by Kate Novak
To her disappointment, it soon became evident that Mintassan, like most sages, lived in his own little world. His understanding of the city’s problems came to him secondhand. “Mostly,” so he said, “from Jamal.” Although he confirmed Durgar’s claim that the Night Masters and the Faceless could not be located with magic, he did not concur with the priest that they did not exist. His reasoning, though, had more to do with Jamal’s certainty that they did than with any firsthand experience. Jamal, Alias realized, was the “sage” she needed to consult to learn more about the Night Masks.
Mintassan had walked them back to Blais House for dinner. They’d ordered the recommended pan-fried prawns, which were indeed excellent. Mintassan was also a gourmand, and during their discussion of Westgate eating establishments he revealed one useful piece of information. He’d mentioned the extortionist Littleboy, who was apparently responsible for the decline of one of Mintassan’s favorite taverns. The sage had left them with a promise to set up a meeting with Jamal, and after a brief nap Alias and Dragonbait had gone out hunting Night Masks.
Alias began dressing, reflecting on her progress against the Night Masks. They’d come across the midden man and several muggers and purse snatchers, thanks to Dragonbait’s shen sight. Without the paladin, Littleboy might have been her only coup, and if the extortionist hadn’t been such a fool to use a poison ring, the watch might not have arrested him. She needed more informants.
She also needed to start watching her back. So far, she and Dragonbait hadn’t challenged anyone with a stomach for fighting, let alone any real skill with a weapon. That was bound to change soon, she realized. Even if it meant bringing in hired help, the Night Masks would find ways to protect their operatives and try to stop the swordswoman and her companion.
Alias was brushing her hair when Dragonbait finally turned up. The vanilla scent of amusement wafted off his body, and he made a strange clicking noise that Alias recognized as chuckling.
“Well?” Alias said, fastening the longer strands of hair at the nape of her neck with a ribbon. “Are you going to let me in on it?”
“I was checking on Jamal’s troupe’s new play. Come down and see.” Although the paladin tried to sound casual, Alias could tell he was itching for her to come.
Alias sighed. “You always did have this childlike fondness for puppet shows.” She buckled on her scabbard and grabbed the last muffin to munch while she watched the show.
They did not have to go far. Jamal’s troupe had set up stage on the foundation of the burned down warehouse only three blocks from Blais House. A large crowd had gathered in the empty lot around the razed building.
A halfling with a gigantic green plume in his hat was juggling eggs. A green feather, Alias recalled, was the trading badge for the Thalavar family. Jamal must have good relations with the halflings of this town, Alias realized. Usually halflings wouldn’t participate in human theatrics, and human producers cast children with brushes tied to their feet in the roles of the smaller people.
Behind the stage bobbed the cutout of a ship. The crow’s nest, though, was real, and from it the Faceless looked down at the halfling. After a moment, the Faceless tossed an egg at the halfling, which the halfling skillfully added to the three it was juggling. The Faceless added a fifth and then a sixth egg, which the halfling also juggled smoothly. Frustrated by the halfling’s dexterity, the Faceless threw a seventh egg stage left. The egg splattered against a great wagon wheel decorated with golden stars—house Dhostar’s trading badge. The wheel began spinning and moved toward the juggling halfling with a menacing growl. The halfling alternated between alarmed looks in the wheel’s direction and tucking eggs in his pockets even as he juggled them. Before he could dispose of the last three eggs, the wagon wheel rolled into him, forcing him off the stage. The eggs hit the stage, plop, plop, plop, and then there was a splash of water up onto the stage.
The actress playing Alias leaped onto the stage. She waggled her finger at the Dhostar wheel. The wheel whined like a shamed puppy. The heroine pulled out a stage axe and began hacking at the mast holding the Faceless’s crow’s nest. One by one, the Night Masks began to attack her, but, one by one, she knocked them out with a quick bonk on their heads with the side of her axe.
