The Shattered Mask

by Richard Lee Byers

“There are magical ways of cheating time,” Marance replied, “elixirs of longevity and such.”

  “Perhaps such things do exist,” Nuldrevyn conceded, “but you yourself watched the Shamur of today grow from the cradle to maidenhood, don’t you remember?”

  “Yes,” said Marance, “just as I recall how all the old men used to tease her about her uncanny resemblance to her notorious great-aunt. I assume you remember me putting a curse on her.”

  “Yes,” said Nuldrevyn, “what a pity it didn’t work. Had she died, you would have completed the ruin of the Karns and delayed Thamalon’s return to respectability with a single stroke.”

  “It did work,” Marance said, “we just couldn’t tell it at the time. Demure little Shamur died, but what we couldn’t know was that her namesake had secretly returned to Selgaunt and taken up residence in Argent Hall. Or at any rate, the Karns knew how to contact her, and to save her family, she assumed the dead girl’s identity and proceeded to marry Thamalon.”

  “I see,” said Nuldrevyn. “Shamur the madcap rogue, the reckless, laughing rapscallion, the mistress of the sword, became the starched, straitlaced grande dame we know today. A woman whose one eccentricity is her abhorrence of weapons.”

  Marance’s pale lips quirked upward. “She’s quite an actor, isn’t she?”

  Nuldrevyn started to jeer, then hesitated. Marance had never been given to flights of fancy, and if he actually credited this bizarre idea, he must have a reason. “How do you know all this?” the Talendar patriarch asked.

  In the corner, Bileworm extruded his wedge-shaped head from his squirming mass.

  “It was divination put me on the trail,” Marance said. “Casting the runes, peering at the stars, picking through the entrails of a beggar I killed, and all that sort of thing. The dark powers can tell you most anything, provided you know what to ask, though they hate to say anything straight out. The auspices kept pointing to Shamur as important to my schemes, and to a certain opera the Hulorn ordered performed a little over a year ago.”

  Nuldrevyn frowned. “That thing by Guerren Bloodquill? I was present that night. Some magic woven into the music made strange things happen. It turned one fellow into a limbless thing like a snake.” He shivered at the memory. “Fortunately, Shamur and that daughter of hers stopped the performance before too many people got hurt.”

  “And how did they do that?” Marance asked.

  Nuldrevyn hesitated. “To be honest, I don’t remember.”

  “Of course not,” said the wizard, “for the music put the entire audience into a stupor. But I know, because last week I sneaked into the Hulorn’s amphitheater and cast a spell to evoke a vision of the past. To rescue you and your fellows, Shamur had to wield a sword like a master of arms, climb like a squirrel, and blend into the shadows like one of Bileworm’s people.”

  “Just one of my many talents,” the familiar groaned.

  Marance gave the spirit a sour glance. “If I were you, I’d strive to be inconspicuous for a while.”

  “Shamur fighting,” Nuldrevyn said. “That’s … interesting. Incredible, actually. But it still doesn’t prove she’s the same woman as the thief in the red-striped mask. There could be another explanation.”

  “You’re a hard fellow to convince,” Marance said. “Since you remember hearing of the rogue’s exploits, perhaps you recall what happened on the night her true identity was discovered.”

  “She was rifling old Gundar’s strong room when the dwarf himself, his guards, and his household mage burst in on her,” Nuldrevyn said. “In the struggle that followed, she lost her mask.”

  “Correct,” Marance said, “and once I suspected that the thief and Lady Uskevren might be one and the same, I decided to conjure up a phantasma of that occasion as well. It was a long shot, but I hoped I might observe something that would confirm my hypothesis, and I did. I saw Gundar’s spellcaster sear the rogue’s left shoulder with a lance of heat from a wand. Happily, the woman who stopped Bloodquill’s opera tore her garments in the process, and while watching my previous vision, I’d noticed she had an old burn scar on the very same spot.”

  “Incredible,” Nuldrevyn repeated, though he realized, that, in fact, he now believed it. “Do you think Thamalon was aware of the substitution?”

  “The auguries say no, and it stands to reason. Would the Karns risk telling him his original fiancée was dead, thus giving him the chance to back out of the betrothal?”

