Masquerades

Twenty Stirring the Ashes

The next afternoon found Olive Ruskettle slipping through the alleys of Westgate, her spirit deeply troubled. The light of day and the official proclamations from the Tower had done little to clear her confusion. She needed to speak with Jamal; the actress often helped her get her thoughts straight even as she was plying the halfling for information.

Olive was about to step out on the main road and cross the street to Mintassan’s house when she spotted the symbols on the cobblestone. There were two of them, scrawled in charcoal, in a most inexpert manner, but there was no doubt about their meaning. The first symbol was used by Harpers to mean danger. The second symbol was used by thieves to mean danger. Both were aligned to indicate Mintassan’s.

Olive stood in the shadow of the alley, studying all the approaches to the sage’s house. In a few moments, she spotted Kel, lurking in a doorway down the street. The halfling moved out into the main street, striding in the boy’s direction, without looking at him. She stopped by the door, pretending to study a slip of paper for an address.

“You put out those symbols, Kel?” she asked, without looking at the boy.

“Yeah. Jamal taught me to write ’em. Did it right, didn’t I?”

“Did it fine,” the halfling assured him. “What’s up?”

“Supposed to warn Jamal’s friends not to come by.

Dhostar’s spider Kimbel’s taken over the house, tossed Jamal and me out. Jamal’s up at Blais House.”

“Thanks. Keep up the good work,” the halfling said. She kept going, then slipped down the next alley to make her way to Blais House.

At the hostel, Mercy escorted her two flights up to a guest room far smaller than Alias’s and Dragonbait’s suite. The room was cluttered with Jamal’s costume wardrobe, puppets, and theater props. Jamal was seated at a table, scribbling furiously in a small black book. “I was hoping you’d come by,” the actress said.

“What is going on?” Olive demanded.

“I thought you could tell me,” the actress said in exasperation. She blotted the ink in her book and slipped it back into the bottom of her jewelry box. “That worm Kimbel came by Mintassan’s this morning with an officious-looking scroll claiming House Dhostar is supposed to oversee Mintassan’s estate in the sage’s absence. It had Mintassan’s seal on it, and Kimbel had seven large Dhostar guards with him, so I wasn’t in a position to keep myself from being thrown out on the street. I left Kel to warn off my friends. I don’t want all my contacts running into Kimbel or vice versa. The manager of Blais House is willing to let me stay here for a while.”

“Where are Alias and Dragonbait?” Olive asked.

Jamal shrugged. “No one saw Alias and Dragonbait return last night, but Mercy says Alias’s armor is missing. I guess Alias came back for it before going back out to hunt more Night Masks. I’m used to Mintassan disappearing into the night for weeks on end, but I’ll confess I’m getting a little nervous that Alias and Dragonbait haven’t returned. What happened at the meeting of the merchant nobles this morning?”

“Durgar recapped the events of last evening, giving us the final tally of the dead,” Olive reported. “The heads of Houses Guldar, Ssemm, Thalavar, Urdo, and Vhammos were killed by the Night Masks’ iron golems. Houses Ssemm, Urdo, and Vhammos also lost their recognized heirs. The croamarkh wasn’t at the ball, but Durgar claims that a golem got him anyway and carried his body into the sea. Then Lord Victor says that his hireling Alias, with her companions Dragonbait and Mintassan, found a clue last night that led them into the sewers to search for the Faceless. Finally, at Durgar’s suggestion, the heads of the merchant houses—mostly inexperienced cousins and youths—unanimously voted Victor Dhostar in as interim croamarkh. They’re supposed to make an official proclamation tomorrow, after the funerals.”

“Durgar said a golem killed Luer Dhostar?” Jamal asked.

Olive nodded. “Yes. Why?”

“I think it’s time we throw all our cards on the table and see if we come up with a full deck,” Jamal suggested. “I’ve got a source in the watch who says they found the Faceless dead, stabbed in the ribs. Durgar unmasked him, and it was Luer Dhostar, but Durgar has ordered the watch to keep mum about it.”

Olive laughed. “Making all Lord Victor’s hard work in vain. Victor Dhostar knew his father was the Faceless. He’s been feeding Alias clues, hoping she’d unmask Luer for him. Then the nobles would be disgraced by the knowledge that the Faceless turned out to be their own elected croamarkh, and they’d have to pick a candidate popular with the people.”

“Alias?” Jamal asked in astonishment.

“No,” Olive corrected, “the noble responsible for hiring her—the noble who’s wearing her token—Victor Dhostar.”

“Well, that’s how it ended up, anyway,” the actress said.

“Not exactly,” the halfling replied. “The nobles haven’t been disgraced, and they’ve only made Lord Victor interim croamarkh. If anything, the Night Masks’ attack last night has made people feel more sympathy for the nobles.”

“No kidding,” Jamal said. “I tried a puppet show this morning portraying the nobles as sheep running from the wolf. It was not well received.”

“You should have known better than to kick a dog when it’s down,” Olive retorted.

“Even I make mistakes,” the actress replied with a shrug. “So, Lord Victor was planning to turn on his own kind and reveal all, but Durgar stopped him. If we could get him out from under Durgar’s influence, he might prove useful—a noble who cares what the people think.”