“Now,” Dragonbait said excitedly, tugging on her sleeve.
Rising out of the water beside the ship came the halfling, pulled by someone in a costume that looked as if it had been put together from the parts of two other costumes, one the body of a crocodile, the other the head of a horse (now painted green). Alias laughed out loud. It was nothing like Dragonbait, but it could be no one else. She shot a look at her companion, who looked as proud as a new father.
The halfling was really damp, and he carried a bucket that appeared full. The stage Alias finally got the crow’s nest chopped through, but the Faceless leaped down beside her at the last moment. Jamal landed a little awkwardly, though, and fell on her rear end. When the heroine had to help the villain to “his” feet, the audience applauded and roared with laughter. The halfling strode purposefully toward the Faceless, with his bucket poised for attack. The actor playing Dragonbait grabbed the Faceless’s cloak. The Faceless tried to run, but succeeded only in limping quickly in circles around the stage Dragonbait as the halfling chased after him.
The girl playing Alias led the crowd in jeers as the Faceless tried to avoid being soaked. Finally, she and the halfling cornered the Faceless at the very front of the stage. The halfling swung the bucket forward just as the Faceless ducked. As one, the audience near the stage held up their hands to hold back the expected splash of water.
A cymbal crashed, and the bucket rained a spray of shiny blue confetti over the crowd.
The audience cheered and applauded, and those who’d just avoided a drenching cheered the loudest. The stage Alias and Dragonbait each set a foot on the Faceless’s prone form and took their bows. Then they dragged the Faceless off the stage by her arms, leaving the halfling to lead the crowd in one of those interminably long halfling songs. Alias recognized the chorus, but the lyrics of the verses had been twisted into a commentary on House Thalavar’s supposed cheapness:
“Some say the Thalavars are fools,
But I think they’re pretty bright.
They hire halflings by their weight,
But pay them by their height!”
“You look insufferably pleased with yourself,” Alias noted to her companion as the crowd bellowed the song’s chorus.
“A small part, but vital to the plot,” Dragonbait replied. “Given time and good reviews, I could see that character carrying the entire show. On the whole, I think its a valuable artistic inclusion.”
“Well, patron of the arts, I suppose your fifty gold was well spent. I wonder where Jamal gets all her information.”
“I was wondering that myself,” Victor Dhostar said behind them.
Alias spun about in surprise. “However did you find us in this crowd?”
“I saw you leaving your inn and followed you here. I’ve just come from the Tower, where Durgar was reluctantly reviewing your victories to Father. He sounded rather put out, claiming that you’ll clog all his jail cells before the magistrate can deal with the cases. Father suggested he should just have a watch patrol and a magistrate follow you around, and we could dispense with the jail and send the Night Masks right to the dungeons.”
Alias shook her head. “I’m afraid they’d make too much noise and warn off our prey.”
“Hadn’t thought of that,” Victor replied. “I guess that’s why you’re the pro. At any rate, the performers seem to be right. You are giving the Faceless a drenching.”
“We’ve made a start,” Alias replied, trying not to overemphasize their progress. “So what brings you here?” she asked.
“Well, Family Dhostar is commissioning a new trading ship tomorrow evening and capping the event with a party on board. I’d like to extend an invitation for you to be my guest at the party.”
&nbs
p; Alias shifted uncertainly, remembering how Luer Dhostar had reprimanded his son yesterday for planning to have dinner with her. “Does this invitation come from your father as well?” she asked.
“Father? Why do you—” Victor paused as insight dawned on him. “Just because my father hired you for your sword, I don’t see why I shouldn’t have the chance to practice my courtly graces on you. Unless, that is, you’d object to that?” Although Victor’s voice sounded light, there was the trace of nervousness in his question.
Alias flushed, but she recovered her composure quickly. “I can’t think of any objections. I would be delighted to accept your invitation.”
Victor broke into a smile. “Good. Um. Will Dragonbait be chaperoning you?”
