The Shattered Mask s-3

by Richard Lee Byers

  "None, perhaps," Nuldrevyn said, "but my concern is that if matters had fallen out just a little differently, someone could have linked our family to the assault." The mage frowned. "I don't see how." "One of your henchmen could have been captured and interrogated," Nuldrevyn said.

  "It wouldn't have mattered," Marance said. "They didn't know who I was. They didn't even know who Ossian was, correct?" He turned to the younger man for confirmation. "That's true," Ossian admitted.

  Smiling his gentle little smile, Marance pivoted back toward Nuldrevyn. "You see? The lad knows what he's about, and thanks to his circumspection, no one could possibly follow the thread that leads from the bullies to us."

  "Perhaps," Nuldrevyn said, "but when you entered that theater, you were venturing into a crowd. What if someone had stabbed you in the back, or snatched off your mask?"

  Marance shook his head. "Now you're being silly. I know how to handle myself, and even if I didn't, I was flying through the air well out of people's reach for nearly the entire time."

  "Well, what if someone had gotten a good look at those white eyes of yours?"

  "It wouldn't have mattered," Marance replied. "Your hypothetical observer still wouldn't have recognized me, nor would anyone to whom he spoke. I've heen dead thirty years, Nuldrevyn. No one remembers me anymore. Even Thamalon, my slayer, couldn't place me."

  "Maybe not," the old man said, "but I still think it would be wise for you to lay low." "Lay low?" Marance repeated.

  "Just for a little while," Ossian said quickly, "until the uproar over the attack on the playhouse dies down, and people stop looking for the man responsible."

  "Such a delay is unnecessary," Marance said, "and I'm afraid it's unacceptable as well. I've waited a long time for my revenge. I don't intend to wait any longer."

  "You've already killed Thamalon and Shamur," said Nuldrevyn. "Surely that was the main thing."

  "Yes," said Marance, "but it wasn't the whole thing, nor will it be until the House of Uskevren is extinct."

  "I promise," said Ossian, "we'll rid ourselves of Tamlin and his sibs eventually.

  "I wonder if you could," Marance replied. "So far, they haven't turned out to be the dimwitted weaklings I was led to expect, and in any case, lad, you aren't hearing me. The Uskevren have to die by my hand, now, before my liege calls me back to the Iron City."

  Nuldrevyn grimaced. "It's just that Ossian and I are worried-"

  "To perdition with your worries," Marance said. "Don't you think you owe me this bit of satisfaction?"

  Nuldrevyn hesitated. "I don't know what you mean."

  'That's because I've never reproached you with it," Marance said. "But I told you that after Thamalon cut open my belly, it took me a long, excruciating time to succumb to my wound, a period during which I waited in vain for my brother to ride back to look for me. Had you done so, you might well have been able to save my life."

  Nuldrevyn gaped at his brother in horror. "After Thamalon and his men broke our company, all was confusion. I didn't see what happened to you, and assumed you were either dead or fleeing for your life like the rest of us survivors. Surely you know that if I'd had any inkling you needed me, I would have dared any peril to reach you!"

  "If so," Marance replied, "then you should be equally keen to help me now. Are you?"

  As Nuldrevyn gazed into the wizard's peculiar eyes, he felt a frisson of unease. He told himself it was nonsense. Dead and damned though he might be, Marance remained his brother and would never hurt him. Still, though it shamed him, he found himself reluctant to put his faith to the test.

  "Of course I want to help you," the old man said. "Destroy Thamalon's get and we'll all dance on their graves. I just needed to make sure you intend to be careful."

  "Absolutely," Marance said. "Even if I didn't wish to shield you, I would still have excellent reason to watch my step. What do you think would happen if someone here in the mortal realm killed me a second time?"

  "I don't know," Nuldrevyn replied. "I wasn't even sure you could be killed. Wouldn't you simply go back to being a grandee in the netherworld? Or rise to attack the Uskevren once more?"

  "Alas, no," the wizard said. "I have it on good authority that I'd turn back into a larva frying in a fire pit, and I daresay my rivals at court, baatezu lords who resent the fact that a human has risen to their level, would make very sure that I never escaped the flames or my uncouth shape again."