“The only one Victor Dhostar cares about is Victor Dhostar,” Olive snapped. “He was manipulating Alias into uncovering the Faceless, he manipulated Durgar into proposing him as the new croamarkh, and, given half a chance, he’ll manipulate you and anyone else in Westgate fool enough to support him. He doesn’t just want to be croamarkh. He wants to be king.”

Jamal raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Never happen,” she replied. “Not in Westgate. Not after Verovan. No one will ever go for it. Not the merchant lords, and certainly not the people.”

“Wrong,” Olive retorted. “If the people start clamoring for it and the merchant lords are weakened, they might have no choice.”

“The people don’t want a king. They want to rule themselves,” Jamal argued.

“Jamal, I’ve studied you humans for years. Humans don’t want to rule themselves. Only a few humans want to bother with the mess it takes to rule themselves. The rest want to be left alone. Your average Westgate citizen wants the Night Masks taken care of, but for over fifteen years they’ve been waiting for the merchant nobles to handle it. Some of them look at a nation like Cormyr, with a king who’s managed to purge the land of assassins and who exiles convicted thieves, and they think maybe the gods favor monarchies. Should a popular candidate come along, some of them might start dusting off Verovan’s regalia,” the halfling concluded.

Jamal looked for a moment as if she might explode. Olive knew she’d just called into question a basic tenet of the actress’s beliefs. A moment later, though, Jamal sighed. “Just because people won’t take charge of their own lives doesn’t mean they can’t,” she argued.

“I’m not saying that,” Olive replied.

“Well, you may be right about the king thing,” the actress conceded. “I have heard people talking about Azoun of Cormyr as if he were the gods’ gift to the people. Are you sure about Victor Dhostar, though? Alias seemed to think he was all right.”

“Even Alias makes mistakes, something I intend to correct just as soon as she and Dragonbait get back from the sewers,” Olive said. “In the meantime, Lady Nettel’s dying request was that I protect her granddaughter. House Thalavar lost three halfling bodyguards to the golems last night, so I’ve spent the last twelve hours not letting Thistle Thalavar out of my sight. I think the girl was getting tired of me. After making all the arrangements for her grandmother’s funeral, she locked herself in the study to go over House Thalavar’s account books and Lady Nettel’s personal journal. I should be getting back to Castle Thalavar to keep an eye on visitors offering their condolences. When Alias gets back—”

“You’ll hear from me,” Jamal promised.

It was nightfall before the actress sent Kel around with a message for the halfling, but all the note said was that Alias had not returned, and neither had Dragonbait nor Mintassan. Olive penned a reply that Jamal should sit tight. The sewers were vast. It might take a little more time to explore them. The halfling did her best to keep from sounding worried when she handed the message to Kel.

Thistle finally came out of her grandmother’s study for supper. Olive pressed her for permission to hire more bodyguards. The young girl fingered her grandmother’s brooch like an amulet, then nodded her agreement.

The next morning brought a similar note from Jamal. Alias had not returned, but a fisherman had relayed a rumor that Alias was seen battling a fire elemental in the plaza around the Westlight. Jamal had checked with the watch stationed around the lighthouse, only to learn that some itinerant wanderer had started a trash fire by the water to keep herself company.

That afternoon, after Lady Nettel’s funeral, one of the Thalavar halflings returned to the castle with the rumor that the Faceless was holding court in a tavern in Gateside. With Thistle again locked in the study with her account books, Olive hurried down to the tavern in question, but discovered only an outlander in a heavy cloak. He was not holding court, only recruiting bodyguards for a caravan going south, and he kept his face covered with the hood of his cloak to hide a particularly ugly scar received from brigands.

Olive spent the afternoon interviewing halflings to serve as guards for the castle, for the warehouses, and, most especially, for Thistle. While she found several sturdy, sensible recruits worth training, no one with any real combat experience came forward.

By evening, Jamal sent another negative note. The adventurers had not returned. A beachcomber down by the river claimed to have seen Dragonbait battling the quelzarn in the water below the bridge. After interviewing the witness, Jamal had concluded he was into his third tankard of ale and was seeing anything the actress could suggest to his vivid imagination and besotted brain.

The third morning after the ball brought a new rumor to the servants’ quarters of Castle Thalavar: the Faceless was dead. Night Mask activity was so low for the past two days, people had begun to believe that perhaps the Night Masks were in mourning for their leader. Speculation was rife that perhaps one of the deceased nobles had been the lord of the Night Masters. Olive wondered if Victor had had a hand in spreading the rumor.

Kel appeared at the Thalavar castle gate right after breakfast. Olive realized he brought something more than rumor. The boy had been crying. This time he hadn’t brought a note. “Jamal’s at the Old Beard,” he reported. “She says come now.” Still crying, Kel ran off.

Olive arrived at the tavern near the river just as House Dhostar’s massive carriage was pulling away. People were pouring out of the tavern. Olive hurried inside. Jamal was sitting at a table, looking pale and shaken.

“What is it?” the halfling asked.

“A fisherman found it near the Athagdal docks,” Jamal explained, “where the Thunn runs into the harbor.”

“Found what?” Olive demanded.

“Alias—Alias—her—oh, gods!” The actress broke into sobs.

