Alias could see he looked at her with a certain approval as he handed her up into the carriage seat. Jamal’s advice on dress pleased at least one elderly member of House Dhostar’s staff. The servant climbed into the seat beside Alias and urged the horses forward.

The carriage pulled up to a pavilion at the western end of the docks, where a footman in Dhostar livery handed Alias down to the ground. The swordswoman stared uncomfortably at the crowd of strangers all about. Most of them appeared to be errand boys, bodyguards, and ladies-in-waiting, left beneath the pavilion to await the returns of their masters and mistresses. Alias smiled politely at a bodyguard dressed in Malavhan livery, but was met with a grim stone face. Too late, she realized he took her for one of the nobles, and in Westgate the servants did not fraternize with the nobles.

Alias turned to thank Victor’s driver, but he had already evaporated, coach and all, to whatever demiplane hid such utilities until they were called for again. Another, larger carriage was pulling up to debark its passengers. The footman asked Alias politely to please move down the pier to join the other guests.

Down the pier there were small mobs of nobles, from dandies to grand dames, in tight little constellations. Wandering planets of individuals only casually acquainted with the brightest stars would graze the edges of the constellations, but finding insufficient gravity to hold them, they would soon look for new orbits. Eventually, in twos and threes, guests drifted up the gangplank of The Gleason. Since she had no acquaintances among any of those on the pier, Alias made straight for the gangplank, but she paused halfway down the pier to stare in awe at the Dhostars’ new ship.

The Gleason, Alias realized, was a galleass. She had heard that Sembia was building such ships, but the Dhostars’ was the first she had seen. It was basically a larger and more heavily armed version of the great galley, one hundred sixty feet long and forty feet across the beam. The sails were lateen-rigged from three huge masts, though at the moment they were tightly furled, tied with cords of black and gold. Tonight the ship would be powered by oar. Alias counted fifty oars, painted bone white and so large that each could be manned by several rowers. A twenty-foot iron-clad battering ram jutted out from the bow. Tarpaulins covered what Alias guessed was a pair of ballistae mounted on a massive turret on the top of the foc’s’le. Both the foc’s’le and the sterncastle, which towered two stories over the deck, featured narrow archers’ slits.

While the fighting capabilities of the ship were not hidden, tonight the vessel was obviously decorated for festivities. The rowers’ benches were curtained off, screening them from view of the guests, and vice versa. A giant banner emblazoned with the wagon wheel and three stars of House Dhostar draped down from the top story of the sterncastle, reaching nearly to the waterline, while a smaller House Dhostar banner and the banners of the croamarkh and the city of Westgate fluttered from poles fore and aft. The stern lantern, fitted with magical light stone, was covered with a square of fine red silk, bathing the ship’s deck and the dockside with a rosy glow.

The pier rattled, and Alias turned to see a chair on wheels, with an awning, like a miniature carriage, rolling toward her. The wheeled chair was white, with a green feather painted on the side panel, and pushed by six halflings. The passenger was an ancient human woman attended by a pale, blonde girl in her teens. The girl’s main duty seemed to be to keep the halflings from pushing the chair into other guests in their zeal to move the device toward the gangplank. Several guests broke away from their constellations to chase after the chair, with as much dignity as they could muster, until the vehicle came to rest at the end of the pier. Then the followers paid their respects to the elderly passenger.

Someone brushed up against Alias, and the swordswoman turned quickly, expecting a pickpocket despite the standing of the crowd all about her. She faced the back of a woman in an elegant gown of yellow satin hemmed and edged with fox fur, with a tiny golden dagger dangling from her gold-link belt. Her dark hair, which hung down her back, was swept back from her face with a barrette fashioned like a basilisk. The woman turned and murmured an apology, which Alias accepted with a nod and a weak smile.

The woman smiled broadly. “You’re new,” she noted with a tone of delight and surprise.

“Yes,” Alias admitted. “I feel like a fish out of water. I’m afraid I don’t know anyone here.”

As Alias spoke, the other woman took full stock of her, her gaze fixing at last on her right arm. The stranger’s eyes became glassy, and her face seemed to petrify. “No,” she replied frostily. “You wouldn’t.” She turned on her heel and made for the next little group over, leaving Alias staring at her retreating form and the eyes of her basilisk barrette.

