Masquerades

Five House Dhostar

Mintassan offered Alias and Dragonbait quarters in his own home, but Alias, uncomfortable with accepting the flirtatious mage’s hospitality, declined and remained firm against the sage’s insistence. Finally they reached a compromise. Mintassan surrendered their company when Alias agreed to stay at an inn two blocks away, which the sage recommended.

Blais House did not advertise as an inn, but when they walked in the front door, as Mintassan had told them to do, they were greeted politely, albeit with some surprise at their appearance, by the night manager. The inn was as elegant as any Alias had ever seen. In the foyer, the inlaid tile floor gleamed in the light of a great crystal chandelier. Alias suspected that Blais House did not ordinarily cater to adventurers, but at the mention of Mintassan’s name the night manager became instantly cordial.

The price of a room was surprisingly reasonable, causing the swordswoman to wonder what it might have cost had they not used Mintassan’s name. Alias slid four gold coins across the front desk.

The night manager, a slight man dressed in a red-and-white silk tabard and black hose, bid them to follow him as he picked up a gold-plated candelabra. He led them up a white marble staircase and down a corridor made soundproof by its plush red carpeting. At the end of the corridor he produced a key, unlocked the door on the right, and led them in. Setting the candelabra down on a table, he assured them that should they want anything at all, they had only to pull the bell cord gently. The bath, he informed them as he stepped out of the room, was at the end of the hall. Then he pulled the door shut and left them alone.

The room was spacious; the expanse of white plaster walls broken only by idealized watercolors of the city. The ceiling timbers were whitewashed and decorated with painted garlands of flowers. The fireplace was lined with local ceramic tile. The beds had thick, comfortable mattresses with heavy down filling and soft sheets tightly woven of Mulhorand cotton. The great windows were made of green-stained splinter-glass set in the patterns of trees and opened out over the entrance of the inn. The armoire was Sembian, the pair of comfortable reading chairs Waterdhavian, and beneath the beds were Cormyrian-forged copper chamber pots with porcelain lining. A small bookshelf held several well-thumbed popular reads, including Aurora’s Catalogue and a complete set of Volo’s Guides.

All the luxury was lost on Alias, who sat down on the edge of her bed, shucked off her boots by stepping on the heels, let her sword belt slide to the floor, fell back on the bed, and was softly snoring, still wearing her chain mail, in under three minutes.

Dragonbait locked the door and windows, ascertained that there were no secret passages in the walls or assassins in the armoire, and tucked the case with the crystal ball under the bed. He flipped a corner of the coverlet over Alias’s shoulder and blew out the candelabra. Lying in the dark on his bed, he prayed that if they could not be delivered soon from this city, at least they be delivered safely.

The saurial always slept lightly, so it was he who awakened at the sound of someone knocking. It was a soft, hesitant rapping, not on the door, but on the door frame—as if the knocker did not really want to be responsible for waking up a skilled swordswoman and her sharp-clawed companion.

Alias muttered a curse and turned over, pulling a pillow over her head in an attempt to rescue a few more minutes of sleep. The sun was shining outside, but Dragonbait was still cautious. When he rose, he picked up his sword before shuffling to the door. He then concentrated his shen sight on what lay beyond the door. Feeling rather foolish, he set his sword aside, slid back the bolt, and opened the door halfway.

“Murk?” he said. Alias had tried to get him to pronounce some basic Realms words, but “what,” had been impossible, and the saurial’s “yes,” came out a sibilant hiss that sounded like a dissolving vampire caught in an open field at dawn. In the end, he answered everything with meaningless sounds like “murk,” relying on inflection to convey his meaning.

A half-elf girl not yet twelve winters old stood outside the door. She wore a miniature version of the uniform the night manager had sported, a red-and-white tabard with black hose. The paladin wondered if she’d been orphaned or abandoned, as he knew children who worked as servants often were. Her shen-signature was the purest he had seen in Westgate, and he hoped it stayed that way.

The girl’s eyes were at the same level as the saurial’s, but while his were encrusted with sleep, hers were wide-eyed with astonishment. Dragonbait repeated, “Murk?” and cocked his head in a manner that humans often found amusing.

The girl remained speechless, but had the wits to hold out a small serving tray bearing two letters. Her hands shook as the saurial reached for the letters. Dragonbait was tempted to smile and pat her on the head to calm her, but realized that might have the opposite effect.

