Masquerades

Nineteen The Unmasking

Ultimately it was a mild-mannered gate crasher who managed to turn the tide. Yielding to Dragonbait’s request, Mintassan had been keeping an eye on the proceedings at the ball. Cloaked in an invisibility spell, he had slipped past the seneschal and stood quietly in the corner, wearing the mask of a bearded, graying wizard with pipe clenched between his teeth. The paladin had not been able to even guess what might go wrong at the ball, but once the golems had arrived, the sage knew exactly how to bring the situation under control.

Magic being nearly useless against such monsters, Mintassan teleported back to his home. There, on his desk, tucked in box full of straw, was the remedy for iron golems. He had prepared it this morning after realizing the Faceless still controlled a troop of the creatures. Arriving in the back of his workroom, the sage dashed to his desk, prepared to scoop up his secret weapons and teleport back immediately. He halted before the desk and nearly froze in panic. The objects he sought were missing.

Fortunately, Mintassan was far more levelheaded than his reputation credited him. He also was not so old that he could not remember being a boy and the sorts of things boys enjoyed doing.

“Kel!” he hollered, dashing up the stairs two at a time. He threw open the door to the boy’s room and gave a great sigh of relief. The box lay on the bed, three glass globes packed within. Kel sat on the floor, waving a nail in front of a fourth glass globe. Within the globe a tiny insectlike creature pawed frantically at the glass ball, causing it to roll after the nail almost as if the ball were magnetically attracted to the iron.

“I was just playing,” the boy insisted.

Mintassan snatched up the box and the fourth globe and hissed, “Silver path, tower stair.”

Before Kel’s astonished eyes, the sage vanished.

Mintassan reappeared in the Tower on one of the staircases. Grimly he assessed the battlefield. Only one golem had actually been felled, lying in two twitching halves on the floor. Durgar was hammering on a second golem’s legs with such determination that the creature was limping noticeably, but then so was the old priest.

With an uncanny aim, Mintassan threw one ball each at the remaining four unscathed golems. The glass smashed against the iron monsters, releasing the tiny creatures within. They grew as they fell, so that by the time they hit the floor they were five feet in length, each sporting four insectlike legs, an armor-plated back, a long, bony tail with a paddle-shaped tip, and, most importantly, long mobile antennae. They were easily recognizable by the few experienced adventurers present as rust monsters—normally docile animals with a voracious appetite for all things iron.

The first freed rust monster struck its antennae against the legs of the iron golem looming over it. The golem’s legs turned brown and crumbled beneath it, so that it toppled to the floor, crippled.

The second rust monster took a moment longer to get its bearings, giving the golem beside it time to reach down and grab it—a serious error on the golem’s part. The rust monster’s antennae wrapped around both arms like whips. The golem’s arms crumbled to rust, freeing the rust monster it had just grasped. The golem stumbled off as the rust monster chomped on the rusted remains of its arms. Though able to move, the golem was now unable to continue grappling or punching at the guests, though it continued to chase them.

One rust monster was slain by a powerful strike of a golem’s fist, but as the iron behemoth pulled away, it lost its hand at the wrist, struck by one of the dying animal’s antennae. The fourth and final rust monster scrambled on top of its golem, rusting it from the head down to the shoulders and arms, through the torso, and down to the knees. The ferrous-loving animal rolled about in the huge pile of rust as it chomped on it like a cat in a field of catnip.

Having thrown all his weapons, Mintassan looked about for Dragonbait. Just before he’d teleported to his workshop to fetch the rust monsters, the sage had seen the paladin slashing at one of the golems. Now, however, the saurial was nowhere to be seen. There had to be nearly fifty people dead and dying on the Tower floor, but the saurial was not among them.

As the watch, under Durgar’s direction, dragged a rust monster in the direction of one of the remaining mobile golems, some other members of Durgar’s forces had managed to raise the portcullis to the outside. Nobles streamed out of the Tower like ants from a flooded nest. The sage was just about to teleport to the temple of Ilmater to fetch some priests to heal the wounded, when he spied Kimbel exiting through the portcullis.

