Masquerades

Eighteen The Masquerade

Alias returned to Blais House in the late afternoon, lugging a red velvet gown made from so much fabric it weighed nearly as much as the adventurer’s sword. Jamal accompanied her, carrying the baldric and the masks Alias had chosen for herself and Dragonbait. The saurial had gone out, but he returned just as Jamal was buttoning up the side of Alias’s gown.

To Alias’s questioning look the paladin explained in Saurial, “I’ve been to see Mintassan about a few matters.”

“Anything in particular?” Alias asked as she slipped the diamond-patterned baldric over her head.

Dragonbait shot a glance at Jamal. The actress was beginning to fuss with Alias’s hair. “It would be better in private,” he answered.

On the pretext that Dragonbait was too modest to change with the actress about, Alias asked Jamal to excuse herself. The actress agreed, promising Alias she’d be waiting in the hotel lobby to see them off.

“Well?” Alias prompted once she’d closed the door behind Jamal.

“Olive was here earlier,” the paladin explained.

“And?”

Dragonbait shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t really know that he credited Olive’s story, which made it very difficult for him to present it at all. Of course, if he actually believed the halfling, the truth would be even harder for him to reveal.

“She doesn’t trust Victor Dhostar,” the saurial said.

Alias chuckled as she worked her way into the white slippers Jamal had loaned her. “Neither does Jamal. It seems to be a way of life in Westgate—mistrusting all the noble merchants. According to Jamal, it should be a crime for people to make that much money for so little labor or talent.”

“What do you think?” Dragonbait asked.

Alias tied her scabbard to the baldric she wore. “Well, I’m sure there’s more than a few Haztor Urdos among them.”

“I meant about Victor,” the paladin explained.

Alias smiled. “Victor’s different,” she said. Dragonbait said nothing, but continued to stare at Alias until she felt obliged to elaborate. “He’s wonderful, charming, clever, thoughtful, and, to use a phrase Jamal’s fond of, he’s a fine figure of a man.”

“Olive thinks he lied to us about the key, that he did not enter the Faceless’s lair the way he claimed, that he knows his father is the Faceless, that he is using you to depose him.”

Alias glared at her companion. “That’s ridiculous,” she snapped.

“You do not think he suspects his father?”

“Of course he suspects his father. He’s just loyal to him, the way I was to Finder, like you said. Remember? The day you told me how sky-blue virtuous he appeared?”

Dragonbait nodded. “Suppose I hadn’t told you that. Would you think the same of him?”

“Of course I would,” Alias said in an exasperated tone. “Because he is. It’s not his fault his father might be a criminal.”

“Olive thinks Victor must have used a different entrance to the lair and lied to us about using the key.”

“Oh, and Olive has never been one to jump to conclusions,” Alias said with sarcasm. “I’ll find out about the key from Victor tonight. We’ll get this settled then. You should be getting dressed. Victor will be here soon.” She turned to the window and began vigorously yanking a brush through her hair.

Dragonbait changed into his best tunic and strapped on his sword. As he peace-bonded his weapon with a cord of silk, he said, “I spoke with Mintassan about the magic that makes the Faceless and the Night Masters undetectable.”

Alias turned about. “Probably something like what makes me undetectable. Cassana could have bought or stole the skill from the priests of Leira. Durgar won’t believe in the Faceless because he can’t be detected by magic. I wonder, if he tried to detect me, would he conclude I don’t exist, do you think?”

“No,” the paladin replied. “Not if it contradicted the evidence of his eyes. Mintassan suspects that the Faceless’s helmet of disguise was not the only piece of magic looted from the Temple of Leira before it was burned. There might have been objects that could misdirect other sorts of magical detection. Perhaps even something that could blind my shen sight.”

From the street outside came the sound of carriage wheels rumbling on the cobblestones.

“That could explain why you read the croamarkh as completely neutral, if he is the Faceless, “Alias noted as she turned to look out the window.