  “And you think he still doesn’t know?”

  “Again, it’s what my divinations indicate, and that too makes sense. If she didn’t confide in him at the start, it would certainly be awkward to do so later.”

  “Gods above,” muttered Nuldrevyn. “But how does it lead us to the destruction of the House of Uskevren?”

  “Directly,” Marance said. “Shamur is our weapon.”

  “How so? Are you planning to reveal the truth to the Old Owl and throw his household into turmoil? Expose Shamur’s identity to the city at large in the hope that, even after all these years, the families she robbed will insist on her arrest?”

  Marance chuckled. “Heavens, no. We don’t want to make the Uskevren quarrel, fret, and waste their time in court. We want to exterminate them, and Shamur will begin the process for us by killing Thamalon.”

  “Why should she do that?” Nuldrevyn asked.

  “Do you imagine she assumed her grand-niece’s identity gladly? For the last three decades she’s been acting a role that requires her to abstain from the escapades she loved. She must resent her husband, don’t you think, this man who holds her captive in the prison of her dull, proper life and doesn’t even know who she truly is, even if her predicament isn’t actually his fault.”

  His human shape reconstituted, Bileworm rose to his feet. “You should never let fairness stand in the way of a good hate,” he said, then sniggered.

  “Shamur may detest Thamalon,” Nuldrevyn admitted. “Gossip whispers as much. But if she hasn’t seen fit to murder him in the last thirty years, why would she do so now?”

  “Because I’ve nudged her along,” Marance said. “I convinced her that her husband is indeed responsible for her unhappiness, because he poisoned her grand-niece and so made the substitution necessary. First, with a little help from Bileworm”—the living shadow made an extravagant bow—“the dying Lindrian Karn himself accused Thamalon. Then the apothecary who allegedly sold the Owl the deadly draught confessed to the transaction. And earlier tonight, Shamur found a flask of venom among her husband’s effects. I had a ward on the bottle, so, when in my trance, I could discern whether she’d touched it.”

  “How did you get the poison into the house?” Ossian asked.

  “I intercepted one of the Uskevren servants wandering the city on his night off, cast an enchantment on him, and induced him to convey the flask into Stormweather Towers for me,” the wizard said. “Child’s play, really. The important thing is that my divinations indicated that Shamur would require three ‘proofs’ of Thamalon’s guilt before she acted. Now she’s got them.”

  Nuldrevyn shook his head. “When you promised to destroy the Uskevren, I never expected a strategy as convoluted as this.”

  “How many times have people tried to kill Thamalon over the years?” Marance replied. “In our youth, you and I rode against him with all the armed might of the Talendar at our backs. In later years, his other foes sent bravos and assassins to waylay him, and commissioned spellcasters to assail him with their sendings. And all of it to no avail, because our quarry is too canny.”

  “Yet you think your scheme will succeed where all others failed,” Nuldrevyn said.

  “Yes,” said the wizard. “We can be reasonably certain that Shamur will try to kill Thamalon, because she slew her share of men in her youth, when she reckoned she had cause. And the Owl, shrewd as he is, will never anticipate his wife of thirty years abruptly making an attempt on his life. She’s one of the very few people who can slip inside his guard.”

>   Nuldrevyn nodded. “Perhaps it is worth a try.”

  Marance smiled. “I appreciate your confidence. After Thamalon is slain, I’ll pick off the rest of the family. Given what we know of the children, it ought to be easy enough, although I would like some helpers who know which end of a sword to grip.”

  “Why don’t you just whistle up some hobgoblins or something, the way you used to?” Nuldrevyn said, lifting his cup to swallow the last of his wine.

  “I probably will, before I’m through,” Marance replied, “and I trust I’ll manage something more interesting than hobgoblins. But human agents have a number of advantages over summoned creatures. They tend to be more intelligent and less conspicuous, they don’t disappear after a set interval, and a rival mage can’t dispel them.”

  “Very well,” said Nuldrevyn, “but you can’t use Talendar guards.”

  The last few words of the sentence sounded peculiar in his own ears, and after a moment, he realized why. Bileworm had spoken them in unison with him. The old man scowled at the mockery.

