Masquerades

Seventeen Accusations

The Faceless looked over his nine surviving minions, and from behind his two masks, one of porcelain, the other of coins, he smiled. They had responded well, and promptly, to his summons. Each had received, from a messenger they’d never seen (nor would ever see again), a single scrap of paper with the code word “kudzu.” They all knew what this meant. It had happened on rare occasions before, when some local activity near the bridge prevented them from using the entrance to their lair in secret. They were to meet at a different site, but at the same time as usual. So the Night Masters’ business continued uninterrupted while Durgar and his watch were occupied examining a lair that had since been pillaged and abandoned.

Two Night Masters who lived near the bridge had apparently detected the watch’s interest in the sandbank and were now informing the others in hushed whispers. They were like nervous cattle milling in the path of an approaching storm, the Faceless reflected. They needed only that sharp crack of lightning to turn them into a stampede. The Faceless was prepared to be that lightning.

The Night Masters’ lord sat at the head of a wooden table, in a tavern that had closed for business two hours earlier. Behind him stood two rows of dragon-headed iron golems, arranged like obedient troops, to remind the others of the power he commanded. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the tabletop.

First the stick, the Night Masters’ lord thought. He began the meeting by tossing Melman’s mask on the table. The glyph that labeled it as Gateside’s had been scratched off the porcelain. “Gateside is dead,” he announced. The effect on the assemblage was immediate. To the Faceless, their fear and uneasiness was palpable … and exquisite.

Now the carrot, the Faceless prompted himself. “I have at this time no plans to turn the management of his district over to anyone else. It might be better, I think, to divide his duties and his income among those of you who remain.” A tingle of excitement passed though the Night Masters. It was a great risk, being a Night Master, but the rewards were what made the risk worthwhile.

And finally the challenge: “Before Gateside died,” the Faceless declared, “he betrayed us to Alias the Sell-Sword. Before his betrayal, this Alias was nothing more than a mercenary, a trumped-up member of the watch. In betraying us, though, Gateside made her into exactly what he feared her to be—an enemy capable of destroying our organization.”

The Faceless paused, letting his words sink in. It took his minions a few moments to shift their thoughts from their own greed to their own self-preservation. He ignored their impassive masks, but studied instead the pursed lips, the clenched jaws, the trickle of sweat along the cheek of Finance Management. Aside from fearing the loss of their wealth and freedom, some of them, he knew, had a childlike terror of being killed by this red-headed witch.

After a few moments, the Faceless continued. “I had not expected Gateside to betray us.” It was an admission that he was, after all, only human, but one that also laid the blame squarely on the deceased. “Once I was made aware of his betrayal, I did everything in my power to keep the damage to a minimum. Our secret identities remain unthreatened.” It was important to make them aware that he alone had preserved them from their enemies.

“The loss of a secure meeting place is a minor loss. Our treasury and our armory remain in our possession.” Now to give them blood, the Night Masters’ lord thought. “This swordswoman has lunged at us with all she had,” the Faceless growled, “but we have parried her attack. Now it is time for our riposte.”

Around the table, heads bobbed up and down in agreement.

“It is time to show this mercenary witch and all the people of Westgate that we are the true commanders of this city. It is time to let the merchant nobles know they cannot simply hire someone to free them from our rule.”

Smiles of satisfaction beamed from the Night Masters.

Finally, the Faceless thought, it’s time to reveal my plan. “I propose,” he declared, “that we use our long-hoarded troop of magical warriors in a single strike that will end the career of Alias the Sell-Sword and at the same time break the power of the merchant nobles once and for all. In light of Melman’s betrayal, I will not go into the details of my plan, for security reasons. Are there any questions at this point?”

There should have been questions. Seven years ago, when the current Faceless had managed to wrest the title and power from the doppelganger who’d created this guild, there would have been questions. There had been at least three Night Masters then whose ability to reason, and consequently their power, had been strong enough to argue with him. Over the years, though, the current Faceless had skillfully eliminated these challengers. Melman had been the last. With his demise, there was no one left who would voice what the others hardly dared think, no piece of grit around which a pearl of wisdom might form.

