Masquerades

Seven Street Theater

The adventurers and their new ally climbed back down the lighthouse. In the plaza stood an open, two-wheeled carriage pulled by two yellow mares. An old man, dressed in the black and tawny parti-colored livery of House Dhostar, held the halter of one of the horses. Although the Dhostar trading insignia emblazoned the side of the small black carriage, the insignia was tawny like the horses, not gilded.

“It’s not as showy as my father’s,” Victor pointed out, “so perhaps you wouldn’t mind allowing me to drive you back to your inn?”

“Well, I suppose,” Alias agreed with a feigned reluctance. She allowed the merchant to hand her up to the single seat. Victor got in on the other side, and Dragonbait squeezed in beside Alias.

The old man released the horses as Victor snapped the reins. The carriage started down the street at a brisk pace. Although they were crowded and the ride was somewhat bumpier than the one they’d experienced in the croamarkh’s carriage, the adventurers felt much more relaxed in Victor’s company, and therefore cheerier.

“I have other duties I must return to soon, but perhaps, if you haven’t made other plans,” Victor said, as cautious as a man creeping up on a sleeping beholder, “we could have dinner together.”

“Dinner? What sort of dinner?” Alias asked.

“Nothing formal like a banquet or anything,” Victor explained. “Just soup and sandwiches while we discussed strategy. You, me, and Dragonbait if you wish. We can talk about where to start making your assault on the Night Masks. I’ve been keeping track of some of their crimes, the ones that are reported, anyway. They hardly ever hit near the market surrounding the Tower, for fear, I presume, of the watch, but I’ve noticed of late they’ve been preying more heavily on the Gateside district. Whoa!” Victor pulled the horses up sharply as he turned the curve onto Westgate Market Street.

A crowd of people jammed the street. People on foot could negotiate through, but not the carriage. There were already two closed carriages and a dragon cart loaded with kegs of ale stopped in the traffic as the high-strung carriage horses and huge-but-gentle draft horses balked at pressing further into the mass of people. As Victor began backing the carriage so that he could take it down a side street, Alias and Dragonbait peered ahead to discover the reason for the gathering.

The crowd, it turned out, was an audience. In the plaza in front of the House of the Wheel, the local temple of Gond, was a street theater troupe performing atop the temple stairs.

“It’s Jamal’s troupe,” the paladin said.

“Are you sure?” Alias asked. “I don’t see her.”

Dragonbait nodded.

Alias laid her hand on Victor’s arm. “I know you have to get back to your business, but do you mind very much if we stay and watch this?”

“There’s a novel idea,” the young merchant said with amusement. He eased the horses forward, nudging people aside until the carriage was only thirty feet from the stairs. Dragonbait stood on the carriage step and Alias and Victor made themselves comfortable. Looming over the heads of the other spectators, the three had an excellent view of the performance.

The performers included actors and puppeteers and musicians. At center stage stood an actor in a black cloak and a floppy black hat with a veil of coins hanging from the hat’s brim. All about the actor puppeteers pushed and pulled on sticks to manipulate the limbs and heads of life-sized puppets. In the eastern style of puppeteering, the puppeteers wore white garbs and hoods and remained on the stage with their charges. A man seated to one side strummed on a yarting. He was accompanied by three youths, two boys and a girl, with a collection of percussion instruments and noisemakers.

A hawk puppet made of black felt, with a droopy beak and sad, bloodshot eyes, fluttered to center stage and perched in a nest mounted on the shoulder of one of the puppeteers. The coin-veiled actor held out a hand in front of the hawk. The puppet coughed, and coins popped out of its mouth into the actor’s waiting hand. When the coins stopped coming, the actor rapped the hawk puppet with a wooden stick. The stick was split at one end so it would make a satisfying whack without really dealing any damage. The hawk puppet’s eyes rolled about in its head to the sound of the yarting being struck on the side. Then the hawk began coughing up more coins. Each time it stopped, the actor rapped it and its eyes rolled and the yarting thrummed. The crowd burst out in laughter and hooting jibes.