  “I know,” Marance said. “Even if the warriors didn’t wear their uniforms, somebody might recognize one of them, and then our House would be held accountable for their actions. That’s why I asked you to provide me a lieutenant who knows his way around the underworld.” He gave an avuncular smile to Ossian, who, among his other responsibilities, was indeed his father’s liaison to Selgaunt’s criminal community.

  “All right,” said Ossian, a shade hesitantly, “I can hire a crew of ruffians for you. I suppose.”

  “Don’t worry,” Marance said, “I won’t kill them when I’m done with them. Nobody will miss that apothecary and her friends, but I understand how desirable it is for we Talendar to maintain our secret alliance with the major outlaw fraternities of the city. Besides, I won’t have any reason to slay my helpers. By the time I’m ready to dismiss them, there won’t be anyone left for them to warn.”

  Ossian grinned. “Thank you, uncle. I appreciate your restraint.”

  “I still wonder if this scheme is going to work,” Nuldrevyn grumbled, still irked over Bileworm’s impudence. “Thamalon knows how to handle himself in a fight. If Shamur gives him a chance to defend himself, he could easily kill her instead of the other way around.”

  “If so,” said Marance, “then we’ll still be one dead Uskevren to the good. Don’t worry, brother. While I do have confidence in my strategy, I know that events may not fall out precisely as desired, and I’ve planned for every contingency. One way or another, I’m going to clip the Old Owl’s wings.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Shamur gave Thamalon time to draw his long sword and come on guard, but not an instant longer. She immediately sprang into distance, feinted a head cut, and then, when her husband’s blade came up to parry, attempted a strike to the chest.

  Thamalon reacted to the true attack in time. Retreating, he swept his sword to his left to close the line. The two blades rang together, and Shamur waited to counterparry his riposte, but instead of attacking in his turn, he simply took a second step backward.

  “For the love of Sune,” he said, his black brows drawn down in a fierce scowl, his cheek bloody from the shallow gash she’d cut there, “at least explain what this is all about.”

  “I told you,” she said. “I know what you did.”

  She advanced and attacked again, beating his blade aside, then lunging and driving her point at his throat.

  He hopped back, and the attack fell short. Shouting, her skirts whispering on the fallen snow, she ran at him, striving to plunge her point across those last few inches. He pivoted and brushed her weapon out of line. Now her blade was passé, beyond his body and poorly positioned for either offense or defense. Her safest option was to dash past her opponent and spin around to face him.

  So that was what she attempted, meanwhile watching for his riposte so she could counter. Unfortunately, she was so intent on his sword that she lost sight of what his other hand was doing.

  Suddenly his unlit horn lantern was hurtling down at her skull. She saw she had no hope of dodging it, so she threw up her unarmed hand and caught the blow on her forearm. One of the milky oval windows shattered, and the pewter frame around it buckled. The impact numbed her limb and knocked her off balance.

  From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed him sprinting after her, the lantern raised for a second blow. Frantically, her boots slipping in the snow, she wrenched herself around and thrust her broadsword at his face, an attack out of distance but one that at least served to bring him up short.

  Shamur scowled. Skilled combatant that he was, Thamalon had nearly had her then. It didn’t matter how furious she was, she mustn’t attack so recklessly, as if there was nothing more at stake than a touch in a friendly fencing bout. This duel was life and death. More warily now, sizing up her adversary, looking for openings, waiting for an advantageous moment to attack, she moved in on him again.

  “Just tell me!” Thamalon said. A snowflake drifted down to light on his shoulder. The frigid wind moaned.

  “And then you’ll lie and deny it, and I won’t believe you,” Shamur said. “Why don’t we save ourselves some time, and simply fight?”

  She slashed at his torso, and he used the battered lantern like a buckler to block the cut. Her blade lodged in it somehow, and when she jerked it back, it tore the makeshift shield from his grasp and weighted her own weapon down, rendering it useless. Seeing his opportunity, he charged her, his long sword lifted high to brain her with the heavy round steel pommel. She retreated hastily and flailed with her own sword to shake free the lantern. It landed with a clank on the ground. She extended her point, and Thamalon had to wrench himself to one side to avoid impaling himself.