Dragonbait nodded, but did not add his worse suspicion. He was unwilling to admit there was any magic that could thwart his shen sight, which was, to his mind, a gift from his god. Without proof, he could not bring himself to slander Lord Victor.

“That’s Lord Victor’s carriage,” Alias announced, snatching up her porcelain mask. Her gown rustled as she swept toward the door in a most unladylike dash.

It was too late to say anything more, the paladin realized, picking up his own feathery mask. The timing was all wrong. She would not hear it anyway. Although she had made no admission, it was clear to him that she loved Victor Dhostar.

“Come on,” Alias chided from the hallway. “I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

Dragonbait followed his companion from the room.

Victor stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at Alias with delight written all over his face. Was it possible, the saurial wondered, that the merchant’s pleasure could be a ruse? With his shen sight, the paladin studied the man as he bowed low before Alias. Once more he saw nothing but the cool blue flame that symbolized virtue. Dragonbait shook himself. It was entirely possible that Olive was wrong and that Victor was everything he appeared. The paladin descended the stairs, determined to make no more judgments until he’d heard what the merchant noble had to say about the key and his father.

Victor made a polite, although less dramatic, bow to greet Dragonbait. From the corner of his eye the paladin caught sight of Jamal in the shadow of a pillar. She winked conspiratorially at the paladin as Victor ushered his guests out of the hotel.

From the anteroom behind the actress, a small voice noted, “They’ve dressed alike.”

Jamal turned to face the little half-elven servant girl, Mercy. “Pardon?” the woman asked.

“Lord Victor and Mistress Alias,” the girl explained. “The fabric of the sash about his waist is the same as her baldric—the same diamond design. And his tunic is dark red velvet, too. A darker shade than Mistress Alias’s gown, but close. He has her favor on his tunic, too.”

“Her favor?”

“She gave him a lock of her hair the other night. I saw her cut it off. I was watching from my window,” Mercy admitted. “It was so romantic.”

Jamal frowned. “It looked romantic. That’s not always the same as being romantic,” she muttered.

“No, Ma’am,” the girl replied, too well trained to argue. She scurried off to avoid any further disagreeable comments. The aging actress leaned back against the pillar, realizing she must sound like an ill-tempered old maid. It was a curse, knowing so much. It made it impossible for her to suspend her disbelief and accept a fairy-tale romance as fact. Westgate nobles did not court for love, and they certainly did not court commoners. What was Victor Dhostar up to? she wondered.

The ride to the Tower, where the ball was to be held, was brief but lively. Victor steered the carriage skillfully through streets full of people apparently gathered to watch the pageantry of the nobles in their splendor. The crowds recognized not only Lord Victor but Alias as well, and cheers and shouts greeted them all the way to the market. Still, Alias felt compelled by Dragonbait’s dour look to lean over and ask the merchant noble, “Have you spoken with your father?”

Victor nodded and returned a wave to a gathering in an outdoor cafe. “I’ll tell you about it later, in private.”

The watch was posted around the perimeter of the market, allowing only those who had an invitation to the ball to approach. Victor pulled his carriage up to the edge of the green. A member of the watch in buffed leather armor and a white capelet with a white plume jutting from his helmet helped Alias down from the carriage. Victor’s elderly driver stepped up from the green to take the horses’ reins from his master and move the carriage out of the way of newer arrivals.

Lord Victor donned his mask, a mere strip of red velvet with eyeholes bordered with gold stitching. Alias and Dragonbait did likewise, then their host led them up a path covered with ornate carpets. The market had been cleared of its mercantile trappings, leaving the crowds about the green a clear view of the nobles as they climbed the path to the Tower.

The Tower was alight with magical faerie fire, which formed the symbols of all the noble houses of Westgate, from Athagdal to Vhammos. Alias shuddered to think about all the nobles’ homes guarded only by sleepy servants. The Night Masks must make quite a haul on nights like these, she realized.

There was a small queue of glittering nobles inside the Tower’s entrance.

“What are we waiting for?” Alias whispered.