“I don’t understand,” Alias said as Victor chuckled beside her.

“The actor in the coin hat,” Victor whispered, “represents the Faceless—”

“The Night Masks’ leader,” Alias added, remembering their discussion at the Watch Dock.

Victor nodded. “The black hawk is the symbol of House Guldar. Their patriarch, Lord Dathguld, has bloodshot eyes. He’s supposed to be paying through the nose for protection.”

Two more puppets, guided by their puppeteers, joined the hawk puppet. One puppet was a giant blue hand festooned with mealy corn cobs—representing the trading badge of the merchant family Thorsar. The other puppet was a cyclops head with a yellow eye—like the trading badge of family Urdo. Three black-cloaked actors pushed themselves between the puppets. These actors wore domino masks to signify they were agents of the Night Masks.

The Faceless held his stick up like a baton. The Night Masks and the puppet merchants came to rapt attention. The Faceless waved his stick as if he were conducting a collection of chamber musicians. The first Night Mask plucked a tail feather from the House Guldar hawk, who squawked and rolled his eyes. The giant hand representing House Thorsar grabbed the feather from the Night Mask.

Victor whispered into Alias’s ear, “Rumor has it that House Thorsar purchases all the goods the Night Masks steal from family Guldar.”

On the stage, the second Night Mask ripped a corn cob off the Thorsar puppet, which squeaked like a mouse. The Night Mask fed the corn to the cyclops head of family Urdo.

“And family Urdo buys everything the Night Masks steal from family Thorsar?” Alias asked.

Victor nodded.

The third Night Mask tore a golden hair from the head of the cyclops, who roared, “Ow, ow, ow!” The Night Mask ran the cyclops’s hair back to the beginning of the line and wove it into the hawk’s nest—family Guldar buying the stolen goods of family Urdo.

Then the whole cycle began anew. The actions continued so smoothly that Alias was reminded of the figures of the mechanized water clocks made in Neverwinter. Every time a Night Mask plucked or handed over a piece of a puppet, the musicians sounded an amusing percussion noise and the puppets cried out. As the actors began to work faster and faster, the noises almost became a tune and the crowd cheered with delight.

Victor continued chuckling, and Alias could smell the vanilla scent of Dragonbait’s amusement. She even caught herself grinning as the precision of the humorous movements and noises grew to a crescendo.

A fourth puppet drifted onto the stage, a ghostlike woman in gauzy white robes and tangled white hair. As it observed the fleecing of the merchants, it wailed and moaned piteously. Its cries grew louder and louder, until the merchant puppets retreated. The Night Masks turned as one on the wailing woman. They pulled out sticks and tried to smack at her, but she managed to stay just out of their reach. Then one of the Night Masks pulled out a torch, actually a stick ending in red, yellow and orange streamers, and set fire to the stage, symbolized by having the puppeteers wave bits of red fabric about the wailing woman.

It finally occurred to Alias who the wailing woman was, and she realized what was going to happen next only moments before the Alias actress appeared on the stage.

The actress portraying Alias was too young—just a teenager, and to suggest a more mature figure she had stuffed something beneath the tunic she wore. The tunic had been painted over with a pattern of chain mail. The girl’s hair had been badly hennaed, but the blue makeup on her sword arm, and the red cape left no doubt she was meant to be the swordswoman. As the crowd cheered her doppelganger’s appearance, Alias felt an urge to cover herself so she would not be recognized.

The Night Masks tried to block the Alias on the stage from rescuing the wailing woman, but she made short work of them, knocking them out with a series of improbable, stylized kicks. The Night Masks rose and shook themselves off as the crowd applauded the Alias character. Then the Night Masks pulled out sticks and surrounded their opponent, but she kicked them down again. They rose yet again, but this time pantomimed running away. The heroine grabbed the cloak of the nearest Night Mask and gave a sharp tug. The cloak came away, leaving the actor naked but for a codpiece painted with a spider. The crowd howled its approval as all three Night Masks fled the stage.

