Masks

by E.M. Prazeman

  Chapter Three

  Obsidian sucked in a deep, shuddering breath and then opened his eyes. They looked wide and wild, enhanced by the dark makeup he wore around them and the dark frame of his hair that curled like exotic ruffles. “May I speak with you a moment?”

  “Me?” Mark took a step back. He’d always liked Obsidian, and for a while he’d concealed more than fondness for the young man from Hasla, but that had been from afar. He hadn’t actually traded more than niceties with him before. “What about?”

  Obsidian stood there, waiting.

  Obsidian had only just graduated from the university and he didn’t have a lord yet, and Gutter hadn’t warned Mark against him, but still.

  Mark ducked farther back from the doorway and gestured belatedly. “Come in.”

  “Do you mind if we meet in your room?”

  Several unlikely fantasies raced through the back of Mark’s eyes before he managed to respond. “This way.” He hurried ahead of Obsidian, caught up in the jester’s nervous energy.

  Mark worried at how everything must look—fine enough for any lord but of course none of it was his, or even furnished at his choosing. It all seemed overly thick and gaudy, drawing attention to the rich gifts that were supposed to compensate for the sins Mark had to carry for Lord Argenwain.

  Obsidian didn’t notice any of it, and for the second time in one day Mark had a man he admired shut him into a room for privacy.

  Obsidian braced his back against the door. The light had begun to fade outside, but even in the dim lighting Obsidian’s dusky skin looked pale. His gloves were dirty and his dark hair looked tattered on one side, like some had been ripped from his head. His ruffled shirt was a bit askew and ballooned out from under the short front of his waistcoat. The lacing on his waistcoat was out of proper tension as well, and one of his stockings sagged at the ankle.

  “Are you all right?” Mark asked him.

  “Is this room safe from spies?” Obsidian asked.

  “Almost every room in this house is safe from spying, especially mine. The doors are thick and they’re all carved.” No one could seal a glass against them to listen. “They’re lined in velvet, and there’s a rug to muffle the space under.”

  “And secret doorways? Spyholes?”

  “Not in the bedrooms, the study, or the offices. Not to my knowledge anyway, and the servants won’t know of them. Only Gutter, maybe my lord, if they exist.” He knew these things because they’d been pointed out in his lessons when matters of spying came up, but he hadn’t needed them for himself before.

  “And the servant’s entrance?”

  “Closed off in all the private rooms. Mine is behind that armoire.”

  Obsidian’s fingers worked nervously on the seams of the purse. “I need you to take care of something for me, and I don’t trust anyone else.” He worried the purse a little longer, then offered it.

  Mark accepted it reluctantly. He started to open it, but Obsidian gripped his hand, pinning it to the clasp.

  “Leave it. Best not to look at it.” Obsidian relaxed his hold but his fingers lingered on Mark’s hand. “If I don’t come back to claim it by tomorrow, I need you to deliver it personally to a Mister Rohn Evan in Perida.”

  Everything stopped, and then Mark’s heart started again in a big kawoomp that made him gasp. “I can’t do that.”

  Obsidian gripped his wrist. “Please—”

  “And what’s this about you not coming back for whatever this is?” Never mind that Mark couldn’t even leave the house without permission—Obsidian’s not-so-veiled suggestion sank in and kept sinking deeper. “Are you going to duel?”

  “No. This is too important for a duel.” Obsidian finally let go and backed away.

  “You’re going to murder someone?” Everything familiar fell into darkness. He could barely see Obsidian through the ghostly sight and scent of his mother bleeding and gasping for life in his arms. “Get out.”

  “Mark—”

  “You have choices, and this is the choice you made? Have you made it before? Is that why you’re doing it, because it works and it’s easy?”

  “No, no I haven’t and it isn’t easy but if I don’t do this, there’s going to be a war, or worse. You’re too young to understand.”

  “Oh, I’m too young.” Mark’s whole body shook. “I would have been shipped off to fight in the Island War if Gutter hadn’t saved me, but I’m too young to understand the threat of war?”

  “My brother died in that war.”

  “My mother was murdered, my father disappeared and I don’t even know why. All I know is that when someone tells me that they’re going to go spill blood it’s not a tactic or intrigue or a—a—I smell the blood. I smell it now. And the thing of it is, is that it didn’t smell like any blood. It smelled like her.” He had to stop to catch his breath, and only then he realized what Obsidian had said.

  Mark wanted to shove the purse at him and order him out. He wanted to ask how his brother had died, if Obsidian had been there, wanted to compare the scars in their hearts and ... what? Nothing either of them did now would make anything right.

  Obsidian just stood there, waiting. For an apology? Mark could give him that. “I’m sorry. I want to help.”

  “Then help me.”

  “Is there something I can do to change your course?”

  “You don’t even know what it is,” Obsidian shot back.

