Masquerades

Four The Faceless

Within the city walls of Westgate, but some distance from the neighborhood where Mintassan the Sage lived, a far larger gathering of people would soon be discussing the topics of Jamal, the fire, and the two newcomers.

The room where they met was hidden deep beneath Westgate’s well-traveled streets. Long ago it had been protected from magical inquiries and priestly divinations, and over the years its entrances had been regularly relocated, the construction crews that performed these feats quietly slain to ensure secrecy. No long-lost crypt in the Fields of the Dead, nor dark-hearted shrine beneath the wreckage of Zhentil Keep had been as diligently protected. In time, the very secret nature of the place became its own protection. A place no one has seen, which cannot be detected supernaturally, must be a myth, so enforcers of the law, fortune hunters, and revenge seekers had long since ceased to search for the lair of the Night Masters, alleged leaders of the Night Masks, and the Night Masters’ lord—the Faceless.

Yet myths and allegations are often true, and the Night Masters and the Faceless met in their secret lair to plan the activities of the Night Masks and to evaluate their successes and failures.

These secret masters of their city were average-looking men and women. Most tended to the sprawling girth that marked success in those fields where the younger and less experienced can be convinced to do the physical labor. The Night Masters did not choose nervous fidgets or careless drunkards to join their number. On the surface above, they were shopkeepers, craftsmen, and lesser merchants, the sort of respectable citizens to whom no one gives a second thought. They cultivated this anonymity carefully, avoiding any flamboyance or ostentation.

In their secret lair, they hid their surface identities. Before they entered the inner chambers, each Night Master donned a mask that covered his or her face from forehead to upper lip. The masks were made of white porcelain, with a black domino mask painted about the eye slits, and each was distinguished from all the others with a different golden glyph painted on the forehead. The glyphs designated the speaker’s portfolio within the organization.

Since the masks did not cover the lips or jaws or hair or any part of the torso, the experienced eye could compare a beard or a mole or a head of hair or a physical shape or a certain article of clothing with that of some person in the outer world and have a fair idea of the identities of their fellow masters. Of course, the certainty of such knowledge was not absolute; a fake beard, a wig, make-up, magical enchantments, and other disguises could easily mislead. It hardly mattered, though, whether they knew each other or not. They were the ultimate brethren among their brotherhood of thieves and would never willingly reveal another’s identity. For one thing, to betray a member to an outsider would be an admission of the betrayer’s complicity. There were also other more horrible costs to betrayal, of which the Faceless made sure they remained aware.

Their numbers varied according to the needs and whims of their lord, and at this time in Westgate’s history there were ten Night Masters. The glyphs on their masks identified three of them as general managers—Enforcement, Finance, and Noble Relations—and the remaining seven as regional managers—External Revenue, Harborside, Thunnside, Gateside, Parkside, Central, and Outside.

All were now gathered around a great table hewn from a single block of obsidian, veined with gold. In the center of the table a small brazier crackled, giving off not only light, but also a welcome warmth, for the meeting place, now, even in the height of summer, was cool and damp. At the head of the table, on a dais as high as the table, was a throne of the same ebon material as the table. There sat the Faceless.

The Faceless dressed like a judge, in billowing black robes with a thin strip of white silk draped over his shoulders. On his feet he wore black clodders, high-topped boots worn commonly by Westgate’s fishermen, and on his hands, white silk gloves, like a gentleman. He sported a wide-rimmed hat of dark black velvet. While all this was enough to give him a forbidding appearance, it was the Faceless’s mask that unnerved his followers the most.

When the mask lay on a table it looked like a helmet of mesh chain covered in platinum coins struck with the glyph of Leira, the deceased goddess of illusion. No one but the Faceless ever saw the mask’s appearance, though, since once the Faceless donned it, the mask seemed to disappear, disguising the wearer at the same time. The disguise was of an astonishing and odd variety caused by a magical illusion.

Everything between the Faceless’s hat and his robe blurred like a chalk painting at the very beginning of a rain shower. Anyone who glanced in the Faceless’s direction would conclude there was a face to be seen, but one saw nothing but a shifting pattern of colors, like a swarm of bees. The harder one concentrated on trying to discern a face, the harder it became to see anything at all. Stubborn observers found that their eyes began to water and their heads began to pound with the effort.

Most of the Night Masters believed the mask also altered the Faceless’s voice, for the sound of his speech was grating and metallic, though still able to convey emotions as subtle as annoyance or displeasure.