Dragonbait picked up the letters and turned away to fetch a gratuity, but when he turned back with a few coins, the child was gone, the hallway empty. Dragonbait shrugged and shut the door.

Alias had risen after all and was peeling off her chain mail. “I cannot believe you let me sleep in my armor,” she said testily.

Dragonbait shrugged again. “You went out like a candle. I doubt I could have awakened you if I tried.”

Alias snorted, “The best bed I’ve seen along the Inner Sea Coast, and you let me sleep in a steel nighty. Ouch!” She stretched out the kinks in her back. “I wonder what a hot bath runs in a place like this.”

Dragonbait held up the two letters.

“What’s that?” Alias asked.

“I think you can afford a hot bath,” said the saurial, throwing the heavier of the two letters on the bed. It landed with a satisfying thump and jingle. Alias snatched up the letter and ripped it open. A few magical sparks danced from the paper, and belatedly Alias saw that it bore Mintassan’s sigil set into the blue sealing wax.

Four gold coins slid out from the letter’s folds onto the bed. Alias leaned against a bedpost and read the letter aloud.

“ ‘Lovely Alias and stout-hearted Dragonbait,’ ” she began, then looked up at the saurial. “How come I never get to be stout-hearted?”

“How come I never get to be lovely?” Dragonbait parried.

“Hmpph,” she said, and continued reading. “ ‘In the press of our business dealings last night, I neglected to thank you for aiding Jamal. She is an old and dear friend.’ I’ll just bet,” Alias muttered this last. “ ‘I would be heartbroken to see her charred to coal. Thank you. We are greatly indebted to you. I have arranged with the hostler of Blais House to turn all your charges over to my account. Please, accept this hospitality as a token of my gratitude.

“ ‘I hope that your stay in Westgate lasts long enough to afford me the opportunity to speak with both of you at length in order to broaden my knowledge of saurials. Thank you once again for your courageous rescue. Yours sincerely, Mintassan the Sage. P.S. Ask for the pan-fried prawns for dinner—they are a taste treat.’ ”

“Sounds like you have a fan,” the saurial said.

“Me? It’s your brain he wants to pick. Probably trying to prove your people are related to tree frogs or something. He only wants me as a free translator.”

“Alias, he’s a spellcaster. He can use magic to speak with me. If he claimed to need you to translate, he would only be using it as an excuse to hear you speak.”

Alias furrowed her brow, but could think of no solid argument. “Hand me that other letter,” she demanded.

Dragonbait held out the second missive by the edges, as if it were a dead thing he did not want to touch. Alias plucked it from the saurial’s grasp. The paper stock was far heavier than Mintassan’s stationery, and the watermarks gave it the look of a very thin slice of granite. The purple sealing wax was marked with the coat of arms of the Croamarkh of Westgate, the elected leader of the city’s council of noble and wealthy merchants.

Alias sniffed at it. “Smells like money,” she joked.

Dragonbait harrumphed. “Smells like corruption.”

“In this city, it’s usually the same thing.” Alias slid her throwing dagger between the wax seal and the paper and unfolded the single sheet. “It says, ‘From the Office of the Croamarkh, Lord Luer Dhostar, to the adventurers herein identified as Alias and her lizardman companion. Greetings in the name of the Croamarkh of Westgate.’ ”

Alias took a deep breath and read on. “ ‘Your recent activities against the criminal organization known as the Night Masks have come to our attention. We wish to discuss with you the possibility of continued employment in that capacity on our behalf. If you are interested in such, a manservant will escort you to our present location for discussions. Such dealings will undoubtedly be extremely profitable for you, and we strongly recommend you avail yourself of this opportunity. My servant is instructed to await a reply. Yours sincerely, Luer Dhostar, Croamarkh of Westgate.’ ”

Alias let the missive drape delicately from one hand. “What do you think?”

“Last night you wanted to take the first boat back. You said you didn’t want to be a cheap hero,” Dragonbait pointed out.

“Ah, but the croamarkh isn’t offering us the job of cheap hero. He’s giving us the chance to be ‘extremely profitable’ heroes.”

“We don’t need money.”

“But I like to think my services are worth money,” Alias pointed out. “Lots of money. You’re just hurt that he called you a lizardman,” she teased.

Dragonbait sniffed with disdain. “He sounds like the sort of merchant who thinks everything can be solved by throwing money at it. The Night Masks are not a simple problem.”

“Could take us more than a few weeks,” Alias agreed cockily.