The Dhostar manservant looked not only uninjured, but completely unruffled, as did the two guards in Dhostar livery who followed him carrying a lumpy, rolled up tapestry With a suspicious frown, the sage reached in his pocket for a spell component and whispered, “Light-pass.” His large form went translucent, then transparent, then invisible. Once transformed, the mage hurried after the former assassin, his minions, and whatever it was they found necessary to cart off.

Upstairs, isolated from the noise of the attack by the massiveness of the Tower’s construction, Alias lay with Victor Dhostar before the fireplace of the conference room. Shaking off the elegant torpor that enthralled her, she raised her head from Victor’s chest and looked up at him. “I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you, too,” the nobleman replied, “but now that you have your proof of that, we really should be getting back to the ball.”

Alias nodded. She rose to her feet and shook out the wrinkles in the skirt of her gown. Victor handed her her baldric and sword. She slipped the decorative belt over her head.

As soon as Victor opened the heavy oaken door, Alias heard disturbing sounds coming from the hall below. The thunderous crash of something heavy falling to the floor echoed up the Tower. When she reached the stairs, Alias could hear people screaming and moaning. She raced down the stairs. Halfway down, she spied Mintassan in front of her, but he vanished before her eyes. When she reached the spot where the sage had stood, she was aghast at the destruction she witnessed.

Members of the watch were pulling on a rope wrapped about the legs of an armless iron golem in an effort to topple the monster. Several other bits of iron golem lay strewn about the floor, surrounded by dead and wounded nobles. One last golem, missing only a hand, was hovering over a desk that was serving as a buffet. The monster looked as if it were trying to decide what to eat, but Alias spied something rustling beneath the tablecloth and realized the golem was deciding how to get at whomever hid below.

Just before the golem struck the desk with his remaining hand, crushing it to splinters, Olive Ruskettle and Thistle Thalavar dashed out from beneath the tenuous cover. They ran toward another desk, with the creature plodding after them. When it had them against the wall, Olive Ruskettle whirled about, her sword raised, in a hopeless effort to ward off the creature’s blow.

Alias released the peace knot tying her sword to her scabbard and drew her weapon. The swordswoman leaped from the stairs onto the golem just as it raised its remaining fist. Her sword connected with the golem’s dragon-shaped head, sending sparks flying as the steel of her magical blade cleaved through the iron skull.

The beast spun about and seemed to examine Alias for a moment. Then it turned again, pivoting slowly, stopping when it finally faced Olive and Thistle. Alias realized she was being ignored for a target of higher priority—either Olive or Thistle. Yanking free the tablecloth from the smashed desk, Alias whirled it like a net over the golem’s head.

“Olive, Thistle, quick! Hide,” the swordswoman shouted as she slashed at the creature’s leg with her sword. “Then stay very still.”

Olive dragged Thistle down behind the remains of a deceased noble, pulling the dead man’s cloak over their bodies. Thistle started to argue, but the halfling stifled her protest with a quick elbow in the ribs.

Alias slashed into the golem’s leg, and the monster turned toward her as it tugged the tablecloth off its head. Upon spying the swordswoman, however, the golem once again ignored her in favor of scanning the room for its previous prey.

From the staircase, Victor looked on the carnage in shock and muttered, “Sweet Mystra,” an oath to the goddess of magic. Hearing the nobleman, the golem turned toward the stair.

“Victor, get back up the stairs and stay there!” Alias ordered, shifting so that she stood between the monster and the staircase. “It seems to be interested only in the nobles.”

Alias couldn’t tell if the nobleman obeyed her, but the golem spun about, once more checking for targets. Then it turned again. Finding no more nobility to smite, it made its way for the exit.

A rust monster, bloated from gorging on more iron than it usually ate in a year, made a halfhearted wave at the retreating golem with an antenna, but did not bother to pursue the iron creature. The golem passed beneath the portcullis and trundled from the Tower.

Durgar, who knelt beside a bloodied but still breathing member of House Athagdal, looked up at Alias. “Follow the golem,” he ordered her. “I will follow when I can. Go with Alias,” he instructed three of his watchmen, who stood by uncertainly.

