by Jeff LaSala
The shrouded figure strode gracefully past him as though she hadn’t heard him at all. Steel blades, as long and slender as rapiers, appeared in each of her mailed fists. Whether an act of magic or mere sleight of hand, the weapons looked real enough.
“Stand down!” Tallis said, hoping to halt the intruder as well as alert the family to the danger.
The shrouded figure did not heed him.
“Who dares?” came a furious voice in the next room.
Responding to the alarm, a well-dressed steward appeared in the doorway with a half-drawn blade of his own. The cloth-wrapped intruder thrust both rapiers into the man’s torso—one in his stomach, the other near his collar—making not even a grunt in the motion. Sputtering blood, the steward toppled. The intruder stepped into the room beyond without hesitation.
Then came the screams.
THE DARKWOOD MASK
The Inquisitives • Book 4
©2008 Wizards of the Coast LLC
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Cover art by: Michael Komarck
eISBN: 978-0-7869-6280-8
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v3.1
Dedication
To Marisa, the angel in my armor.
You gave me the will and the means to write again.
Acknowledgements
This book wouldn’t be half as interesting without the etymological and artful prodding of my brother, John (who is weird). My appreciation and gratitude also go out to Josh “Irrational Number Man” Wentz and Marcy “Miredhel” Rockwell for their moral(e) support and omnipresent counsel; to fellow inquisitives Paul Crilley and Ed Bolme for cross-promotion and encouragement; to Keith Baker, for fielding so many questions; and to the New York City subway system, in whose tortuous tunnels much of this book was written.
And thank you, Mark Sehestedt and Erin Evans, for giving me this opportunity, seeing it through with me, and making it all so much fun.
Contents
Cover
Other Books in the Series
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Interlude
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Interlude
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Interlude
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Interlude
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Interlude
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Interlude
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Prologue
The room was small, bereft of furniture and adornment, save for a single high-backed, velvet-padded chair. The man sitting in it stared out, unseeing, through the window. His head was propped up, the lids of his eyes half open, admitting only a trace of gray light from the rising dusk.
Unaware of his surroundings, the time of day, or his own fate, the man stared forward, reliving the cycle again, the memory as present as if it were happening again right there in the small, stark room.…
Rejkar One stares at me as I work, his aventurine eyes uncomprehending. Over the last eight hours, I have watched their translucency increase and an almost imperceptible green light grow from within. Both are indicative of the sentience struggling to take hold within the artificial mind.
I labor to give the titan more.
I clean the shallow runes along the ocular cavities with a small brush. Between the gaps in its mask, I touch the darkwood fibers to test their resilience. These I have already dusted with trace amounts of ground Irian crystal. Routine maintenance is vital at this stage.
I feel strangely outside myself this day, somewhat detached as I explore this moment. Perhaps it is simply the importance of what I am doing and the perspective it gives me. I hear the shivering roar of the forge behind the titan, but I have learned to ignore the distraction. We all have. Today the forgemaster and his team have halted their usual work to produce a lot of thirty standard units. The demands of the world outside have increased, the need for more manpower dire.
I think of Aarren again as I work, a great man, despite his excoriation. His mastery of the intelligent mind, his respect for its fragility, overshadows my own. What his father Merrix had created—warforged titans like the one before me—Aarren perfected with the man-sized, more adaptable units, but some of us have not given up yet on improving the titans, the true “children” of the Orphanage. Marrying Merrix’s work with his son’s genius has been the mission of this facility for years. We have made progress, and I am proud for my part in it.
Imagine it—with sentient, rational constructs of such great strength at hand, the war could be forced to a speedy conclusion at last.
“Master, you must take some rest.” At the base of the maintenance ladder beneath me, I hear the concern in my assistant’s voice. Does he not understand how diligent I must be in my work today?
“One hour more,” he says. “Take some rest in an hour. I will take your place then, Master.” He does understand.
“That will do,” I call down to him.
I return to my work, confident I will not be interrupted again.
Chapter
ONE
The Infiltrator
Sar, the 7th of Sypheros, 998 YK
Tallis surveyed the cityscape one last time.
Night was absolute in Korth, the pearly face of Zarantyr veiled by storm clouds. It was a good time for this kind of work. Tallis watched from his position along the parapets of one of the city’s towers, clad in his customary black, masked and ready. The arches and linear designs that gave each buil
ding below him its own identity were lost in the darkness. Only an array of glowing needlepoints—wisplights at the intersections and residential firelight in the windows—riddled the gloom.