Olive looked up at the tavern’s host. “It was an arm,” the man explained, “covered with a tattoo of thorns and waves, with a rose at the wrist.”

“I found it floating in the water,” a young fisherman said. “ ’Tweren’t chewed up or anything. Someone had hacked it off at the shoulder. It had a domino mask clutched in its hand—in a death grip.”

“Where is it?” Olive demanded through clenched teeth.

“Croamarkh Victor took it,” the tavern owner said. “Wept over it like it were the lady ’erself. Wrapped it up in a piece o’ velvet and said it would be laid to rest in the Dhostar family crypt in honor o’ ’er service to the croamarkh.”

Olive nudged Jamal to her feet, anxious to get her away from the somewhat crowded tavern.

As they walked down the street, Jamal explained. “I sent Kel as soon as I heard. I thought you might be able to tell for sure—tell if it were hers. You said it was a magic arm. You could tell if it were a fake, couldn’t you?”

“Maybe,” Olive said. “Why’d you let Dhostar take it?”

“He was weeping. He asked the fisherman and the people in the tavern if they would let him take it. No one could turn him down. If he’s really as bad as you say, he’s the best actor in Westgate,” the actress said. “I don’t think I could show more grief than he did.”

“If you’re not careful, he’ll make your troupe obsolete,” the halfling snarled.

If rumors flew before, now they teleported from place to place. Some said that the severed arm meant that Alias had battled the Night Masks and lost. Others insisted that the fact that the arm’s fist clutched a domino mask meant she had won, even though it had cost her her life. A third faction held that she, her companions, and all the Night Masters, including the Faceless, had never fought at all, but just been eaten by the quelzarn.

Olive told herself Alias could have survived losing her arm. Dragonbait and Mintassan might be with her even now. It was impossible, though, to come up with a reason why they didn’t return, why Mintassan didn’t just teleport them back to his home to reassure their friends that they were safe. Olive’s hope began slipping away.

Five days after the ball, Olive Ruskettle, captain of the House Thalavar guard, self-declared bard, and self-declared Harper, was making a halfhearted attempt to drink herself to death. She sat on the open patio of the Black Eye tavern, with its excellent view of the market and the Tower. Three days had passed since the funerals of the croamarkh and the other felled merchant lords. The official period of mourning completed, the market was once again blanketed by a tapestry of motley—the wares of both minor and noble merchants being offered for sale.

That, if no other reason, was enough to keep Olive ordering round after round of a highly potent southern drink known as Dragon’s Bite. She was disgusted by the way this city shrugged off its losses and returned diligently to the task of making money. There had been no funeral for Alias, Dragonbait, or Mintassan, no official period of mourning for the heroes who had so selflessly risked their lives for this town of money-grubbing greengrocers. Not that three days of mourning could be enough to honor adventurers of their caliber—adventurers who’d been her friends.

She wanted to blow this festhall of a city, to leave it to fester in its own greed, to head north where adventurers weren’t treated like carpets for merchants to wipe their feet on. Still, Westgate held her in its thrall. She had business here still.

First, of course, she felt obligated to honor Lady Nettel’s dying request to protect Thistle. Lady Nettel had been really decent. She would have made a good halfling. As for Thistle, Olive had actually grown to like the human child. She was a serious, hardworking girl, something Olive admired without actually emulating, of course. Three days of interviewing the halfling population of Westgate, and even some of the humans, had left Olive with the certainty that there was really no one else as qualified as she was to be the girl’s bodyguard.

Yet Thistle had walled herself up with her books, and there wasn’t much challenge in guarding a hermit. Olive had wiled away hours outside the door of Thistle’s study reorganizing every aspect of security for House Thalavar, its castle, its warehouses, its stockyards and its docks. The halfling was distracted to the point of madness waiting for the Night Masks to renew their vengeful attacks, but the thieves guild really did seem to be on hiatus. Thistle Thalavar, her castle, and all her property remained undisturbed.

The tension was enough to drive a halfling to drink. Olive drained her glass and thumped it on the tabletop, demanding a refill. House Thalavar would pick up the tab, making it possible to order drink after drink without actually plunking any money down or keeping track of how much one spent on liquor. Olive wasn’t sure that was a good thing, but it was certainly a comforting one.

Her second order of business in Westgate was what to do about the new croamarkh, Victor Dhostar.

When the evil mage Flattery had disintegrated her friend Jade, Olive had wasted no time avenging Jade’s death. Of course, then she’d had some formidable allies: Giogi Wyvernspur, who could shapechange into a wyvern; the mage, Cat; and the wizard, Drone. Here her only allies were an aging actress, a boy who had only just retired from his career as a Night Mask, and a castle full of pampered halflings. Then there was the question of popularity. No one had liked Flattery—all agreed he was a sick menace to society. Victor Dhostar, though, was a slick piece of work, friendly, smiling, concerned. Whatever emotion or reaction was appropriate to the situation, he could summon it to the surface. Even Alias had been fooled. Milil’s Mouth, he even had me charmed that first day, Olive recalled. On top of all that charm, he was croamarkh. While he was not quite a king, plotting his destruction certainly smacked of regicide, a serious crime even in a place like Westgate.