The last scene played out with the Faceless quaking in fear as Alias strode toward him, but the heroine was distracted by the cries of the wailing woman. As she stomped out the ‘flames,’ the Faceless made his escape. With the wailing woman puppet on her arm, the actress playing Alias struck a dramatic pose and shouted, “Tyranny shall not prevail!”

The crowd demonstrated its approval with shouts and applause and foot stomping. The puppeteers grabbed tambourines and moved along the fringes of the crowd to solicit donations. Alias noted that the audience was more free with its praise than its pocket change. All the troupers got for their trouble was a double-handful of copper and a few silver pieces. The swordswoman remembered Jamal’s remark that one didn’t make a living in the theater. Alias wondered exactly how Jamal did make a living.

“You were just wonderful,” Victor whispered in Alias’s ear, applauding with the rest.

“Thanks,” Alias muttered, reddening deeply.

“Yes, we were, weren’t we,” Dragonbait said, with just a hint of sarcasm. “At least, I remember being there.”

“Dragonbait deserves just as much credit,” the swordswoman explained to Victor. “He was with me when all that happened.”

Victor gave the saurial a sympathetic look. “A victim of artistic license. Perhaps they just couldn’t find an actor to do your role justice,” the nobleman suggested.

Alias gave her companion a sheepish grin, but another problem caught her eye. She pointed to the far end of the crowd, which was parting for a flying wedge of the watch, which advanced upon the makeshift stage of the temple stairs. “Is there going to be trouble?” she asked Victor.

“Possibly,” the merchant replied, though his tone sounded more resigned than alarmed.

The five members of the watch patrol, armored in long black leather tunics and polished steel helms kept their short swords sheathed, but they were shoving at the crowd with short clubs. About half of the street theater audience began dispersing from the plaza, but many remained, though whether from loyalty to the performers or just curious to see what would happen, Alias could not tell.

On the temple steps, all the performers gathered in a group, behind the stage Faceless. Some looked nervous, others resigned, but the majority had an air of defiance.

The watch patrol stopped at the bottom steps. The patrol’s sergeant looked up at the performers and asked in an officious tone, “Who speaks for this group?”

The stage Faceless stepped forward, doffing the coin-veiled hat with a sweeping gesture and bowing. Locks of red and gray spilled out, and Jamal the Thespian straightened and faced the watch sergeant. “Afternoon, Rodney,” she said. “Out for a stroll with the boys? My, how they’ve grown.”

From her vantage point Alias could see the watch sergeant’s ears redden. “Jamal,” Rodney demanded, “do you have a license for this performance?” His tone started out gruff, but his voice cracked, and his last word came out a squeak.

“License?” Jamal parroted loudly with a surprised tone. “Let’s see.” She slapped her body, causing the robes to billow out like a thundercloud in a crosswind. “Alas, no,” she said at last. “I must have left it with my other mask.” There was a titter of laughter from a remaining member of the crowd. One of the watchmen, a freckle-faced youth, spun and glared at the source. The tittering died, but others in the crowd chuckled at the youth’s display of humorlessness.

“You need a license to perform,” Sergeant Rodney said.

“Milil’s Mouth, I know that, Rodney!” Jamal huffed. “I’ve been performing in this town since before you were born. I’ll just have to purchase a replacement license.” Jamal peered into the tambourines her actors had used for soliciting funds. “I’ve got about fifty copper here,” she said. “Will that cover it?”

Rodney shifted uneasily, and Alias wondered if he had been bought off that cheaply in the past. “The price of a license,” the sergeant replied stiffly, “is fifty pieces of gold.”

“Fifty pieces of gold?” Jamal shouted in mock astonishment. “If I had fifty pieces of gold, I could rent a hall and charge admission, but then none of these good people here would be able to afford our performances. Is that what the people of Westgate want?” There was an unpleasant muttering among the crowd. Alias hoped Jamal knew what she was doing.

“Performing without a license amounts to a disturbance of the peace,” Rodney announced. “You’ll have to come with us.”