Dragonbait laughed and shook his head.

“Look,” Alias cajoled, “Grypht isn’t expecting us back immediately, and I know you miss CopperBloom, but it couldn’t hurt to hear what the man has to say.”

“Maybe not,” the paladin replied dourly.

“I’ll need a bath if I’m going to be presented to the croamarkh,” the swordswoman declared, hopping off the bed.

Dragonbait pulled a guest bathrobe from the armoire and tossed it to her. There was a tiny rap on the door frame. Alias draped the robe over her arm and pulled open the door. A tray of fruit, muffins, and tea sat on the floor.

“Complimentary breakfast,” Alias noted, looking down the hallway. “Where’s the server?”

“She’s shy,” the paladin explained, picking up the tray, “but very sweet.”

“Is she now?” Alias asked. It was rare that the saurial made that sort of compliment. “Well, you’ll have to introduce us when I’ve finished my bath.”

“What about this servant waiting downstairs?” asked Dragonbait.

“Dhostar said he’ll wait for our reply. Let him wait.”

Alias slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her. Dragonbait could hear her launching into a bawdy folk song involving dryads and paladins, as she went in search of the bath.

Dragonbait picked up the croamarkh’s letter and sniffed. He couldn’t use his shen sight on a soulless object, and while he’d joked about the smell of corruption, the only scents he could detect were paper, ink, and wax. Still, the letter made him uneasy.

“Westgate,” Alias explained to Dragonbait, while she stuffed down a breakfast roll and slipped into a clean tunic, “is ruled by a council consisting of representatives of all the major trading families, along with a cluster of minor houses. No one else gets a vote in council, not craftsmen, not shopkeepers, not tavern owners, no one, not even persons like Mintassan. Most of the council’s power is invested in the croamarkh. Luer Dhostar was elected by the council to three terms as croamarkh, before he was forced to yield to Lansdal Ssemm for a term. No one had really been happy with Lansdal, and during his term interfamily feuding and Night Mask violence was worse than ever. Last spring Luer Dhostar convinced the other families that only he could organize the chaos left by Lansdal, and he was returned to his former office.

“Besides his duty to the city of Westgate, Luer Dhostar oversees a mercantile empire consisting of twelve ships, twenty-four stockyards and warehouses, nine caravans, fifty representatives in other cities across the Heartlands, seventy-five businesses and craftsmen under his direct control and twice that controlled in all but name, a castle, a host of servants, ten purebred Zakharan horses, three carriages, and one son.”

“Something tells me you were briefed by Elminster before we left Shadowdale,” the saurial said when Alias had finished her monologue.

“Yeah. You think the old sneak had some premonition I would need to be up on current affairs?” she asked as she pulled on her chain mail and buckled on her sword.

The paladin did not answer as he buckled on his own. He didn’t like to think of all the things Elminster must know.

As Alias and Dragonbait strolled down the hall, they spied the half-elven servant girl leaning over the railing, staring down at the lobby. Alias leaned against the railing beside her. The girl backed away in surprise, but her escape was blocked by the saurial. Alias turned back to look at her and smiled. “Are you the child,” she asked, “who delivered the letters and breakfast?”

The girl gulped. “Mercy,” she said, nodding, then added, “My name is Mercy.”

“Well, Mercy, it’s customary to wait for a tip,” Alias said, pressing, not a copper or silver, but a gold coin into her hand. “Part of this is your tip, but part is also payment for services to be rendered. I want you to keep a lookout on our room. If anyone goes into it who shouldn’t, I want you to tell me afterward. Will you?”

Mercy gulped again and nodded, her eyes wide with fright. Alias could tell that the girl was glancing nervously at Dragonbait.

“You look the way I must have the first time I saw Dragonbait,” Alias said. “I was so frightened, I threw a dagger at him. Fortunately, I missed.”

“What did he do?” Mercy asked.

“Well, he dropped the puppy he’d just rescued, and ran off.”

“Do you like puppies?” the girl asked Dragonbait in astonishment.

The saurial nodded solemnly.

“I knew you two would have a lot in common,” Alias quipped. She looked back down the railing. “So, is that the servant from House Dhostar?” she asked, jerking her thumb in the direction of the foyer, where a man stood with his back to them.

“His name’s Kimbel,” Mercy whispered, obviously anxious that the man not overhear her.

“Kimbel what?” Alias asked.