  The wizard smiled. "But rest assured, neither you nor I are going to find ourselves embarrassed in that way or any other. My next ploy will carry our little campaign of vengeance to a successful conclusion. For while I was meditating, it suddenly came to me that I possess the means to destroy all three of Thamalon's cubs with a single stroke." He reached inside his mantle and produced a silver and sapphire brooch. "It's wonderful how the dark powers guide our hands, don't you think, even when we imagine we're doing something as inconsequential as picking up a souvenir."

  Chapter 15

  Shamur was cutting at the air, testing the heft and balance of yet another new broadsword, when she overheard a bushy-bearded butcher in a bloody apron regaling several associates with a booming account of attempts on her children's lives. Suddenly alarmed, she hastily paid the asking price for the weapon-the vendor was plainly surprised that she hadn't bothered to haggle-then strode across the marketplace to the newsmonger. Thamalon tramped along behind her.

  "Mammoth spiders and scorpions crawling everywhere," the butcher said, milking the story for all it was worth, "so thick that the walls were black with them! A dozen evil necromancers conjuring showers of hail and vitriol from the air! The battle completely demolished the playhouse! Should you visit the site this morning, you won't see a building at all, just a field strewn with wreckage."

  "Excuse me," Shamur said.

  "My brother-in-law was there," the bearded man continued, not heeding her. "He witnessed every-" "Excuse me," she repeated, more forcefully. He rounded on her. "What?"

  "I realize you're trying to tell this tale in your own fashion, but I beg you to clarify one point straightaway. Were any of the Uskevren sibs or their retainers killed?" The butcher sneered. "I understand they lost their wizard and the captain of their household guard during the fight, but the sprouts all got away." For an instant, Shamur felt lightheaded with relief. "Isn't that always the way? Feuding nobles tear Selgaunt apart and endanger the lives of us commoners, but somehow the arrogant bastards themselves survive to plague us another day."

  "And meanwhile, where's the Hulorn?" asked a good-wife with a wicker basket slung over her arm. "Reciting poetry? Swooning over a painting? Not keeping the peace, that's for sure!"

  "We'd be better off without an aristocracy," said a tanner, his trade apparent from the stink that clung to him. "There are other ways to run things. The philosopher Rutilinus said…"

  Shamur and Thamalon moved away. "Torm's fist," the nobleman said, "we knew the children were in a certain amount of danger, but I certainly didn't expect two attacks in less than twenty-four hours. Deadly serious attacks, by the sound of it, even allowing for the exaggeration that inflates any tale as it makes the rounds."

  "Our side must have believed itself prepared for the second assault," she said, "yet poor Captain Orvist and Master Selwick were slain anyway. That's… troubling."

  'To say the least." Thamalon looked fretful and irresolute as she had seldom seen him, and for some reason, the sight tied a knot of complex emotion in her breast.

  "You love the children, don't you?" she said.

  He snorted. "You sound surprised."

  "You always seem so disappointed in them."

  "I am. Each of them has a great deal of growing up to do before he or she would be fit to lead our House, or even support it in any meaningful way, and it's disgusting that they aren't even trying! But that doesn't mean I don't care about them, or that I'm ready to give up on them."

  Shamur shook her head. "I didn't realize. In recent years, after we Karns
recouped our fortune, and the children were nearly grown, that was one of the reasons I continued my masquerade."

  "I don't follow."

  "I was afraid to give you the opportunity to annul our marriage, illegitimatize Tamlin, Thazienne, and Talbot, remarry, and sire an heir more to your liking."

  He scowled. "It's clear why I was never able to understand you, woman, but it's becoming painfully obvious that you never understood me, either, and since I wasn't trying to conceal my true nature, that's a puzzle. But I suppose we have more immediate questions to ponder. We know now that the children are in graver peril than we supposed. Should we stop prowling the city incognito and go home, so we can look after them?"

  Shamur frowned as she mulled it over. Finally she said, "They still have guards, Erevis, and the walls of a fortified mansion to protect them. Moreover, judging from our friend the butcher's admittedly garbled account, they did a fair job of fighting on their own behalf."