None of the assembled Night Masters knew the Faceless’s identity. They could tell he was tall and male (unless other magic disguised his physical appearance further), and they suspected he was human. Anything else concerning their lord’s identity was pure speculation. The rewards for serving as a Night Master were great, and the members chose not to risk their positions by angering the Faceless with curiosity. If they suspected who their master was, they did not share it with each other. None of them knew the extent or nature of the Faceless’s networks of informants. They did know that those who lied in this chamber rarely made it out again.

One of the more portly Night Masters, the glyph on his mask identifying him as the manager of the Gateside district, stood before his fellows and his lord, prompting himself from a list on a sheet of yellow paper. “The insurance money paid by the Gateside festhalls has increased to ninety percent, up from seventy-two percent, no doubt owing to the recent fires that have plagued nonpaying elements in the Outside district.”

The Gateside manager’s tone was flat and emotionless, like the singsong of a sergeant-at-arms reading the charges of the hundredth petty pickpocket of the day. “The Ssemm supplies discussed two nights ago have been acquired and moved through a third party to Elturel, where the Vhammos family will purchase it in the name of the Free Traders. The indoctrination of young Haztor Urdo continues. He believes it’s all an exciting game, and doesn’t suspect we know his identity. We continue to experience difficulties from halfling agents throughout Gateside (similar to those experienced and reported by Harborside), most of which can be traced back to Lady Nettel’s employment of inordinate numbers of these vermin.” Gateside halted, double-checked his list, then offered the paper to the brazier, which greedily consumed it.

Throughout the report, the Faceless sat in repose, white-gloved hands resting comfortably on the sides of his throne. After the portly Night Master finished, there was a short silence, as there always was. Then the Faceless’s metallic voice rasped across the table. “Are all these reports accurate?”

Ten masks bobbed around the table, and ten voices replied in varying tones, “Yes, milord.”

The Faceless drummed his fingers on the slick obsidian of his throne’s armrest. “What of the matter of Jamal the Thespian?” he growled.

“Still …” Gateside hesitated, as if his words had caught on something, “under review,” he finished. It was apparent that he’d been hoping this matter would not come up. “Her home was set afire,” he reported, “and the clothing merchant who not only rented her a room but refused our protection was killed as a warning. We have yet to discover if she survived the blaze.”

“She survived,” the Faceless intoned.

Gateside held hands out, protesting, “We are as yet unaware—”

“I said, ‘She survived,’ ” the Faceless repeated, raising his voice just a fraction, silencing Gateside. “She was rescued by a red-haired swordswoman, who was aided by a lizardlike creature with a staff. Jamal fled the burning building for the quarters of an ally, the sage Mintassan, whom we are unwilling to directly confront. The red-haired woman and the lizardman joined Jamal at Mintassan’s.”

Gateside tried to interrupt, saying, “We had no knowledge of—”

“If you had followed procedure,” the Faceless reprimanded, “and confirmed both the burning and casualties by posting eyes, you would have known. Instead you waited for the watch’s report to be smuggled to you, as you have done in the past. Had you posted eyes, your man might have been able to finish off the woman as she fled. I requested her tongue be silenced. As it stands, the wretched banshee is still loose, unharmed, as is her tongue and her annoying troupe of ragtag performers.”

Gateside, his eyes now fixed on the tabletop, replied, “I apologize for my carelessness.”

“On a related matter,” the Faceless continued, turning to face the Night Master in charge of Enforcement, “What news is there of our naked assassins?” Gateside exhaled slowly in relief while Enforcement pursed his lips until they nearly disappeared.

The other nine Night Masters looked puzzled. The Faceless nodded in Enforcement’s direction to indicate he should explain.

“External Revenue’s people requested the elimination of two out-of-towners,” Enforcement reported. “External Revenue’s people failed to inform my people that these out-of-towners were heavily armed. Consequently the team who took the assignment was overpowered. The targets stripped my agents naked and forced them to run through a street fair.”

There was an uneasy shifting of the other Night Masters. None were amused by the embarrassment suffered by the agents; the cost to the brethren’s reputation was too high.

“And these targets,” the Faceless prompted, “which gave External Revenue’s people trouble and then gave you such trouble … describe them.”

“Well,” Enforcement replied, “one was a red-haired woman, the other was a—” Enforcement paused as he realized his description was about to match the one given of the pair who’d interfered with Gateside’s hit on Jamal, “—um, it was a lizardman, carrying a staff.”

“I see,” said the Faceless calmly. “And you did not think this was an important enough matter to bring to our attention?”

“I hesitated to broach the matter, since External Revenue did not include the pair in her report,” Enforcement explained.

The Night Master who managed External Revenue spun in her seat and gave Enforcement a hard glare. Despite her mask, it was clear that she gave her companion a warning.