“This is a formal ball,” he explained. “We must be announced, so the others present know we are here.”

“And can give us the once-over,” Alias mused.

“Don’t worry,” Victor said. “You look radiant.”

When they reached the front of the queue, Victor leaned over to give their names to the acting seneschal, another member of the watch with a white capelet and white plume.

“Lord Victor of House Dhostar,” the seneschal announced. “Alias, Foe of the Faceless, and Dragonbait, Companion of Alias.”

“Foe of the Faceless?” Alias repeated with disbelief, her laughter muffled behind her mask.

“It’s the thought on everyone’s mind, here,” said Victor. “You might as well admit it.”

Dragonbait pushed on his mask, which kept slipping up on his reptilian muzzle. He wished irritably that the Foe of the Faceless had not chosen him a mask with feathers. They kept tickling his eyes.

The interior of the Tower was awash with light. Hundreds of candles burned from a large central chandelier of cast iron, and all about the perimeter hung magical globes of light enchanted to appear as if salamanders and efreeti were dancing inside the orbs. Two great mirrors hung opposite one another, reflecting back into the room all the light they caught and creating the illusion of two infinite corridors filled with revelers.

The watch officers’ desks had become buffet tables, and a ten-piece orchestra was playing a rondo. A dozen couples occupied the center of the floor, spinning in their own little orbits around an imaginary central point. The stairs to the upper levels were blocked by more of the watch, decked in white plumage.

The guests’ clothing was rich and varied, but it was the masks that impressed Alias the most. They ranged from simple domino masks and silk veils to full face sculptures of papier maché and enamel. There were silvered globes of the sort worn by priests of Leira, the goddess of illusion, and more than a few veils of strung coins or beads. Most amusing were the masks that were common to street theaters everywhere: the Merchant, the Gossip, the Red Wizard, the Cat Burglar, the Twins.

Alias spotted Durgar dressed in his silvered armor but wearing the mask of the Doctor, a pompous character in street plays who always offered bad advice. With its high forehead, bulbous nose, and thick handlebar mustache, the mask looked like a parody of Durgar’s own face. The swordswoman would never have credited the priest with such a sense of humor.

Catching sight of Haztor Urdo’s black, puffed out hair, Alias paused to watch him. The Night Mask noble was wearing the mask of another theater staple—Captain Crocodile, the foolish, brash young warrior who blusters, but at heart seeks only love. Haztor was flirting with a woman dressed in an extremely low-cut gown made of fabric covered in mirrored facets and a silvered globe mask. Alias watched them just long enough to see the woman slap the young man and stalk off.

Alias chuckled. “Their battles are fought at the ball,” she quoted.

“Pardon?” Victor asked.

“A song that my—” She hesitated a moment. “That Finder Wyvernspur wrote about nobility in general,” she explained. In a low voice audible only to Victor and Dragonbait, adjusting to the rhythm of the orchestra, Alias sang softly:

Victor smiled. “That sounds like Westgate,” he agreed. “Good evening, Lady Nettel,” he said.

Alias turned to greet the elderly Thalavar matriarch. The noblewoman was dressed as before, in a black velvet gown and her verdigris feather brooch, her only concession to the masquerade a bit of white silk tied about her eyes, with eyeholes cut into it. In her wake she pulled her niece, Thistle, and Olive Ruskettle.

Olive cut a dashing figure in the green-and-white Thalavar livery, which included a huge, floppy hat bedecked with a great green plume. She wore a mask of silver glittering with fake emeralds. Alias could see other halflings in the crowd similarly costumed.

Thistle wore a veil of fine white lace over her face and was bedecked in a pink gown with a very high collar and short, ballooning sleeves. Long pink gloves covered her lower arms. As she approached Alias, her eyes were glittering with excitement.

“See what I have?” the young woman exclaimed, holding out her right arm for Alias to see.

