by Kate Novak
Alias and Dragonbait followed Kimbel into the shade beneath the canopy. Rows of tables were set up beneath to process the paperwork required of anyone coming into or out of the city via the harbor. In one line stood ships’ officers with bills of lading, in another, servants of various merchant houses with petitions to release seized goods, and in a third, private passengers with their baggage. Alias and Dragonbait had come through this last line the evening before. This morning there was a noticeable improvement in the efficiency of customs personnel.
Alias could pick out with ease the inspiration of the efficiency—a large, solidly muscled man with a stonily impassive face, who hovered behind the customs officials seated at the tables. Each time the man moved to stand behind some worker, the worker wriggled nervously and concentrated with fervor on the work before him. The reaction was so pronounced that even were the man not wearing the chain of office about his neck, Alias would have guessed he was Croamarkh Luer Dhostar. His mantle of snow-white hair was swept back and held in place with a gold headband. The long, sleeveless robe he wore over his silk shirt and velvet trousers was made of the most elaborate brocade Alias had ever seen. Every finger sported a ring set with a stone worth a princess’s ransom.
As Kimbel and the adventurers approached him, the croamarkh was leaning over the table beside one worker who perused a document handed to him by a servant wearing the trading badge of the Urdo family. The croamarkh leaned forward and drummed his fingers on the table beside the worker as he read the document over the worker’s shoulder. One might have thought the servant would have appreciated the extra attention his paperwork was getting, but instead he shifted uneasily from one foot to the other and bit his lower lip repeatedly.
Kimbel brought their presence to the croamarkh’s attention with a simple, “Milord,” but the older man motioned him to silence.
Alias noted Kimbel’s jaw tighten, and was pleased to learn the servant did on occasion betray his feelings.
The Croamarkh pulled a document out from beneath the worker’s elbow and chastised him. “If you would keep abreast of the documents sent from the council, you would realize that this shipment was cleared last week.” He pointed out the relevant lines to the worker. Flushed with red, the worker whispered a terrified, “Yes, sir,” and stamped the servant’s release papers.
The servant from the house of Urdo reached for the papers, but Luer Dhostar grabbed his wrist. “You tell your master,” he said to the servant, “that this document releases only the statuary, not the ten pounds of smoke powder we found hidden inside. He will also be charged with the time it took our men to drill out the bottoms of each statue and empty them of the proscribed substance.” With that, he pushed the servant’s hand away.
The servant fled from the scene like a game bird released from a trap.
Only then did Dhostar turn his attention to the newcomers. “Well?” he addressed Kimbel.
Kimbel smiled pleasantly despite his lord’s glare. He stepped forward and gave the croamarkh a half bow. “Milord,” he said, “may I present Alias and Dragonbait?”
Lord Dhostar stepped out from behind the table and inspected the adventurers with the appraising look he might give a shipment of goods. He dispensed with pleasantry and preamble and addressed the pair directly. “It’s been brought to my attention that the pair of you interrupted a number of Night Mask activities last night.”
Alias could tell by his tone that he did not require an affirmation on their part, though he made the statement sound so much like an accusation that she wondered if he was expecting her to make a denial. Alias remained silent beneath the croamarkh’s gaze, but kept her eyes locked on his.
The croamarkh raised his eyebrows in appreciation of the woman’s nerve. He continued. “Common tongues are always quick to wag about heroes. Wiser tongues question. So—whom do you serve?”
It was hardly the question Alias expected, so she was for a moment confused by it. She shot a look at Dragonbait, who she could see was studying the croamarkh with his shen sight. As the paladin did not seem to be exhibiting the same violent reaction he’d had to Kimbel, the swordswoman relaxed and answered the question simply. “No one.” Then she decided she’d better rephrase that. “I sell my sword as I choose,” she said. “At the moment, it’s available.
“So you are not an agent, representative, or servant of another house?” Lord Dhostar queried sharply.
“I’m not working for anyone in Westgate,” the swordswoman responded, her brow knitting in irritation with the cross-examination.