Alias frowned. Obviously the woman had recognized her from her tattoo. She couldn’t believe she’d been snubbed just for being a swordswoman. Surely Westgate merchants socialized with adventurers on other occasions. She continued moving toward the gangplank, scanning the crowd for a friendly face. As she passed the woman with the basilisk barrette, the group the woman now stood with broke into gales of laughter. At least two other women turned to look at the swordswoman, then hurriedly looked away.

Alias spotted a flash of blue and purple, and thinking it might be Durgar, moved in that direction. At this point, even the opinionated priest would be welcome company.

Fortunately, her rescue was much more pleasing. She spied Victor bolting down the gangplank in long, swift strides. His eyes were fixed on the pavilion at the end of the pier, where the carriages were still unloading guests. He could be looking for someone else, but Alias was determined not to let him hurtle past her without speaking to him. She stepped into his path with her hands folded in front of her as he approached.

Victor checked his stride so suddenly that he almost tripped himself. The anxious look he’d worn was fading into one of delight. “I’m sorry I wasn’t at the pavilion to welcome you. There were so many last-minute—” The young noble interrupted himself. “You look radiant. I’m so glad you came.”

Alias smiled. “So am I,” she said. “Now. You look nice, too,” she complimented him. He wore a three-quarter length tunic of cream-colored silk, trimmed in brown satin, and his hair glistened in the lamplight. Tonight he looked every bit the nobleman.

As Victor took her arm and ushered her up the gangplank onto the ship, a herald began announcing the ship’s imminent departure. All guests, the herald insisted, should board the ship now.

There was a flurry of activity as the guests tried to move toward the gangplank quickly, yet without looking hurried or rudely jostling one another. Still, many people on the pier remained where they were, without moving.

“They don’t all seem to believe your herald,” Alias commented.

“They haven’t all been invited,” Victor explained. “They’re petty nobles, lesser merchants and their hangers-on, come to see the boat off, hoping for some last-minute invitation.”

Alias looked down and saw the woman who’d snubbed her among those not chosen for the voyage. The woman shot Alias a glare as killing as that of the basilisk that adorned her hair.

The last to board the ship was the ancient woman from the personal carriage. She hove herself out of her chair and ambled up the gangplank, leaning on a large, ornately carved staff on one side and the pale, blonde girl on the other. Despite the supports, there was nothing feeble about the woman’s appearance. Her back was as straight as an elm tree, and she carried her head high.

“That’s Lady Nettel Thalavar,” Victor whispered in Alias’s ear. “She’s the only one of the merchant nobles who has even a dram of old Verovan’s blood in her. She’s a third cousin, two generations removed. She’s outlived three husbands and rebuilt her clan’s fortunes to nearly what they were in Verovan’s day. The girl on her left is her granddaughter, Thistle.”

“She’s quite pretty,” Alias said. “The granddaughter, I mean.”

“Hmmm?” said Victor. “I can’t look at her without remembering how she used to tear through the streets as a child with her halfling nannies chasing after her. She was almost as troublesome as the halflings themselves. Her nickname back then was Dervish.”

On the turret where the ballistae were mounted, a small group of musicians had set up two rebecs, a larger viol, and a dulcimer, led by a bard with a songhorn. The players launched into a soft, somber number that drifted along the length of the ship. The ship’s first officer bellowed an order to cast off. As crew members unfastened the lines to the pier, the oarsmen on the near side began pushing off with poles. A moment later, Alias could feel a slow, steady beat on the floor, and all the oars moved, as one, in rhythm with the beat. The musicians picked up their tempo to match the beat, and the Dhostar’s new galleass pulled out into Westgate’s harbor.

Most of the guests stood at the buffet tables lined up down the center of the ship. The tables were laden to the groaning point with expensive delicacies and elaborately prepared dishes. Servants dressed in crisp white sailors’ shirts replenished empty trays and answered questions about the food.

“Care for something to eat?” Victor asked.

“In a bit,” Alias declined. “I’d like to see the ship first.”

From Victor’s smile, Alias could see he was inordinately pleased with the chance to show off the new ship. Taking her arm, he steered her toward the bow as he began a lecture that sounded spontaneous, but must have been partially rehearsed.