Thistle’s right glove was embroidered with a blue stitchwork very similar to Alias’s own tattoo. Waves and thorns crested from wrist to elbow, but where Alias’s pattern displayed a rose, the young noblewoman’s featured a thistle.

Alias nodded politely, grateful that her face was masked and her amusement hidden.

“It is a compromise,” Lady Nettel explained with a smile, “one that might keep her from attempting any major transformations in her appearance for a few months. Victor, I do not see your father here.”

“My father was … detained,” Victor replied, avoiding Alias’s look. “He’s asked me to stand in his stead until his arrival.”

Alias was about to pull Victor aside and demand that he elaborate on his last statement, but Olive was tugging on the swordswoman’s bodice to get her attention. “Did you and Dragonbait talk?” she whispered anxiously.

Alias frowned down at the halfling, wishing now that the mask she wore did not hide her displeasure. “This is not a good time, Olive,” she growled.

Olive lowered her eyelids suspiciously, but with Lord Victor so near she did not dare elaborate. “Fine. I guess I’ll go check out the buffet table.”

Alias turned back to Victor, who was making excuses to Lady Nettel that he needed to circulate. Thistle asked Dragonbait to escort her and her grandmother about the room. The paladin nodded his assent. As he let each Thalavar woman take an arm and draw him off, he tilted his head in Victor’s direction. His meaning was perfectly clear to the swordswoman.

“You said your father was going to be here,” Alias declared heatedly.

“He is,” Victor replied, nodding at a passing Thorsar dignitary. “We … talked this afternoon. When I showed him the key, he looked surprised, but he wouldn’t speak about it. He promised that he would come later to talk to you and Durgar before the end of the ball.”

“Victor,” Alias stressed, “you have to go to Durgar with this right now. Your father could be using this time to flee the city.”

Victor shook his head. “My father isn’t going to flee. This is his city. I think maybe the key belonged to another noble, and Father is covering for him. He just needs time to decide how to handle this gracefully.”

Alias shook her head at Victor’s stubborn loyalty to the croamarkh. Part of her wanted to bolt the party immediately and track down Luer Dhostar, while the other part was willing to wait for Victor’s sake, even though it probably meant losing the Faceless. She sighed and nodded. “I’ll wait,” she said.

“Good. Then, since you’re waiting, we may as well dance. Would you do me the honor?” Victor asked, extending his arm. He froze for a moment as an uncomfortable thought occurred to him. “You can dance, can’t you?” he asked.

“I can manage,” Alias replied with a laugh.

Victor called the dance a Westgate procession, but Alias knew it as a Shadowdale reel. It was simple and repetitive, but Alias found herself enjoying it nonetheless. The orchestra was skilled and lively, and the nobles on the dance floor at least showed her no animosity. She looked into Victor’s blue eyes, and her heart soared.

Along the sidelines, Dragonbait stood listening politely to Thistle as the young woman explained the origins of all the different food on the buffet table. All the while, he stared at Victor Dhostar, wondering whether Olive could be right.

The halfling popped up beside him, munching on a sticky roll. “Shen sight still out of focus, eh?” she taunted, noting the look with which he fixed the croamarkh’s son. “You could stand on your head. Maybe that would turn everything right side up.” She wandered off to another table for some liquid refreshment.

The saurial glared after her for a moment, then smiled. Only Olive could suggest something so ridiculous that might actually have merit. Not upside down, but backward, the paladin thought. He turned about to face the buffet. As Thistle chattered on about the longer growing season required for melons, the paladin closed his eyes and reached out with his shen sight.

He let the myriad colors slide along his consciousness. He stopped, focusing on a very dark purple to his right. He peeked out one eye. Kimbel, the former assassin, stood on a staircase, watching the guests from behind the guards.

Dragonbait closed his eye again. In a moment, he could sense a deep red hatred speckled with green jealousy. The paladin confirmed his guess. Haztor Urdo, hating Alias, jealous of Victor’s pleasure in her company.

With his eyes squeezed tightly shut, the paladin let the colors wash over him longer, until he could sense their pattern as they moved about the blue that he knew must be Alias, as they stepped back from her, circled around her, pulled her close.