Lord Dhostar frowned, apparently unable to believe that she was truly free of allegiances. He stared hard at her, trying to assess her truthfulness. As he did so, another man wearing the trading badge of the Dhostar family approached. He was dressed less fashionably than Kimbel, in a simple white shirt, dusty brown breeches, and muddy riding boots, but from the way he took a place at the croamarkh’s right hand, Alias presumed he was a servant of higher rank. He was tall and handsome, with wavy brown hair and bright blue eyes, and although he looked only thirty-some years old, he was more self-assured in the croamarkh’s presence than anyone else Alias had seen. He held a packet of letters up, and, as he stood waiting patiently for Dhostar to finish his business with the swordswoman and take the packet, the younger man grinned and winked at Alias.
Finally, the croamarkh harrumphed and said, “We have a watch in this city. It keeps the common people orderly. The Night Masks, however, are a lawless bunch. I want someone to deal exclusively with them. I want them knocked down every time they have the arrogance to rise. I want them to start fearing the consequences of crossing me. I’m prepared to pay you a retainer of one thousand gold coins. After a ten-day trial, I’ll evaluate what I think your continued service would be worth and we can negotiate your pay.”
“I’ll need more information and some time to consider your offer,” Alias replied.
The croamarkh raised his eyebrows again. No doubt it had been a long time since he’d offered someone that much money and been told he must wait for a reply. “Fine,” he replied sharply. “Victor, here,” and he jerked his head in the direction of the new arrival who’d winked at Alias, “will be your liaison. You can ask him your questions and let him know your answer by this evening.”
“So, Your Lordship,” Victor asked the croamarkh, “are you going to authorize the hiring of more staff for customs inspection?”
“Only if the inspector fires the staff he has,” Dhostar growled as he took the parcel of letters from the younger man. “If my people worked as well as his do, I’d be a poor man. Convince this woman she would do well to accept my offer. I’m returning with Kimbel to our own docks.”
“Yes, Your Lordship,” Victor replied.
Without even a nod, the croamarkh strode away with Kimbel in his wake.
Alias shot Dragonbait a questioning look about the croamarkh.
“Gray,” the paladin said.
“Gray? Just gray?” Alias complained in Saurial, hoping for some other insight into Dhostar’s character. Gray was neutral, neither evil nor virtuous.
“Bleak and empty, a cold rain drizzling on an abandoned keep. Strong and very, very proud,” Dragonbait replied.
Victor, unable to hear the high-pitched tones of the adventurers’ conversation in Saurial, stood before them grinning, waiting for Alias to speak. After a moment, he ran his fingers nervously through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead, and spoke up. “Well, I have my orders. Do you mind if we walk while we talk? I have to look over some ships that have come in for inspection.”
“Fine,” Alias said, following the man from beneath the canopy. The three walked along the broad stone quay, in the direction of the lighthouse that stood at the mouth of the harbor.
Victor began brightly, “The Night Masks have been a thorn in Westgate’s side for, oh, fifteen years, at least. Most people consider them part of the price of doing business here, but the croamarkh is a man of law and justice. He wants
the citizens of Westgate freed from the tyranny of their lawlessness.”
“Yes,” Alias said, “I can see he’s frantic with worry for them.”
“I beg your pardon?” Victor said.
“Luer Dhostar is a merchant. His first concern is that his books show a healthy balance. Now that that balance is so obscenely huge, there’s no challenge to his work, and, not content with being the bane of the dance floor or the dessert table, he takes on the mission of proving his greatness. He keeps a carriage large enough to house a halfling family. He hangs over customs workers, demonstrating he’s more competent than they in a job he couldn’t stomach for a week. He tries to hire professionals to do away with a thieves guild he tolerated for his first three terms because now they are an embarrassment. Their continued unchallenged activity proves they have more power than he. He has no more concern for the people of Westgate than the Night Masks do.”