“External Revenue,” the Faceless said, “Enforcement chose not to mention this pair in deference to your silence. Why didn’t you bring them to our attention?”

External Revenue rose to her feet, “It is not uncommon for out-of-towners, especially of the adventuring sort, to resist the import agents. Once an elimination is called for, the victims’ revenue becomes the purview of Enforcement. I left it for him to report the pair. I was unaware that the Enforcement people had mishandled the contract.” Here she shot a stern glance at her comrade. “That Enforcement’s people did not succeed seems to indicate they were more cocky than competent.”

The Faceless motioned for External Revenue to be seated. He sat back and addressed the whole assembly. “Well, there are a number of swordswomen in Westgate, some with red hair, but not, I think, more than one who travels in the company of a lizardman. Here we have a pair of adventurers making trouble for three separate departments, yet not one department reported on the pair, even though they cost us revenue, shamed us, and interfered with our plans. Just coincidence, you may think. Well, such coincidences interfere with the smooth working of our operation. We live by fear and intimidation, by making individuals perform our bidding out of consideration of the consequences. When an operation fails, when it publicly fails, then we lose our effectiveness, and we pay the price in revenue. Enforcement, I trust you have plans to avenge this humiliation. Where are the swordswoman and lizardman now?

“We, uh, don’t know,” Enforcement said, visibly nervous. “She seems to elude all our eyes.”

“Even the magical ones?” the Faceless pressed.

“Even the magical ones.” Enforcement took a deep breath. “Especially the magical ones. We think she may have fled the city.”

“That’s highly unlikely,” the Faceless countered. “Since they’ve outmaneuvered us three out of three times, they can hardly feel threatened by us. I fear we must make an example of them.”

“But if my men cannot find them,” Enforcement argued, “how can we—”

“I said we out of courtesy,” the Faceless interrupted. “This is a matter for my own personal agents, not lesser merchants who play at the games of their betters.” There was silence around the table, and a few faces reddened with embarrassment. “I’ll determine what is to be done about the out-of-towners by our next meeting. As for the quality or lack thereof of certain reports this evening—”

Gateside, External Revenue, and Enforcement all held their breaths.

“Should there be any more glaring omissions in future reports, there will have to be changes in the ranks,” the Faceless threatened. “As for the failure to subdue two unknown outsiders, that could happen to anyone. You, though, Gateside, were assigned to take care of Jamal the Thespian, a simple, little actress with no extraordinary strengths. You announce she is marked, then fail to confirm her demise, and finally simply presume she’s expired according to your wishes. Now that she is forewarned, I will have to assign my own agents to handle her. Because of your carelessness and the subsequent inconvenience to me, you will sacrifice half your share of income this month.”

Gateside opened his mouth to protest, but caught himself. After a long, brittle moment, he nodded his head in compliance.

“The meeting is adjourned,” the Faceless snapped.

The Night Masters rose and filed toward the exit. External Revenue and Enforcement smiled menacingly at one another. Gateside glowered, but the others were careful to avoid making eye contact with him.

The Faceless remained seated as his agents departed. Each Night Master took a smoky torch from a sconce in the wall and traveled down the tunnel leading away from the meeting chamber. No one spoke, even in the tunnel, for fear that the Faceless would overhear.

The Faceless rose and paced across the dais. When the sound of footfalls ceased from down the tunnel, the Night Mask lord pushed a panel in the rear of his throne. Behind the throne a section of stone slid back silently, revealing a secret passageway carved through the bedrock.

The Faceless picked up a torch and strode down the passage as the secret door slid closed behind him. He stopped after fifty paces, just before the passage opened into a great underground sewer. Dark water swirled below, and something just beneath the surface made a wake, which splashed up the sides of the sewer. The Faceless drew out a small ivory ball intricately carved with the twisting form of a sea serpent. A gleaming ruby represented the creature’s eye. The Faceless pressed on the ruby and stepped out onto the narrow span that crossed the upper regions of the sewer.

On the opposite side of the span, a second, shorter passageway led to a cavern more vast than the meeting room of the Night Masters. Here were stored the Night Masks’ treasury and arsenal. The Faceless strode by the piles of riches and weaponry without a glance.

At the far end of the cavern, the Faceless halted before a large pool of water. A fountain identical to those in the squares in the city above splashed on the surface. Stones enchanted with magical light spells had been tossed into the bottom of the pool so the water shone with an eerie green radiance and the light played on the wall with every ripple of the water.

The Faceless bent over the pool and peered within its depths. Something large and shadowed floated suspended between the bottom and the surface. “Mistinarperadnacles Hai Draco,” the Faceless whispered.