More importantly, without more information, she couldn’t really assess the extent of Victor’s guilt. He might not have anything to do with Alias’s death. The swordswoman was, after all, always taking risks. The Night Masters might have destroyed her whether or not Victor Dhostar was a nice guy. Victor could just be a selfish, power-hungry jerk who’d used Alias. The world was full of them. Olive fumed whenever she thought of the way he’d carried off the swordswoman’s arm, as if he owned it. Victor Dhostar was definitely one more reason to drink.

A pottery mug of Dragon’s Bite hovered at eye level, carried by a slim female halfling about half Olive’s age. The younger woman was dressed like a Luiren schoolteacher, in a long, black divided skirt and a starched white blouse buttoned tight at the wrists and to the top of its high collar. Her reddish blonde hair was twisted into a severe bun at the back of her head. She wore a bitter, no-nonsense expression on her severely angular face, which Olive thought might actually stop a beholder in its tracks, if beholders could leave tracks.

“You’re drinking too much,” the younger halfling said, setting the mug down none too gently. She sat down at the table across from Olive.

“Never would have guessed,” Olive snarled, taking a long pull on the fresh mug. She glared across the table at the new arrival until it became clear that her guest was not going to politely evaporate. “Was there a shift change? Are you my new waitress?” she asked.

“I’m not a waitress,” the newcomer informed her. “You’re Olive Ruskettle,” she said, not really questioning, but not quite certain either.

“Maybe,” Olive muttered.

“And you’re employed by House Thalavar.”

“Maybe,” Olive said with a sigh. She took another gulp of her drink.

“And you were a friend of Alias of the Inner Sea,” said the other halfling.

Olive slammed her mug down hard. “What in the Abyss do you want, child?”

The other halfling blinked for a moment, as if shocked by Olive’s outburst. Finally, she replied, “My name is Winterhart. I met Alias last summer in the Dalelands. I understand she is dead, and you were her friend. Please accept my condolences. I am also seeking employment. I’ve spent most of my days as an adventuress, so I have little experience as a servant, but Alias said I could use her as a reference. Does House Thalavar have use for a capable halfling?”

Olive seethed silently. The friend-of-the-dead trick was an old halfling con. She was insulted that someone thought she was good enough to play it using Alias’s name, and insulted that anyone thought her fool enough to fall for it. “You were a friend of Alias, too, hmm?”

“We met and talked,” Winterhart responded calmly. “I was impressed by her. I am truly sorry she is dead.”

Well, Olive thought, at least she’s smart enough not to claim that Alias was an old friend from way back. Aloud she asked, “And you knew her from the Dalelands?”

“Yes.” Winterhart’s head bobbed just a tad.

“Then you know what song she first sang in the taproom of the Old Skull Inn,” Olive said offhandedly.

“It was The Standing Stone,” Winterhart said, displaying the first trace of a smile, “an old elven tune with words by Finder Wyvernspur, the Nameless Bard. That was an easy one. Want to ask what her favorite color was?”

“Her favorite color was blue,” Olive lied, waiting for Winterhart to take the bait.

“Red,” Winterhart corrected. “Blue reminded her of her tattoo, which she thought of as a symbol of her previous enslavement. Shall I tell you how she first met Elminster, or how she nearly skewered Giogi Wyvernspur, or in which boot she kept her throwing dagger?”

Olive smiled, delighted to be convinced of something for a change. “What is it you can do, Winnie?” she asked.

“The name is Winterhart, and I prefer Miss Winterhart,” the younger halfling corrected. “I would make a suitable lady’s companion. I am trained in human customs and dress. I am also skilled with the sword, dagger, and bow, and can provide protection for the young mistress.”

Olive looked with some surprise at Winterhart. “Think fast!” she snapped and threw her half-full mug at the younger halfling.

Miss Winterhart dodged slightly to her right, her left hand snaking up and snaring the mug by its handle. She set it down smoothly without spilling a drop and slid it back in Olive’s direction.

Olive’s reflexes were too deadened by drink to stop the mug in time. It slid into her lap, drenching her with its contents of liquor-laced ale. Olive stood up and cursed.

“Drinking is a filthy habit,” Winterhart declared. “I have no truck with it.”

Olive cursed some more as she tried unsuccessfully to brush the liquid from her leggings.

“And bad language is another thing,” Winterhart added primly. “Foul words lead to foul deeds.”

Olive did not reply. She studied Winterhart as carefully as she was capable of in her inebriated condition. The girl had fast reflexes and a strong will. If she was telling the truth about being skilled with weaponry and proved to have a modicum of halfling sense, she might be just the sort of woman suitable to take over as Thistle’s bodyguard.

There was something else about Winterhart that impressed Olive. It was not the woman’s sobriety and primness, but what Olive sensed, or imagined she sensed, lay behind those traits. Winterhart had been hurt somehow, in the past, and she held herself tightly in check so that she didn’t fall apart. It didn’t make her a powerful ally, but it meant she had just the sort of strength Olive lacked. Nothing, Olive realized, could take away the pain of Alias’s death. With Winterhart behind her, however, Olive knew she would find the courage to avenge the swordswoman’s death. She would make the Night Masks pay for Alias’s murder, and if she found out Victor Dhostar was involved, she would make him pay, too.