Alias dashed from the Tower with the watch behind her.

The injured golem was halfway down the Tower hill, moving northwest. Alias had no trouble keeping up with the monster, which even at top speed was ponderously slow. The swordswoman remained behind it and instructed the watch to do likewise. With mounting excitement, she realized the golem may actually lead her back to its point of origin—the Faceless’s new lair.

Alias was just wondering what had happened to Dragonbait when Victor ran up beside her, sword in hand.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said vehemently.

“I have to see where the golem goes. As long as I don’t let myself get cornered, I can always outrun it,” the nobleman argued.

Alias nodded, unable to counter Victor’s logic or his desire to see this through to the end.

The golem moved through the streets without incident. Any nobles that were left in the city were no doubt at home piling furniture in front of the doors, and no one else in the streets was so foolish as to challenge the monster.

Finally the golem halted before a ramshackle warehouse near the House Urdo docks. It banged once on the door, which swung open, bathing the golem in a yellow glow. The monster disappeared inside.

Alias ordered Victor and the watchmen to remain at the warehouse gate as she crept up to the door. The golem stood just inside, unmoving, as if awaiting instructions. Alias slipped past the creature, turned about, and tapped on its chest with the tip of her sword. The creature loomed over her, but remained perfectly still.

The swordswoman waved for the others to join her. Alias kept an eye on the golem as Victor entered the room, but the noble’s appearance did not reactivate the monster. Its killing spree was over for the time being.

The room was a cavernous vault. In the center stood a great table of ebony stone glittering with veins of gold, a twin to the one in the Night Masters’ last conference room. Most of the ten chairs surrounding it were pushed out, a few overturned, but the tenth chair remained against the table. What appeared to be a man was slumped in the chair. The man’s face was obscured by some strange magic, which blurred its features like rain damages a chalk portrait. A bloodstain clotted his robes. He was as immobile as the golem.

On the table before the figure lay a sheet of paper. Scrawled in blood was the message, “Death to all who betray and defy our will, noble or common, Night Mask or outsider. So say the Night Masters.”

As Alias was examining the sheet of paper, Durgar entered. He had battled the golems until they were no longer a threat, then spent his last remaining energies casting magical curative spells on the wounded. The old priest looked drained, but he would not, Alias realized, forsake what he perceived to be his duty.

Durgar stepped forward and took the paper from Alias’s hand. He scowled angrily at the words. Without ceremony, his face as emotionless as the golems’, the priest ran his hand down the dead figure’s face. A jingling mask of threaded coins came away in his hand.

The illusory blur of the Faceless became the features of Croamarkh Luer Dhostar.

Alias reached out to steady Victor, who swayed in shock and gasped, “Sweet Mystra! It can’t really be true.”

Durgar collapsed into the nearest empty chair, dropping the mask onto the table and cradling his head in his hands. “The croamarkh in league with the Night Masks. I can’t believe it,” the old priest whispered.

“It’s true, Your Reverence,” Alias said. “We have other evidence linking him to them. No doubt they turned on him for some perceived betrayal. Perhaps they decided to turn their golems loose against the nobles, but Lord Luer fought against them. Perhaps the golems perceived he was a noble and turned on him first. Perhaps—”

“Perhaps once I have recovered my powers I should cast a spell to speak with Luer’s dead spirit,” the priest said gravely. “Then we will get to the heart of the matter. There will be no— Look out!” Durgar shouted suddenly.

Alias spun about, her sword at the ready, just in time to see the golem bat away the watchmen who stood guard over its form. The swordswoman threw herself in front of Victor before the monster could harm the nobleman, but instead the creature strode toward the dead body of the croamarkh.

Durgar rose, drawing his mace, but, with its remaining hand, the golem flipped the table onto the priest. Then the creature hefted Luer Dhostar’s body over its shoulder like a sack of potatoes and began plodding toward the door. Alias was prepared to follow, to battle the golem for the croamarkh’s corpse, but Victor held her back.

“Durgar will be crushed!” he exclaimed. “We have to get this table off him.”