Victor was stunned into a momentary silence. When he spoke again, though, his tone was fervent. “You’re wrong. Father cares very much for the people of Westgate, as do I. He just has a hard time showing it.”
“Very diplomatic,” Dragonbait chided Alias in Saurial. “You’ve just insulted your new employer to his son.”
Alias closed her eyes and stated the now obvious, “You’re his son.”
The young man bowed low. “Victor Dhostar, scion of House Dhostar, heir to Croamarkh Luer Dhostar, bane-in-training of the dance floor and the dessert table, at your service.”
Alias felt a paralyzing blush climb to her face.
Dragonbait gave her an order in Saurial.
“How do you do, Your Lordship?” Alias said, repeating, like a puppet, the phrases the paladin fed to her. “I’m Alias, and this is my companion, Dragonbait. Dragonbait begs that you forget this swordswoman’s foolish gaff.”
“What gaff?” Victor asked with a smile. Then he was serious once again. “It is true, some of what you say. We are concerned with our books’ balances, and Father does like to show off, but we merchants aren’t all heartless. Just as I’m sure there are some compassionate sell-swords.”
“Touché,” Alias conceded the young merchant the point.
“It is true that the merchant families have tolerated the Night Masks too long,” Victor said with an apologetic tone. “Some of the families, or to be more accurate, some members of some families, find organized criminals useful. Sort of a shadow government that keeps the more powerful families in check and allows the lesser merchants a leg up with illegal business dealings. All the families use them to handle business they would rather not sully their hands with, or pay to keep them away from their doors.”
“Does that include House Dhostar?” Alias asked.
“Hardly,” Victor laughed. “The first time the Night Masks demanded protection money from House Dhostar—that would have been at least fourteen years ago, when Father was serving his first term as croamarkh—well, Father threatened all-out war in the streets. To hear Father tell it, he was prepared to torch his warehouses rather than pay any tribute. They have stayed away from most of House Dhostar’s concerns.”
“I see,” said Alias. “Is no one else in Westgate as brave and virtuous as your father?”
“Well, I doubt Lady Nettel of House Thalavar has any dealings with them,” Victor replied. “She keeps a lot of halflings on retainer, though, and some people call them the economy Night Masks. I don’t suppose that’s any more fair than assuming all merchants are heartless. It’s my suspicion that House Urdo and House Ssemm are up to their eyeballs in dealings with the Night Masks. Possibly they even serve as members to the Faceless’s inner circle, the Night Masters. The other houses, I suppose, just pay them protection and only hire them on special occasions.”
“You mentioned the Faceless? Who’s he?” Alias asked.
“The Faceless is the Night Masks’ supposed lord. There’s a lot of speculation about him. Some say he’s a powerful spellcaster, others that he’s not even human. A few people insist he does not exist.”
“So, without denying that your father may care about the people of Westgate, tell me: Why has he waited until his fourth term of office to hire me to take care of them? And why hire me of all people?”
“Well, as to the first, I suppose during his first three terms he didn’t take the Night Masks very seriously. Because he faced them down, he presumed they weren’t bothering anyone else. He does tend to be removed from the problems of the common people. When he lost the office of croamarkh to Lansdal Ssemm, the Night Masks’ activities got much more aggressive and Father began to reevaluate their threat. I suppose I can take some credit for his new outlook. Since I turned thirty he’s begun to take me more seriously, too. And I think something must be done about the Night Masks. I really believe the people should have justice.
“As for why you, well, Father’s been looking for the right person since he was reelected this spring, and you appeared. If Westgate were a theocracy, you would be seen as a sign from the gods. To a businessman like my father, you’re the knock of opportunity. From what we heard of your exploits of last night, you have the skills and the momentum. Businessmen do not slam the door in the face of opportunity. And speaking of business, please excuse me for a moment, I need to attend to something.”
Alias nodded and stood beside Dragonbait as Victor walked down a pier to speak with another man wearing a family Dhostar trading badge.
“Well, what insights into the Dhostar heir?” Alias asked.