Had Olive been sober, such an unrealistic goal might never have occurred to her—she was far too cautious. She was not sober, though, and she saw in Winterhart not just a halfling seeking employment, but a sign from the gods.

“Mistress Ruskettle, do you have an answer for me?” Winterhart demanded.

Olive smiled grimly at the other halfling. “All right,” she agreed. “I’ll give you a trial period. But I’ll be watching you like a hawk!”

Miss Winterhart nodded. “I don’t fear being watched, Mistress Ruskettle. As for trials—” Winterhart’s eyes focused on something in the distance, and her voice trailed off as she spoke. “—I am quite used to trials,” she said.

Olive watched the younger halfling’s gaze as it followed the progress of the new croamarkh’s carriage away from the Tower. “Some trials are more difficult to bear than others,” Olive muttered, though she spoke not to Winterhart, but for her own benefit.

“Blast them all to Baator!” Lord Victor thundered as he strode into the main hallway of Castle Dhostar. He threw his cloak at the footman. The butler appeared briefly, but upon seeing the look on his master’s face, he retreated back into the servants’ quarters, unwilling to deal with the young lord unless called upon to do so.

Victor stormed into the library, where Kimbel was calmly reviewing piles of Mintassan’s books and scrolls. In the center of the table hovered a glowing sphere that the assassin had stolen from Blais House when he’d retrieved the swordswoman’s armor.

“Difficult day running the city?” Kimbel queried as he rose and crossed to a sideboard. He poured a generous amount of Evermead into a glass and carried it to his master.

Victor had thrown himself in a chair and sat there brooding.

“I think this land was once completely forested,” the croamarkh muttered. “Then the bureaucrats invented paperwork.” He took the glass of Evermead, gulping it down like water. “There is a form for everything, sometimes two forms, on occasion, three. And gods forbid you sign anything without reading it, or else some clan might receive a windfall and the other clans will start screaming for your blood. And while you’re reading every bloody piece of paper the city clerks put in front of you, the other clans are robbing you blind, since you haven’t got the time to address your own business. Why can’t they just learn to shut up and follow my orders? That’s why they made me croamarkh, after all.”

“Interim croamarkh,” Kimbel corrected softly.

“Maybe I didn’t kill enough of them,” Victor mused. “Any charges we can trump up against one or two of them? Make an example of them to keep the others in line.”

“Most unwise,” Kimbel replied. “It would be bad for business, and the reaction of those remaining would be distrust rather than fear. These are not Night Masters, but nobles, and even the young and inexperienced ones have believed all their life that power is their right. Besides, you already eliminated the most likely candidates.”

“The irony,” Victor snarled, “is that I’ve kissed up to them for years to assure myself this rotten job, only to discover that I have to keep kissing up to them to keep it. We need a monarchy around here. I’m tired of all this open rebellion.” He turned to Kimbel sharply and asked, “Did you recover my mask?”

Kimbel nodded. “Durgar stashed it in a desk drawer, no doubt unable to come to grips with having covered up Luer Dhostar’s infamy. I replaced it with a stage prop of Jamal’s, which I looted from Mintassan’s lair. It may be some time before Durgar realizes it’s not the genuine article. And, of course, I knew you’d appreciate the irony.”

Victor allowed himself a smile. “Good old Durgar. There’s some more irony. I think I impressed him, arguing that we should tell the ‘truth.’ about Father. But Durgar is so anxious to preserve the established order that he concealed all father’s crimes.” An unsettling thought occurred to the young lord. “You don’t think he doubts that Father was the Faceless, do you?”

“He does not appear to be pursuing the matter,” Kimbel replied, pulling a heavy tome from the pile and opening it to a page marked with a red ribbon. “Now, this is fascinating,” the assassin said as he perused the page. “A fortuitous coincidence, no doubt, considering your interest in monarchy.”

“What?” Victor said.

Kimbel motioned for the croamarkh to come and look.

With some annoyance, Victor rose from his lethargic sprawl. He leaned over the tome, which had of late belonged to the sage Mintassan. The book was quite old, its cover cracked and frayed, its binding nearly disintegrated, its pages loose, covered in ornate, sweeping script.

“The writing is Elvish and dates back to the last days of King Verovan.” Kimbel explained, but Victor held up a hand to silence him.

“I can see that for myself,” the noble snarled. “You know Father insisted I learn all the subhuman languages—the better to trade with them, he would say.”

Victor frowned with concentration as he pored over the text. “This describes the procedures and protocols of King Verovan’s court.”

“I direct you to the fourth paragraph,” Kimbel said, “on the right-hand page.”

“Hmmm.” Victor ran his finger along the script, mouthing the words silently, too self-conscious to translate aloud in front of the assassin. “It’s about Verovan’s treasure hoard!” he whispered excitedly. “It’s under, no, tucked away in an interdimensional demiplane, guarded by a … portion of the king’s own soul!”

“Planes and dimensions were a specialty of young Mintassan’s,” Kimbel remarked.

“At the top of Verovan’s castle, there is a portal into this plane,” Victor translated.

“Matches the common folklore,” Kimbel said. “Verovan’s castle—that would be Castle Vhammos now, wouldn’t it? How terrible that the population of House Vhammos was decimated by the iron golems. The new lord of the castle is still, I believe, on business in Waterdeep, leaving the castle prey to all sorts of thieves. I presume the new croamarkh will want to step in and offer to protect this landmark until the new lord’s return.”

