The Shattered Mask

by Richard Lee Byers

  Always ready for anything, Shamur thought. But, husband, you won’t be ready for me. She continued her search, and found what she was seeking shortly thereafter.

  Thamalon kept a small chest beneath the bed, a shabby, battered leather box he’d carried about in those desperate, starveling days when he’d struggled to rebuild the Uskevren fortune. These days, he used it primarily as a repository for date-nut bread, almond cookies, a silver flask of brandy, a book or two, and other items he might suddenly crave when already comfortably ensconced beneath his silk sheets, furs, and eiderdowns.

  Or at least Shamur assumed that was the box’s primary purpose, for unlike many of the drawers and cabinets, it wasn’t locked. Indeed, infrequent guest in this chamber though she had been, over the years she’d watched him root around in it half a hundred times. Had Errendar not schooled her to overlook no possibility when conducting a search, she might not even have bothered to check inside it.

  When she did, the flask was there at the very bottom of the chest, green, delicate, whorled, and unmistakably one of Audra Sweetdreams’s bottles. An inch of clear fluid sat in the bottom.

  For a moment Shamur didn’t know what she felt, and then the rage came, black, cold, and overwhelming. She’d imagined she hated Thamalon before, but it was nothing compared to the loathing that gripped her now. The monster had kept the poison—the poison with which, he believed, he had once tried to murder her—under the very bed where the two of them had lain together and quite possibly conceived their children. Had its proximity amused him? Had he laughed every time he’d opened the chest and given her the chance to spy the emerald glass glinting at the bottom? Had it excited him to know that if he wished, he could caress or kiss the venom onto her lips as she slept?

  She forswore any further hesitation or second thoughts. Thamalon was going to die, and before the month was out. All she needed was a plan.

  She pondered for a few moments, until her idly roving eyes fell on the tapestry of Evermeet again. Then a notion came to her, and her lips stretched into a feral grin.

  CHAPTER 6

  The receiving room was lavishly furnished in accordance with the taste of a bygone generation, when the colors in style were teal and ivory and it had been fashionable to inset clear, faceted crystals on every available surface. Few of them sparkled, however, for much of the chamber was shrouded in gloom. Marance had only bothered to light two white beeswax tapers, which burned in latten candelabra on the marble mantelpiece. Ossian Talendar, who had come to see if there was anything his “dead” uncle required, supposed that if the wizard spent a great deal of time in his current state, he actually didn’t require even that meager bit of illumination. For Marance sat motionless in a high-backed, claw-and-ball-footed chair, his rather horrible pearly eyes staring at nothing. For the moment he looked genuinely deceased, albeit only recently so, and his appearance prompted Ossian to wonder for the hundredth time whether he ought to be elated or frightened that his father Nuldrevyn, patriarch of the entire Talendar family, had appointed him the mage’s aide-de-camp.

  Actually, he felt both emotions together, though the fear had been only a thread of disquiet at first. Certainly, it was uncanny that his father had discovered a kinsman slain nearly three decades before wandering the inner precincts of Old High Hall, the Talendar castle, on the night of the Feast of the Moon a month and half ago. But Ossian, who fancied himself an adventurer, had watched certain priests converse with the shades of the dead and even command corpses and skeletons to rise and shamble about. He’d survived a skirmish with one of the ghouls that had plagued Selgaunt a year ago. He wouldn’t have been much inclined to cower in dread even if Nuldrevyn hadn’t assured him that Marance had returned to help the family, not afflict it.

  In fact, when his father had introduced them, Ossian had felt a trifle disappointed, for on first acquaintance, there was nothing spectral or monstrous about Marance unless one counted the eyes, which, however freakish, were merely the ones he’d been born with. Actually, he was such a soft-spoken, bookish fellow that it was hard to believe he was even the celebrated family hero who’d performed extraordinary feats of magic and waged savage war on the Talendar’s foes, let alone a visitor from the netherworld.