Alias gave the paladin a questioning glance.
“Trapped on a ship filled with partying merchants and traders?” the saurial harrumphed. “I’m sure I can find a less tedious way to spend my evening. But you go without me if you think it might amuse you.”
“Dragonbait says, ‘No, thank you,’ Alias replied.
“Well, then, that’s settled. I’ll send my carriage tomorrow around sunset. Dress is semiformal. No need for armor. Weapons must be peace-bonded. I’m afraid I won’t see you again before the party. I have several pressing duties.”
“I understand. I’ll look forward to tomorrow night,” Alias replied, offering him her hand.
Victor took up her hand and bowed low over it. Alias could feel his breath on her wrist. He stood again, but seemed reluctant to release her hand.
“Until tomorrow evening,” the swordswoman replied, drawing her hand away ever so gently.
“Until tomorrow evening,” the noble replied. He spun about and waded away through the crowd.
Dragonbait studied the swordswoman. For the first time since he’d known her, Alias seemed oblivious to her surroundings. He might have taken the opportunity to remind her they were in the heart of Westgate, a town whose hobby was crime, home of the deadly Night Masks, but he didn’t have the heart to spoil her moment of bliss.
On stage, the halfling song was winding down with one final verse:
“The Thalavars are nettled
By nasty Night Mask boasters
They need to get an Alias
Just like the lucky Dhostars!”
Alias went red, hearing the lyrics, while the crowd applauded and stomped feet.
“Let’s get nearer the stage,” the swordswoman said. “I want to make sure Jamal got Mintassan’s message that we wanted to talk to her. We need to find out how she knows so much about the city and the Night Masks. And watch your purse in this crowd. Night Masks work the day shift, too.”
Dragonbait chuckled and nodded.
Nine
Parries and Ripostes
“So you want to know how I know so much about the Night Masks,” Jamal said as she turned over the cool, wet cloth covering her swollen ankle. “It’s not that complicated, really.” The thespian paused, assuring herself that she held her audience’s complete attention. Dragonbait leaned forward on his stool. Alias fidgeted impatiently, hating Jamal’s theatrics. Although the actress had refused to let Dragonbait heal her injury, she had accepted the adventurers’ help back to Mintassan’s. Now they were seated once again in the mismatched chairs around the heavy table in the sage’s cluttered workroom.
“I have the sense the gods gave geese,” Jamal said.
Mintassan, who hovered in the doorway of the side alcove waiting for the tea water to boil, called out, “Are those the geese that walk barefoot in burning buildings and then jump out of crow’s nests for the amusement of the rabble?”
Jamal shot an annoyed glance at the sage. She turned back to the swordswoman and the paladin. She motioned them to lean closer, and when they had, she whispered, “I listen carefully, and I know how to put two and two together.”
Alias leaned back and sighed. “Could you maybe give us an example of putting two and two together?” she requested.
“First I consider my source of information. Take the halflings. They have it in for the Night Masks, and not just because the Masks exclude them from their guild. It goes back to a blood feud started when the Masks first sprang up in this town. Now while halflings aren’t always reliable reporters, they aren’t going to lie on behalf of the Masks. So if a halfling who works for Lady Nettel Thalavar tells me Her Ladyship won’t pay protection to the Night Masks, I’m inclined to believe him. If all the halflings working for Lady Nettel confirm his story, I’m going to accept it as fact.
“Then when a halfling tells me a certain type of misfortune strikes the Thalavar trading house, I consider who would benefit from such misfortune. If a Thalavar ship laden with goods sinks in the harbor, I suspect the Faceless’s wrathful hand. If the ship sinks but it was emptied out first, I suspect that another merchant family hired the Night Masks to pick up the goods for them. The merchants hate waste, even if it benefits them, with the exception, in my opinion, of Family Urdo. The year of the summer brushfires there was never quite enough corn to meet demand, but enough for House Urdo to make a killing.”