Along the main avenues, individual torches marched in long-established patterns—the noctivagant patrols of the White Lions. Tallis knew Korth’s garrison well. They were a predictable, if tenacious lot—dangerous only in numbers or if encountered unexpectedly. The only watchmen concerning him tonight were those guarding tonight’s mark.
He produced a pair of wire-framed spectacles set with dark lenses. When he settled them over the holes of his leather mask, what few colors remained of the night faded into shades of gray. The shadows nearest him vanished altogether, making every crevice and crenellation within a stone’s throw sharp in arrant contrast.
For that brief moment, Tallis envied the dwarves—even goblins and orcs, for that matter—for their natural darkvision. Sharp as his eyes were, he could not see in the dark. Less fortunate criminals—like him—had to pay hard-earned gold for devices like this one.
He set his eyes upon the adjacent tower, an edifice of black stone that rose more than ten stories higher than his current vantage. Known as the Ebonspire, it catered to the noble and the privileged, housing esteemed citizens and honored guests alike. It was also considered nigh impenetrable.
Tallis intended to prove such disinformation to be simply that.
The sentries and magic wards that guarded the tower’s occupants ensured that whatever he was after had better be worth the risk. To Tallis, it was well worth both the risk and the expense. He’d nearly exhausted his magical resources just getting this far, but at least he’d saved gold by using a simple mask. Powerful wards placed by House Medani denied all the Ebonspire’s entrants the ability to disguise their true appearances with magic. It was said even changelings could not use their innate shapeshifting within.
The dwelling he was about to infiltrate housed one Arend ir’Montevik, an aristocrat from the city of Atur whose religious charities Tallis was disinclined to favor. He nearly spit at the thought. The Blood of Vol had enough followers to fill its coffers without receiving generous donations from the likes of ir’Montevik.
While the man’s coin could surely pad his own depleting coffers, Tallis wasn’t after his wealth. Not this time, anyway. He didn’t know what business ir’Montevik had in Korth at present, but he would see to it the valuable scrolls in the man’s possession wouldn’t reach their final destination. Gold was one thing. Necromantic spells in written form were quite another.
Haedrun, the agent who’d given Tallis this job, had offered one hundred galifars for every scroll he could acquire. Such pay was paltry compared the scrolls’ actual value, but Tallis respected the Red Watchers and their work. For her, he would do this one cheap.
And if he chanced upon anything interesting or valuable in ir’Montevik’s possessions—say, dragonshards or perhaps a choice potion or two—then it would all even out. The noble was burdened by a substantial inheritance, and when such unfortunate men failed to employ their legacies properly, it was up to men like Tallis to relieve them of it.
Tallis studied the wide tower. Every story of the Ebonspire included four flats, each overlooking Korth in one of the cardinal directions from a wide balcony. His enhanced vision could not pierce the darkness as far up as he meant to climb, but he was able to scrutinize the nearest balconies, his point of access.
There: two stories down and directly across on the tower’s eastern side, Tallis spotted another guard. This one’s ivory tabard and burnished breastplate proclaimed him one of the White Lions. A military man must reside within that flat. That balcony wasn’t his target, though it was his means of accessing the Ebonspire. The guard would have to get out of his way.
A long-hafted battle-axe rested within the White Lion’s reach against the tower wall, and he held a longbow in hand. His posture was rigid from the arduous instruction all White Lions received under the iron-willed General Thauram.
Thauram. It had been a while since Tallis had crossed blades with that particular half-elf. He still saw the scar from that encounter every time he bathed.
Tallis appraised the young soldier and saw that he was tense, expecting a problem. One of Thauram’s “amnesty cases,” a felon who avoided execution only by indentured military service to the city?
Tallis simmered at the irony. Here he was, one of Karrnath’s true patriots, staring across to the other side of the law at this young rogue-in-knight’s-armor.
“Are you prepared to bleed for your nation, little white cat?” he whispered.
Tallis looked to the street far below, waited until the patrol had passed, and knew he had only a few minutes before the next. He tapped the ring on his left hand—little more than a loop of leather marked with an arcane sigil—and felt a furtive tingle spreading throughout his arms and legs. His muscles flexed involuntarily as they adapted to the magic within.
