Masquerades

Thirteen Conversations Ashore

“Ooh, that’s a pretty one,” Jamal exclaimed as a golden marigold blossomed on the horizon. Mintassan harrumphed politely.

When the first explosions sounded Jamal had insisted they run up to Mintassan’s aerie—a balcony reached from a window of his attic. The sage’s home was far enough up the hill for them to have a clear view of the fireworks blossoming over the bay.

The sage and the actress reclined in heavy iron garden chairs which, after years of exposure to the elements, looked as if they’d been gnawed upon by rust monsters. Kel, newly scrubbed and dressed in some old clothes of the sage’s, leaned out over the balcony railing with all the disdain for personal safety a teenaged boy could muster. Fireworks were still so rare an occurrence that the young thief was unable to hide his pleasure beneath his usual veneer of apathy. From his shouts and applause it was obvious he preferred the noisier explosions to the more visually elaborate ones.

Jamal rearranged the faded, mildew-ridden cushion at her back and took another sip of her wine. “Ever think of getting some new furniture out here?” she asked the sage.

“Not much reason to sit out here anymore,” Mintassan grumbled. “Since they added that blasted magical light to the harbor tower, the sky’s too bright. Can’t see the stars I chose to observe for my treatise on astronomy.”

Jamal looked up at the sky. “The ones you can still see are lovely enough.”

“I suppose,” the sage said with a shrug. He was eyeing Kel nervously, certain that the boy would flip over the railing any minute, requiring a magical flying spell for his rescue.

The sage leaned nearer the actress and murmured softly, “He—” Mintassan indicated Kel with a jerk of his head “—was looking over the silver tea set, estimating its resale value. He could calculate a twenty-seven percent cut in his head, but he can’t read. He said he doesn’t need to learn to read. How can he say that? How can he think that?”

“No one’s given him reason enough,” Jamal replied. “Although I’m sure a clever man like yourself can find some motivation for him.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Well, it’s not likely he’d want to imitate an old lady with modest thespian skills. Boys need to look up to men.”

“Because I’m a man my home has become a shelter for homeless actresses and underage rogues?”

“More likely because you’re a powerful mage, remember?” Jamal retorted.

Mintassan shrugged off the comment. “I’m beginning to dread it when Alias goes out after Night Masks. Who knows what she’ll bring back next?”

“Maybe she’ll bring back young Victor Dhostar,” Jamal suggested.

Mintassan scowled. “I’m not taking him in. I don’t even know why I agreed to take Kel,” he complained.

“Because Alias asked you, and she’s a clever, pretty woman,” Jamal stated.

Mintassan flushed ever so slightly. “I’m simply extending her a courtesy because she’s a friend of Grypht’s,” he argued.

“Is that what Victor Dhostar is doing by inviting her to his posh party—simply extending a courtesy?” Jamal asked, peering with concern at a firework that exploded a little too low on the horizon. “I don’t imagine he’s failed to notice how attractive she is.”

“I noticed she was pretty. Said so the first night she came in here. I can’t understand why she would have anything to do with Victor Dhostar, though. She’s a bright, experienced adventurer. He’s a puffed-up greengrocer,” Mintassan declared, using the adventurers’ term for a merchant.

“Well, when he’s not standing in his father’s shadow, people seem to think he’s pretty capable,” Jamal remarked. “If Luer were to die this millennium, Victor might take his place as croamarkh.”

“Croamarkh. Oh, that’s different,” Mintassan said contemptuously, his face illuminated by the light from a distant skyrocket. “King of the greengrocers.”

“And he and Alias do have something in common.”

“What? What do they have in common?” Mintassan demanded.

“A desire to rid the city of the Night Masks.”

“I don’t especially like them either,” the sage pointed out.

“But you don’t care much about Westgate.”

“That’s not true. I grew up in this city, the same as you.”

“And you left it just as soon as you could to go gadding about the planes and other bizarre places. You only think of this city as a convenient place to store all the junk you bring back from adventuring.”

Mintassan paused thoughtfully, then shrugged. “All right, I admit it. I find cities boring, full of boring people, present company excepted, of course. Alias wasn’t interested in Westgate either when she first came. Dragonbait and you talked her into this job.”

“I think Victor Dhostar had more to do with it than we did,” Jamal replied.

“Sure. Rub it in,” Mintassan grumbled into his wine.

