The Shattered Mask s-3

by Richard Lee Byers

  For a few minutes, the strangers sipped their ale quietly, seemingly keeping to themselves, but Snitch, a professional eavesdropper himself, sensed that they were attending to the conversations of the other patrons. As time passed, he judged from the subtle way they shifted closer that they were particularly interested in the remarks of a scrofulous tough with symbols of strength and good fortune tattooed on his cheeks and brow. The drunk was boring the taverner with a slurred account of his various exploits as a hired sword.

  The willowy woman sauntered up beside him, rested her hand lightly on his, and, when he lurched around to face her, gave him a smile.

  "Moon above," she purred, "I've been through a scrape or two in my time, but nothing as dicey as you describe. You just might be the toughest warrior I've ever met, and I insist that you do me the honor of letting me buy you a drink."

  Snitch noticed the woman's companion looking on with a hint of ironic amusement in his green eyes, but the drunk took her flattery at face value. "Sure, darling," he said, leering, "you bet."

  He tried to throw his arm around her and yank her close, but she evaded the fumbling attempt so deftly that, inebriated as he was, he might not realize she'd even moved, let alone avoided the embrace on purpose.

  "I imagine you get hired for all the serious fighting that goes on around here," the woman said. "Did the Quippers use you on that crew they put together a day or two ago?"

  Snitch bared his needlelike fangs. Since no one outside the gang was supposed to know about that particular job, his master would be more than interested to know that strangers were asking questions about it. The galltrit waited until none of the humans was looking in his direction, then spread his membranous wings, sprang from his perch, and flew out the door.

  *****

  Shamur and Thamalon trudged down yet another twisted alley in search of the next tavern. The cold wind whistled down the narrow passage. The snow began to fall a little harder.

  "Another miss," Thamalon grumbled, "and I daresay the oaf with the tattoos would have confided in you if he'd known anything. Your imitation of a lickerish trollop was quite convincing."

  "You'd know, wouldn't you?" she snapped.

  "Ah," he said, "I see we're back to decrying my venery."

  She felt a pang of guilt. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I do that, either. Plainly, you don't deserve it. Everyone in our circle takes lovers, and no one regards it as shameful, or indeed, anything but natural. Even the cuckolds and forsaken wives don't care. Why should they, when they're dallying with paramours of their own?"

  "You never did," he said, "at least as far as I know."

  "No."

  "Another way of spiting yourself, belike." "I don't know," she said. "Perhaps I simply realized that if my masquerade made it awkward to be intimate with you, I'd likely have the same problem with any other man."

  "I'll tell you a secret," he said. "When we first married, I didn't want the same kind of half-hearted union as our peers. I intended to forsake all other women and devote myself to you alone. But later, when you rebuffed me…"

  He shrugged.

  "Of course," she said glumly. "Why shouldn't you seek the beds of other women, when I appeared so averse to having you in my own?" She sighed. "Tazi asked me that very question once. Of course, I refused to discuss the matter like a human being. I went all cold and haughty, the way I usually do with her."

  He grunted. "I can't say I'm sorry. I see no reason to burden the children with every sad detail of our travesty of a marriage, although I suppose they must realize-" He stopped abruptly to stare down the alleyway.

  Shamur did the same. Bullies armed with slings, cudgels, and blades were slinking out of doorways and up cellar steps.

  "Well," she said, "it would appear that once again, some busybody has seen fit to alert someone else that two outsiders are poking then- noses in where they don't belong."

  "I'd rather not fight if we can avoid it," Thamalon said. "They have us outnumbered, and with those slings, they could bring us down before we ever came into sword range."

  "I agree," she said. "Let's try to get out of here." They turned and strolled back in the direction from which they'd come, resisting the urge to look behind them or run headlong, lest they provoke the bravos into charging. Meanwhile, Shamur listened intently, trying to judge whether the toughs were quickening their pace to close the distance.

  Suddenly she heard a thrumming, and a split second later, a sling bullet whizzed past her ear. She and Thamalon broke into a sprint, zigzagging to throw off the aim of the slingers, and the bullies shouted and pounded after them.