“Just Kimbel,” Mercy replied. “He doesn’t like puppies.” With that pronouncement the servant girl slipped around Dragonbait and made off down the corridor, disappearing up a back staircase.

Dragonbait hissed, and Alias turned her attention to her companion. The paladin stood stock-still, with only the very tip of his tail twitching. He was glaring at Kimbel as if he might bore a hole through the servant with his eyes. Alias recognized the signs. His shen sight had detected something he did not like.

She studied the servant’s back. Kimbel was a slender, almost spidery man. His hairline receded several inches, and what remained of the graying blond hair was pulled back into a severe bun at the nape of the neck, held in place by two long silver hairpins, which Alias guessed could be used as weapons in a pinch. His shirt, trousers, and vest were simply but expensively tailored, all in black. The vest was decorated with silver studs in a geometric pattern. On another man the outfit might have appeared dashing, but it hung too loosely on Kimbel’s spare frame.

“I take it that not liking puppies is not Kimbel’s only failing,” she said in Saurial, grateful to have words that could not be overheard.

Dragonbait rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. Alias could detect the just-baked bread scent of his anger and a whiff of the violetlike scent that he used to communicate danger.

“What color evil are we talking here?” she asked.

“Purple,” the paladin whispered, though he could not be overheard.

Alias felt a knot in her gut. Purple evil was the most disturbing to her. Purple evil took pleasure in the pain of others. Purple evil liked to be the inflicter of that pain.

Just then, Kimbel turned around and looked up at them. He wore pince-nez, with darkened lenses that hid his eyes, giving him an inhuman look.

Dragonbait, Alias realized, would be very uncomfortable with this man as an escort. She wasn’t thrilled with the idea either. “We should accompany him anyway,” she said, “so you can check out the croamarkh with your shen sight.”

Dragonbait nodded curtly, steeling himself to the task.

Kimbel stood motionlessly, watching the pair descend the stairs and approach him. Alias spotted the trading badge of the Dhostar household pinned to the lapel of his vest, but it wasn’t until they stood directly before him that the servant showed them any recognition. Then he bowed very low at the waist, his back as stiff as iron. Alias sensed no respect in the servant’s action. The display was intended to prop up the facade of Kimbel’s gentility.

When he stood erect again, Alias worked at suppressing a shudder. His clean-shaven but weak chin, and the flat eyes behind the darkened glasses, gave him a snakelike appearance.

“Alias, I presume,” he said, his lip curling upward in an approximation of a smile. “I am Kimbel, servant to House Dhostar. I have been instructed to await your reply.”

“We’ll speak to your master. Where can he be found?” Alias asked.

“He is at the Watch Docks, overseeing the customs arrangements. I have a carriage waiting outside to take you to him.” He spun about and strode from the inn. Alias and Dragonbait followed at a deliberately leisurely pace.

The carriage, pulled by four black horses, was a huge, black monstrosity that, though capable of holding eight comfortably, was unable to negotiate Westgate’s smaller streets. The house trading badge, a wagon wheel topped by three stars, was painted on the doors. According to the briefing Elminster had given Alias, the design granted by the Westgate city council to family Dhostar required the wheel color be tawny, but the ones marking the carriage had been gilded. Apparently Luer Dhostar liked to show off his political power.

Dragonbait found the carriage ridiculous and would have preferred to walk or even run, but he wasn’t about to leave Alias alone with Kimbel. Before he would climb in, though, he studied the driver for a full minute, assuring himself that at least that servant harbored no evil intentions. He sat beside Alias, facing the front of the carriage.

Kimbel folded himself into a corner facing them. Dragonbait, using ordinary vision, stared at him, trying to gather more information, but the servant sat rigid, making no attempt at conversation, betraying nothing of himself. Alias kept her eyes on the view outside the carriage.

The city in daylight bustled with activity. In order to keep the main thoroughfares clear for carriages, the law required expensive and limited permits to load or unload wagons on those streets. To circumvent the fees, brute force had become the means of transport on the wider avenues, which were consequently crammed with milling legions of porters lugging boxes, urns, wicker baskets, crates, and passengers in riding chairs in an ever-milling dance. Added to the crush were shopkeepers trying to hustle customers into their establishments and vendors pushing carts or toting backpacks and hawking the wares they offered.

The carriage passed Mintassan’s, but there was no sign of the sage. At one cross-street Alias caught a glimpse of people gathered around a dancing minotaur. Down another she thought she saw a street theater group performing atop a hay wagon, but the carriage moved too quickly for her to notice if Jamal was among the actors.