Last of all, the Faceless thought with a cynical grin, display for them an illusion of their power and choice. “I call then for a vote, allowing me the use of these resources”—he motioned to the golems—“to use at my discretion.” He pulled a short dagger from his belt and held it out. The blade glistened with a drop of greenish ichor. There was a sharp collective intake of breath from the Night Masters. All wondered if another compatriot would perish at this meeting.

“How say ye to my proposal?” the Faceless asked. “Yea or nay?”

Nine resounding yeas echoed around the table, each Night Master eager to prove his or her loyalty by the zeal with which he or she replied.

Visual aids, the Faceless reflected, never failed to smooth the course of democracy. He smiled with pleasure at the wisdom of his minions.

Dragonbait awakened instantly at the knocking on the door. Alias was gone already. He vaguely recalled her prodding him earlier to tell him she was going with Jamal back to the dressmaker’s. He considered rolling over and ignoring the knock. After the late hour he had finally retired, he felt he was owed more sleep, even if it was nearly noon. If it was Mercy at the door with a breakfast tray, the half-elf girl would let herself in and leave it on the table.

There was the sound of a key rattling in the lock, then the sound of another key, then another. Then a wire slid through the keyhole.

Dragonbait swung out of bed warily and grabbed his sword.

The door swung open, and Olive Ruskettle slipped into the room and shut the door behind her. “It’s such a pleasure to find a challenging lock for a change,” the halfling said in place of a greeting. She pushed her lock-picking wire into her hair.

The saurial lowered his sword and set it back against the wall. Good morning to you, too, he signed, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Alias has gone out with Jamal, he explained.

Olive hopped up into a chair by the table. “I know. I waited until I saw her leave. I wanted to talk with you in private.

The saurial yawned toothily. Impatiently he signed, What is it now, Olive?

“It’s about Victor Dhostar.”

What about him?

“He can’t be trusted. You’ve got to convince Alias somehow to drop him like the slimy toad he is, and fast.”

The paladin glared at the halfling for her effrontery. I told you I’ve already studied him with my shen sight. There is nothing evil in him. I trust him completely.

“Well, I think the old shen sight’s going, pal,” the halfling retorted.

The paladin bristled. To say his shen sight was wrong was the equivalent of suggesting he had slipped from the grace of his god.

Smelling the fresh-baked bread scent of the saurial’s fury, the halfling hurried to put a different tone to her words. “It’s like Elminster always says—good and evil aren’t always. You’ve been tricked somehow. Instead of relying on this paladin magic all the time, you should use the evidence of your other senses. Like my mom used to say, ‘Handsome is as handsome does.’ And Lord Victor doesn’t at all, at least not handsomely.”

What evidence? the paladin signed, barely in control of his temper.

“Well, the key he had, for starters,” Olive said.

He explained the key to Alias and me.

“Yeah, I know. He told you he got it from his father. I heard him admit it when I followed him home.”

Yes. I saw you stow away on his carriage. He is only trying to protect his father the way you used to cover for Finder Wyvernspur’s crimes. It proves only that his judgment is poor, not that he cannot be trusted.

“The key he had wasn’t the same as the one Alias had.”

The saurial cocked his head in confusion. What do you mean?

“It wasn’t the same cut. It was nothing like it.”

The paladin shrugged. Different kinds of keys can open the same door, he signed and pointed to the door to the room, as you so aptly demonstrated.

“Yes, if they have certain similarities. Melman’s key and the key Victor said he got from his father, they’re as different as night and day. And I know my keys, as I so aptly demonstrated.”

There might be magic on the key that opened the door, Dragonbait argued. And magic is not your forte.

“Then there’s the question of footprints,” Olive continued, undaunted. “There weren’t any on the sandbar as we approached the door. If Victor had entered by the same door, we would have seen his footprints.”

Dragonbait struggled to remember the sandbar the afternoon before, anxious to dispute the halfling, but, truth to tell, he had not noted the condition of the sandbar one way or the other. He could have waded in earlier before the tide was at complete ebb, and the water carried away his prints, he signed.

“His boots weren’t wet, and there were no wet footprints in the sand on the other side of the door,” Olive argued. “He not only failed to mention there was another way in, which he must have used, but he also lied to us to cover that fact.”