  “How did you think this would turn out? You’d just drop this by, expect me to leap nimbly onto the nearest ship if you died and sail to one of the most dangerous cities in the world and give it to a stranger. This is your plan? Or did some lord promise to wed your soul to his if you did this for him?”

  “You think this is my choice? Gutter drove me to do this. The only part I get to choose is whether or not he finds out about what’s happened, and I don’t want him to know.”

  “And so you come to me?” Was it stupidity or blind desperation?

  “Yes. Because if I fail, and you fail, Gutter is the one that must salvage the situation. He forced me into this, Mark. I’m just fighting to keep everything from exploding apart.”

  “You should ask him for help when he comes home.” Mark held the purse out, though part of him wanted very much to have Obsidian’s courage. He wished he dared to stop being the household toy, even for a brief moment.

  “You think he’ll wave his hand and make the world obey.” Obsidian walked to the vanity mirror and gazed into it. “And he would. Sometimes I wonder if he doesn’t rule the kingdom in more ways than the King. When I was your age—”

  “I’m nineteen, not twelve. And you’re what, twenty five?”

  “Sorry.” Obsidian put his back to the mirror and braced on the chair. “I feel old. I look at you and I miss the university. I miss trusting people. I miss having a thousand bright futures to choose from.” He shrugged. “Anything Gutter asks of me, I will do. But I’ll never trust him again. Not willingly.”

  Those last words connected sharp and hard to Bainswell’s presence in the house. Other things related to Gutter and death threatened to connect to those words, but Mark pushed it all away. “Gutter saved my life.” Saying the words a second time weakened them somehow.

  “I trust you more than I trust him, especially in this matter. I don’t know you well, but I know enough. He trusts you too, and that is rare. I didn’t choose you because I had no other choice. I chose you because you are the best fit for this, if you dare. I know you’re capable. I just hope you have the courage to match.”

  That warmed his pride, but he knew that was dangerous. No doubt Obsidian only intended to manipulate him. “Hope? I would think you’d be wiser than to take a risk on me. Maybe there’s another way to do this, whatever this is.”

  “Even if I got it back, he would know it existed, and he would connect it to me. Right now he doesn’t know what he has or how important it is, so that has kept things safe, but that won’t last long. I have to get it back be
fore he shows it around or does something stupid with it, and then ....” He bit his lip.

  “You say you know he doesn’t know how important it is.” Mark realized that his hands were worrying the seam between the silk and the clasp, and that it might tear. He set it aside on his stocking dresser, where it seemed to tug at his attention.

  Obsidian seemed to keep part of his attention on the purse as well, though Mark doubted he could have blinked without Obsidian noticing. “He wouldn’t believe I’d have anything important, even if I told him it was. That’s my one hope.”

  “So buy it back and then in time he’ll forget about it. What are his chances, realistically, of seeing something related to this again and connecting it to you?”

  “I’d thought of that. Small, but not zero.”

  “Is it worth murder to assure zero, even if zero possibility is achievable? For all you know he’s shown it around to a dozen people by now.”

  “He hasn’t had time.” Obsidian didn’t sound like he believed his own words.

  “Just try. Find out what he has or hasn’t done before you kill him. I’ll do what you ask. Just consider, at least, that it will be less dangerous for you to talk than to fight.”

  Obsidian looked sidelong at him with a strange, unearthly calm that made Mark’s skin prickle. “You argue well. Maybe I should send you as a go-between. Are you willing to go that far to save a stranger’s life, and perhaps mine?”

  “I don’t know enough to answer you.” Easier to ask for details than to answer. He wanted to say yes, but he had a horrible feeling that serving Obsidian’s purpose would end very, very badly.

  “He’s a classmate of mine.” Obsidian’s voice deepened and tightened. “He has the heart of a bully, though he plays at being friends with everyone. In this case that works to my advantage. I’m hoping he won’t tell anyone what he’s done until he’s sure that it will dress him up. Money might sway him, but I think it will please him more if I act like I’ve cooled down and want to be friends. Maybe you can charm him and praise him on my behalf and then offer him the money as if he’s won a bet.”

  “It might sound more convincing if you talk to him yourself.”

  “He’s still trained as a jester, like me. I’d have a hard time convincing him that it wasn’t a mask.”

  “I don’t see why he’d believe me any more than you.”

  Obsidian’s hands chopped the air. “Fine! Tell me your brilliant plan that will allow me to achieve my ends without bloodshed.”

  Feign a robbery? The jester would likely see through the ruse and attack one or both of them as soon as Mark appeared rather than allow them to coordinate an attack against him.

  “I don’t have much time.”

  Strangely, Mark’s mind returned to his first fear—a duel. “What about challenging him to a duel? Not to the death, but first blood.”

  “Then he’d know the importance of the item in question. If I lose, he’ll be sure to investigate why I want it so badly.”