They came out to the Market Triangle, and Alias had a momentarily unobstructed view of the bay and the harbor, as the northern sections of the city sloped gently down to the sea.

The harbor was a tapestry of sails attached to ships from all over the Sea of Fallen Stars, cogs from Aglarond and Thesk, red cedar galleys from Thay, caravels from the Living City and the Vilhon Reach, strangely carved crafts from Mulhorand and Chondath, and carracks from nearby Cormyr and Sembia. Westgate was a major port on the Inner Sea. It stood at the entrance to both the Neck, the channel leading to the Lake of Dragons, and the northernmost caravan route to the west. It was also one of the few cities that did not belong to a larger kingdom, so there were no national politics influencing the city’s trade with the outside world. Trade was the city’s reason for being.

The carriage followed the road down the peninsula that sheltered the western half of the harbor from the bay and pulled to a stop at the end of the Watch Dock. The driver hopped down, unfolded the stairs, and opened the door.

Kimbel hopped over the stairs, displaying a liveliness Alias suspected was meant to impress his master, then offered his hand to his charges. Alias accepted the servant’s help without thinking about what she knew of him, but Dragonbait hissed him back and hopped over the stairs unassisted.

A great canopy had been erected before the Watch Dock warehouse, and a pole planted before it displayed the banners of those officials currently engaged in business there: the harbor watch’s, the customs inspector’s and, at the top, the croamarkh’s.

Alias and Dragonbait followed Kimbel into the shade beneath the canopy. Rows of tables were set up beneath to process the paperwork required of anyone coming into or out of the city via the harbor. In one line stood ships’ officers with bills of lading, in another, servants of various merchant houses with petitions to release seized goods, and in a third, private passengers with their baggage. Alias and Dragonbait had come through this last line the evening before. This morning there was a noticeable improvement in the efficiency of customs personnel.

Alias could pick out with ease the inspiration of the efficiency—a large, solidly muscled man with a stonily impassive face, who hovered behind the customs officials seated at the tables. Each time the man moved to stand behind some worker, the worker wriggled nervously and concentrated with fervor on the work before him. The reaction was so pronounced that even were the man not wearing the chain of office about his neck, Alias would have guessed he was Croamarkh Luer Dhostar. His mantle of snow-white hair was swept back and held in place with a gold headband. The long, sleeveless robe he wore over his silk shirt and velvet trousers was made of the most elaborate brocade Alias had ever seen. Every finger sported a ring set with a stone worth a princess’s ransom.

As Kimbel and the adventurers approached him, the croamarkh was leaning over the table beside one worker who perused a document handed to him by a servant wearing the trading badge of the Urdo family. The croamarkh leaned forward and drummed his fingers on the table beside the worker as he read the document over the worker’s shoulder. One might have thought the servant would have appreciated the extra attention his paperwork was getting, but instead he shifted uneasily from one foot to the other and bit his lower lip repeatedly.

Kimbel brought their presence to the croamarkh’s attention with a simple, “Milord,” but the older man motioned him to silence.

Alias noted Kimbel’s jaw tighten, and was pleased to learn the servant did on occasion betray his feelings.

The Croamarkh pulled a document out from beneath the worker’s elbow and chastised him. “If you would keep abreast of the documents sent from the council, you would realize that this shipment was cleared last week.” He pointed out the relevant lines to the worker. Flushed with red, the worker whispered a terrified, “Yes, sir,” and stamped the servant’s release papers.

The servant from the house of Urdo reached for the papers, but Luer Dhostar grabbed his wrist. “You tell your master,” he said to the servant, “that this document releases only the statuary, not the ten pounds of smoke powder we found hidden inside. He will also be charged with the time it took our men to drill out the bottoms of each statue and empty them of the proscribed substance.” With that, he pushed the servant’s hand away.

The servant fled from the scene like a game bird released from a trap.

Only then did Dhostar turn his attention to the newcomers. “Well?” he addressed Kimbel.

Kimbel smiled pleasantly despite his lord’s glare. He stepped forward and gave the croamarkh a half bow. “Milord,” he said, “may I present Alias and Dragonbait?”

Lord Dhostar stepped out from behind the table and inspected the adventurers with the appraising look he might give a shipment of goods. He dispensed with pleasantry and preamble and addressed the pair directly. “It’s been brought to my attention that the pair of you interrupted a number of Night Mask activities last night.”