“So how do you know who to talk to?” Alias asked.
“Oh, I don’t seek out my sources,” Jamal replied. “They come to me. You see, I have many loyal fans, and, of course, some people just can’t resist the temptation to see their story played out.”
“And others can’t resist the five copper she pays per story,” Mintassan added as he joined them with the tea tray.
“So you’re an information broker,” Alias stated.
“More of a collector,” Jamal corrected. “I don’t sell what I get, but I do put it on display—in my performances. Like a sage, I specialize. All things Westgate: local lore, noble gossip, Night Masks, the city’s new cheap hero, Alias the Sell-Sword. Congratulations, by the way, on taking down Littleboy, and nabbing Timmy the Ghast and Bandilegs’s bunch.”
“Who told you about all that?” Alias asked.
“Oh, I never reveal my sources. They trust me because of that,” Jamal explained as she accepted the teacup Mintassan handed her.
Alias thought of all the people who knew about her activities last night. The thieves themselves, the scullery maids, the Turmishmen, Big Edna and her customers, the watch, and no doubt lots of people looking down from windows, too afraid to go out at night, but curious enough to watch the street.
Jamal sipped her tea, then said, “Littleboy’s fall and Timmy’s bath are part of our afternoon performance, if my stand-in thinks he’s ready for the job.”
Alias sighed with exasperation. “Why can’t you tell stories about other heroes. The Knights of Myth Drannor, the Harpers, the Swanmays?”
“Those are old legends,” Jamal argued. “They’re fine for summer stock theater. But a fresh, young, cheap hero, walking the street where people can point her out to their children, that’s going to inspire people. They’ve lived in silent fear of the Night Masks, certain the guild could never be defeated. You prove otherwise, and now they can’t help but talk about you. Soon talk becomes action. I’ve already heard that last night, over on Thunnside, a crowd pummeled three Night Mask bully boys who beat up a barmaid. They’ll be part of the performance, too. Eventually there’ll be cheap heroes popping up all over the city. Courage is contagious.”
“Courage can also be dangerous,” Alias pointed out, “as you may have noted when they burned your house down.”
“True,” Jamal agreed, “but the Faceless won’t focus on the anonymous cheap heroes. He’ll focus on you.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t be staying at Blais House,” Alias commented.
Mintassan handed Alias a mug of tea. “Blais House is exactly where you should be,” he insisted. “It has … protections of its own. Consider it a safe haven. It’s on the street that you’ll have to watch your back.”
“Durgar thinks the Faceless and the Night Masters are myths,” Alias said.
“Durgar hasn’t got my sources,” Jamal coun
tered.
“What sources?” Alias demanded.
“The Night Masks themselves, for one. They aren’t about to go to the city’s judge and tell him about the Faceless. They talk business, though, in taverns where a certain disguised actress can get work as a barkeep any time. And then sometimes the branded ones are angry enough to come to me.”
“The branded ones?” Alias asked.
“The Faceless has a magical item with the power to burn a domino mask brand into the face of someone who’s earned his displeasure. Sometimes the brand is too deep to be healed without leaving a scar. Then the branded one has no choice but to flee the city. About seven years ago a man claiming to be a Night Master came to me with such a brand. In exchange for safe passage from the city he told me a lot about the Night Masks organization. He said that the original Faceless, the founder of the Night Masks guild, had been assassinated by some new person who’d just taken up the old Faceless’s magical regalia, and hence the office of the lord of the Night Masters. The new Faceless branded this Night Master when he’d challenged him over the right to hold the office.
“Later that year, another Night Mask, some second-story man, came to me. There had been a steep increase in the Night Master tax—the cut every thief pays to the guild. The tax was doubled for guild members and tripled for free-lance thieves working in the city. When this second-story man and some others refused to pay, they were brought before the Faceless and branded. The second-story man confirmed a lot of what the branded Night Master had told me.”