  A lead pellet cracked down into the frozen earth behind her. Her foot skidded on a patch of ice, but, her arms flailing, she managed to stay on her feet. Then another contingent of sneering bravos stepped into view ahead of her and Thamalon.

  Now trapped between two groups of enemies, the Uskevren peered wildly about. Finally Shamur spotted a gap between two tenements. The crumbling brownstones had slumped toward one another, bringing their upper stories into contact, but a space remained at ground level.

  "This way!" she shouted, and she and Thamalon scrambled toward the murky tunnel. Sling bullets hurtled all around them, but miraculously, none found its mark. She darted into the gap, and he followed. The corridor was so cramped it would have been impossible to run side by side.

  It would take a good marksman to sling a missile down such a passage, but it could be done. Shamur feared she and Thamalon had a few seconds at most to find an exit before another barrage of pellets hurtled at their backs. She had all but given up hope of doing so when a gap in the wall to the right swam out of the gloom.

  She plunged around the corner and found herself at the terminus of another alley. As she and Thamalon ran down it, the thudding footsteps of their pursuers echoing behind them, Shamur realized she had no idea where the passage was taking them, for both she and her husband were strangers to the Scab. They would have to flee blindly, uncertain which of the labyrinthine paths led out of the rookery and which looped back around to their points of origin. Whereas the enemy doubtless knew the slum intimately, down to every shortcut, twist, and turn. She suspected the bullies might not have much trouble keeping track of their quarry, getting ahead of them, or herding them wherever they wanted them to go.

  Sure enough, the nobles sprinted around a bend and found several ruffians waiting. Instantly, the enemy whirled their slings. Shamur and Thamalon wheeled and retreated. They heard other foes rushing up from that direction, and scrambled down another branching passage.

  It went on like that for a long, wearisome time, until both nobles were panting and drenched in perspiration. Whenever Shamur thought she'd spotted a route to safety, toughs would appear to cut them off, and they had to flee back deeper into the Scab. She was grateful that at least the ordinary inhabitants of the rookery didn't seem interested in aiding the Quippers, but they were evidently too leery of the gang to try to help their intended victims, either. Whenever the hunted or hunters approached, the poor darted into their homes, slammed and barred the doors behind them, and peeked out between the nailed boards or rickety, crooked shutters on their windows.

  At last the Uskevren staggered into a malodorous little courtyard, where beady-eyed rats rustled through piles of festering trash. Three other alleyways led away from this spot, and, by now thoroughly disoriented, Shamur had no notion which one to take. Since for the moment, none of the Quippers seemed to be right on their heels, she paused to take her bearings and catch her breath.

  Thamalon slumped against a soot-stained wall. "We did better fleeing through the woods," he wheezed. "The daylight and these closed-in spaces are killing us. We may have to try to fight, and the odds be damned."

  "Perhaps," she said, shivering and drawing her cloak about her. Now that she'd stopped running, the wind was doing its best to freeze her sweaty tunic. "If we have to make a stand, let's do it somewhere they can only come at us from one direction, and only one
or two at a time. But I consider that the option of last resort."

  "Agreed. And wife, whatever happens, I want you to know one thing."

  "What's that?"

  "I blame you for our predicament. If you recall, I suggested we go home."

  For a moment, she bristled, then realized he'd made a joke. "Don't be a spoilsport," she said, grinning. "Home is dull compared to this."

  She still hadn't managed to figure out what direction they should take, but she could hear hunters calling to one another, stalking closer, and knew they shouldn't remain in the courtyard any longer.

  "How about this way?" she said, pointing to an alley at random.

  "It looks as good as any," he replied. "Let's move."

  In fact, when they crept to the other end of the crooked passage and peeked around the corner, she decided their selection might be quite good indeed, for it had brought them back almost to the point at which they'd entered the Scab. The graffiti-blemished arch was about sixty feet to their right, and no one appeared to be guarding it.