Dragonbait thought of the smashed magical portal mirror they’d found in the lair last night. He scratched his head, trying to think of some excuse for the young noble. Covering for his father was one thing, but neglecting to mention a second entrance indicated something far more serious.

“Then there’s the quelzarn,” the halfling continued. “Those things aren’t dumb animals. They cast magic. There were four tasty morsels in the water. One with a sword and scales—you—one with chain mail—Alias—one in leather—me—and one with no shell on him at all—Lord Victor.”

It was attracted to the light of my sword, Dragonbait argued.

“A quelzarn hunts by scent first. They say one can smell blood in the water a mile away,” Olive commented. “If you hadn’t smelled juicier, it would have taken me. More importantly, it was upstream from all of us. It had to pass Lord Victor before it surfaced beside you and me. Then there’s the moment in the side tunnel when it lunged at Lord Victor. He had his hand in his pocket, fingering something. I’m willing to bet he has some charm against the creature.”

They sell such charms on the docks, Dragonbait pointed out, to anyone willing to pay two silvers.

“But I’ll bet his works better than those,” Olive replied.

It does not prove your point, the paladin insisted.

“Not alone. You have to study the whole body of evidence,” the halfling retorted. “Allow me to continue.”

The paladin remained silent.

“There’s the question of Victor’s only known confidant—the person with whom he discusses his day-to-day problems.”

His father? Dragonbait queried by hand.

“Hardly,” Olive replied. “Oh, to be sure, he kept the croamarkh informed of Alias’s discovery and our expedition into the sewers. He also reassured the old man that, where Alias is concerned, he has no intention, and I quote, ‘of forming an alliance beneath his station.’ But the most sinister point of all—guess who it is that Victor Dhostar has chosen as a confidant, who he trusts with all his schemes. Go on, guess.”

The saurial shrugged.

“Kimbel.”

Dragonbait shook his head in disbelief.

“Yes!” Olive insisted. “Kimbel, the geased assassin. The man whose idea of an amusing afternoon is torturing halflings. He and Victor both know that the croamarkh is the Faceless. They were talking about it.”

If Victor knew for sure, he would have told Alias, the paladin insisted.

“Oh, he’ll tell her,” Olive said. “But not until the time is right.”

What time is that?

“When he’s certain he’s properly positioned to be installed as croamarkh. The halflings at House Thalavar think he’s had his eye on the position for eight years, ever since his father cheated him out of it by running for his third term. Lord Victor’s an ambitious little viper, but he can’t just squeal on his father. He has an image to uphold as the dutiful, loyal son. If Alias accuses Luer, she’ll be the one to take the brunt of the nobles’ anger for insulting one of their own. Victor will get the credit for helping her fight the Night Masks, but won’t be blamed for turning on his father. He’s using her, using the way everyone feels about her.”

You are speculating, the paladin signed.

Olive hopped down from the chair and strode up to the paladin with her hands on her hips. “I am not speculating,” she growled, stomping her foot soundlessly in the plush carpeting. “I heard him plotting to overthrow his father, plotting to take over as croamarkh, plotting to use Alias. Now, you have to decide who you’re going to believe. There’s me, who you’ve known for eleven years, who helped free you and Alias and Finder from the clutches of Cassana and Zrie and Phalse and who helped you free your people from Moander’s slavery. Then there’s this silver-tongued greengrocer who you don’t know a thing about except that he looks good to your shen sight.”

Dragonbait folded his hands together. He did not reply immediately, but Olive could tell from the hamlike scent of worry wafting from his neck glands that she’d gotten through to him. Finally he signed, I must think more about this.

“You do that,” the halfling answered. “And while you’re at it, think about how you’re going to break it to Alias. She’s likely to be upset, but she can’t be kept in the dark. She’s up to her neck in all this, and Westgate politics are even deadlier than the Westgate sewers. I’m going back to House Thalavar. I’ve managed to wrangle myself into duty as one of Lady Nettel’s personal attendants for the ball, so I’ll see you both there.”