“Most of the ships in our family’s fleet are carracks, multisailed roundships,” the young noble explained. “Useful for hauling large shipments of cargo, but not very fast, with maneuverability still dependent on the wind.” Victor pointed to a Dhostar carrack in dock. It was, Alias realized, the same one that had been cut off at the harbor entrance by the Thalavar ship two days ago.

“For the past ten years,” Victor continued, “while merchants along the Sword Coast have been adding even larger carracks, the so-called galleons, to their fleets, merchants of the Inner Sea, including House Dhostar, have invested instead in great galleys. Such ships are large enough to carry perishable and luxury cargoes: silks, spices, perfumes, wines, fruits, messengers, and passengers. They are also maneuverable enough to guarantee safe entry into any harbor.

“Most importantly, they are quick enough to outrun the swarms of pirates haunting the Inner Sea: those making their homes in the Pirate Isles, as well as those along the coastline of Thay and Mulhorand, nations that are not exactly quick to rout out such predators. Should a great galley, despite its speed, be boarded by enemies, the rowers can abandon their oars for swords in the ship’s defense.” Victor led her up a staircase to the top of the foc’s’le. Standing behind the musicians, they were able to look out over the bow.

“The Gleason is classed as a galleass,” Victor said. “It’s basically a refitted great galley. It’s much wider and somewhat longer, for more cargo space. It has fewer but larger oars, giving the captain more flexibility in assigning duties. Finally, of course, the galleass is fitted with more armament.” Victor gave a nod toward the battering ram mounted in the fore and then removed a tarp from one of the ballistae to show it off. Alias peered at its well-oiled parts as Victor said, “We choose to have the ballistae manufactured in Neverwinter—their mechanisms are superior to any others. The local Gondsmen suggested we use bombards of smoke powder, but we consider that far too dangerous to transport. For projectiles we’ve settled on iron shot, and oil and flaming arrows.” Victor flipped the tarp back over the ballista and led Alias back down the foc’s’le stair.

“This is our first ship of this sort. We plan to use it as an escort for our carracks traveling to the Easting Reach.”

“Have the other merchant houses in Westgate been building galleasses?” Alias asked.

“House Guldar built two, but they were lost at sea, no doubt due to the treachery of Thay’s Red Wizards. House Vhammos has had one even larger than this half-finished in dry dock for a year, as they muster the resources to finish it. House Athagdal had one nearly finished two years ago, but their dockyard was prey to a mysterious fire, and they lost it as well as three other ships.”

“Night Masks?” Alias asked.

“They may have started the fire,” Victor answered, “but it’s very likely they were paid to do so by House Thorsar. Thorsar and Athagdal have a long-standing feud, fueled by petty jealousy.”

At the bottom of the foc’s’le stair stood a tall, heavy man with long, puffed-out black hair—Haztor Urdo. Alias remained on the stair, glaring down at the Night Mask merchant, her hand resting on her sword.

With a venomous look at Alias, the young merchant greeted Victor with a simple, “Dhostar.”

“Urdo,” Victor responded in kind, his tone chill.

“Hiring swordswomen for your company now?” Urdo taunted Victor with a sly grin.

With an expertly executed shove, Victor pressed Haztor against the wall of the foc’s’le and held him there with a finger pressed against the younger man’s windpipe. With his face close to Haztor’s, Victor replied, “Considering the company you are known to keep, you would do well to keep your mouth shut.”

Victor turned to Alias, and in a mild and pleasant tone asked, “Would you excuse me for a few minutes? I have some business with this scion of the Urdo clan. Please, help yourself at the banquet table. I’ll join you there.”

Alias considered asking Victor to ignore the insult. Urdo wasn’t the first to snub her this evening, and he probably wouldn’t be the last. She recognized, though, that there was more to the conflict between the two men than an insult to herself. The young Urdo had challenged Victor’s power on his own turf. “I am hungry,” the swordswoman replied, and, slipping past Haztor, drifted over to the buffet tables.