He checked to make sure his weapon—a hooked hammer—was still strapped to its harness over his shoulder. Tallis gauged the distance, made a fist with his right hand and looked to the second ring he wore there. He pointed his fist at the Lion on the balcony, sparing a glance to the tiny dragon head that adorned the iron band.
“Telchanak,” he said with his best Draconic accent, triggering the magic of the ring. He felt not the sleightest recoil as a ghostly white force manifested from the ring and launched itself across the space between the two towers. With little more than a quiet rumbling, the force closed the distance, solidifying into the shape of a dragon’s head with curling, ramlike horns. Tallis heard the guard’s brief cry of surprise then the resounding crunch of his breastplate as the dragon’s head slammed into him. The vaporous force faded away.
The parapets denied Tallis any chance of a running start, so he coiled his body into the structural cleft. Even the greatest athlete would have difficulty clearing the gap between the buildings, but Tallis had come well-equipped. When his feet pressed against the stone, he felt an instant surge of strength and agility in his legs, owing to the enchanted boots he wore.
He mouthed a silent, half-hearted prayer to the Sovereign Host, then jumped.
The sheer black wall of the Ebonspire thrust itself upon him. With a deftness belied by even his own body, Tallis grasped the minute imperfections in the wall with his right hand, grooves that would have been impossible to find without the augmentation afforded him by the leather ring. His left hand found the lip of the balcony one story above.
Tallis hung there for a moment against the wall until the swaying of his body slowed. From the gasping noises below him, he knew the dragon-ring’s concussive power had succeeded only in knocking the wind from the White Lion. He was still a viable threat. With his free hand Tallis pulled a metal rod from his belt and dropped from the railing.
A split second later, he pressed a button on the rod and it locked in place, magically suspended in space as though held by an invisible arm of prodigious strength. Swinging from the artificial handhold, Tallis used his body’s momentum to drop squarely above the stumbling guard.
“Wait!” the White Lion sputtered, struggling to rise.
“Wrong occupation, boy.” Tallis grabbed the younger man’s longbow. Ash, he noted with admiration—the garrison was issuing fine arms to its young recruits these days. Then he swung the hard wood against the man’s face.
The crack of cartilage ended all resistance and the guard slumped to the ground. Blood leaked from his nose—likely broken. Tallis would be long gone before the man would awaken to report a disturbance.
He waited briefly at one side of the balcony in case the scuffle had been heard. Satisfied his presence was still undetected, he began to climb. The two rods he carried, as well as his boots, made scaling four more stories easier work.
All told, this certainly was easier than scaling the Starpeaks in search of an enemy redoubt. Then again, the cold Aundairian mountains hadn’t been crawling with White Lion
s who knew his face.
When Tallis neared the appointed balcony, he locked one of the rods in place. With feet planted on infinitesimal crevices and one hand gripping the second rod, he paused to listen. Nothing but the whistle of the cold night wind. Could ir’Montevik’s balcony be unguarded, after all? Most of the Ebonspire’s occupants—wealthy visitors and influential citizens—had no need to guard from the outside, but a paranoid man like Arend wouldn’t take chances. Tallis had expected more.
He produced a rune-carved wand of ivory from a pocket on his calf and pointed it at the balcony’s edge. Muttering a series of carefully memorized syllables, his best emulation of its arcane trigger, Tallis saw a glimmer of light at the wand’s end and then a second glimmer along the iron balustrade above. Even with no guards, magical wards would have been in place. If the wand had done its work, any such spells would have been stripped away. Tallis climbed higher, then pulled himself up to the balcony’s rail—
—only to see an enormous figure rushing at him with a heavy blade raised.
“Blunted!” Tallis dropped to step down on the rod he’d left hanging in place, narrowly avoiding a wide sweep of his attacker’s sword. He steadied himself with the balcony’s lip.
“Intruder!” the guard shouted, staring down at him. The man’s head was covered with a broad helmet, his voice loud and resonant. One thick-fingered hand gripped the railing, while the other held the sword, poised to kill. He wore heavy plate armor, with a steel buckler on his left forearm.
No, not armored—not in the conventional sense. The guard was a warforged, a living construct given life during the Last War and the illusion of freedom at war’s end—now expected to settle down into the fragile peace. In Karrnath they’d never achieved even the “freedom” offered by the other nations. Here they were pressed into indentured service, usually in security or heavy labor.
“No, I’m not!” Tallis said. “I’m … family. I just … I knew my uncle wouldn’t … let me in.”
“You lie. You wear a mask!”