Alias nodded. Victor was right. The priest’s life had to take priority. She laid down her weapon and helped Victor heft the table from Durgar’s pale form. Durgar groaned, but he still breathed.

The golem had left the warehouse. Alias could hear members of the watch shouting and banging on the monster with their useless weapons. She retrieved her sword and rose to leave, but Victor grabbed her gown. “Where’s Dragonbait?” he asked. “We need him to heal Durgar.”

“I don’t know,” Alias said. “Victor, I have to go after the golem.”

“Why?” he demanded. “Why risk your life for my father’s body?”

“Without it, Durgar can’t speak with his dead spirit. We might never learn the truth,” she replied.

“I’ve seen enough. I don’t think I want to learn any more,” the merchant lord declared. “There’s no guarantee my father will answer in death any questions he would not answer in life.”

Gently Alias took Victor’s hand from her gown and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. “We still have to try,” she said. Then she raced off after the iron monster.

By the time Alias caught up with the fleeing golem, it stood at the edge of the harbor, teetering on the thick wooden pylons that protected the shore. The watch soldiers had the monster cornered. Alias shouted for them to get a rope on it, but she was too late. Ponderously the creature rocked back, then forward, pitching headlong into the water with a tremendous splash.

The ripples spread outward until they hit the pier and bounced back. The moon was nearly full, but Alias could detect no bubbles or turbulence in the dark water below. She returned to the ramshackle warehouse. Victor was ordering one of the watchmen to fetch a priest for Durgar. The old man lay on the floor of the warehouse, his breathing strained and shallow, his complexion turning gray.

“It’s just cracked ribs,” Durgar assured Alias. “After years of combat wounds, I can tell,” he added with a grim smile.

Alias reported on the fate of the iron golem and Luer Dhostar’s body.

“Damnation,” Durgar growled with annoyance. “It could walk across the bottom of the bay and be halfway to the Pirate Isles before it corrodes. We’ll never get Luer’s body back now.”

The watchman Victor had sent out returned with a stern-faced young man in white robes, a follower of Ilmater, god of suffering. The others maintained a respectful silence as he knelt beside the elderly priest and began intoning a curative chant, his hands hovering over Durgar’s chest. When the young man had finished, Durgar took a deep breath, then another, and his complexion began to grow rosier.

“I just can’t believe it,” Durgar said as Victor helped him to sit up. “I’ve known Luer for years. I can’t believe he was—he was … Victor, I’m so sorry,” he concluded, patting the merchant lord’s hand.

“It’s all right,” Victor said softly. “He hid it well. I couldn’t believe it either, at first.”

“But your father lived for this city and for his business!” the old priest insisted. He picked up the Faceless’s coin mask and sighed. “Luer’s greatest pleasure was going over his books,” he said, still unable to grasp his friend’s treachery. “We used to work together in the Tower for company’s sake, me with my arrest records, he with his account books. Not two nights ago—no, three—he spent the whole evening tracking down an error in bookkeeping that proved one of his ship captains was skimming off his shipments. He used to say it was easier to catch a thief with an accounting ledger and an abacus than it was with a sword. It was nearly dawn before he found what he was looking for, but when he did, he was elated. Of course, it didn’t last. Ssentar Urdo came in to holler about Haztor’s arrest. Still, for those few moments, he was so happy. You can’t imagine a man’s a scheming criminal when he’s that happy doing his work.”

Durgar got wearily to his feet. “I’d best be getting back to the Tower to see what assistance I can give the survivors.” His shoulders were bowed—the weight not of his responsibilities, Alias knew, but of his grief. Magical spells could cure broken ribs, but not spirits. Victor walked the priest to the door, speaking to him in a hushed whisper. The noble returned to the swordswoman’s side as all the watchmen followed behind their leader.

“I should return to the Tower, too,” Alias said to Victor. “I have to find Dragonbait. I haven’t seen him since we left the ball.”

“I did, just after you left to chase the golem. He was behind the stair, healing an injured member of the watch.”

“Then he was all right?”