A number of portly merchants were parked in front of the tables where beef, pork, and mutton were being served. At a table laden with seafood, several young men were challenging each other to down unhealthy portions of some of the more exotic offerings—fish eggs, pickled cuttlefish, and raw squid. Alias slid up to a table featuring a huge, edible centerpiece of fruits surrounded by slices of wine cheeses fanned out like playing cards. Accepting a plate from a servant, she filled it with pieces of Vilhon Blanc and Turmish brick, and some grapes plucked from the centerpiece. Another servant provided her with a slipper of mead. With her hands full, Alias backed away from the table.

The swordswoman took a sip of the wine. She started with surprise as the taste blossomed in her mouth. She took another sip to confirm her suspicion. Evermead! A wine made in only one place—the elven island of Evermeet, twenty-nine hundred miles away. The Dhostars had imported it all the way to Westgate. Alias was more impressed by this feat of transportation than the building of all the galleasses on the Inner Sea. She sipped blissfully at the sweet wine with her eyes closed, remembering, as if in a dream, simpler days and friends long gone.

When she’d finished the wine, the spell was broken. She looked toward the bow, where Victor was speaking with Haztor Urdo. Victor seemed relaxed and friendly, while Haztor looked tense and nervous.

“Your glass is empty,” someone at Alias’s side noted.

Alias turned to find herself face-to-face with Lady Nettel Thalavar. It was like turning the corner in a cavern and running into a dragon, a smiling dragon. The old woman was far more imposing than any Westgate noble Alias had met yet. She stood as tall as Alias and held her ground. There was none of Luer Dhostar’s bullying or Ssentar Urdo’s viciousness about her. She was simply a strong woman, unafraid of strangers.

Compared to the other guests, the noblewoman was dressed quite plainly, in a conservative black-velvet gown. Her white hair was twisted into a bun at the top of her head. Her only jewelry consisted of a gold wedding band, a strand of pearls, and a brooch of a stylized feather fashioned of copper aged to a green patina. The elderly woman motioned toward Alias’s glass, and a servant appeared immediately to fill it from a wineskin.

“I am Lady Nettel,” she introduced herself. “And you are Alias of the Magic Arm,” the noblewoman stated as she regarded Alias through a set of lenses mounted on an ebony rod.

Alias, unused to the description, did not reply immediately.

“Alias the Sell-Sword. Ruskettle’s friend. Jamal’s cheap hero. Dhostar’s young champion. Stop me if I mention one you prefer,” Lady Nettel requested with a grin.

“Just Alias,” the swordswoman replied and bowed formally at the waist. “I’m pleased to meet you, Lady Nettel. Olive speaks very highly of you.”

“As she does of you,” Lady Nettel answered. “I am very grateful for the assistance you rendered to her protecting my wine. Thank you.”

“You are most welcome,” Alias replied. “I only wish it had ended better than it did.”

“Yes,” Lady Nettel agreed. “Please, allow me to present my granddaughter and heir, Thistle.”

Thistle Thalavar, who had been staring wide-eyed at Alias, lowered her eyes and curtsied. She was dressed rather more elaborately than her grandmother, in a white gown trimmed with miles of pink ribbon. Her yellow hair was elaborately plaited all about her head and decorated with tiny flowers. She wore a diamond necklace that must have been an heirloom, since it was far too expensive for so young a woman.

“You are the talk of my household,” Lady Nettel announced, “with the halflings hailing you as Ruskettle’s warrior companion, the servants raving about your street theater antics, and the youngsters speculating about you and Victor.”

Alias smiled politely, hoping she would not blush, but Thistle looked horrified. “Grandmama!” she said after a gasp.

Grandmama held up a hand, and Thistle hushed. “Young people are always gossiping, trying to figure out where everyone around them fits into society. Such a waste of time.”

“Because the people themselves don’t even know where they fit in?” Alias asked.

Lady Nettel smiled and shook her head. “Because we weren’t meant to fit into society. We must be what we are, and let society fit around us. That is how I have always lived my life. And you?”

“That’s always been my choice,” Alias agreed.

“Like your tattoo?” Thistle asked, her words starting to spill over each other. “You chose that. Did it hurt? Do you regret it?”

“Thistle,” Lady Nettel spoke in a warning tone.

“How else will I know?” Thistle insisted.

Lady Nettel sighed. “Please excuse her. We had an argument that had nothing to do with you.”