  Thamalon snorted. "That must have been a fluke."

  Shamur felt a reflexive surge of anger. They'd quarreled so often over Tamlin and Talbot, he belittling them, or so it had seemed to her, and she defending them. "That's unkind and unfair."

  To her surprise, he hesitated, then said, "Yes, I suppose it is. Whatever their flaws, Tazi and Tal at least know how to swing a sword. Tamlin, too, perhaps. But be that as it may, you were observing that even with Jander and Brom gone, the children still enjoy a fair amount of protection."

  "Yes, and I hope they have the sense to be careful from now on. So perhaps in the long run, we'll serve them best by holding to our present course and tracking down Master Moon. Whereas if we emerge from hiding, he might well go to ground for a month or a year, then strike again when we relax our guard."

  "You have a point," Thamalon said. "I guess it's on to the Scab, then."

  Shamur attached the scabbard of her new sword to her belt, and the two nobles headed south, away from the waterfront and into the warehouse district. A frigid breeze chilled their faces and plucked at the folds of their cloaks. Snowflakes began to fall from the leaden clouds overhead.

  "Are the children truly as feckless as you make them out?" she asked after a time.

  "Of course they are," he said. "If you weren't always so keen to disagree with me, you'd perceive it, too."

  "Do you think the estrangement between us is somehow to blame?"

  "I don't know," Thamalon replied. She sensed that he felt as uncomfortable contemplating the possibility as she did. "I tried to be a good parent. So did you. Who could do more?"

  "I wonder if I tried hard enough," she said. They halted at an intersection to let an ox cart laden with garden statuary go by. "How could I have, when my children don't really even know me?"

  "Don't think that," he said. "Yes, you wore a mask for them as you did for everyone else. But the love and care you gave them were genuine, were they not? That was your true self, shining through."

  "I hope so. Still, my situation must have influenced the way I treated them. It surely poisoned the bond I shared with Thazienne. From early on, when we first realized what a young hellion she was, I tried to mold her into the kind of staid, proper noblewoman that I myself hated being, and looking back, I don't even know why. Was I jealous of her for fencing, wrestling, and enjoying the life of the streets when I could no longer do those things myself? Am I that petty and spiteful?"

  "Judging from my own experience," said Thamalon, "yes." He grimaced. "No, never mind, I shouldn't have said that. Your coldness toward me has no bearing on your performance as a mother. Actually, I believe you always meant well in your dealings with all the children, Tazi included. What's more, you were right to think she needs some reining in. Eventually, her penchant for theft is likely to land her in serious trouble."

  "You may be right," she said, picking her way around a mound of filthy slush. "After all, that's what happened to me." They walked a few more paces. "I've been thinking about what you said before. You were right. I couldn't emulate my grand-niece's warm, gentle nature for very long. Once we were married, I had to change, in order to push you away."

  Thamalon laughed an ugly little laugh. "You don't have to keep reiterating that you found me repulsive. I've already gotten the message."

  "That's not what I meant." They strode past a furniture maker's factory whining and banging with the sounds of lathes, saws, and hammers. Shamur had to raise her voice a bit to make herself heard over the racket. "You didn't repel me. You were sweet and loving, and that was the problem. I realized the affection wasn't actually for me but for a dead girl, that your fondness would turn to rage and loathing if you ever discovered I was an impostor, and somehow that made our closeness too strange, difficult, and even painful to bear."

  "I'm sure that had you revealed your true identity in the first year or two," he said, "I would have reacted as you say. Later on, I would still have been dismayed, but by that time you were an integral part of my life and the mother of our children. Perhaps, once I recovered from the shock, it wouldn't actually have mattered.

  Since you never found it in your heart to trust me, we'll never know."

  Shamur didn't know what to say to that. She was relieved when they rounded a corner and the Scab came into view, recalling them to the task at hand.