The halfling let herself out, leaving the paladin to brood over her words. It wasn’t until Mercy came in with a tray of fruit and bread an hour later that the paladin even moved. He returned the girl’s smile and curtsey with a brusque nod, then returned to his thoughts. The young half-elf shook her head at the stuffy smell in the room and opened a window before taking her leave. She couldn’t think why the room smelled so of smoke, but then she was unaware that that was the scent of the saurial’s fervent prayers.

Lord Victor surveyed the robe and sash he’d had made especially to match Alias’s gown. The swordswoman’s elven dressmaker had been obnoxiously discreet about what the swordswoman was wearing. Victor had had to visit her personally to talk her out of the information. It was worth his trouble, though, since it was important that people associate him with Alias tonight. Costuming was only one of several subtle but effective methods to achieve that end.

Almost everything was in place for tonight. Before he dressed for the ball, though, he had one last piece of business with his father.

The croamarkh was where he’d been yesterday afternoon at the same time, indeed, where he could be found every afternoon, in his library, balancing the business accounts personally, double-checking the figures of his accountants, ship captains, customs agents, and warehouse guards. Any discrepancy resulted in angry bellowing to send for the person responsible for the error, even if the error was in the Dhostar clan’s favor.

Victor entered the library and stood before his father’s desk. “Father?” he said.

“Victor,” Luer Dhostar replied curtly, looking up with irritation at the disturbance, his pen paused in mid-stroke. There was a trace of concern in his eyes. He never knew these days what his son might tell him next.

Victor remained standing silently in just the right spot to cast a shadow over the account book.

Finally the elder Dhostar asked, “Is there something you need?”

“Many things,” Victor replied smoothly, inwardly pleased that he had managed to make his father ask him. “But first and foremost,” he said, “I need to know if you have changed your mind about attending the masked ball this evening.”

“You know I have not,” Luer retorted, snapping off the last word like a dry twig. “You are consorting with the help. It’s no different than being caught in a compromising position with a chambermaid. I will not be seen appearing to endorse such a relationship.”

“I think you should reconsider,” Victor stated. “This evening Alias is going to unmask the Faceless.”

The croamarkh’s forehead creased deeply with concern. He set down his quill pen and closed his account book. “She knows who the Faceless is?”

“She is very close,” said Victor, “and she’ll have the proof she needs by tonight.”

“Why hasn’t she come to me with this information?” Luer demanded. “That’s what I hired her for.”

“Why hasn’t she?” Victor parroted. He shrugged. “Perhaps consorting with Jamal and her little troupe has given her a flair for street theater dramatics. Will you reconsider coming tonight?”

Luer shifted uncomfortably in his seat, remaining silent as he considered his options. After a few moments, he shook his head. “Send for her. She must tell me first. I can’t have half the nobles up in arms if she is wrong.”

Victor frowned down at his father. “She can tell you in private at the ball,” he argued.

Luer’s face clouded with anger. He rose to his feet and shouted, “I will not attend this cursed ball! Send for Alias now!”

A look of rage spasmed across Victor’s face, but the croamarkh was not unaccustomed to his son’s temper. Luer held his ground. In a moment, the younger Dhostar mastered his emotions, and his face transformed back to a mask of civility.

Victor lowered his eyes to the table and whispered, “I’m sorry, Father. It’s over now.”

“I should think so,” Luer snapped. “These tantrums are beneath you. Now do as I ask, please.”

Victor shook his head sadly. “I mean it’s over for you. We know that you’re the Faceless.”

Luer’s face turned scarlet, and for several moments, though his mouth moved, he seemed unable to reply. Finally, the words exploded from him, “That’s preposterous! If that’s what this cheap sell-sword thinks, I want her here now, before she does any more damage!”

“That’s what she will think, and she has proof.” Victor produced the key he’d shown to Alias and explained, “I found this among your possessions. It’s the key to the former lair of the Night Masters and the Faceless.”

“I never saw that key before,” Luer declared.

“So you say, but I do not think that Alias will believe you.”

“We’ll see about that,” Luer growled. He reached out and yanked on the bellpull. Almost immediately Kimbel appeared in the doorway.

“I want you personally to fetch Alias and bring her here immediately,” the croamarkh commanded the servant.