To Alias’s horror, Dragonbait appeared beside the watch sergeant, tapped him on the shoulder, and queried, “Murf?”

“Oh, no. Why does he always get involved in these things?” Alias muttered. She sighed. “Excuse me,” she said to Victor, stepping down from his carriage. She began elbowing her way through the crowd to reach the paladin’s side.

Sergeant Rodney spun about to offer a sharp reprimand to whoever had interrupted his business, but he was so startled by the saurial’s appearance that he took a step backward and would have tumbled down the stairs had his men not steadied him.

Dragonbait jingled a pouch of coins in Rodney’s face and repeated, “Murf?”

Sergeant Rodney stared goggle-eyed and tongue-tied.

“This is Dragonbait, Rodney. He’s a patron of the arts, offering to pay for the new license,” Jamal said smoothly, as if help from lizard creatures was a common occurrence in her life. “Right?” she queried, asking the paladin to confirm her guess.

“Murf!” Dragonbait replied, nodding and shaking the pouch of coins at Rodney again.

Sergeant Rodney stammered for a moment, then regained his composure. “Licenses must be applied for before the performance starts,” he insisted. “And they can’t be issued for daytime performances on any street leading to the market.”

“What good is a license if I can’t perform somewhere where people will see it?” Jamal argued.

“Jamal,” Rodney growled, “I’m going to have to take you in.”

Alias, who’d just reached the bottom of the steps, called out, “Why is it that five of Westgate’s finest spend their time arguing with street performers while the Night Masks rule every shadow in the city?” She climbed up the steps so that she stood beside Jamal.

There was a scattering of applause in the crowd. The freckle-faced youth in the watch gave the swordswoman a bone-chilling glare while the other members shifted uneasily.

Sergeant Rodney spun to face the new challenger, and Alias saw that a thin film of sweat had formed on his forehead. He wasn’t used to being challenged and wasn’t sure how to handle it. Perceiving that he was dealing with an unruly mob and would need reinforcements, the sergeant reached for the small silver whistle on the chain about his neck. Before he could raise the whistle to his lips, though, a heavy hand settled on his shoulder.

“I’m sure this isn’t so complicated that you can’t handle it with a little initiative on your part, Sergeant,” Victor Dhostar said calmly, giving the sergeant’s shoulder a squeeze.

“Lord Victor!” the sergeant gasped.

“Your devotion to duty is most admirable, Sergeant Rodney,” Victor commended the man, “but arguing about licenses in front of the lady’s audience is like arguing with a partner in front of a buyer. It’s bad form, you know.”

Sergeant Rodney’s lip stiffened. “With all due respect, Lord Victor, this show has blocked traffic all the way back to the market.”

“To be fair, it is the audience, not the performers, blocking traffic. Please, at my behest, take this”—Victor took Dragonbait’s pouch of gold and set it in Rodney’s hands—“and issue this lady a license to perform here.”

“But the traffic—” Sergeant Rodney protested.

Victor waved out to the street. Since some members of the audience had moved on and the others had squeezed closer to the makeshift stage, the plaza had cleared sufficiently for the carriages and carts to move through. “You see, it was only a momentary problem,” Victor said.

The sergeant took a few deep breaths, then nodded. “As you wish, Lord Victor,” he said. Turning to Jamal, he regained some of his stern demeanor. “This performance may continue, but consider yourself warned. The city cannot have its commerce brought to a standstill for entertainments!”

“I will encourage my people to be less popular in the future,” Jamal said with a straight face. To the crowd she announced, “We have been informed by the most illustrious Sergeant Rodney that we may continue our entertainment, with thanks owed to that great patron of the arts, Dragonbait the Paladin, and the glib tongue of Lord Victor Dhostar.”

There was a smattering of applause. Dragonbait bowed, and Victor, a little self-consciously, waved at the crowd.

“We dedicate this performance to them,” Jamal announced, “and, of course, to Westgate’s newest hero, Alias the Sell-Sword!”