“That’s all right,” Alias said. She turned to Thistle. “My tattoo was not really my choice. Someone branded me when I was a captive. It didn’t hurt, because I was unconscious at the time. It’s not a regular tattoo, though, but magical. I cannot regret it, since I had no choice in its existence, but it can be very tiresome. It is not something one can remove like a dress or jewelry. It is always there, the same design, the same color. Once I hated it, but no longer. It reminds me of a special time in my life and of the bonds I share with my brother and my sisters and with my father.”

“I see,” Thistle said, more thoughtful. “Thank you for telling me.”

Lady Nettel raised her glass to someone behind Alias. A moment later, Alias felt a hand on her shoulder as Victor Dhostar took a position beside her.

“Lady Nettel,” Victor greeted the elderly noblewoman, adding a deep bow. He winked at Thistle and asked, “How are you, Dervish?”

Thistle colored deeply at the nickname and tried unsuccessfully to appear too haughty to notice the young Dhostar.

Lady Nettel chuckled. “Congratulations on your new vessel, Lord Victor,” she said. “It hasn’t sunk yet under the weight of Westgate’s pride. It must be well-constructed.”

“I’ll pass your compliments on to father,” Victor answered.

“Hah!” Lady Nettel replied. “If those compliments belong to anyone, they’re yours. For all his meddling, Luer hasn’t peeked in a shipyard for six years. Can’t take the dust. This is your victory, young man, and everyone knows it.”

Victor bowed his head wordlessly.

“Well, I’ll let you steal away with your guest,” Lady Nettel said. “I’m sure she’s not here to entertain me.” With that, she moved off with Thistle, followed by a wake of other guests all vying for the Thalavar matriarch’s attention.

Alias offered Victor some cheese from her plate. The ship was rounding the harbor entrance now, and everything on the ship cast two shadows, one from the stern light, the other from the lighthouse. Looking across to the Westlight plaza, Alias saw a group of people scurrying around in the twilight, setting up some sort of display on the northern shore of the peninsula.

“What’s going on out there?” she asked Victor.

“Ah, well, that’s a surprise. You’ll just have to wait and see,” the nobleman said.

Alias nodded. “I shouldn’t ask, but how did your business go with young Urdo?” the swordswoman queried.

Victor grinned conspiratorially. “We discussed how easy it was to make an apology. Taking my cue from my father, who apologized for his arrest, I thought I might just apologize in advance in case Haztor happens to fall overboard and no one notices. Should he falter in his attempt to swim ashore or, gods forbid, should the quelzarn happen to devour him, I assured him that my apologies to his family would be profuse if not sincere.”

“There isn’t really a quelzarn, is there?” Alias asked, knowing that such giant sea serpents were reputed to be very rare.

“Of course there is,” Victor insisted. “What do you think eats all the garbage tossed into the bay?”

Alias gave the nobleman a suspicious look. “Have you ever seen this quelzarn?” she demanded.

“Many times,” he replied, then added, “though only on foggy nights, when I’m alone, without, alas, any witnesses to back up my story.”

Alias laughed. “So where is Haztor now?” she asked.

Victor looked around the deck, then shrugged. “I’ve no idea,” he answered, raising his eyebrows theatrically.

“Victor, you wouldn’t—” Alias looked around the deck uncertainly.

The young nobleman chuckled. “He’s over there, hugging the mainmast. I don’t imagine he’ll go anywhere near the rails this evening. He’s not a strong swimmer.”

Alias looked in the direction Victor had nodded. Haztor Urdo was surrounded by several young men and women who chatted with him amicably, but he was indeed keeping the mainmast at his back.

“I haven’t seen Ssentar Urdo,” Alias noted. “Wasn’t he invited?”

“Each noble house is invited, and each sends at least one representative so the rest of the houses cannot gossip freely about it. Ssentar Urdo, however, is prey to seasickness. Ordinarily Ssentar would send his oldest son, Mardon, and Mardon’s wife. By sending Haztor in his stead, his father is showing Haztor his support. Haztor, despite the scandal of being arrested as a Night Mask, will remain a power. Consequently, sycophants will flock about him, seizing this opportunity to offer their support. Such people are liable to snub you, given a chance. They aren’t worth worrying about.”