“The key to open the passage to the demiplane is described as a copper feather,” Victor said. “The new croamarkh would need such a key before he tried anything so blatant. What’s this scrawl in the margin?”

“I believe that is a notation of the late, unlamented Mintassan,” Kimbel said dryly.

“But what does it say? ‘Lily Netted’? Why do sages always have such awful handwriting?”

Kimbel bent over the book, peering at the notation. “I believe it says, ‘Lady Nettel.’ ”

“The symbol of House Thalavar is a green feather, and the Thalavars are distant relatives of the Verovan line,” Victor said excitedly. “Copper patina is green. Doesn’t—didn’t Lady Nettel always wear some kind of a garish green brooch? You don’t suppose they buried it with her, do you?”

Kimbel shook his head. “I believe Lady Thistle is now in possession of it. She was wearing it at her grandmother’s funeral.”

“King’s Verovan’s treasure hoard.” Victor laughed with fiendish glee. “The loot gathered from a lifetime of sucking Westgate dry. Why, the gold alone would be sufficient to build a small empire. And the key hangs on dear little Dervish’s bosom—that sweet young girl who’s been left all alone in the world.” Victor chuckled nastily.

Kimbel raised an eyebrow. “House Thalavar remains one of the most powerful rival houses. Forging an alliance with Lady Thistle could prove most useful when the council of merchants elects the next croamarkh.”

Victor snorted. “Croamarkh! Once I charm that key from little Dervish, I can be king, with or without her support. Although … she could prove very useful, as the swordswoman was useful. She’s popular, lovely—can’t swing a sword, but at least she’s of the proper class. And she is young and impressionable. She could be easily swayed by the interests of a kind and dashing noble, eh?”

“Assuming that said noble wasn’t still supposed to be mourning his last love,” Kimbel noted with a chill tone.

“I should call on Lady Thistle. We can commiserate with one another over our losses. A girl like that will do wonders to help assuage the sorrow I feel over the death of dear Alias.”

Twenty-One

New Contracts

Kimbel insisted it should not appear as if the new croamarkh was singling out Thistle for special attention. He arranged for Victor Dhostar to pay a courtesy call on each grieving noble family to express his sympathies. The calls took two full days. House Thalavar had been scheduled last, and Victor came to think of it as a reward for the ordeals he suffered at all the other houses. At each call, one of the ruling survivors button-holed him with some demand, request, or poorly veiled threat involving the family’s continued support. Victor could only shake his head sadly at these people as if to reprimand them for sullying such a solemn occasion with common business.

He was received in the main hall of Castle Thalavar by Lady Thistle herself. The new head of House Thalavar was flanked by a pair of the ever-present halflings that plagued her particular household.

Victor recognized the halfling on Thistle’s right as Alias’s ally, Olive Ruskettle. The halfling’s suspicious questions in the Faceless’s lair remained ingrained in his memory. When he saw the icy look in her eyes, he wished he had thought to include her somehow in the party that had “disappeared” with Alias in the sewer. The furry-footed creature could have no proof of anything, but that might not keep her from spreading rumors. He reassured himself with the knowledge, delivered by Kimbel, that the halfling seemed to be handling her grief over the swordswoman’s death by crawling into an ale keg.

The other halfling was a reed-thin, stiff-backed girl dressed in a black gown so austere that she reminded Victor of the deceased Lady Nettel. As if that weren’t enough to make him uncomfortable, the halfling’s bright green eyes seemed to pierce Victor to his soul, looking for any smudge of evil with the relentless nature of a paladin’s gaze. The nobleman found himself unconsciously reaching to feel for his amulet of misdirection to be sure he was warded from her penetrating glare.

If these two were Thistle’s advisors, Victor knew he might have an uphill battle for the lady’s affection. Lady Thistle, however, proved to be as charming as her bodyguards were sullen. She was dressed in mourning, but her golden hair shone in the afternoon light, and her face was flushed with excitement. She wore the green feather brooch that had once been her grandmother’s.

Victor expected Thistle to try to show him how mature she was, and she did not disappoint him. Once she’d led the croamarkh out onto the veranda overlooking the city, she asked if he would prefer tea or wine. After the other three visits he’d made today, Victor really felt like wine, and he was really curious to see what effect it might have on Thistle, but the looks on the faces of the halfling bodyguards cooled his desires. He asked for tea. Thistle rang for a servant and ordered a tea tray, then motioned for Victor to take a chair opposite her. The servant who returned with the tea tray politely disappeared back into the castle, but Thistle’s two bodyguards remained standing behind her, like attack dogs restrained only by their mistress’s will.

The talk was irritatingly small, as it always was when dealing with other nobles. It started with stilted condolences on each other’s losses and then shifted to the weather. They discussed in a guarded way their latest shipments in from Thay or caravans from Amn. They speculated on whether or not the Night Mask threat had abated or even disappeared entirely. Thistle expressed the opinion that if it were so, they owed it all to Alias. Victor agreed completely, giving him a chance to appear more aggrieved as he added that he wished the price had not been so high. In the end, to the apparent alarm of both halflings, Victor got what he’d really come for, a dinner date with Thistle for the next evening.