Whistles and bellows of approval came from the mob. Alias felt her face reddening.

Alias, Victor, and Dragonbait slipped back into the crowd as the musicians started playing and the false Night Masks took the stage, juggling wooden swords and axes.

“You seem popular,” Victor said.

Alias shrugged. “I don’t know what I was doing up there. You’re the one who deserves the credit for rescuing Jamal’s troupe.”

“Ahhh, but I wouldn’t have bothered to help if you hadn’t rushed up there,” Victor said. “That’s the whole point of heroes, isn’t it, to inspire us with their courage?”

“Is that what you were doing? Inspiring him with your courage?” Dragonbait asked with amusement. “I thought you’d only come up to chide me for getting involved.”

Alias shot the paladin a warning look.

“Well, I enjoyed that little foray into street justice, brief as it was,” Victor said. “Thank you—uh, oh.”

“What?” Alias asked, and she looked in the direction Victor now peered.

The croamarkh’s carriage stood parked by Victor’s curricle. The driver of the larger carriage stood up in his seat, indicating with a wave of his hand that Victor should make his way to the carriage.

“It seems I’m being summoned by Father. Time, I fear, to pay the piper. Excuse me, please.”

Victor waded over to the croamarkh’s carriage and disappeared inside.

Alias looked back at the stage, where a skit involving two Night Masks stealing a medusa’s head was unfolding. “Let’s move on,” she said to Dragonbait.

The two made for the perimeter of the crowd, then circled about to Victor’s curricle. A boy stood holding the horses’ reins. Victor must have pressed him into service, Alias realized. She tipped him a silver piece and told him he could go.

As she rubbed the noses of the two yellow mares, Alias spoke to the paladin in Saurial. “That money you offered could have been perceived as a bribe, you know. You could have been arrested. How would that look, a paladin in the local hoosegow?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” the paladin replied with a chuckle. “I could not sit by and watch the words of the law confused with the spirit of the law.”

“What’s the spirit behind the law against disturbing the peace?” Alias asked.

“That no one should be injured. No one was. At the worst, a few carriages and carts were inconvenienced.”

“I don’t imagine the merchant lords in those carriages will take your side in that argument,” Alias murmured. “Imagine all that fuss over a puppet show when the Night Masks get away with murder in this city.”

“As the croamarkh pointed out, the watch can only ensure that the lawful obey the law, but the Night Masks are lawless,” Dragonbait reminded her. “I don’t imagine the watch is content that this is so.”

“You’re saying I shouldn’t have insulted them,” Alias replied. “You’re probably right. Not very politic—”

Alias halted. From the croamarkh’s carriage she could hear the croamarkh and Victor arguing. More accurately, she could hear the croamarkh’s angry words, but only the slightest hint of Victor’s voice. While Lord Luer wasn’t exactly yelling, he was one of those people to whom it would never occur to modulate his voice. No doubt he believed it was the only way to make others listen.

Alias realized that since the carriage curtains were closed, Lord Luer probably did not know she stood near enough to hear.

“—and I cannot understand what motivated you to support that woman,” the croamarkh was saying. For a moment, Alias was concerned that she was the subject of Lord Luer’s tirade, but the croamarkh’s next words disabused her of that notion. “Not only is she as common as dirt, but she is a rabble-rouser, and her little shows do nothing but breed discontent. I sat here and had to watch you cross an officer of the law, your father’s law, in front of all these commoners.”

Victor responded briefly, but too softly to be understood. Then the croamarkh continued, “It is not your place to act as judge. That’s what Durgar is here for. Did you think that maybe Jamal’s street people would start treating nobles better if they had a noble patron? Did you think they would stop spreading lies about us, about the Night Masks, because you threw some money around? And how does it look to the commoners, that you could buy justice in public? Will they believe that justice is not bought in private as well?”

Victor started to speak, but his father interrupted, “You did not think. That is the problem. Now if the watch shuts her down for some future violation, it will appear that the croamarkh’s house is weak. If she continues, the other nobles will think we have her in our employ—which means they will think that what she says comes from our mouths. You’ve made a muddle of this. Have you done any other damage this morning that I should know about?”