Alias could tell by his tone that he did not require an affirmation on their part, though he made the statement sound so much like an accusation that she wondered if he was expecting her to make a denial. Alias remained silent beneath the croamarkh’s gaze, but kept her eyes locked on his.

The croamarkh raised his eyebrows in appreciation of the woman’s nerve. He continued. “Common tongues are always quick to wag about heroes. Wiser tongues question. So—whom do you serve?”

It was hardly the question Alias expected, so she was for a moment confused by it. She shot a look at Dragonbait, who she could see was studying the croamarkh with his shen sight. As the paladin did not seem to be exhibiting the same violent reaction he’d had to Kimbel, the swordswoman relaxed and answered the question simply. “No one.” Then she decided she’d better rephrase that. “I sell my sword as I choose,” she said. “At the moment, it’s available.

“So you are not an agent, representative, or servant of another house?” Lord Dhostar queried sharply.

“I’m not working for anyone in Westgate,” the swordswoman responded, her brow knitting in irritation with the cross-examination.

Lord Dhostar frowned, apparently unable to believe that she was truly free of allegiances. He stared hard at her, trying to assess her truthfulness. As he did so, another man wearing the trading badge of the Dhostar family approached. He was dressed less fashionably than Kimbel, in a simple white shirt, dusty brown breeches, and muddy riding boots, but from the way he took a place at the croamarkh’s right hand, Alias presumed he was a servant of higher rank. He was tall and handsome, with wavy brown hair and bright blue eyes, and although he looked only thirty-some years old, he was more self-assured in the croamarkh’s presence than anyone else Alias had seen. He held a packet of letters up, and, as he stood waiting patiently for Dhostar to finish his business with the swordswoman and take the packet, the younger man grinned and winked at Alias.

Finally, the croamarkh harrumphed and said, “We have a watch in this city. It keeps the common people orderly. The Night Masks, however, are a lawless bunch. I want someone to deal exclusively with them. I want them knocked down every time they have the arrogance to rise. I want them to start fearing the consequences of crossing me. I’m prepared to pay you a retainer of one thousand gold coins. After a ten-day trial, I’ll evaluate what I think your continued service would be worth and we can negotiate your pay.”

“I’ll need more information and some time to consider your offer,” Alias replied.

The croamarkh raised his eyebrows again. No doubt it had been a long time since he’d offered someone that much money and been told he must wait for a reply. “Fine,” he replied sharply. “Victor, here,” and he jerked his head in the direction of the new arrival who’d winked at Alias, “will be your liaison. You can ask him your questions and let him know your answer by this evening.”

“So, Your Lordship,” Victor asked the croamarkh, “are you going to authorize the hiring of more staff for customs inspection?”

“Only if the inspector fires the staff he has,” Dhostar growled as he took the parcel of letters from the younger man. “If my people worked as well as his do, I’d be a poor man. Convince this woman she would do well to accept my offer. I’m returning with Kimbel to our own docks.”

“Yes, Your Lordship,” Victor replied.

Without even a nod, the croamarkh strode away with Kimbel in his wake.

Alias shot Dragonbait a questioning look about the croamarkh.

“Gray,” the paladin said.

“Gray? Just gray?” Alias complained in Saurial, hoping for some other insight into Dhostar’s character. Gray was neutral, neither evil nor virtuous.

“Bleak and empty, a cold rain drizzling on an abandoned keep. Strong and very, very proud,” Dragonbait replied.

Victor, unable to hear the high-pitched tones of the adventurers’ conversation in Saurial, stood before them grinning, waiting for Alias to speak. After a moment, he ran his fingers nervously through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead, and spoke up. “Well, I have my orders. Do you mind if we walk while we talk? I have to look over some ships that have come in for inspection.”

“Fine,” Alias said, following the man from beneath the canopy. The three walked along the broad stone quay, in the direction of the lighthouse that stood at the mouth of the harbor.

Victor began brightly, “The Night Masks have been a thorn in Westgate’s side for, oh, fifteen years, at least. Most people consider them part of the price of doing business here, but the croamarkh is a man of law and justice. He wants the citizens of Westgate freed from the tyranny of their lawlessness.”

“Yes,” Alias said, “I can see he’s frantic with worry for them.”

“I beg your pardon?” Victor said.