  That desperate attempt to check his momentum sent him reeling. He was virtually defenseless, but Shamur couldn’t take advantage of it. Her scramble backward had deprived her of her own balance, and in the instant it took her to recover, he did so as well.

  But she knew there would be other openings, and, smiling, she advanced on him again.

  “Tell me,” he said. The blood had run down to the ermine collar of his winter cloak, staining the white fur red.

  Shamur beat his blade to the side, then thrust at his shoulder. Hopping back a step, his black boots with their gold and silver spurs crunching in the hindering, treacherous snow, he deflected her blade with a lateral parry. She waited an instant for his riposte, then, when it didn’t come, lunged closer and renewed her attack, trying to hook around the long sword that still theoretically closed the line.

  That was what Thamalon had been waiting for. With flawless timing, he waited until she was entirely committed to her action and he widened the parry. The two blades scraping together, he shoved Shamur’s broadsword so far to his left that it had no hope of piercing its target. Worse, she was passé again, virtually unable to make another attack until she cocked her arm back as far as it would go or withdrew from such close quarters. Trying to take advantage of the situation, he grabbed for her wrist with his unarmed hand.

  It was a mistake. He might be as good a fencer as she, but she very much suspected she was the better brawler, a skill she’d honed in disreputable taverns, thieves’ dens, and alleys from Sembia to the Moonsea. She whipped her sword arm far to the side, easily avoiding his attempt to seize it, and smashed the heel of her empty hand into her husband’s jaw.

  Thamalon’s head snapped back and he stumbled. Shamur recovered from her lunge and swept the broadsword in a savage cut at his torso.

  By the time he saw the blow coming, it was too late to parry, but he managed to jump back. Her attack, which should have sheared through ribs and into the lung beneath, merely grazed him, ripping his lambskin jacket, doublet, shirt, and scoring the flesh beneath.

  Snarling, she instantly attacked again. He retreated out of distance. She started to rush after him, then stopped, reminding herself again that, vengeful as she was, she couldn’t let it make her rash. Thamalon would ta
ke advantage of any mistake.

  So, taking her time, catching her breath, she stalked closer, then began to advance and retreat, advance and retreat, with the mincing, cadenced, subtle steps of a fencer attempting to hoodwink his opponent’s perception of the distance. He hitched back and forth in time with her.

  “I drew first blood, old man,” she sneered. Perhaps she could rattle him with taunts and insults, although actually, she doubted it. As far as she knew, none of his other foes had ever succeeded with such a ploy.

  “Second,” said Thamalon, calmly as she’d expected, “depending on how you’re counting.”

  “I don’t count the scratch on the cheek,” she said. “You hadn’t drawn a weapon. That was just to rouse you from your usual senescent daze.”

  “Well,” he replied, “if I’m all that senile, and you can kill me any time you like, then what harm would it do for you to explain to me what this is all abou—”

  As he spoke, she stepped forward, but then did not retreat again. Lulled by and still following the rhythm she’d established and now abandoned, Thamalon advanced into distance. She instantly cut at his head.

  It was the perfect moment for it, because even the greatest warrior who ever lived couldn’t retreat at the same instant he was stepping forward. But Thamalon whipped the long sword just in time to stop her weapon from splitting his head. The impact rang like a bell, and notched both of their blades.

  He riposted with a cut at her leg. She counterparried, feinted an attack to his flank, then tried for his head again. He skipped back out of distance, his point extended to hold her back.

  He continued to fight in much the same manner, constantly giving ground. Many swordsmen habitually relied on the edge, sometimes carrying blades that scarcely even possessed a point. But the tip of Thamalon’s weapon was sharp as a needle, and he knew as well as Shamur how to use it. As she advanced, he constantly threatened her wrist. Knowing that a combatant is most vulnerable at the moment he attacks, he clearly wanted her to try to penetrate deep into the distance with killing strokes at his torso and head. Since his sword wouldn’t have as far to travel, he planned to catch her with a stop thrust to the forearm before her blade could touch him.