“Considering the company I’m in, I doubt I should notice them,” Alias replied. She set aside her empty plate and glass. “Shall we continue our tour?”

Victor smiled, took her arm, and steered her aft. “The masts and keel,” he explained, “were fashioned from redwood logged in the far north, around Hartsvale, land of giants and giant trees.”

“And where do you get the oarsmen?” Alias asked, “Sentenced criminals?”

“Sometimes,” responded Victor. “This particular crew, however, is made up of shareholders.”

“Shareholders?”

Victor nodded, “Of course. You didn’t think we’d risk all the heads of Westgate in a boat with a crew of criminals, did you? People work better when they have a stake in the outcome. In this case, fight better and row better. They get a small portion of the profits this ship will make for House Dhostar. Any who agreed to serve for this frivolous maiden voyage gets a double share of the first venture. We have no trouble finding rowers.”

At the deck level, the stern castle was open to the fore. In the rear, two sailors manned the tiller, but the rest of the area was taken up by tables for the guests. Luer Dhostar and most of the noble clan elders sat at a table in the front of the sterncastle, drinking, playing dice, and telling sea stories from their past. The croamarkh nodded briefly at his son. He gave no indication of noticing Alias. Durgar, who sat on the croamarkh’s right, smiled ever so slightly at the swordswoman, but then turned his attention back to some elderly noble describing a run-in he’d had with pirates back when the world was young.

Victor led Alias past the tables to the stairs in the back.

“Up or down?” Alias asked.

“Up,” said the young noble. “Down is storage and berths for the crew.”

Alias climbed the steep stairs and paused at the first level. Victor gave her a peek into the officers’ and guests’ quarters. All but the captain’s cabin looked cramped, but all were snug and smelled pleasantly of fresh pine.

They climbed another set of steep stairs and stood alone on the roof of the sterncastle. There was no one else up there. They could look down on the party below, but when they turned their backs, it seemed to disappear. Alias looked up into the darkness overhead, but due to the glare of the stern light, the lighthouse, and the waxing moon, she could pick out only the brightest stars. Victor strolled to the stern railing, and Alias drifted behind him.

For the first time Alias felt as if they were truly at sea, and not just because they’d left the bay. A stiff breeze shot across the port side. Alias shivered in the wind.

“I forgot I might need a cloak out here,” she said.

“In the interest of chivalry, I feel obliged to offer you an arm around your shoulder,” Victor said.

“In the interest of encouraging chivalry wherever I find it, I feel obliged to accept,” Alias replied.

Victor slid his arm around her back, and Alias leaned against his side. The wide sleeve of his tunic served well as a shawl, and the warmth of his hand on her shoulder was wonderfully pleasant.

Westgate was ablaze with lights that rivaled the stars above: the lighthouse, the streetlights, the campfires on the shore.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Victor said, regarding the city. “Lit up on a clear night like this, it looks every bit as magical as Evermeet, as exotic as Kara-Tur, as wealthy as Zakhara. Like a place of make-believe, a place where legends can be born.”

Alias made an agreeable and noncommittal, “Mmmm,” unable to put out of her mind the Night Mask rot at the city’s heart.

As if he could read her thoughts, Victor added, “If only we could excise the Night Masks without damaging the city.”

“Well, we may be another step closer,” Alias said. “I’ve traced a protection racket from the Shore back to a wealthy vintner in the city. His name’s Melman. I wanted to be sure he wasn’t some noble’s cousin or brother-in-law.”

Victor furrowed his brow in thought. “Melman. My father and I have exported some of his wine. No, he’s not related to any of the noble houses.”

“Good. I’m hoping he’s a high-ranking Night Mask or will lead us to one.”

“I’ve heard some stories. His house has an evil reputation,” Victor said. “Promise me you won’t go there alone.”

Alias nodded. She didn’t mention she knew the house well, or that she planned to visit it later this very night. There was no sense worrying the young nobleman.

“Better still, why not just have Durgar arrest the man?” Victor asked.

Alias shook her head. “Jamal,” she said, “has suggested that if we can just find the Faceless’s treasury, we should be able to capture the artifact that keeps him and the Night Masters magically sheltered from scrying and divinations. I’m hoping Melman might lead me to the Night Masters’ lair. He’s not going to cooperate, locked in a cell in the Tower.”