Blackness like a shroud covered the blue flame of Alias’s spirit, blackness so dark, it devoured the light from her, giving up none of it. Blackness was the lust for power, the voracious appetite for control over all others, the desire that swallowed its tail and devoured the being’s own universe.

Dragonbait whirled and glared at the man holding Alias in his arms. Once again, where Victor stood, the paladin saw the blue flame so like Alias’s. Now he concentrated on what lay beneath the blue. As if Victor’s soul were a canvas, he stared at it for the pentimento that lay beneath the illusion of virtue painted on the surface.

Then he could see it—the image that lay beneath what Victor had seemed. There were pits of blackness filled with black serpents, all poised to devour whatever came their way. As Victor reached a hand out to the swordswoman, Dragonbait saw a serpent wind about the flame of Alias’s spirit, prepared to crush the life from it before making it a meal. Despite himself, Dragonbait let out a mewling cry and nearly toppled forward.

It was a moment before he could gather his shen sight back into whatever spot it rested when not in use. He saw a flame of blue, tinged with a little green jealousy just before his vision cleared. Thistle stood before him, her hands resting gently on his shoulders. “Are you all right?” she asked slowly, in a manner that presumed that because he did not speak her tongue, he could not hear or easily understand it.

The paladin nodded, tapping his chest to indicate he’d only swallowed something the wrong way.

As Thistle turned to get a glass of water for the saurial, Dragonbait watched Victor with new insight. He remembered how Mist had claimed the noble was a pawn to his ambition and desires. The wyrm always did have a talent for understatement, the paladin thought with a wry sense of amusement.

The dance ended, and Alias strode from the dance floor, hand in hand with Victor. Dragonbait excused himself from Thistle and moved toward the couple.

“I must speak with you,” the paladin said to Alias in saurial, “alone.”

“Can’t it wait?” Alias asked, eager to reach the refreshment table and ease her parched throat.

The paladin shook his head to indicate it could not. With a sigh, the swordswoman excused herself from Lord Victor’s company. She followed the saurial to a less-crowded section of the room.

“What is it?” Alias asked. She removed her mask and spoke in Saurial so that she would not be overheard. “Night Masks?”

“No, it is Victor,” Dragonbait replied. “Olive is right. We cannot trust him.”

“Would you forget about Olive? She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“It is not just Olive. I have seen it with my shen sight. He is corrupted. He is an evil man.”

“Four days ago your shen sight saw he was virtuous,” Alias argued heatedly.

“I was deceived somehow. Some illusion covered the truth.”

“How do you know you aren’t being deceived now?” Alias demanded.

“Olive convinced me that I was wrong.”

“I think Olive talked you into seeing something that isn’t there,” Alias snapped. She burst into a tirade, which consisted of several growls and clicks audible to the other party goers around them, and a few of them glanced nervously in her direction. “I’m tired of hearing about your shen sight, of the way you judge everyone with it. There’s more to people than your paladin visions. What they say and what they do is what really matters. That’s how I know Victor is good,” she declared. She spun around and bolted off.

While the swordswoman and the paladin argued, Kimbel slipped up behind Lord Victor.

“Is everything in place?” the merchant asked.

“Yes, but there may be a problem,” the servant whispered. “The lizard was studying you and seemed to have an attack of some kind. I suspect he has seen past the illusion projected by your amulet of misdirection.”

“Bloody hell,” Victor muttered. “He’s talking with Alias now.”

“I suggest you continue with the plan,” Kimbel said. “If there is a problem, you can deal with her once you are alone. I can deal with the lizard.”

“Remove him, but do not kill him yet,” Victor ordered. “She might be able to sense that somehow. Make it appear innocent.”

“As if he left town in a fit of paladin snobbery,” Kimbel suggested.

“Yes. Nice touch,” Victor agreed. “Go.”