Victor rose to leave just as a message arrived for Thistle, so Olive was assigned the task of escorting the croamarkh from the castle. Victor paused at the door and turned to the halfling. “I know you’re hurt by what happened to Alias,” he began.

Olive scowled. “How nice of you to remember her.”

Victor took a deep breath and pressed on, “She knew the risks, and all of Westgate is in her debt. I want to propose a statue in her honor. Would you like that?”

Olive was silent for a moment, then asked, “Lord Victor, have you mistaken me for a child?”

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I missed something.”

Olive sniffed. “Yes, you did,” she agreed coolly, “and now I miss something as well. If you’ll excuse me.”

Victor bowed and stepped outside. Olive shut the door firmly behind him. He’s sorry, he says, the halfling thought cynically. “If I find out he had anything to do with Alias’s death, he’ll be sorry, all right,” she muttered as she stalked down the hall.

Even if he weren’t involved in Alias’s death, Victor Dhostar was a vain jackass. Statue, indeed! He may have deceived Alias, but he was not going to ensnare Thistle, Olive resolved. Not if she had anything to say about it.

Unfortunately, Thistle made Alias’s impulsive nature seem positively reasonable. When Olive returned to the veranda, the young noblewoman was in a heated discussion with Miss Winterhart.

“I felt a little sorry for him,” said Thistle. “He’s like one of those tragic figures in a sad, romantic opera. He strives to break up the Night Masks, yet on the eve of his triumph, he loses both his father and his love.”

“Triumph!” Winterhart laughed in an imperious tone that in any other household might have gotten her bounced down the front steps. “What triumph?”

“Why, over the Night Masks,” Thistle responded, flustered by Winterhart’s attitude. “Everyone agrees that since everything has quieted down so, the Faceless must be dead and the Night Masks in chaos.”

“Really?” Winterhart exclaimed. “Did you think thieves observed a period of mourning?” She looked at Olive. “Is she old enough to hear about the Grayclaws?”

“She runs House Thalavar. I guess she must be. The Grayclaws,” Olive began before Thistle could lose her patience, “is the name of the thieves guild in Tantras. Tantras is a dead magic zone, so murder is just a little more common there than in other cities. Should the Grayclaws’ guildmaster meet an untimely demise, as happens every few years in that city, everyone knows about it—immediately. There’s blood in the streets for weeks while various factions vie for control of the guild. The Tantrans call it a spell of red weather. I suppose there’s a very slight possibility that it’s different here in Westgate. It could be that the Faceless ran everything so tightly that his minions are afraid to make a move without him. It’s much more probable, however—”

“—that the Faceless is still around,” Winterhart concluded, “and his grip on the Night Masks is as tight as ever.”

Thistle considered their assessment silently for several moments. “It would be awful if that were true,” she said at last. “That would mean that Victor lost both love and father for nothing. That poor man.”

Winterhart gave Olive a frustrated, angry look. The elder halfling shrugged, resigned to the battle to come. It was going to be a fight to keep Thistle away from Victor, but at least she seemed to have a reliably informed ally in the very proper Miss Winterhart.

Victor noted that the door closed a trifle fast behind him—not enough to merit an insult, but enough to make the halfling’s point. In a few weeks, he thought, it might be reasonable for the Night Masks to make a reprisal attack on the halfling who was the friend of the woman responsible for killing their leader.

Victor climbed into his carriage and set off for the Tower. He didn’t know how much longer he could tolerate the interminable paperwork and meetings. He spotted Jamal’s street troupe giving a performance, and, overcome by an urge to procrastinate, ordered the driver to stop.

The Faceless lived, at least on stage, though Jamal had replaced her stolen prop mask of coins with a veil of golden fabric. She was ordering her Night Masks about with a large wooden spoon, ordering them to “be still.” The Night Masks would freeze in impossibly ridiculous positions under the Faceless’s merciless eye. Jamal’s Faceless would smack an offender for twitching or swaying, and he would go catapulting forward. One Night Mask tried to surreptitiously pick a fellow thief’s pocket, but was spotted and received a smack for his action.

The audience, and it was a small one, appeared unimpressed as the Faceless put the collected Night Masks through a precision drill. They dropped to the floor as one and jumped around like frogs while Jamal sounded the beat with the pounding stick. Victor noted that the various puppets representing the noble families were not in use, and that there was nothing mentioning the new croamarkh, either good or ill. He wasn’t sure whether to be pleased by that or not. Jamal might have complained about her eviction from Mintassan’s, but she might also have at least given the new croamarkh credit for the relative peace in the city, even if she didn’t seem to believe the Faceless was deceased.

Then up popped a figure wrapped completely in black bandages, save for its right arm, which was bare. The arm was marked with Alias’s tattoo and wielded a wooden sword. Jamal’s Faceless quailed in the presence of Alias’s disembodied spirit and sent the Night Masks out to stop it. The thieves were quickly bested, one after another. Then the spirit chased the Faceless himself around the small stage until he tripped. As the villain lay on the ground, the arm pressed the sword into his breast. The shrouded figure cried out, “Heroes never truly die!” and lunged forward. The Faceless shuddered and expired.