  In the weeks that followed, however, Ossian noticed certain peculiarities of Marance’s behavior. When dining with a companion, Marance only consumed a bite or two, and, as far as Ossian could tell, when alone, the wizard never bothered to eat or drink at all. He didn’t seem to sleep, either, although sometimes, as now, he appeared to enter a trance. Occasionally he even neglected to breathe.

  Ossian didn’t know why these petty irregularities unsettled him so. It wasn’t as if his uncle had a naked skull for a head or was a rotten, stinking cadaver covered in grave mold. Yet at odd moments the younger man almost felt that he would prefer such disfigurements. At least then he would never feel that the spellcaster was posing as something he wasn’t.

  Still, Ossian believed that Marance had been candid about the reason for his return, and surely that was all that truly mattered, since the mage proposed to win an extraordinary victory for himself and his living kindred. Ossian ought to be delighted to assist, for both the thrill of the exploit itself and the ascendancy over his siblings and cousins he would achieve through its successful resolution.

  Outside in the passage, a cat screeched. Startled from his musings, Ossian strode to the door to see what was happening.

  Old High Hall was the biggest merchant-noble residence in Selgaunt, as befitted a family that considered itself the foremost in the land. Indeed, the castle was too big for even the horde of Talendar and retainers that presently dwelled there, and in consequence, Nuldrevyn had ordered certain precincts of the house closed up. Wishing to keep Marance’s resurrection a secret for fear that someone would find it troubling or gossip about it to outsiders, the Talendar lord had put his brother in a suite in one of the disused sections.

  Even though none of the servants had been entrusted with the secret of his presence, Marance’s new apartments were somewhat clean, because Ossian had taken a broom and feather duster to them himself. The corridor outside, however, was dirty and musty-smelling. Cobwebs full of insect husks hung in dusty tatters, and footprints mottled the film of dust on the floor.

  For a moment, Ossian couldn’t see anything amiss. Then a tabby cat hurtled around a corner, shot past the toes of the nobleman’s pointed red boots, and, its claws scrabbling on the floor, vanished through the door to one of the vacant suites.

  Ossian peered about for the source of the animal’s distress. He had a good idea what he was looking for, but even so, never saw the feline’s tormentor approach. Shrieking, an amber-eyed shadow exploded from the general gloom directly into his face.

  Ossian nearly squawked and recoiled, but he’d decided early on that it would be a bad idea to show any fear around Marance’s familiar, and he mastered himself in time. He merely blinked, then took a casual step backward, distancing himself from Bileworm in an unhurried and dignified fashion.

  “I always imagined the baatezu as possessed of a terrible majesty,” Ossian said. “Your infantile japes come as a considerable disappointment.”

  “Some of the great lords are that way,” Bileworm said, seeming to take no offense. “But I’m not a fiend or abishai at all, really, just a specimen of one of the vassal races following in their train. If you see that puss again, keep your distance. It used to like being picked up and stroked, but I doubt it will welcome such attentions ever again. Is Master still in his trance?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ll never have a better chance to slide your dagger into his heart, undead abomination that he is. It will likely save you a great deal of sorrow in the end.”

  Ossian laughed. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll tell him you suggested that?”

  Bileworm leered, the fanged, V-shaped grin just barely visible amid the shifting shadow-stuff that comprised his face. “He already knows what manner of
servant I am.” His form elongating, he slid past Ossian into the parlor.

  Once inside, the spirit hurled himself into an armchair, then immediately sprang to his feet again. Bobbing up and down, he stalked along the wall, inspecting murky portraits of Ossian’s ancestors, most of them possessed of the tall, thin frame and clever face that ran in the family and which Ossian himself had inherited. Many of the subjects had chosen to be painted wearing the family colors of crimson and black, and with the Talendar badge, a perched raven with a drop of blood falling from its beak, showing somewhere about their persons.

  “Now here’s a monster,” said Bileworm, regarding a limned head sporting a wide-brimmed velvet hat. “You can read the cruelty in those beady little eyes. I’ll wager he doted on the thumbscrew and the rack, and charged the servants with offenses they hadn’t committed when he ran short of victims who truly deserved to be punished.”