There was a long pause as Victor answered too quietly to be overheard. Lord Dhostar was still huffy, but not as irritated as he replied, “Well, that’s something. We need someone to clean out the stables, see justice served against those scoundrels.”

Victor said something else that undoubtedly angered the croamarkh, for he answered loudly, “You will not. We have a dinner and talks with Lord Urlyvl and his people over at Castle Athagdal. I hired that young woman for her sword, not for you to practice your courtly graces. You may return to your duties.”

The carriage rocked slightly. Alias handed the horses’ halters to Dragonbait and retreated five paces. As the carriage door opened, she walked up toward it, creating the illusion that she had just arrived on the scene.

Victor stepped down the carriage steps, grim-faced and angry, but brightened immediately upon spotting Alias. “Hullo,” he greeted her. “I’ve just told Father about your decision to join us.”

Another man exited the carriage behind Victor, a broad-shouldered stranger with close-cropped white hair and a heavy silver mustache covering his mouth. He wore blue-and-purple robes tied loosely with a white sash, a white glove on his left hand, and a black glove on his right—the ceremonial outfit of a priest of Tyr, the blinded, one-handed god of justice. Beneath the robes the man wore a chest plate elaborately engraved with a scale of justice balanced on a war hammer—the god Tyr’s symbol.

Once the stranger had closed the carriage door, someone within thumped once on the ceiling. The carriage driver urged his horses forward, and the carriage pulled away from the crowded plaza.

“Your Reverence,” Victor addressed the priest who stood at his side, “please allow me to present Alias the Swordswoman and her companion, Dragonbait. Alias will be helping us with our Night Mask problem. Alias, this is Durgar the Just of Tyr, who heads our watch and serves us as judge.

Alias and Dragonbait nodded politely to the elderly priest. Durgar fixed his steely gray eyes on Alias for several moments without speaking, and Alias realized she was being assessed with skillful judgment.

When Durgar finally spoke, his voice was chill and void of emotion. “The croamarkh has informed me of his plans for you. I can’t say I’m particularly pleased. While Westgate has a rich history of employed mercenaries, they never seem to last for long. Justice requires constant, unending, organized vigilance. That’s why I founded the watch here. For fourteen years my men and I have done all that can be done to blunt the ravages of the Night Masks. I informed Lord Luer that in my considered opinion he was placing too much stock in your abilities, but he went on about fresh eyes, fresh blood, and fresh approaches, as if my experience meant nothing. Take care, young woman. The Night Masks are savage brutes who would spill your blood in the street without a second thought.”

Alias might have taken offense at the priest’s vote of no confidence, but there was the slightest trace of exhaustion in Durgar’s tone, which prompted her to refrain from a heated reply. Westgate’s judge, she realized, was a man who continued to struggle at a seemingly hopeless task because he believed in it. Consequently, the swordswoman framed her reply as diplomatically as she could. “Perhaps, Your Reverence, I’ll get lucky. If I can throw the Night Masks off balance, the Night Masters and the Faceless might grow careless and give your watch an opportunity to capture them.”

Beneath his mustache a trace of a smile flickered across Durgar the Just’s face. “That’s very gracious of you, but the watch is not about to waste its time on fictional characters of puppet shows.”

“His Reverence,” Victor explained, “does not believe in the existence of the Night Masters or the Faceless.”

“Why not?” Alias asked.

“You aren’t the first adventurer hired to uncover them, you know?” Durgar replied. “Yet in fourteen years, no divination by mage or priest or magical item has been able to detect any persons called the Night Masters or the Faceless. No warrior or hired thief has been able to discover their lair. No offer of wealth and power has enticed anyone to betray them. The Faceless and his Night Masters are all myths. The Night Masks foster these myths because they lend to them the illusion of power and authority. The common people believe these myths because they cannot accept the fact that chaotic forces have such control over their lives. They choose to believe people like Jamal—” Durgar waved in the direction of the performers, who were now leading the crowd in a high-spirited song— “who spread this romanticized notion that lawlessness is embodied in one being, a Prince of Night, a Lord of Thieves. Then all they need is a hero to vanquish it once and for all.” Durgar’s voice took on a passionate tone as he declared, “But lawlessness is not vanquished once and for all. It must be fought every day, without cessation, till the end of time.”