Scattered, bored clapping broke out in the crowd, but that did not prevent Jamal and her troupe from bouncing nimbly to their feet and bowing to the applause.

Victor grinned with delight. Most of the populace was sick of the Night Masks, bored with dead heroes, tired of Jamal’s proselytizing theater. If something happened to Jamal, there would be fewer questions.

Of course, destroying potential threats took a low priority with all the other work to be done. With a sigh, Victor, signaled his driver to continue on to the Tower.

There, annoyed at being kept waiting by the croamarkh, a Thayan representative awaited, a female Red Wizard who really only wanted to be reassured that trade would continue as it had under Luer’s administration. The Thayan was followed by a Sembian, various Dalesmen, and representatives of King Azoun’s court. Each, in turn, was similarly reassured. One of the surviving old nobles, Maergyrm Thorsar, had scheduled an appointment to lecture the croamarkh on Waterdhavian moneylenders. Victor was afraid he’d fall asleep before he was able to show the old bore the door. After Thorsar came the widow of Ssentar Urdo, who was protesting a rumor she had heard that Alias would get a statue when none was being erected for the widow’s dear, departed husband and sons. Then, when Victor thought his schedule was finally cleared, Durgar arrived with the arrest reports, which required the croamarkh’s attention due to the delicate nature of some of the arrested persons.

As it was, Victor was drained, both mentally and physically, when he finally escaped back to his castle. Yet not even then could he rest. He stood wearily as Kimbel bedecked him in his heavy, dark robes, tied on the porcelain mask that protected him from magical discovery, and finally covered him with the coin mask, which transformed him into the Faceless.

With a sigh, Victor stepped up to and then through the mirror in his chambers. The reflective surface parted for him like a pool of still water and deposited him in his latest secret lair. This one lay in a rough-hewn sub-basement beneath the currently empty Vhammos Castle.

The Night Masters were as restless as halflings waiting for dinner. The irregularities of the days since the ball had strained their self-discipline to the limits. They spoke out of turn, often all at once, questioned his every command, and made demands of their own. They made the nobles in the surface world seem like reasonable, rational beings. For a moment, Victor considered turning his remaining golems loose among them, but only for a moment, for he still needed the Night Masters to keep the peace among the Night Masks. Later, he thought, when they’ve outlived their usefulness.

“When can we get back to business?” Harborside asked.

“Do you realize how much money I’m losing?” Thunnside whined.

“People are saying that witch Alias killed you. Why aren’t you doing something about it?” Noble Relations clamored.

“How do we know you really are the Faceless? Can you give us proof?” Enforcement demanded.

Victor let his frustrations drain away as he embraced his Faceless persona. Once again he was demanding, powerful, and sure of himself. He turned his face toward Enforcement.

“Would you like the same demonstration I gave to Gateside?” the Faceless queried, a certain amount of amusement creeping into his magically disguised voice.

All voices were silenced immediately. The Faceless motioned for all to be seated.

“Alias is dead. Of that you had proof. Perhaps you would like me to leave her arm on this table as a centerpiece for a few weeks. Alias’s allies and the croamarkh who hired her are also dead. It is hardly my fault that people are fools enough to believe she succeeded in destroying me. Nonetheless, for the moment it suits my plans for people to believe in my demise. The new croamarkh is far more pliable than his father was, and he will serve us well, but it is important that his power be more firmly established. Therefore we will let him take credit for my destruction, for the time being.

“As for how much money you are losing, Thunnside, I really don’t care. You’ve earned more wealth in this position than a dragon could hoard in its lifetime. If you could contain your urge to gamble, you would still have all that wealth. And, last, but not least, Harborside. Your business at the moment is to contain your forces. This is essential to your continuing in your current position. I guarantee it will be worth your while.”

Having poured oil on their turbulent waters, the Faceless pressed on. “As a direct result of our success against Alias and her allies, information has come into my hands regarding the treasure hoard of King Verovan.”

There was a collective gasp, just barely audible, but unmistakable. The Faceless smiled. Now he had them by their pocketbooks. Verovan’s legendary hoard was the secret fantasy of every thief in Westgate.

“The young fool Mintassan discovered the secret,” the Night Masters’ lord explained, “though the sage never investigated it. Just as legend has it, there is a magical gate from the battlements above. Unlike all who have tried before me to locate this gate, I have discovered the location of the key. Once I have that key, Verovan’s hoard will be ours to pillage.”

A murmur of approval rose from the nine surviving Night Masters, but the Faceless was not finished. He silenced them with a stroke of his hand. When they grew silent, their master continued. “I want you to call together your lieutenants, their assistants, and their assistants’ minions, along with whatever fighters, priests, and wizards you trust and choose to reward. We will gather in the main hall of Castle Vhammos in three nights’ time to loot Verovan’s hoard. Then there will be no doubt that it is the Night Masks who truly rule Westgate!”

Harborside led a round of applause, which silenced any other questions or doubts. The Night Masters filed out, congratulating themselves on their good fortune.

Seated on his stone throne, Victor, the Faceless, cradled a heavy head in his hand. It was exhausting managing a city, a family business, a criminal cartel, and a seduction all at once. When he finally had Verovan’s treasure, he would turn loose his golems on this nest of thieves. Then there would be nothing standing between him and his eventual empire.