  “That’s Hobart Talendar,” Ossian said dryly, “commonly remembered as Hobart the Kind. During his term of office as Hulorn—merchant mayor of the city—he outraged many of his fellow aristocrats by seizing the food they were hoarding. He distributed it to the poor to alleviate a famine.”

  “So he did,” said a mild tenor voice. Ossian turned to see Marance shifting himself in his chair. “A shrewder man would have taxed the other nobles for the privilege of keeping the food, don’t you think? I’m glad our endeavors will benefit the House of Talendar to a far greater extent than old Hobart’s penchant for philanthropy.”

  “You sound as if there’s been some progress,” Ossian said.

  “There has indeed,” Marance said. He picked up his black staff off the floor, not for any particular purpose, apparently, but simply because he felt like having it in his pallid hands. “Go and fetch Nuldrevyn, nephew. It’s time we told him what we’ve been up to.”

  “It’s very late,” Ossian said uncertainly, “and Father just rode back from Ordulin a little while ago.”

  Marance smiled his prim, close-lipped little smile. “You don’t understand. You probably think you do, but you’re too young. You can’t comprehend how it feels to wait for vengeance for as long as Nuldrevyn and I have. I assure you, he’ll be ecstatic to hear what I have to tell him, even if you have to roust him out of bed. Now please, go get him.”

  Ossian obeyed.

  Wrapped in his lynx robe, his feet in the shabby slippers his wife was forever threatening to throw away, Nuldrevyn Talendar nonetheless shivered at the chill in the dusty air. He supposed it was his own fault for not finding a way to heat this disused section of the house without alerting the servants to the fact that someone had taken up residence herein. Not that Marance had ever complained. He seemed to crave warmth no more than the food and drink that Ossian carried in to him.

  Nuldrevyn blundered into a dangling shred of filthy cobweb which his old eyes had failed to spot in the gloom. He grimaced, wiped the sticky gossamer off his face, and trudged on down the corridor after his youngest son.

  It had been a shock to encounter the resurrected Marance. Nuldrevyn’s anxiety wasn’t allayed by his younger brother’s bland explanation that he’d just returned from the Nine Hells, one of the realms of the damned, nor by the leering shadow slinking at the wizard’s side. Still, the House of Talendar had successfully trafficked with the powers of darkness before, and when Marance had promised that he’d returned to serve the family, not harm it, Nuldrevyn had opted to welcome him.

  Afterward, eager but apprehensive as well, the Talendar lord had expected immediate and spectacular consequences. Thunderbolts, rains of fire, and hosts of the conjured minions that had ever been Marance’s specialty as a wizard. Instead, his brother had simply cast one divination after another, and occasionally wandered the benighted city in a Man in the Moon mask, until Nuldrevyn had begun to wonder if the wizard was ever going to do anything. Perhaps he’d simply rattle around his musty apartments forever, like a harmless phantom.

  But it seemed that during Nuldrevyn’s sojourn in the capital, things had finally started to happen. Now he simply had to hope that Marance’s scheme, whatever it was, was a sound one.

  Nuldrevyn was hobbling by the time he reached the door to Marance’s suite. In his youth, the Talendar lord had virtually lived in the saddle, but nowadays, a lengthy journey on horseback was a strain that inevitably left him stiff and sore. He’d be damned if he’d travel in a coach or a litter, though. He might be old, but he wasn’t a cripple yet.

  Noticing his distress, Ossian took his arm and helped him to a chair. Ossian was a good lad, and with his long shanks and wry face, the very image of a Talendar. Indeed, he looked very much as his father had looked in his youth, before that mop of curly, gingery hair had turned white and fallen out. Nuldrevyn had already decided that Ossian would succeed him as head of the family, though of course he hadn’t told him so. You couldn’t tell young people such things, or they’d lose their edge.

  Marance rose to welcome his brother. Then, just as Nuldrevyn’s backside was settling on the cushion, a dark, thin, sinuous shape shot out from under the chair and up in front of his knees. The Talendar patriarch screamed and recoiled.

  “Father!” Ossian said, clutching his shoulder. “Father, listen! It isn’t a snake, it’s that wretched imp!”