Realizing that any argument she might make would be construed as a challenge to the priest’s convictions, Alias replied simply, “I see.”

Durgar, recognizing that the swordswoman was not really acquiescing, huffed. He nodded at the performers. “Jamal may spew whatever nonsense she chooses, but if the watch catches her without a permit again, Lord Victor, not even your patronage will keep my men from bringing her in for disturbing the peace. As for you, woman—” Durgar’s steely gray eyes rested on Alias once again— “at Lord Luer’s request, I have ordered the watch to render you any assistance you need, but you do not have leave to interfere with their official business. Good day to you.”

Durgar turned his back on the trio before Alias could return his farewell. He plowed through the crowd, which parted for him more widely than it had for the five members of the watch.

“I wouldn’t take Durgar’s rejection personally,” Victor said. “He’s just blowing off steam after having had to listen to Father tell him how to do his job. You just got in the way.”

Alias nodded. “You didn’t mention Westgate had a church of Tyr,” she said.

“It doesn’t,” Victor replied. “Durgar was a wandering adventurer. He ran with a group called the Invisible Hand. They had some run-ins with the Night Masks, and only Durgar survived. He stayed and convinced the nobles to charter the watch.”

“He seems pretty orthodox as priests of Tyr go,” Alias noted, “yet he doesn’t wear the gauze strip across his eyes to symbolize his deity’s blinding.”

“He did, immediately after the Time of Troubles, but Father and the other merchants forbade him to continue. It’s bad enough to be ridiculed in the street and have the Night Masks steal you blind, but can you imagine the comments when the head of the watch wears a blindfold? I don’t think Durgar likes it, but he follows orders.”

Behind them, the audience applauded again as the performers took a final curtain call, and the puppeteers huckstered once again for loose change.

“About tonight’s dinner—” Victor said, looking down at the ground.

Alias sensed his discomfort and remembered the croamarkh’s sharp commands. “I’m afraid we’ll have to decline your offer,” she interrupted hastily. “Dragonbait reminded me we have a previous engagement. I will keep in mind your suggestions about the Gateside district, though.”

Victor looked up at the swordswoman with a sheepish grin. “You heard Father dressing me down, didn’t you? That’s very gracious of you to provide me with an out. Still, I ought to apologize for extending an invitation I could not honor.”

“I’m sure there’ll be another chance to honor it,” Alias replied, offering Victor her hand.

Victor smiled with delight. “More than one, I hope,” he replied, clasping her hand in both of his own.

The swordswoman blushed. “We’ve kept you from your work too long,” she said. “Please, don’t feel obliged to see us back to our inn. We need to familiarize ourselves with the streets, and we really do have a previous engagement.”

Victor held her hand a moment longer. “In spite of what Durgar says, I have a good feeling about you. You’re just the hero this town needs. I know you’ll succeed.”

“I’ll do my best,” Alias promised.

The young merchant released her hand and bowed. Without further words, as if he might become overwhelmed with emotion if he spoke again, Lord Victor climbed into his carriage, took up the reins, and drove away.

“So do we have another engagement?” Dragonbait queried with amusement. “Or did you only say that so Lord Victor would return your hand?” he teased.

“I guess there’s no way around it,” Alias said. “I’m going to have to go back to Mintassan’s with you and wind up playing ‘Ask-me-another’ about the saurials.”

“So you can grill him for information on the Night Masks,” Dragonbait guessed.

“You know my methods,” Alias replied.

“Then?”

“Then, although they don’t know it yet, we have an engagement with the Night Masks. With any luck, more than one engagement.”