“Still, as you pointed out, Victor Dhostar’s just a greengrocer. He really can’t do too much to protect her. It wouldn’t hurt to have a wizard watching her back.”

“She can’t be scried, remember?”

“You don’t get close to a person by watching her through a crystal ball. I was thinking you might involve yourself in a more active role. Offer to go with her the next time you have a chance,” Jamal suggested.

“I think behind this request to look out for your cheap hero is an ulterior motive—playing matchmaker,” the sage noted.

“I’m too busy to worry about nonsense like that. My ulterior motive is to unnerve the Faceless,” Jamal replied. “He relies on the neutrality of people like you, Mintassan. I’m hoping he’ll grow anxious and careless if he perceives the balance shifting against him.”

“You’re bringing out all your reserves for this battle, Jamal. So certain you can end the war this season?” Mintassan asked.

The actress sighed. “Not really, but the fight is beginning to wear me down. I’m giving it all I’ve got before I get another year older.”

The horizon lit up with the firework’s finale, a shower of multiple bursts that raced along the length of the peninsula. Scattered applause broke out from watchers in the street.

Kel climbed down from the balcony railing, his eyes wide and alert.

“Did you enjoy the fireworks?” Jamal prodded him.

The youth’s eyes took on a wariness common to all young people when called upon to pass judgment on adult endeavors. “It was all right,” he allowed with a shrug. He was too excited to remain indifferent for long. “I want to be able to do that some day,” he admitted.

“You want to work with fireworks?” Mintassan queried, bemused.

“No,” the boy corrected, shooting Mintassan a look suggesting the sage was as dumb as a rock. “I want to be a great thief, like the Faceless, or an important merchant, like one of the Dhostars, so I can afford to have fireworks every night. Then I’d get some serious respect.”

Mintassan looked down at the youth with astonishment. It took him more than a moment to recover and ask, “You think their wealth is something to respect?”

“Sure,” Kel answered. “What could be better?”

The sage harrumphed and rose to his feet. “How ’bout this?” he responded. Pointing to the iron chair he’d just vacated, he intoned, “Quesarius Amano Illusar Jho!”

A miniature sphere of orange-and-white flame formed at his fingertip, then streaked toward chair, emitting an ear-splitting shriek. A second and a third sphere formed and sped after the first. As the flaming orbs hurtled passed, Kel could see on their surfaces tiny faces with howling mouths.

The fiery spheres orbited around the iron chair, faster and faster, spinning a cocoon of white light. The cocoon began to stretch and deform as something within grew and pushed outward. An iron claw slashed through the cocoon, and an iron muzzle poked out. With the sound of shattering glass, the cocoon dissipated into myriad light motes, which sparkled and vanished to reveal a miniature iron dragon. The wyrm flapped its wings, arched its neck, and gave a low roar. Smoke, smelling like burning mildewy cushions, streamed from the creatures’ nostrils. Then the beast settled back on its rear haunches, folded its wings, and became still.

Kel, his eyes as wide as saucers, reached out gingerly and touched the transmutated iron chair, now an immobile sculpture of ornate detail and great beauty.

Holding Kel in place with a hand on his shoulder, Mintassan lifted the boy’s chin so that their eyes met. “Knowledge is better than wealth,” the sage said. “It cannot be stolen. It cannot be bought. Once you possess it, it is yours for life. You can accumulate knowledge by observing, listening, and questioning. The truly wise can do so by reading and writing as well.”

Kel squinted with a doubtful look, trying to analyze the truth of Mintassan’s arguments. “If I learn to read, can I do that?” he asked, pointing at the iron dragon.

Mintassan snorted derisively. “Reading isn’t a skill you acquire to learn parlor tricks. Reading lights the pathways to all knowledge. The ability to travel each pathway varies with the individual, but reading makes the journey easier.”

The expression on Kel’s face indicated he was struggling to understand the sage’s metaphor. He glanced back at the iron dragon as if it could offer him illumination. Then he looked back at the sage. “So, how do I learn this stuff?” he asked.

“First, you get a good night’s sleep,” Mintassan said. “Lessons are learned better in the morning.”

The boy clambered back into the attic and bolted for the stairs, as if speed would bring the next day closer.

“You really know how to motivate a child,” Jamal said with a grin.