The large, shadowy thing rose, breaking the water like an island rising from some primordial sea. Water slid down its gleaming white surfaces, dripped from the tips of its horns, poured from two empty eye sockets, then two nasal chambers and finally streamed from between the huge fangs of the great, gaping jawbone. The disembodied skull of the dragon Mistinarperadnacles Hai Draco hovered over the surface of the water. A sickly yellow light spun about in its eye sockets, a light that sprang from the necromantic powers animating the dead monster’s remains.

A voice seemed to whisper in the air above the fountain, “What is your will, milord?” The dead dragon’s words did not emanate from her remains, but seemed to drift about the room.

“When I first summoned you from your eternal sleep and bound you to my service,” the Faceless said, “you told me something of a pair you held responsible for your demise, a lizardman and a red-headed swordswoman.”

“It was a saurial, not a lizardman,” the dead dragon’s voice whispered.

“Do not play games with me, Mistinarperadnacles. Tell me what you know of this swordswoman and her companion.”

There was a slight pause, and the glow in the dead creature’s eye sockets strengthened.

“The woman called herself Alias of the Inner Sea, Alias of Westgate, and Alias the Sell-Sword. She travels in the company of a noble saurial warrior she quaintly calls Dragonbait. His name among his own people could roughly be translated as Champion of Justice. He and Alias share some magical bond.”

“Just how good are they?” the Faceless asked.

“They were each able to defeat me in combat, albeit not without some minor help. That’s why I died in their service. Champion’s skills are unsurpassed among his own people. This Alias, though, is the luckiest sell-sword I’ve ever witnessed in battle. Lady Luck, the goddess Tymora, must keep an eye on her.”

“How can they be scried?” the Faceless asked.

“As far as I know, they cannot. Apparently there’s some enchantment cast on Alias that hides her from friends and enemies alike. Even King Azoun’s wizard Vangerdahast couldn’t locate her.”

“Do they have any Harper connections?”

“It’s possible. Neither Alias nor the saurial wore the Harpers’ little pin, but the saurial said Elminster the Sage had given Alias a magical stone, and a bard told me Alias had taught her certain songs, which I recognized as belonging to Finder Wyvernspur.”

“Who?”

“Finder Wyvernspur. He was a Harper, one of the founders of the Harper revival in the north three centuries back. Fell into disgrace, I believe.”

“So would you say this woman and her companion would be formidable foes?”

“Foes. You don’t want them as foes, milord. They are not going to be frightened or defeated by mere thieves. They fight dragons and ancient gods and live.”

The Faceless drummed his fingers on the ledge around the pool of water. “If they are as dangerous as you say, then perhaps they would make useful allies,” he suggested.

The air all about the cavern rang with laughter.

The Faceless scowled. “I fail to see the humor,” he barked.

“I forgot, your language does not carry the subtleties of my own. I’ll explain slowly enough for your mammalian brain to comprehend. As I said, the saurial warrior’s true name translates roughly as ‘Champion of Justice.’ In other words, he serves the god Tyr. I called him a noble warrior because he has dedicated himself to Tyr’s noble cause.”

“Like a paladin?” the Faceless asked in surprise.

“Not like one, is one. Or would be if he were human. Saurials with such dedications have gifts similar to human paladins,” Mist explained.

“Including the Sight?” the Faceless queried.

“The near equivalent,” said the dragon, “More akin to my own race’s ability to detect the unseen. He discerns the roiling mass of an individual’s thoughts, feelings, and desires that make up the soul and the spirit, and is able to divine with a certain accuracy the individual’s intentions. It is called shen sight. I don’t imagine he would have remained with Alias all these years unless the shen sight of her was pleasing to him. He called her his soul’s sister.

“So you see, I do not think they will become allied with you. Here I give you advice unbidden, milord,” the dragon’s dead spirit offered. “Do not pursue them, as I did, down the path to your own destruction. They are like gale winds or floodwaters. You must stay out of their path and wait them out.”

“That may not be possible. They rescued Jamal the Thespian tonight, indicating they must be involved with her somehow. Knowing Jamal, she will use them to encourage the people to interfere with my plans. I must use them to further my plans, and I know just how to bring them to serve me.”

“The Night Masks who serve you are all motivated by their greed, their cruelty, their sloth, and their arrogance. These two have none of these traits,” the dragon’s skull argued. “What can you possibly offer them?”

“The chance to serve the cause of justice.”

The dragon skull remained silent. Mist had long ago learned not to argue with the Faceless’s mad-sounding schemes.

The Faceless slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. “A powerful force this Alias may be, but I know now how to bring her to rein. And when the time comes, I will destroy her.”