“Luer Dhostar is a merchant. His first concern is that his books show a healthy balance. Now that that balance is so obscenely huge, there’s no challenge to his work, and, not content with being the bane of the dance floor or the dessert table, he takes on the mission of proving his greatness. He keeps a carriage large enough to house a halfling family. He hangs over customs workers, demonstrating he’s more competent than they in a job he couldn’t stomach for a week. He tries to hire professionals to do away with a thieves guild he tolerated for his first three terms because now they are an embarrassment. Their continued unchallenged activity proves they have more power than he. He has no more concern for the people of Westgate than the Night Masks do.”

Victor was stunned into a momentary silence. When he spoke again, though, his tone was fervent. “You’re wrong. Father cares very much for the people of Westgate, as do I. He just has a hard time showing it.”

“Very diplomatic,” Dragonbait chided Alias in Saurial. “You’ve just insulted your new employer to his son.”

Alias closed her eyes and stated the now obvious, “You’re his son.”

The young man bowed low. “Victor Dhostar, scion of House Dhostar, heir to Croamarkh Luer Dhostar, bane-in-training of the dance floor and the dessert table, at your service.”

Alias felt a paralyzing blush climb to her face.

Dragonbait gave her an order in Saurial.

“How do you do, Your Lordship?” Alias said, repeating, like a puppet, the phrases the paladin fed to her. “I’m Alias, and this is my companion, Dragonbait. Dragonbait begs that you forget this swordswoman’s foolish gaff.”

“What gaff?” Victor asked with a smile. Then he was serious once again. “It is true, some of what you say. We are concerned with our books’ balances, and Father does like to show off, but we merchants aren’t all heartless. Just as I’m sure there are some compassionate sell-swords.”

“Touché,” Alias conceded the young merchant the point.

“It is true that the merchant families have tolerated the Night Masks too long,” Victor said with an apologetic tone. “Some of the families, or to be more accurate, some members of some families, find organized criminals useful. Sort of a shadow government that keeps the more powerful families in check and allows the lesser merchants a leg up with illegal business dealings. All the families use them to handle business they would rather not sully their hands with, or pay to keep them away from their doors.”

“Does that include House Dhostar?” Alias asked.

“Hardly,” Victor laughed. “The first time the Night Masks demanded protection money from House Dhostar—that would have been at least fourteen years ago, when Father was serving his first term as croamarkh—well, Father threatened all-out war in the streets. To hear Father tell it, he was prepared to torch his warehouses rather than pay any tribute. They have stayed away from most of House Dhostar’s concerns.”

“I see,” said Alias. “Is no one else in Westgate as brave and virtuous as your father?”

“Well, I doubt Lady Nettel of House Thalavar has any dealings with them,” Victor replied. “She keeps a lot of halflings on retainer, though, and some people call them the economy Night Masks. I don’t suppose that’s any more fair than assuming all merchants are heartless. It’s my suspicion that House Urdo and House Ssemm are up to their eyeballs in dealings with the Night Masks. Possibly they even serve as members to the Faceless’s inner circle, the Night Masters. The other houses, I suppose, just pay them protection and only hire them on special occasions.”

“You mentioned the Faceless? Who’s he?” Alias asked.

“The Faceless is the Night Masks’ supposed lord. There’s a lot of speculation about him. Some say he’s a powerful spellcaster, others that he’s not even human. A few people insist he does not exist.”

“So, without denying that your father may care about the people of Westgate, tell me: Why has he waited until his fourth term of office to hire me to take care of them? And why hire me of all people?”

“Well, as to the first, I suppose during his first three terms he didn’t take the Night Masks very seriously. Because he faced them down, he presumed they weren’t bothering anyone else. He does tend to be removed from the problems of the common people. When he lost the office of croamarkh to Lansdal Ssemm, the Night Masks’ activities got much more aggressive and Father began to reevaluate their threat. I suppose I can take some credit for his new outlook. Since I turned thirty he’s begun to take me more seriously, too. And I think something must be done about the Night Masks. I really believe the people should have justice.

“As for why you, well, Father’s been looking for the right person since he was reelected this spring, and you appeared. If Westgate were a theocracy, you would be seen as a sign from the gods. To a businessman like my father, you’re the knock of opportunity. From what we heard of your exploits of last night, you have the skills and the momentum. Businessmen do not slam the door in the face of opportunity. And speaking of business, please excuse me for a moment, I need to attend to something.”