“Great thieves and rich merchants. What sort of heroes are those for young boys to have?” Mintassan asked with a shake of his head.

“The sort that fade into obscurity when better men make an effort to impress them,” Jamal replied, giving the sage’s shoulder a grateful squeeze. “Good night,” she murmured as she slipped through the attic window.

Mintassan remained on the balcony for a while longer, alone with his thoughts.

“The fireworks have been over for half an hour now,” Olive said. “She should be back soon.” The halfling stood at the open window. Although the second story of Blais House did not offer a clear view of the harbor, she had been able to catch sight of the higher skyrockets and, of course, hear the entire display.

Dragonbait, his attention focused on the chessboard, made a noncommittal noise. He’d beaten Olive at two games already, and he had been winning a third when the halfling had abandoned the game to watch the fireworks. Not surprisingly, when the fireworks ended, the saurial had been unable to coax Olive back to the board, so now he was continuing the game solitaire—playing both sides.

The chess pieces gilded in white gold represented the Cormyrian forces, those in yellow gold, the Tuigan Horde. Dragonbait made a clicking noise with his tongue and dragged Vangerdahast diagonally across the length of the board to capture a Hordelands horseman. Then the saurial switched positions at the table and considered the halfling’s crumbling defenses.

Olive peered out into the darkness, where she could just make out the Westlight. “I wonder what’s going on out there,” she said, not for the first time that evening. “On the boat, I mean. This Lord Victor seems genial enough, for a human, but he is still one of the merchant nobles. The most poisonous snakes are the most brightly colored, my mother used to say.”

Dragonbait made the same disinterested huffing noise he’d made the last three times Olive had tried to draw him into a discussion of the party on The Gleason or Victor’s character. He maneuvered the remaining Hordelands horseman to threaten the Cormyrian sage Dimswart, but the move only delayed the inevitable. Olive had left her Tuigan forces in complete disarray.

This time Olive would not be deterred from her speculations. “Jamal says Lady Gleason, his mother—Victor’s, that is—died young. Considering Lord Luer’s reputation for arrogance, one has to wonder how Lord Victor turned out to be so pleasant. Maybe he had a halfling nanny or something. She’s out there alone. Alias, I mean. Not even a chaperon.”

Dragonbait changed sides and stared at the situation from the Cormyrian side. From behind the King Azoun figure it looked like mate in three moves. He couldn’t imagine what Olive was worrying about. Alias had once taken on a dragon single-handedly. How the swordswoman could have trouble on a two-hour cruise eluded him. More likely, the saurial reasoned, Olive was trying to cover her nervousness about their planned excursion to Cassana’s old house.

A long pause ensued as Dragonbait changed sides again and tried to discover a way out of his self-inflicted attack, but an escape was denied the Tuigans. Mate in two now. At least the Tuigans should have something more to show for it. He took the Dimswart piece with the horseman.

“At least she has her sword with her,” Olive said.

Dragonbait toppled the Tuigan khan and growled.

Olive turned at the saurial’s guttural roar. In the thieves’ hand cant the paladin signed, She’ll be all right. Don’t worry.

“Don’t worry?” Olive retorted. “Alias is out there alone with that greengrocer. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t worry.”

Alias is in good hands, the paladin signed. Lord Victor is an honest, valiant, and worthy young human.

“She’s spent most of her life in the Lost Vale with your people.”

And now she should spend time with her own people.

“You can’t just throw her into this society alone.”

You didn’t have any of these objections when Giogi Wyvernspur married her sister Cat.

“That’s because I knew Giogi well enough to trust him. He was a really nice boy.”

I’ve looked into Lord Victor, the paladin signed, the closest the hand cant could come to expressing his shen sight. His intentions are good.

“Well, we all know what road good intentions pave.”

Alias can take care of herself, the paladin signed hard and fast, and the halfling could detect the chickenlike scent of his impatience.

“Physically, yes,” Olive agreed, “but emotionally? She’s still just a child.”

Her feelings have grown more quickly the last few years.

“Even worse,” Olive retorted. “That would make her a teenager, impulsive and reckless.”

Why does this worry you so?

“I do think of her as my friend, you know. I don’t want to see her get hurt making the same mistakes I did when I was young.”

Lord Victor could be as nice as Giogi Wyvernspur.