“Looked all right to me, though I’m no expert on how saurials are supposed to look,” Victor said. “I guess there’s really nothing more I can do until morning. All the nobles who were still able ran off to bolt their castle doors. Durgar’s seeing to the injured.”

The young man looked back down at the chair where his father’s corpse had been. “I don’t know if I want to be alone right now. Would you come back to Castle Dhostar with me?”

Alias hesitated. It was hardly an invitation Victor could have made were his father still alive, she knew. It was bound to cause talk. Victor could use her support, though, especially after all he’d been through. There was really nothing else she could do tonight, either, and she was beginning to feel weary. She nodded her consent.

They walked back to the market green, where Victor found his carriage, attended by his driver. He dismissed the driver and took up the reins himself.

The drive from the city was quiet and uneventful. They leaned on each other, but neither spoke much. No one greeted them at the door, and Victor explained that, save for Kimbel and his carriage driver, the servants had all been given the evening off in honor of the ball.

Victor ushered Alias down the hallways and into the library, where Kimbel was tending a blazing fire in the hearth. After all the violence and the chill of the night air, the room seemed blissfully warm and peaceful, in spite of the malignant servant. Kimbel bowed and left the room without a word. Alias noticed that there was another bottle of Evermead on the table, with two glasses.

“Were you expecting me to return with you?” Alias asked.

Victor shook his head. “The other glass would be for my father. I just realized, Kimbel probably doesn’t know yet that Father is—is dead.” He sighed. “I suppose I can wait until morning to tell him, if he hasn’t picked it up in the servant hall by then.”

The nobleman poured them each a glass of Evermead as Alias wondered if the Dhostars ever drank less expensive wines. “You look lovely,” he said as he handed her a glass.

Alias laughed. “My hair’s a rat’s nest, I’ve torn my gown, and I’m covered with iron golem rust.”

“You look lovely to me. He sat down at the desk, but Alias stood warming herself before the fire.

“I spoke with Durgar before he left us,” Victor said. “He agreed to call a meeting for tomorrow morning of all the surviving heads of the noble merchant families. It doesn’t look good, I’m afraid. From what I could see of the casualties, most of the noble merchant houses are going to end up in the hands of third children or second cousins. Do you think it’s possible what you said, that the Night Masters killed my father for opposing the use of the golems on the nobles?”

“It makes a certain amount of sense. But then, so do a lot of other scenarios,” Alias said as she laid another log on the fire. “Your father might have wanted to use the golems on the nobles to consolidate his grip as croamarkh. The Night Masters might have realized he was using them, and fearing he would betray them, destroyed him. What I can’t figure out is why the Night Masters went to so much trouble to be sure we found your father’s body but then made sure the golem took it away from us. I’m surprised they left his coin mask, too. A piece of magic that powerful—why didn’t they take it from him after they killed him?”

Victor reached calmly into one of the desk drawers and pulled out an ornate ring, set with a huge black opal. Pushing a tiny nub forced the opal to slide aside, revealing a needle tipped with poison. Alias, staring thoughtfully into the fire, did not notice the merchant lord’s actions.

“It was as if they wanted us to discover that your father was the Faceless. Did they think I would stop hunting for them if they slew their leader? Unless—”

“Unless what?” Victor prompted as he leaned back in his chair.

“Unless he really wasn’t the Faceless, and the real Faceless wanted to pin it on him,” Alias said excitedly. “Surely the real Faceless couldn’t have been killed so easily. He could have them all on the floor in agony with just a spell word. It was one of the Faceless’s powers. He used it just two, no, three nights ago … but— Victor, that’s it! You’re father is innocent! They did set him up! They probably planted the key as well!”

Alias turned suddenly from the fire and looked down at the young nobleman. Victor stood suddenly. “You can’t be serious,” he said.

Alias paced before the fire. “Durgar said three nights ago he and your father sat up all night balancing their accounts and going over records, right?”

Victor nodded.

“Until dawn, when Ssentar Urdo came by,” Alias continued as she swung about. “But, according to Melman, the Faceless was attending a meeting that night with all the Night Masters.”

Victor seemed to be scowling, unable to understand what she was saying.