Alias nodded and stood beside Dragonbait as Victor walked down a pier to speak with another man wearing a family Dhostar trading badge.

“Well, what insights into the Dhostar heir?” Alias asked.

“He is all he appears,” the paladin replied with satisfaction, delighted to have found another pure soul of sky blue in this city of vice.

“What, another puppy-lover?” Alias asked.

“Why must you joke about it?” Dragonbait asked. “I do not tease you for your virtue.”

Alias flushed again. She was never comfortable when the paladin reminded her that he perceived virtue in her. She harbored a secret fear that he saw what he wanted to see in her, and should the veil ever be lifted from his eyes … Alias didn’t like to think about that. She diverted the conversation back to Luer Dhostar. “Whatever Victor may say, you aren’t convincing me that the croamarkh isn’t motivated by his vanity and love of power.”

“No,” the saurial agreed. “The elder Dhostar is not all his son contends. Victor sees him with the eyes of a loving son, and he defends him as a loyal son would. He reminds me of you, the way you always defended Finder Wyvernspur, despite his many flaws.”

Alias, determined not to be drawn into an argument about the man she’d thought of as a father, returned her attention to Victor Dhostar.

The young man appeared to be trying to negotiate an argument between the servant of his own house and a halfling dressed in the green livery of House Thalavar, who stood on top of a stack of crates. Despite Victor’s efforts, both servants had gone beyond the stage of arguing rationally and had begun screaming at one another at the top of their lungs, each waving a bill of lading in the other’s face.

Behind the halfling servant was a Thalavar ship crewed by halflings, and behind the human servant was a Dhostar vessel crewed by humans. The crews of both ships had also turned their attention to the dispute and had begun to scramble off their ships onto the pier to back up the servant of their respective house.

Alias began moving down the pier, against her better judgment, but knowing she would feel bad if something happened to the young Dhostar. Victor managed to talk his family’s servant into walking away from the halfling, and it seemed as if a brawl had just been averted, until the halfling called out, “That tub shouldn’t just be hauling garbage, it ought to be hauled away as garbage.”

The Dhostar servant whirled around, bellowing with rage, and lunged toward the Thalavar servant. Victor shouted, “Brunner, no!” but it was too late. Drawing back instinctively from the charging human, the Thalavar servant apparently forgot his footing, for he took one step too many off the stack of crates and tumbled from the pier. There was a short, high-pitched shriek and a splash as he hit the water.

Everyone froze, including Victor, for the space of a heartbeat, then, spurred by an anonymous shout of, “Get ’im!” a wall of halflings rushed the Dhostar servant Brunner. Brunner tried to swat them away, but there were far too many, and within moments he’d disappeared beneath a pile of green-liveried halflings.

Victor moved toward the pile, but Alias reached his side and pulled him back. “This could be messy, milord,” she said. “Please, leave it to the professionals.”

Alias waded into the fray and began plucking biting, scratching halflings off the pile, handing them to the Dhostar crew members to be restrained until they calmed down. More halflings surged from their ship and began brawling with the humans who held their comrades. The swordswoman realized she was in a race to get Brunner on his feet and away from the fray before someone, halfling or human, lost his or her temper and drew a weapon.

Then, just as she caught a glimpse of Brunner’s black tabard, Alias heard the whistle and felt the breeze of a blade as it cut the air just inches above her head. Someone had drawn live steel.

Instinct took hold of her. Although she stepped back to avoid skewering anyone at her feet, the swordswoman had her blade drawn in the wink of an eye. She whirled about to meet the challenge she sensed from above. She took a defensive stance, determined that this fiasco should not end in a bloodbath, but equally determined to disarm the fool who’d first brought steel into the fray.

Her attacker’s sword swept down again, still too high to catch her, but just low enough for her to block the weapon with her own. She lunged forward, and the two blades slid along their lengths until they were locked at their hilts.

Alias glared up at the armed halfling who now stood on the stack of crates. This halfling was female. She wore a scarlet-and-amber cloak cut in the latest Cormyrian style, with the hood pulled up and shadowing her face. Alias reached up with her free hand, caught the end of the tassel fastened to the back of the hood, and yanked hard. The hood fell back, spilling long red tresses about a grinning face.

Alias’s jaw dropped open, and she stood momentarily stunned.

“Well, hello, Alias!” the halfling Olive Ruskettle shouted over the din and their locked blades. “I’d been hoping we’d have a chance to cross swords again.”