The former assassin slipped away. Victor looked in Alias and Dragonbait’s direction. Alias appeared to be arguing with the paladin, which was certainly a good sign. The merchant lord spotted Thistle Thalavar standing beside her imposing grandmother. The girl was as good a pawn as any, Lord Victor thought. He hurried over to ask her to dance.

Alias returned to the spot where she’d left Victor, only to discover he’d escorted Thistle Thalavar out to the dance floor. She slipped her mask back on, grateful for the way it hid her fury. She watched as Thistle seemed to hang on Victor’s every word. The merchant lord may think of her as a child, but it was obvious the young girl thought of him as a hero. Alias felt miserable standing alone in the room full of people, but she could hardly blame Victor for abandoning her. After all, he was supposed to mix with the guests. The swordswoman was just toying with the idea of finding herself another dance partner when Victor and Thistle parted company. Thistle moved in Dragonbait’s direction and Victor came toward Alias.

The young noblewoman soon cornered her quarry and dragged the saurial onto the dance floor for a quadrille.

“I thought your friend could use a little coaxing onto the dance floor,” the nobleman explained as he rejoined the swordswoman. “He looks far too dour for a celebration. Thistle said she’d see what she could— Alias, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Alias retorted hurriedly. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”

“Well, you’re shaking, for one thing,” Victor replied as he placed his warm hands on her shoulders. “And, well, with your complexion, you do tend to color when you’re angry. Even your shoulders are red. Perhaps we should talk in private. Come upstairs with me.”

The white-caped guards on the stairs parted for the son of Luer Dhostar and his guest. Halfway up the stairs, Alias shot a glance down at the dance floor. Dragonbait was acquitting himself admirably, keeping up with Thistle’s steps, but the swordswoman could tell his heart was not in the motions.

Victor hesitated before opening the door to the conference suite. “I need to explain something. I was planning on asking you up here to—to talk. I realize maybe this is a bad time for it, so please don’t misunderstand.”

He swung open the door, and Alias felt her heart melting despite her anger. The drab conference room had been transformed into a romantic faerie realm. The large table was glittering from lit tapers of perfumed wax. Bolts of silk fabric and oversized pillows covered the floor between the table and the hearth, where a fire blazed and crackled. A bottle of Evermead, two glasses, and a platter of fruits and cheeses sat on a tray beside the hearth.

“We can just sit at the table, if it will make you more comfortable,” Victor said.

Alias stepped into the room, and Victor followed, pushing the door closed behind them. Feeling a little foolish, she walked past the table and sat down on one of the pillows. She inspected the bottle of Evermead. It was more than a hundred years old.

“Now, tell me what’s wrong,” Victor insisted, sinking onto a cushion beside her.

Alias shook her head. “It’s nothing, Victor … really. Dragonbait and I just had an argument. He can be so—so—Oh! It just doesn’t make any sense! Victor, have you been telling me the truth about your father?” she demanded.

Victor looked into the flames of the fire. “No,” he admitted softly.

Alias removed her mask, then reached up and untied the strings of the fabric covering Victor’s eyes and pulled it away. She laid both masks down on the pillow beside her. Then she said, “Victor, you have to tell me everything you know.”

“You have to understand,” Victor said, looking her in the eye. “I love my father. I’m sure he thinks somehow what he’s doing is right. He’s not an evil man, Alias. He’s just—well, he’s just so certain that he’s always right.”

“You know he’s involved with the Night Masks?”

“I’ve suspected it for some time. There hasn’t been any money missing, but I guess he’s been making some other kind of payments. He’s in charge of all the smoke powder the city confiscates. There’s a lot of it. It isn’t all in the warehouse where the books say it should be. When I told him I’d found the key, I also told him I’d discovered about the smoke powder. He seemed pretty shaken. He asked me to cover for him, to give him time to take care of some personal matters. He promised me, though, that he would come here tonight and explain things to you and Durgar.”

The young man looked away, and Alias could see there were tears in his eyes. “It doesn’t look good, does it?” he asked.