  “Approach indirectly. Ask him to meet you. Make an offer of money if it will get him there. But when he arrives, confuse him. Tell him that you both know why you’re really there, and hand him something outrageous. Love of a woman he’s never met, but insist you’re sure he’s seduced her. Put him in a position where he’s defending himself from a false accusation for which you’re willing to take his life and risk yours to resolve. My hope is that he won’t want to fight for a woman he’s never met. Then all you have to do is let him talk you out of the challenge.”

  “But how will I get the ring?” Obsidian flinched.

  Mark kept talking as if he hadn’t heard the slip. “Tell him you both know why he took the item. Let him guess. His mind will come up with its own most convincing argument. I expect he’ll believe that she gave it to you. He may even offer it to you. That would be best. If you dare, you might even refuse it on first offer, and claim that it’s gone too far. That might distract him from the item’s importance.”

  Obsidian shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Are you a better duelist than him?”

  “I know he’s won a duel, and I’ve never fought in one. At University our instructors were very careful not to expose how skilled we are at arms to each other. That, and a strict rule against dueling kept most of us from trying to impress a potential patron lord.”

  “Does he have a patron lord?”

  “No.”

  That made Mark feel a little better about the situation. As long as he didn’t have one, he didn’t have to preserve an image or reputation in his lord’s name.

  “I think this is an acceptable plan, but I have to think about it,” Obsidian said. “I still prefer the odds in an ambush much better, but I fear I’ll fail to surprise him and it will come down to a bloody brawl. Or he won’t have the item with him, and it will be impossible to find it if I kill him. The sort of challenge you’re talking about, I would have a chance to learn if it’s on his person when we meet.”

  Mark didn’t want to leave too long a silence. “I’ll guard the purse with my life.” Offering any smaller assurance might have been a deadly oversight. Hopefully Obsidian wouldn’t dwell too long on the fact that Mark knew there was a ring. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help.”

  Obsidian cocked his head and seemed to reconsider. “I’ll be at the Rythan Gardens tonight about eight o’clock. If you really want to help me, meet me by the swan bridge. Do you know where that is?”

  Mark nodded. Lord Argenwain often roamed the gardens in summer, but instead of taking a fine lady or a fashionable dog he took Mark. “Don’t depend on me. Lord Argenwain rarely allows me to leave the house on my own.”

  “It is as it is.” Obsidian paced a bit before he settled by the door. “If Lord Jester Gutter comes home, please don’t mention any of this. Don’t even tell him I was here. If he finds out, tell him we had a little tryst.”

  Heat rushed to Mark’s cheeks and burned his ears and throat.

  Obsidian gave him an apologetic smile. “I have to go and prepare. Be careful with that purse. Hide it somewhere safe, and whatever you do, don’t bring it to the Gardens if you decide to meet me. And remember Mr. Rohn Evan. Perida.”

  Thanks to his training he’d remember the whole conversation to the last word, but Mark nodded dutifully.

  Obsidian bowed a short little bow, hand on his heart, and went out.

  If Obsidian was willing to kill to get the ring back, what would he do to Mark to keep the secret of its existence? Sure, Gutter knew about the ring already, and Mark was Gutter’s creature—

  I will sail from him someday

  —but Obsidian had his own concerns about Gutter, and his own secrets.

  As much as Mark loved Gutter, his skin tightened at the thought of what might happen if he complicated one of Gutter’s intrigues, and Mark had far more reason than Obsidian to trust that Gutter would be merciful.

  Would Obsidian really kill me?

  His gaze settled on the purse. As long as he had it, it would afford him some safety. Just as he had with the ring, Obsidian would hesitate to do anything to Mark until he was fairly certain he could retrieve the purse.

  The purse might have even been a layered show of trust, not just toward Mark, but toward Gutter should things unravel.

  Mark rubbed his face, trying to smooth out the rumpled feelings in his crowded mind. If he’d ever considered becoming a jester, he would rethink that path now. He wished he were at sea, with his father’s old mates on Mairi, sailing for the islands or the southern sands in Vyenne, or even to the north and mysterious Melssa with its fanatic priests. He could visit all the places he longed to see, and move on before that place became too dear, or too dull, or too dangerous ....

  And he could trust his father’s men.

  Do they even remember me?

  Lord Argenwain didn’t allow him to go to the docks. Mark had begged how many times?

  Lately, hardly at all.
/>   But they’d gone to the lighthouse rock for picnics and to enjoy the view of vast Hullundy Bay, a body of water so large that no one could see all the way across it, making it appear to be a sea. Mark would try to guess which of the three-masted trade ships in Seven Churches’ port was Mairi. She was tall, and white, with buff sails. He remembered that much, and a red line at the waterline, and the androgynous figurehead at the bow with wing-like flows of feathery whorls from its arms meant to represent an allolai spirit.

  He heard a faint bell ring for the upstairs maid. The clock pointed to four. He had an hour before dinner, and an hour before sunset. The days grew longer, but it felt like it would be winter forever.

  Something blocky made a straight edge even through the purse’s thick padding. It might be a small, thick book, or a large stamp ....