  Like much of Selgaunt, the Scab was built largely of brownstone. Some people claimed that the sandstone blocks that had gone to construct it possessed an odd, rusty tint that made them precisely the color of clotted blood. Others maintained that the walls in the rookery were the same hue as those found elsewhere, but that fanciful minds perceived them differently because of the area's sinister reputation. For while the city had other dangerous neighborhoods, the Scab was generally regarded as the worst. A maze of narrow, twisting alleys and decaying tenements, it was home to the poorest of the poor and every variety of vice and depravity. Shamur had heard that the Scepters never entered the rookery except in force, and even then with the greatest reluctance, which she supposed made it a desirable haven for the Quippers. "Not an especially charming sight, is it?" Thamalon said. "Not to my eye," she agreed. "Watch yourself in there. We mustn't look nervous or otherwise out of place."

  "Don't worry about me," he replied. "Unlike my father, I never made common cause with pirates or bandits. But in the bad old days, when my fortunes were at low ebb, and scoundrels of all stripes assumed one lone, friendless trader would prove an easy mark, it helped me to learn to treat with them on their own level. Shall we?"

  He gestured toward the arched entrance to the Scab. Once, the gate had probably been imposing, but now it was covered with lewd graffiti and looked as if it might collapse at any moment.

  When they passed through, the first thing Shamur noticed was the mingled stench of various types of waste. Like the residents of other precincts, the inhabitants of the Scab tossed their refuse into the street, the difference being that no night-carter dared enter the rookery to collect it. The smell was sickening even with the muck half frozen. She hated to think how foul it was in the summer.

  She and Thamalon began working their way from one tavern to the next, for despite the evidence of poverty abundant on every side, the Scab had more than its share of such establishments, squalid little ordinaries operating in dank, low cellars, cramped rooms devoid of seating, or even out in the open wherever some entrepreneur chose to set a keg on a pair of trestles. The nobles eavesdropped on the conversations of the rough men swilling stale beer and raw spirit, and joined in when it seemed feasible. Shamur was relieved to see that, as he'd promised, her husband's impersonation of a blackguard was reasonably convincing.

  She enjoyed the game of fishing for information, knowing that if they misspoke, they'd likely face a room full of naked blades. But when they were simply traversing the streets, the sordid life of the Scab depressed her. Primarily, it was the children. She saw infants gaunt with starvation. Toddlers scavenging through the mounds of trash. Gangs of ragged, hard-eyed youths ranging the stree
ts in search of the weak and unwary, not robbing for sport as she once had, but simply to survive. Little girls selling their bodies. Even a filthy, drunken surgeon of sorts who mutilated youngsters to prepare them for a life of begging.

  At this last spectacle, Thamalon gave a wordless growl of disgust. "I've always heard it was bad in here, but I never dreamed it was this bad. There must be a way to clean up this cesspit, or tear it down and build something better. To put the needy inhabitants to work, and send the villains packing."

  "The thought does you credit," she replied. "Someday soon, you can explore the subject with the city council, assuming, of course, that we make it out of here alive."

  "Yes," he said, "assuming that." They descended a short flight of stairs to yet another wretched cellar taproom, the sole difference being that the proprietor of this one had apparently gone to the trouble to give it a name and a sign, clumsily daubing a pair of crossed blades on the door.

  *****

  Snitch liked spying in the Crossed Daggers. The tavern was no warmer or more comfortable than a number of other filthy little taverns scattered through the Scab, nor was the conversation of the inebriated louts who drank there any more diverting. But the host, prompted by what Snitch regarded as preposterous optimism, kept a bottle of good brandy under the bar, just in case a discerning and prosperous customer ever wandered in by mistake. A gall-trit like Snitch, a gray, bat-winged gremlin the size of a human hand, had no trouble sneaking up and raiding the supply, then slipping back to his hidey-hole undetected. Licking his chops with his long tongue, relishing the aftertaste of the liquor, he was just about to resume his post, a shadowy depression in the dilapidated wall, when the man in brown and the woman in black and gray walked in.

  At first glance, they looked like just another pair of bravos, cleaner and less brutish than some, perhaps, but nothing out of the ordinary save for the fact that Snitch had never seen them before. Still, Avos the Fisher had captured and trained him to be his watchdog when he was only a pup. He'd been spying long enough to develop an instinct for it, and that sensibility told him to observe the newcomers closely. His crimson eyes narrowed, and his big, pointed ears perked up.