“He is all he appears,” the paladin replied with satisfaction, delighted to have found another pure soul of sky blue in this city of vice.
“What, another puppy-lover?” Alias asked.
“Why must you joke about it?” Dragonbait asked. “I do not tease you for your virtue.”
Alias flushed again. She was never comfortable when the paladin reminded her that he perceived virtue in her. She harbored a secret fear that he saw what he wanted to see in her, and should the veil ever be lifted from his eyes … Alias didn’t like to think about that. She diverted the conversation back to Luer Dhostar. “Whatever Victor may say, you aren’t convincing me that the croamarkh isn’t motivated by his vanity and love of power.”
“No,” the saurial agreed. “The elder Dhostar is not all his son contends. Victor sees him with the eyes of a loving son, and he defends him as a loyal son would. He reminds me of you, the way you always defended Finder Wyvernspur, despite his many flaws.”
Alias, determined not to be drawn into an argument about the man she’d thought of as a father, returned her attention to Victor Dhostar.
The young man appeared to be trying to negotiate an argument between the servant of his own house and a halfling dressed in the green livery of House Thalavar, who stood on top of a stack of crates. Despite Victor’s efforts, both servants had gone beyond the stage of arguing rationally and had begun screaming at one another at the top of their lungs, each waving a bill of lading in the other’s face.
Behind the halfling servant was a Thalavar ship crewed by halflings, and behind the human servant was a Dhostar vessel crewed by humans. The crews of both ships had also turned their attention to the dispute and had begun to scramble off their ships onto the pier to back up the servant of their respective house.
Alias began moving down the pier, against her better judgment, but knowing she would feel bad if something happened to the young Dhostar. Victor managed to talk his family’s servant into walking away from the halfling, and it seemed as if a brawl had just been averted, until the halfling called out, “That tub shouldn’t just be hauling garbage, it ought to be hauled away as garbage.”
The Dhostar servant whirled around, bellowing with rage, and lunged toward the Thalavar servant. Victor shouted, “Brunner, no!” but it was too late. Drawing back instinctively from the charging human, the Thalavar servant apparently forgot his footing, for he took one step too many off the stack of crates and tumbled from the pier. There was a short, high-pitched shriek
and a splash as he hit the water.
Everyone froze, including Victor, for the space of a heartbeat, then, spurred by an anonymous shout of, “Get ’im!” a wall of halflings rushed the Dhostar servant Brunner. Brunner tried to swat them away, but there were far too many, and within moments he’d disappeared beneath a pile of green-liveried halflings.
Victor moved toward the pile, but Alias reached his side and pulled him back. “This could be messy, milord,” she said. “Please, leave it to the professionals.”
Alias waded into the fray and began plucking biting, scratching halflings off the pile, handing them to the Dhostar crew members to be restrained until they calmed down. More halflings surged from their ship and began brawling with the humans who held their comrades. The swordswoman realized she was in a race to get Brunner on his feet and away from the fray before someone, halfling or human, lost his or her temper and drew a weapon.
Then, just as she caught a glimpse of Brunner’s black tabard, Alias heard the whistle and felt the breeze of a blade as it cut the air just inches above her head. Someone had drawn live steel.
Instinct took hold of her. Although she stepped back to avoid skewering anyone at her feet, the swordswoman had her blade drawn in the wink of an eye. She whirled about to meet the challenge she sensed from above. She took a defensive stance, determined that this fiasco should not end in a bloodbath, but equally determined to disarm the fool who’d first brought steel into the fray.
Her attacker’s sword swept down again, still too high to catch her, but just low enough for her to block the weapon with her own. She lunged forward, and the two blades slid along their lengths until they were locked at their hilts.
Alias glared up at the armed halfling who now stood on the stack of crates. This halfling was female. She wore a scarlet-and-amber cloak cut in the latest Cormyrian style, with the hood pulled up and shadowing her face. Alias reached up with her free hand, caught the end of the tassel fastened to the back of the hood, and yanked hard. The hood fell back, spilling long red tresses about a grinning face.