  "It looks too good to be true," Thamalon whispered.

  "I know what you mean," she replied, "but in my experience, people don't always hunt you in the most effective way possible. Perhaps the Quippers really didn't leave any sentries here."

  "Or perhaps not enough of them," he said, "and so far, this is as close as we've come to escaping this maze. Let's try to make a run for it."

  They charged out into the narrow street and dashed toward the gate. Four bravos scrambled from their places of concealment to cut them off.

  To the Pit with it, Shamur thought. She'd overcome worse odds in her day. Grinning fiercely, she drew her sword and ran on. Beside her, Thamalon did the same.

  Something hummed, and she heard the distinctive smack of a sling bullet slamming into flesh and bone. Thamalon made a choking sound and fell.

  She lurched to a halt, spun around, and saw the half dozen toughs rushing up the street behind her. Another sling bullet whizzed past her as she crouched beside her husband.

  The back of his head was bloody, and he was clearly dazed. "Get up!" she said, tugging on his arm.

  "Can't," he croaked. "You run. Maybe you can still get away."

  Perhaps she could, particularly, it suddenly occurred to her, if she took to the rooftops. Certainly it would be prudent to make the attempt. But she couldn't find it in her heart to leave him lying helpless in the street when, for all she knew, the bullies meant to slay him out of hand.

  "We're both going to get away," she said. "I'm going to kill every one of these bastards, and then we'll stroll on out of here."

  She leaped to her feet, screamed, and charged the larger of the two groups of toughs. They clearly hadn't expected that, and for an instant, they froze. One of the slingers was still trying to fumble his short sword out of its scabbard when she cut him down.

  Pivoting, she dropped a second ruffian with a thrust to the throat, and took a third out of action with a slash to the sword arm. The remaining ones fell back.

  She could hear the four who'd been lurking near the gate pounding up behind her. She had only seconds to kill the men in front of her so she could whirl and fight the others. She advanced, the broadsword low, inviting attack in the high line. A scar-faced man in a red doublet took the bait and slashed at her face. She parried and drove her point into his chest.

  At that same instant, another ruffian attacked. Since she was still yanking her weapon from his comrade's body, she had to slap his dagger out of line with her unweaponed hand. Then the broadsword pulled free, but the bravo had lunged in too close for her to readily use the blade. She smashed the pommel against his temple, and he dropped.

  One left! She pivoted to engage him, and then her time ran out.

  Pain blazed in the center of her back. Certain that someone had stabbed her, she snarled and tried to pivot around to maim him in turn, but lost her balance and fell. The surviving toughs surrounded her, striking and kicking, until she no longer had any strength to resist.

  Chapter 16

  Wyla found Magnus and Chade loafing in their usual hidey-hole in the loft, at the far end of the warehouse from her own cluttered little office. She often wondered that they didn't find a new haven in which to hunker down and shirk, someplace she hadn't yet discovered, but perhaps they were too lazy even to bother with that.

  "Come on, sluggards," the thickset woman with the graying ponytail said. "There's work to be done."

  "I guess," said Magnus, a stooped, middle-aged man with jug-handle ears. To her surprise, he didn't sound sheepish or put-upon, but instead, somber and worried as if he and his fellow laborer had been having an uncharacteristically serious conversation.

  "Is something the matter?" she asked.

  "You must have heard about the trouble," said Chade. A swarthy, rather handsome young man with a mellifluous baritone voice, he was as usual rather too well dressed for his job of lugging bales and boxes about. "The Uskevren heir and cadets were attacked yesterday. Captain Orvist and Master Selwick died in the fighting. What's more, it's rumored that Lord Uskevren himself hasn't been seen for a couple of days."

  "Certainly I've heard about it," Wyla said. "What I don't understand is what it has to do with you two gentlemen of leisure stacking crates onto wagons."

  "I know how things used to be," Magnus said. "Back when Lord Uskevren first came back to town. Enemy Houses attacked his caravans, shops, manufactories, and warehouses to try and ruin his family a second time."