“No. It doesn’t,” Alias agreed.

“You’d better go back downstairs,” Victor said. “It would be better for you if you weren’t seen with me, I think.”

“Why not?” Alias demanded.

“My father is going to be the center of a scandal, Alias. He could be involved with the Night Masks. Gods! He might even be the Faceless. I have to stand beside him, but there’s no reason for you to be involved.”

“Victor, no,” Alias said, feeling her heart breaking for the young man’s pain. “Look. I can’t approve of your father, but I love you. I’m not going to abandon you because of something your father did.”

“I love you,” Victor replied, “which is why I can’t allow you to stay. I don’t want your name dragged down with ours.”

“If you love me,” Alias whispered vehemently, “you’ll let me stay.”

Victor smiled sadly. He ran his finger across her cheek, then down her neck and along her shoulder. “You are so very beautiful,” he whispered. “You made me feel so lucky.”

Alias put her hand behind the nobleman’s neck and pulled his face close to her own. “I am not leaving you. You say you love me. Prove it,” she demanded, and she threw her arms about his neck and pressed her lips against his own.

Lord Victor slid one hand about the swordswoman’s waist to pull her closer as his other hand rested over Alias’s porcelain mask, covering its eyes completely.

Below, in the main room of the Tower, the interminably long quadrille had ended and Dragonbait excused himself from Thistle Thalavar’s company as quickly as good manners allowed. Now he scanned the crowded room for either Alias or Victor. In the end, it was Olive who found him. She tugged anxiously on the hem of his tunic.

Where is she? he signed surreptitiously.

The halfling jerked her finger in the direction of the stairway. “With Lord Victor,” she growled. “Didn’t you talk to her?”

Dragonbait cursed in Saurial and began pushing his way through the crowd, toward the stairs. He managed to climb four steps before his way was blocked by a wall of leather armor and white plumes.

Dragonbait hesitated, considering whether he should fetch Olive to translate his need to the guard or whether he should just shove his way past them. He had just decided on the more forceful option when the screaming began.

The paladin wheeled just in time to see a huge figure leap down from one of the mirrors mounted on the wall and land with a great thoom on the stone floor. The creature was twice the size of a human, kettle black, with a head shaped like a dragon’s. An identical creature had already landed on a young noble, who screamed as his legs were crushed beneath the monster’s weight. The saurial recognized the figures as iron golems from the lair of the Faceless. A third appeared in the mirror, pausing only for the first two to move out of the way before it, too, leaped down onto the floor.

The crowd was already panicking, driving like a herd of cattle for the entrance, only to find that the portcullis to the entrance had been lowered. Those in the rear were being decapitated by blows from the iron golems’ fists, while those in the front were being crushed by their fellow guests.

A fourth and a fifth golem emerged from the mirror before the guardsmen poured off the stairs to meet the assault.

Dragonbait hovered uncertainly. He could search upstairs for Alias or battle the creatures. As a sixth golem appeared in the mirror, he knew he must act. With a sharpened claw, he cut the peace-bonded cord from his weapon and drew his blade. Then he launched himself at the magical mirror, swinging his sword.

The mirror shattered in a burst of light. Glass rained on the guests, but if there were any other golems, they would not be entering the Tower as easily as the first six had.

The paladin crunched broken glass beneath his feet as he landed. He turned in time to witness Haztor Urdo, with his sword drawn, run toward the sixth golem. The nobleman feinted to the right, then struck the creature on the opposite leg, but his blade broke on the monster’s iron surface. The golem grabbed the youth by the arm, slammed him hard against the wall, then released him. Haztor’s body slid down the wall, leaving a long, bloody smear, his Captain Crocodile mask still smiling.

With a snarl, the paladin leaped onto the shoulder of one of the creatures. He knew heat helped such creatures repair themselves, so he did not ignite his sword. Fortunately, the weapon carried other powerful enchantments, so the blade bit deep into the side of the creature’s face, parting it like butter.