“How does Jamal know all this?” Victor asked.

“She has a network of her own informants,” Alias answered.

“I realize she must be a friend, but, well, she seems to know so much. Are you certain—do you think it’s possible that all this theater against the Night Masks is maybe a smoke screen? She could be one herself. She could be the Faceless, for all we know.”

Alias shook her head with a scowl. “That’s no more likely than your father being the Faceless.”

“Father! That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? You said he refuses to pay the Night Masks protection, yet the Night Masks haven’t wreaked their revenge on your operations as they have on House Thalavar.”

“That’s because they’re afraid that Father would make good on his threat to start a war in the streets.”

“Or they have orders not to harm your oper—” Alias halted, struck by a sudden idea.

“What is it?” Victor asked.

“Or they’ve been geased not to harm your family. Kimbel would certainly make an excellent candidate.”

Victor shook his head. “I keep an eye on Kimbel. If he were running a thieves guild on the side, I would know. But I’m also sure the Faceless is not Father.”

“So am I,” Alias agreed.

“But you just said—”

“I was just pointing out that there are some inconsistencies. I suspect your father pays the Night Masks, but is too proud to admit it. He’s simply not a logical candidate. He has more money than an ancient dragon and the most powerful position in the whole city. He has no reason to belong to the Night Masks.”

Victor remained silent for too long.

“What’s wrong?” Alias asked.

“Nothing,” Victor assured her, shaking himself. “I was just thinking about how much my father wants to be croamarkh. You might almost say he covets the post. After his first two terms, I was sure he’d recommend me, but then he insisted the time was wrong for a new man and he offered himself for the third term. Then, after Lansdal Ssemm made such a mess of his four years, father told me he had to take up the next term, so I wasn’t blamed for any problems Ssemm left behind. I know I’d make a good croamarkh, but I need father’s support to be elected.”

“I know you’d make a good one, too,” Alias said.

“I have such plans.”

“I know. You told me about them the day we met.”

“Those are just the plans if I find Verovan’s treasure. I have others I’d start without it. Build a navy to protect our trading ships from pirates, for one, and train an army of Westgate citizens, not mercenaries, to protect our caravans from brigands, for another. I’ve even begun to toy with your idea of offering more people a vote in the council. Not everyone, like you said. That would be chaos. But smaller merchants and important artisans and craftsman. Bring in some new blood, like my father said about you.”

“You should be croamarkh,” Alias said. “Don’t wait for your father anymore. When his term is up, tell him you’re running with or without his support.”

“I don’t think I’d have enough support to defy him.”

“You might be surprised,” Alias said. “Lady Thalavar thinks highly of you. She said everyone knows The Gleason was your victory. If I’ve managed to bring in the Faceless by then, everyone who stands against the Night Masks will support you, too.”

Victor turned toward her, his face only inches from her own. “And you? Would I have the support of one clever, beautiful warrior?”

“Of course,” Alias replied, “though I don’t think my support means much in this city.”

“With you by my side I feel like I could conquer the world. What—why are you laughing?”

Alias worked hard at stifling a giggle. “I’m sorry. You just sounded for a moment like the hero in an opera.”

“Opera’s drawn from real life, after all,” Victor replied. “Maybe if you close your eyes and listen hard you’ll hear music, too.”

Alias closed her eyes. She felt Victor’s lips brush against hers.

“I do hear that music,” the swordswoman whispered as she slid her arms around the nobleman’s waist. “It sounds very far off, though. We need to bring it closer.” She pulled Victor toward her and pressed her lips against his.

At the base of the Westlight, Kimbel checked his hourglass, then nodded to the waiting servants. With smoldering sticks the servants began lighting the fuses of the smoke powder novelties imported from Kara-Tur. They spiraled up into the darkness on columns of sparks, finally exploding in flowerlike bursts of light. The sky above flashed with color, reflected in the bay below. A few citizens of the city, those who’d actually witnessed magical fireball attacks, were bemused by this new toy of the wealthy. The less experienced, especially the children, were delighted with a spectacle they could share for free. Aboard The Gleason, although they were careful not to indicate how impressed they were by the display, the nobles all agreed it was a fitting signal for the end of the ship’s maiden voyage.