  "Those days are over," Wyla said. "Besides, if any rogues showed up here to make trouble, don't you think the three of us could show them off?"

  She fingered the well-worn hilt of the long sword hanging at her side. She'd owned the blade since her youth, when she'd served the House of Uskevren as a warrior. Eventually a lamed leg had ended her martial career, whereupon Lord Thamalon, who'd realized her talents from the beginning, had made her one of his factors. She had little use for the weapon these days, and sometimes its weight made her bad leg ache, but she would have felt undressed without it.

  "We'd damn well try to drive them off," said Chade, "and failing that, I suppose we could run away. But I'm not worried about us so much as Lord Uskevren himself. Do you think he's all right?"

  "Absolutely," Wyla said, "and since I rode with him through the hardest and most dangerous of times, and saw firsthand what a cunning and doughty warrior he is, I'm in a position to know."

  "I hope so," said Chade. "He's a good man to work for, not like some. Remember how he invited us all to Storm-weather Towers for that feast, and helped when Fossan-dor's mother was going to lose her cottage?"

  "I do," said Wyla, "and I tell you again, whatever it is that's happening, he and his family will be fine. Unless all his workers shirk their tasks, and his trading empire collapses."

  Magnus rolled his eyes. "All right, we get the point."

  He and Chade clambered to their feet, stepped from behind the rampart of crates upon which they relied to conceal themselves from her view, and started down the ladder to the warehouse floor. Wyla followed. As with wearing her sword, negotiating the ladder was hard on her leg. With her muscular arms, it was actually easier to hoist herself up and down on the lift. She refused to resort to such a shift, however, lest it make her feel like a cripple in truth.

  Magnus and Chade sauntered outside to wheel a wagon into position for loading, slamming the door behind them. Wyla limped back toward her office, through a shadowy, cavernous space packed with wood carvings, rolled carpets, kegs of nails, stoneware, cheap pine coffins, unassembled looms, and countless other items the House of Uskevren bought, manufactured, and sold.

  A mild tenor voice said, "I'm sorry, but you're wrong."

  Wyla spun around. A stranger dressed in a crescent-shaped Man in the Moon mask and a dark blue mantle stepped from behind a shelf laden with scythes, sickles, hoes, and plows. A creature of oozing darkness, its precise shape difficult to make out in the dimness, flowed out in hi
s wake.

  "You're the wizard who led the attacks on Lord Tha-malon's children," Wyla breathed.

  "I am indeed," the masked man said, "and as I was observing, as a result of my efforts, I'm afraid the House of Uskevren is actually rather far from being 'all right.' I killed Thamalon and Shamur already, and with your help, I'm about to dispose of their children as well."

  Wyla didn't understand what the spellcaster meant, nor did she especially care. She was too busy trying to figure out how she might possibly survive this encounter, for plainly, whatever else was afoot, the masked man must surely mean her harm.

  It would be useless to scream. With its rows of shelving and stacks of goods piled everywhere, the warehouse swallowed sound. And, given her lameness, it would be equally futile to turn and run. The wizard would undoubtedly have sufficient time to cast a spell on her before she scrambled out of sight, and for all she knew, his shadowy companion might pounce on her from behind.

  She had only one option, then. Try to get in close, hurt the masked man, and keep on hurting him until he was dead. Her old master-at-arms had taught her that was how you kept a hostile wizard from working any magic.

  She'd have a better chance if she could somehow catch him by surprise. To that end, she said, "Just tell me what you want from me, and I'll do it. I don't want to die."

  "Would that I could trust you," the wizard replied. "But I remember how devoted you were to Thamalon in the old days, I rather doubt you've-"

  She whipped out her sword and charged him. Reacting instantly, the wizard skipped nimbly backward, snatched a small length of iron from one of his pockets, brandished it, and rattled off a rhyme.

  Purple fire flared from the end of his polished staff, bathing her in stinging though tepid flame. Her muscles clenched painfully, depriving her of the ability to move. Off balance, she fell facedown on the floor.