“Don’t you see? Your father could not be the Faceless or even a Night Master,” Alias explained, “because he was not at that meeting. He was with Durgar.”

“Are you sure of the night of the meeting?” Victor said with an anxious tone. “Melman could have lied about the night, or you might have misheard him.”

“No problem,” Alias said. “We’ll get Durgar to do a detect lie spell and ask him again.”

“Ask—” Victor gasped. “Ask him? He’s alive? You’ve captured one of the Night Masters alive?”

“Yes,” Alias said. “I told you I got the key to the Faceless’s last lair from him.”

Victor looked aghast. “I thought you’d stolen it— I mean that that halfling Ruskettle acquired it for you. Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.

Alias sighed. “When we talked about it before,” she explained, “I was afraid your father was a Night Master, maybe even the Faceless, and I thought you might be passing information on to him—innocently of course. Then, too, I knew you might not approve of the arrangement I’d made with Melman. I agreed to let him go, providing he told me everything he could, and providing he wasn’t lying.”

Victor looked stricken. “So where is Melman now?”

Alias looked slightly guilty. “He told me all he knew, and it checked out. By now he’s on a boat bound for Cormyr. But we could have Mintassan meet him in Cormyr and bring him back for something as important as clearing your father’s name.”

Victor nodded thoughtfully. “It shouldn’t be too hard to find a branded Night Master,” he mused aloud.

Alias nodded in agreement, then paused. “How did you know Melman was branded?”

Victor opened his mouth and closed it. “Didn’t you mention it?” he asked, perplexed.

Alias frowned, reviewing in her perfect memory every conversation she’d had with Victor concerning Melman. She’d said the Faceless had branded someone, but not who. “No, I’m certain I didn’t,” she said.

Victor crossed to where Alias stood and laid a warm hand on her shoulder. “My love, I have my own sources.”

“What sources?” Alias demanded. “Victor, I have to know. You can’t keep hiding things from me.”

“Alias, I have other friends besides you who have been investigating the Night Masters for me, but I can’t reveal their names. You have to trust me. You do trust me, don’t you?”

Alias was about to assure him that she did when she looked up into his eyes. There was something calculating there, and the words died in her throat. Dragonbait’s warnings came back to her immediately. She thought, too, of Kimbel. The former assassin had been at the ball, but had avoided the golem rampages, then returned to the castle and sat quietly at the fireside, prepared for Victor’s return, unruffled by the affairs of the evening.

She was suddenly overly conscious of Westgate’s reputation for intrigue and betrayal. “Of course I trust you,” she managed to say, but she knew her voice sounded hollow.

Victor took her glass of Evermead from her hands and sipped at it. “We need to be careful in the next few days,” the noble said, his eyes pinning her in place. “After all that has happened, the city is going to be full of rumors and unrest. I think we should tell the people that we’ve found the Faceless, that he’s dead. It will help settle things down more quickly.”

There was something hypnotic about Victor’s voice, and Alias had to shake herself to throw off its influence. She raised a hand to touch Victor’s cheek, trying to reassure him of her loyalty even as she argued with herself. “Victor, a lie like that is a two-edged sword. It can help you at first, but in the end it can cut you in half. We have to tell the truth, that we found your father murdered wearing the Faceless’s regalia, but that the Faceless may still be at large.”

“As you wish,” Victor purred. He bent his face down and pressed his lips against her own, but there was nothing gentle or warm in his kiss. It was indifferent and brief—a farewell kiss to a dismissed lover.

Alias grabbed at the nobleman’s sleeve. “Now is the time to pursue the Faceless even harder,” she said, still anxiously trying to convince him she was right. “He must think he’s safe, having framed someone else. He’s likely to get careless—”

Victor slashed the back of his hand across her face, tearing at her flesh with a spiked ring much like the one sported by the extortionist Littleboy. Alias gasped as a searing pain streaked down her left cheek.

The adventuress jerked away from the nobleman and tried to draw her sword from its scabbard, but her muscles failed her. The sword felt as heavy as lead, and her hand spasmed uncontrollably, so she could not grip the hilt. The poison on the ring was quick-acting. Her face, her throat, and her arm burned with an inner fire.