The golem reached up to grab the saurial, but the ornate dragon head prevented it from reaching its assailant. Dragonbait struck again and again with his sword, reducing the golem to spinning around in place while swatting ineffectually at the saurial.

The other five golems were not so distracted. The swords of the watch did not carry the necessary enchantments to slice through magically enlivened iron, and the monsters carved a wide swath through watchmen and party-goers alike. The frightened nobles’ only hope was to dodge between the beasts.

Durgar’s voice rose above the din, and Dragonbait caught a glimpse of the old priest, his mace glowing with its own eldritch power, smashing huge dents into one of the iron creatures. The golem was swift enough to grab Durgar by the arm, however, and it tossed the old man aside easily and moved back into the crowd, punching and crushing anyone in its path. The priest of Tyr landed heavily, but he rose, albeit unsteadily, and returned to the fray.

A smattering of magic missiles plinked without effect on a golem’s surface, indicating a few nobles were not above learning the Art. At least one mage must have had some advanced training, for he sent a lightning bolt arcing across the room. The bolt struck two golems and a handful of nobles. The humans collapsed to the ground, but the golems were slowed.

The situation was deteriorating quickly. With the golem beneath him cracking along its entire length and breadth, Dragonbait leaped clear and vaulted up the stairs, three at a time. Alias could help turn the tide of the battle, if he could only find her.

Kimbel stood waiting at the first landing, with a double-loaded drow crossbow aimed at the paladin. Dragonbait could smell as well as see the resinous putty smeared on the bolts’ tips, but he wasn’t quick enough to dodge the missiles. The first caught the saurial in the shoulder, the second in the chest. Dragonbait hissed and lunged in an attempt to skewer the assassin, but he fell short and crumpled into a heap on the stairs.

“Looking for your mistress?” Kimbel taunted, lowering the crossbow. “I’m sorry, but she’s occupied right now.” He motioned for two men in guardsmen uniforms to collect the saurial’s body.

On the main floor, a tight knot of halflings surrounded Lady Nettel as Olive Ruskettle tried with limited success to keep any approaching golems from turning their attention on the matriarch. Lady Nettel was leaning heavily on a spear, which she had plucked from a fallen guardsmen. Just when it seemed as if Olive had managed to send one golem off to seek easier prey, Lady Nettel shrieked, “Thistle!”

Olive spotted the young noblewoman collapsed on the floor with a golem hovering uncertainly over her.

Olive dashed forward, but Lady Nettel was faster. The head of House Thalavar barged through her ring of bodyguards and stepped right between the iron colossus and her granddaughter. The old lady swung her spear to ward off the monster, but the shaft snapped like a twig against the creature’s iron arms. As Olive dragged Thistle back to the uncertain safety of the ring of halfling bodyguards, the golem lifted Lady Nettel in both arms and squeezed. Even above the din, Olive swore she could hear the sound of the old woman’s back breaking. Then the monster, disinterested in the dead, dropped Nettel Thalavar’s crushed, mangled body and wandered off.

Olive dashed over to Lady Nettel’s broken form; Thistle followed directly behind her, ignoring the bodyguards who tried to hold her back by tugging on the skirt of her gown. Astonishingly, the old woman still breathed, but she was twisted in an odd, inhuman fashion, and Olive could tell she was fading before their eyes. The dying woman called for Thistle.

Thistle bent close to her grandmother’s face. “You are … my heir,” Nettel Thalavar wheezed. “Take … the feather pin.”

Thistle began to cry, but Lady Nettel pushed her aside and grabbed Olive by the tabard. She gasped once, then whispered vehemently, “Protect … my … granddaughter!” The noblewoman never drew another breath. Her face spasmed into a contortion that looked anything but peaceful and froze.

Thistle Thalavar, new leader of House Thalavar, gently unpinned her grandmother’s copper brooch. As her tears splashed on her grandmother’s corpse, she fastened the brooch to her own gown. Then she and Olive fled to the halflings’ last defensive position, under a buffet table.