  Marance strode forward and rammed the iron ferule of his staff through the black tendril. Purple light flared and crackled from the rod. The dark shape splashed to the floor where it lay convulsing, its shape fluctuating wildly from one instant to the next. Gradually, the stench of some foul substance charring filled the air, until finally Bileworm stopped writhing. Marance lifted the staff away.

  “Is he dead?” Nuldrevyn croaked.

  “No,” Marance said. “He’s too useful to kill, even for so heinous an offense. But I have punished him severely, and now I offer my apologies for his misconduct.”

  “How did he know I have a horror of snakes?” Nuldrevyn demanded. “Did you tell him?”

  “Of course not,” said Marance. A few wisps of magenta light were still oozing about on the polished ebon surface of his staff. “He simply has a talent for discovering such things, and he has dwelled in Old High Hall for a while now.”

  “You mean, he’s been prowling about the castle spying?” Nuldrevyn asked.

  Marance shrugged.

  After a moment of silence, Nuldrevyn realized he’d received all the satisfaction he was likely to get, and, grimacing, resolved to put the matter aside. “Ossian said you want to see me.”

  “I do indeed,” Marance said, smiling. “We have cause for celebration.” He moved to the sideboard, where Nuldrevyn himself had placed a small wrought-iron wine rack stocked with a selection of his brother’s favorite vintages. In his previous existence, Marance had fancied himself something of a connoisseur, and consumed such treasures with relish. But most of these bottles remained untouched, their surfaces cloudy with dust.

  Now, however, Marance leaned his staff against the wall, selected a port, dexterously uncorked it, and decanted it into three silver goblets. He handed the extra ones to Nuldrevyn and Ossian, then lifted his own on high. “A toast,” he said, “to the destruction of Thamalon Uskevren and his House, which, I’m pleased to report, is finally at hand.”

  They drank. “I’ll gladly toast the ruination of the horse at anchor,” Nuldrevyn said, alluding to the rival House’s escutcheon, “as long as we can accomplish it without bringing misfortune on ourselves.”

  Still a shapeless smear on the floor, Bileworm began to creep and hump his way toward a dark corner as if he truly were a snake, and a sorely injured one at that.

  “Ah, brother,” said Marance, shaking his head, “you’ve grown so cautious. You were bolder in our youth. Do you remember the adventures we shared? Those midnight raids when we attacked Thamalon’s caravans, burned his warehouses and ships, slaughtered his retainers, and yearned for a chance at the upstart himself?”

  “Yes,” Nuldrevyn replied, “and I remember how it all came o
ut, too. My dear brother dead, and Thamalon reestablished among the Old Chauncel despite everything we tried to do.” He frowned. “Understand me. I want the wretch and his issue dead. How could I not? But times have changed. The Old Owl has powerful friends and a seat on the city council. We can’t afford to wage open war on him, lest we provoke other Houses into taking up arms against us. You’ll have to act discreetly.”

  “I know that,” Marance said. “You’d already made it abundantly clear, and I assure you, no one who matters will ever know that it was we Talendar who ushered Lord Uskevren into the grave. Tell me, do you remember the tales of the first Shamur Karn?”

  Nuldrevyn cocked his head. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I’ll explain in due course,” the wizard said, setting his goblet down on an inlaid walnut table. The cup was still full. “Do you remember?”

  “Of course,” Nuldrevyn said. “She was before our time, but people still tell the stories and sing the ballads. She was an aristocratic lass who craved excitement, put on a red-striped mask, and became the boldest thief Selgaunt has ever seen by preying on her fellow nobles. Finally one of her victims identified her, and she had to disappear.”

  Over in the corner, Bileworm began the process of rearranging his substance into humanoid form. He let out a hiss of pain.

  “That’s right,” Marance said, drifting back to the sideboard to retrieve his staff. “As it turns out, that lass and the Shamur who married Thamalon are one and the same.”

  Nuldrevyn laughed. “That’s mad!”

  “Not at all,” the wizard said.

  “But if it were true, Lady Uskevren would be one hundred years old.”