Olive looked doubtful. “Even so, that leaves us with another problem. I don’t know how it works among your people, but among the fur-bearing races of halflings and humans, love wreaks havoc on us. It’s like pouring sand into the fine gearwork of the mind. When you should be thinking about your enemies’ position and your defenses and where to strike, your mind is wandering off and you’re thinking about his eyes, or his smile, or what he said last.”

The paladin thought of Alias’s own comments about the lovers by the fountain on the day they arrived in Westgate. With eyes only for each other, they were sitting ducks, she’d said. Alias knows enough to guard against that, he signed.

“Hah,” Olive declared. “Shows what you know. ‘I’ll never be that stupid’ is what every woman thinks until it happens to her. Then, too, something could happen to Lord Victor. He could be hurt or kidnapped. Alias wasn’t all that rational when she thought Finder was threatened. What would she be like if something happened to someone else she’d grown attached to?”

The halfling’s warnings were cut short by the sound of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones outside.

The halfling and saurial exchanged glances, then Olive padded over to the window. Standing in the shadow of the curtain, she looked down onto the street. After a moment, she waved Dragonbait to approach.

The saurial sighed and ambled forward, but the halfling grabbed his tunic and jerked him to the side. “Stand in the shadows,” she hissed. Feeling a little foolish, and a little guilty, but also a little anxious, the paladin did as instructed before looking down on the street. He shifted nervously, made uncomfortable by the sight below.

Victor’s carriage stood outside the hotel door. As Lord Victor helped Alias down, she slid into his arms, threw her own around his neck, and pressed her lips against his. The pair remained embracing, lips locked against each other for an embarrassingly long period to witness.

Dragonbait pulled Olive away from the window, back to the chessboard and made her sit down opposite him. They both stared at the chessboard without seeing the pieces, waiting for Alias’s return.

When Victor finally released her, Alias drew in a deep breath and giggled.

“You make me feel so good,” Victor whispered.

“Good as in virtuous?” Alias teased, gently nibbling at his ear.

“Lucky, happy, fortunate, fated, delighted,” the young noble burbled. “I’ve never had anyone I could really talk to. Knowing you understand, that you’re with me—” He faltered for words. “Are you sure you have to go?”

The swordswoman nodded. “It’s late. We both have a lot to do tomorrow.”

“It’s already tomorrow,” Victor murmured, sliding his hand up and down her back.

“Exactly,” Alias retorted, and she slipped gracefully from his grasp and began climbing the steps to the hotel door.

Lord Victor reached out and grasped her wrist. “Alias?” he entreated her.

“Yeeesss?” the swordswoman answered, making no attempt to pull her captured arm away.

Lord Victor moved closer, standing on the step just beneath hers. He looked up into her eyes. “Give me a token,” he demanded with a grin, “or I shall never let you go.”

“A token?” Alias replied with a little laugh, not certain she’d heard him correctly.

“A token to show your regard for me, at least, that is, I hope you have some regard for me, for my feelings, for what you mean to me. Please. Some trinket to remind me of you when we’re apart.”

Alias thought of her new earrings, but somehow they didn’t seem enough a part of her. “I don’t think I have …” she started to say, then she thought of something appropriate. “Wait. You have to let go of my hand first, though.”

Victor released her and held out both his hands cupped together, waiting for his boon.

With a deft motion Alias released the peace-bond knot tying her sword to her scabbard. She drew out her sword and raised it to her head. She held out the strand of hair she wore in an ornamental braid and sliced the braid off with the blade of her weapon.

She slid her sword back into its scabbard. After curling the braid into a tiny loop, she laid it in the young noble’s palms. “Your token, milord,” she whispered.

“Accepted gratefully, milady,” Victor replied, bending briefly to one knee. He tucked the red ringlet into his shirt, then his arms snaked out again and grasped the swordswoman about her waist. He pulled her toward him until they stood lips to lips.

They kissed again.

Finally the young noble released the swordswoman. Alias ran up the steps and into the hotel. Lord Victor climbed back into his carriage and urged his horses forward.

As the carriage rolled away, the halfling and the saurial could hear Alias moving toward them in the hallway, singing a love song.

“Oh, yeah. She seems really guarded to me,” Olive mocked the paladin. She sat back down beside the chessboard and righted her overturned king. “Your move, Dragonbait,” she said.

The paladin sat across from the halfling, his brow furrowed as the hamlike scent of his anxiety wafted out the open window.