Masquerades h-10

by Kate Novak

  "Alias-Alias-her-oh, gods!" The actress broke into sobs.

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

  "I found it floating in the water," a young fisherman said. " Tweren'-t chewed up or anything. Someone had hacked it off at the shoulder. It had a domino mask clutched in its hand-in a death grip." "Where is it?" Olive demanded through clenched teeth.

  "Croamarkh Victor took it," the tavern owner said. "Wept over it like it were the lady herself. Wrapped it up in a piece o' velvet and said it would be laid to rest in the Dhostar family crypt in honor of her service to the croamarkh."

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

  As they walked down the street, Jamal explained. "I sent Kel as soon as I heard. I thought you might be able to tell for sure-tell if it were hers. You said it was a magic arm. You could tell if it were a fake, couldn't you?" "Maybe," Olive said. "Why'd you let Dhostar take it?"

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

  "If you're not careful, hell make your troupe obsolete," the halfling snarled.

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

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

  Five days after the ball, Olive Ruskettle, captain of the House Thalavar guard, self-declared bard, and selfdeclared Harper, was making a halfhearted attempt to drink herself to death. She sat on the open patio of the Black Eye tavern, with its excellent view of the market and the Tower. Three days had passed since the funerals of the croamarkh and the other felled merchant lords. The official period of mourning completed, the market was once again blanketed by a tapestry of motley-the wares of both minor and noble merchants being offered for sale. That, if no other reason, was enough to keep Olive ordering round after round of a highly potent southern drink known as Dragon's Bite. She was disgusted by the way this city shrugged off its losses and returned diligently to the task of making money. There had been no funeral for Alias, Dragonbait, or Mintassan, no official period of mourning for the heroes who had so selflessly risked their lives for this town of money-grubbing greengrocers. Not that three days of mourning could be enough to honor adventurers of their caliber-adventurers who'd been her friends.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "I'm not a waitress," the newcomer informed her. "You're Olive Ruskettle," she said, not really questioning, but not quite certain either. "Maybe," Olive muttered. "And you're employed by House Thalavar."

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Well, Olive thought, at least she's smart enough not to claim that Alias was an old friend from way back. Aloud she asked, "And you knew her from the Dalelands?" "Yes." Winterhart's head bobbed just a tad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Olive smiled grimly at the other haifling. "All right," she agreed. Til give you a trial period. But 111 be watching you like a hawk!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Planes and dimensions were a specialty of young Mintassan's," Kimbel remarked.

  "At the top of Verovan's castle, there is a portal into this plane," Victor translated.

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

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

  "I believe that is a notation of the late, unlamented Mintassan," Kimbel said dryly

  "But what does it say? 'Lily Netted'? Why do sages always have such awful handwriting?"

  Kimbel bent over the book, peering at the notation. "I believe it says, 'Lady Nettel.'"

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

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

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