Kimbel looked at Victor. The younger Dhostar shook his head. Kimbel entered the room, closed the door behind him, and stood before it, silent and still.

The veins in Luer’s face throbbed visibly. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

“Tonight,” Victor explained, “Alias, under my direction, will identify you as the Faceless, leader of the Night Masks. Enough evidence will be found among your possessions to offer proof of this accusation.” The young noble slid around the desk and put a hand on his father’s shoulder. “There is still a way out for you. A ship to Mulhorand is putting out to sea tonight just before the ball. You can take passage on that ship, leaving a document behind that will abdicate leadership of House Dhostar to me and recommend me for the post of croamarkh. I, in turn, will ensure that these awful revelations are never made public.”

“If you believe me guilty, why would you do that?” Luer Dhostar asked with a laugh.

“To preserve the power of the nobles and the power of this family,” Victor retorted. “There will be talk, naturally, but nothing will come of it. Then, in a few years, when the Night Masks are under control and all of the rumors have died, I will send for you. You can return as an elder statesmen,” He gave his father’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“You think I will leave this house, this city, in your hands, knowing you have allied yourself with these criminals?”

Victor’s brow knit in confusion. While he hadn’t expected his father to accede readily to his demands, he was not prepared to meet with a counteraccusation. “It is not I who’ve aligned myself with the Night Masks, but you,” he insisted, throwing his hands up in the air.

“I know about the smoke powder,” Luer said.

“Smoke powder? What about it?”

“It occurred to me when Alias noted how much more common smoke powder is. She thought perhaps we weren’t able to stop it from being smuggled in. She didn’t know how efficient the sniffer dogs at the customs check are or just how much we’ve confiscated. It’s all been recorded in the customs records. There should be quite a stockpile.” The croamarkh poked a hard finger in his son’s chest. “A stockpile I entrusted to you,” he growled. “A stockpile I have since discovered has been seriously depleted. You’ve been selling it to them, haven’t you? You’ve been supplying the Faceless with the smoke powder he uses in his evil schemes. You’ve made yourself his pawn.”

Victor snorted derisively. “I am no one’s pawn, old man. I control this game, and when it is through, Westgate will no longer be a squabbling collection of petty nobles, but a powerful kingdom—something I might have already accomplished if you had supported me as croamarkh. We might have avoided this whole ugly mess if only you had given me a chance to prove myself.”

Luer’s features softened for a moment, and he put his hands on his son’s shoulders. “Whatever you’ve done,” he said, “whatever hooks the Faceless has in you, I can put things right again. Escape yourself on that ship to Mulhorand, and I’ll sort matters out on this end. Gods know, you’re not the first noble scion I’ve had to pull from the mu—”

Luer’s voice faltered, and he gasped and looked down at his chest. A dagger jutted from between his ribs, and Victor, who held the blade’s handle, thrust it in deeper.

The green ichor in the blade’s groove sizzled as it came into contact with the croamarkh’s blood, and a black stain spread across the croamarkh’s tunic.

Father looked at son with an unbelieving stare. His lips tried to issue the word “Why?” but the sound was blocked by a bloody foam pouring from his mouth.

A moment later, Lord Luer Dhostar, Patriarch of Clan Dhostar and Croamarkh of Westgate, crumpled to the floor in a heap.

“I’ll pull myself out of the mud, Father,” Victor replied coldly. “It is too bad you wouldn’t do as I asked. It would have been so much more convenient for both of us.” He looked up at Kimbel. The servant was grinning.

“I fail to see any humor in the situation,” Victor snapped.

“It’s the irony,” Kimbel retorted. “Where the warrioress has been led astray, an accountant comes to the truth.”

Victor sniffed in recognition of Kimbel’s point, then ordered, “Get the body to the new hideout. When you finish that, begin to search and mark all the books with references to smoke powder so I have evidence of the former croamarkh’s pilfering.”

“And may I inquire as to your plans, Your Lordship?” the former assassin queried as he opened the library door.

“I have to get ready for the masquerade ball,” Victor said with a laugh as he strolled from the room. “You know us merchants. Banes of the dance floor and dessert tables.”