The room seemed to sway like the deck of a tempest-tossed ship. Alias tried to focus on Victor, who stood there sipping the Evermead from her glass. Despite her swollen tongue, she managed to slur out the words, “Victor, why?”

Victor laughed harshly as he set down her emptied glass. “I gave you the chance to lie for me, but you could not do so, could you, my darling? It’s just as well. You make a better legend than a lover. Besides, I really don’t feel like sharing my city with anyone.”

Victor chuckled some more, amused by her feeble, jerking steps in his direction. When her knees gave out beneath her, the nobleman stepped forward to catch her, his eyes sparkling with a sick delight. “You poor dear,” he said, looking into her wildly dilated eyes. “You served me so well, but I’m going to have to let you go. Still, I ought to thank you properly for all your help.”

He kissed her with a cruel passion, ignoring the way her body twitched and spasmed from the poison running through her veins. He was possessed with a feeling of absolute power. Like a vampire in a bloodlust, he didn’t pull away from her until he felt sated—sated on the control he’d taken of her emotions, of her actions, of her very life. By then, although the swordswoman was still twitching slightly, her breathing was shallow and irregular. It was only a matter of time before the poison reached her heart and stilled it in an icy grip.

Victor lifted the swordswoman, a little surprised at how heavy her dead weight was. He carried her from the library, through the main hall, then down a narrow spiral stairs to the wine cellar. He pushed on a bottle of wine, and a section of wall slid away, revealing a hidden passage. At the other end of the passage was a secret room.

Kimbel was waiting there, in the company of two prisoners shackled at the neck, wrists, and ankles to a thick iron post in the center of the room—Dragonbait and Mintassan. The saurial had been muzzled. The sage wore a disjointed, idiot’s expression on his face, and his tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth.

The lizard paladin lunged toward Victor, hissing through his iron muzzle, but he was halted by the iron collar around his throat. The sage fixed Victor with a desperate look and gibbered in a high voice.

Kimbel lifted an eyebrow at the appearance of the noble’s burden. “Is she dead?” he asked, curious.

“Not yet,” Victor replied as he laid the swordswoman down on a worktable. He smiled gleefully as Alias shuddered. “To what do we owe the honor of Mintassan’s company?” he asked.

“He spotted me carrying off the saurial,” the assassin explained, “but he fumbled his ambush attempt. I had someone from the Temple of Mask place him under a feeblemind spell until you decide what to do with him.”

The sage gibbered hysterically, beseeching the nobleman with his clouded eyes. Victor turned from the figure in cold disgust. “You’ll have to kill him. You can destroy the lizard, too, now that we are finished using his mistress. Make sure none of the bodies are found.”

“No one is going to believe all three just left town,” Kimbel pointed out.

Victor peered down at Alias. He stroked the tattoo on her sword arm. “Have her lovely arm wash ashore at low tide, clutching a domino mask. Nice and ambiguous. The Faceless can reassure the Night Masters that he was responsible for the death of their foe, and Lord Victor can tell his people that a victory has been struck against the Night Masks, albeit at a great cost—the death of his love, the hero Alias. I won’t need to keep up the worried lover act. I can go straight to being the mourning lover—so much more sympathetic. See to the details.”

“Yes, milord,” Kimbel replied. “This one may last a while yet,” he noted, staring down at Alias, who still drew gasping breaths.

“Well, I’ve dismissed her. She’s no longer in House Dhostar’s employ, so she’s yours to play with,” Victor said. “Just not here. Be a good flunky and make sure she expires someplace where her vengeful spirit can’t haunt me. When you’re finished taking care of the bodies, loot the sage’s workshop. Do it ‘legally.’ Kick Jamal out on the street. With Mintassan gone, we can take care of her at our leisure.”

“And what will you be doing, milord?”

“I’ll be sleeping. I’m worn out from my battles at the ball,” Victor said with an evil chuckle. He left Kimbel alone in the workshop with the prisoners.

The assassin could hear his master’s voice drift down the spiral staircase. The merchant lord was singing the jaunty tune he’d learned from Alias: