by Kate Novak
“Although my spies cannot determine exactly what happened,” Enforcement explained to his fellows, “the retaliation mission on House Thalavar seems to have ended in disaster. Our operatives were to acquire or destroy a wine shipment from the Thalavar warehouse. The entire team has been killed or captured. The team leader, one of my best operatives, is reportedly dead. My spies heard a great explosion, but they cannot tell if the wine was destroyed. Alias the Sell-Sword was seen at the warehouse.”
The Night Master in charge of Noble Relations piped up, “On the plus side, one of the operatives who was arrested is Lord Ssentar’s youngest son. I’ve sent someone to stir His Lordship up, get him good and riled so hell make trouble for this sell-sword.”
Finance Management reported on the bottom line. “With the exception of tonight’s loss of a team leader, the swordswoman, and those inspired by her, have targeted only low-level agents. Still, bringing in new recruits and training them takes time. And recruitment, though not ordinarily a problem, is more difficult in light of the perceived risk. Some agents have decided to lie low, while a few others have chosen to retire or take their business elsewhere.”
“Rats leaving a sinking ship,” Gateside muttered, just loud enough to be heard.
“Consequently,” Finance Management continued, “income for the past two days is down ten percent in Gateside and four percent elsewhere. If this trend continues, we foresee stagnation within the next tenday. Beyond that, there is a possibility that by summer’s end we will show a loss owing to our overhead costs. This will severely set back our long-range goals for next year.”
A panicked grumbling spread among the Night Masters.
Throughout the reports the Faceless had remained silent. He interrupted the grumbling now, commanding, “Order.” The tone of his metallic voice was cool. “Thank you for your reports,” he said. “Is there any other business?”
Gateside rose to his feet, rather quickly for a man of his portly size. “Any other business!” he cried out in a strangled voice. “In two days, this common little sell-sword has laid waste to years of profitable operations. Everyone here, even Enforcement, is taking this on the chin. Take is down, and we’re being hissed in the streets by rabble. And you ask if there’s any other business?”
A hush fell over the room as the other Night Masters waited for the Faceless’s reaction. The Night Mask lord allowed the silence to grow longer, increasing not only Gateside’s, but all the Night Masters’ uneasiness. “You needn’t be so perturbed, Gateside. Within a few days, the matter will be under control.”
“The only way you’re going to get the matter under control is to whack this Alias. I say we hire an outside professional.”
“Really?” the Faceless replied with a bone-chilling tone. “If we attempt to ‘whack’ the swordswoman and we fail, we will have enhanced her legend, making our agents fear her more. If we succeed, Jamal will make a martyr of her, and the rabble will turn on our agents more ferociously than ever. It may take us years to return to our current strength. Only a fool would implement such a heavy-handed, unoriginal scheme.”
The blood drained from Gateside’s face so that his exposed chin was as white as his mask. He mustered all the courage he possessed and asked, “But you do have a plan, don’t you?”
“I do,” the Faceless replied, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair in irritation.
“I ask that you share this plan with us,” Gateside retorted, then softened his demand by adding, “respectfully.”
“Request denied,” the Faceless responded, then added in a tone dripping with sarcasm, “respectfully.”
Gateside raised his voice so that it echoed off the stone walls surrounding the Night Masters. “And what am I supposed to do while I wait for this mystery plan of yours to take effect? She’s biting into my profits.” The normally emotionless professional manager of the Gateside district had become an angry, bellowing merchant.
The other Night Masks shifted uneasily. No one shouted at the Faceless with impunity.
“I suggest,” the Faceless replied coolly, “that you suspend all activities in your region for a few days. You will lose fewer resources that way.”
Gateside’s pale skin turned an apoplectic scarlet. His eyes widened with astonishment, and his mouth moved for several moments before his words could come out. “If I call off my boys, I won’t have any resources in a few days. This little witch is not going get tired and move on. She’s dangerous!” Gateside was screeching now. His voice had climbed several octaves.
“I’m growing tired of your hysterical impatience,” the Faceless snapped, and the other Night Masters drew their chairs back from the table as if their lord had just drawn a weapon.
“And I’m tired of your arrogant inertia. I’m not going to sit around on my nether cheeks while Dhostars’ little dollymop rips my operation to shreds!”
“Enough!” the Faceless growled. He rose to his feet, pointed at Gateside with a ringed finger, and uttered one word, “Kreggarish!”
A field of energy rippled across the room, and Gateside’s mask began to glow; the white porcelain shined golden from something beneath the mask.
Gateside fell forward across the table, screaming in agony. Enforcement and Thunnside, who flanked him at the table, rose from their chairs quickly and backed away. None of the others came to the portly thief’s aid. A few touched their own masks nervously, though they knew perfectly well it was the Faceless’s power that attacked their fellow.
Instinctively, Gateside clawed at the mask covering his burning skin; still the glow persisted around his face. The Night Master continued screaming, and his frame writhed in agony. Enforcement and Thunnside could detect the scent of charred flesh.
“Jokash,” the Faceless intoned, and the glow faded.
The Faceless’s spell had burned the flesh around Gateside’s eyes, leaving the image of a domino mask in bright scarlet.
“Consider that a warning,” the Faceless said coldly. “I might have let the fire burn long enough to sear your skull, but, in deference to your usefulness, I’ve left you with only a temporary scar.
Gateside slumped back into his chair. His eyes were tearing profusely, and his sobs were broken only by his gasps for breath.
“Your hysteria endangers us all. Now that I’ve marked you, you have no choice but to remain hidden for the next few days. Night Masks are not very popular at the moment. If you do not reveal yourself, you will not be in danger, and neither will we. Once the scars have begun to scab, a priest will be able to heal the damage. Consider it a test.”
Gateside summoned enough energy to nod weakly.
The Faceless turned to the others and asked, “Is there any other business? Does anyone else have doubts about my ability to deal with this sell-sword? No? Good. Enforcement, help Gateside out. This meeting is adjourned.”
The Night Masters shuffled silently from the meeting hall. Gateside leaned heavily on Enforcement, but he found the strength to turn for one last look at Westgate’s hidden master.
The magical blur about the Faceless’s head continued to mask his features, but Gateside was sure the fiend was smiling.
Ten
Power Plays
If Alias had been more attuned to city politics, the puppet show might have served her as a warning. Unfortunately, she hadn’t understood the show completely, so she headed unwittingly into the storm.
As usual she’d risen late in the morning, but this morning she did not feel rested. She’d slept badly, due, she knew, to the halfling’s death. Upon waking she remembered Jamal’s comment that the Night Masters had magic to kill or free any of their people imprisoned by the watch. Alias thought about the arrogant but ineffectual Night Mask swordsman. While she couldn’t believe he would be worth the Night Masters bothering over, she became too uneasy and restless to return to sleep. She decided to visit the Tower and assure herself that Durgar was dealing adequately with the thief.
Dragonbait had left her
a note that he’d be with Mintassan, so she snatched up some breakfast rolls and set out for the Tower, where the watch and Durgar were headquartered.
At the edge of the market, a Turmishwoman was hawking short wooden skewers laden with roasted, spiced meat. The smell was not only enticing, but brought back memories of her old friend Akabar, who had once prepared her meat the same way. The Turmishwoman caught her eye and thrust out a stick laden with meat, saying, “Lady, you look hungry.”
Alias laughed. “I am,” she admitted. She bought two sticks of meat, and while she was wolfing down the dripping lamb, she noticed Jamal’s troupe. They were set up in the corner of an open-air cafe, apparently with the owner’s blessings, for he was doing a booming business selling chowder in bread bowls to the audience.
There was no sign of the Faceless. Evidently Jamal was still in no condition to perform and her understudy did not feel up to the role. The actress who usually played Alias was present, as were the halfling juggler and the actor wearing the Dragonbait costume.
On the stage were six small kegs stacked in a pyramid, representing, Alias realized, the barrels of wine in the Thalavar warehouse. One of the three stage Night Masks carried on her shoulders a cyclops head puppet—the symbol of House Urdo.
Alias tried to figure out the appearance of the Urdo puppet. Was House Urdo behind the raid? To get the wine?
There was the usual slapstick swordplay until the Night Mask carrying Urdo blew up a paper bag and popped it in the halfling’s face. Black powder billowed from the bag, and the halfling and the other two Night Masks dropped to the stage and lay still.
Alias swallowed back a return of last night’s grief. The audience reacted with an angry mutter, but their anger was not with the serious turn the troupe had suddenly taken; it was aimed at the Night Masks. Although human-halfling relationships were sometimes strained in Westgate, the general consensus was that only a coward would kill a halfling.
In the play, Alias’s reaction was swift and sure. She yanked the Urdo puppet away from the remaining Night Mask and kicked the thief off the stage. The Night Mask lay still at the audience’s feet. Dragonbait pulled out a miniature prison stocks, and Alias locked the Urdo puppet in it. The audience participated immediately, throwing scraps of food and rocks at the puppet and booing loudly.
The halfling rose from the stage and called out, “This collection’s for the family of Maxwell Berrybuck. He’s left behind a wife, a stout son, and two fine little girls.” As the musicians played a dirge, the Night Mask actors yanked off their masks. All the actors took up the small kegs and plowed their way through the audience, collecting far more coin than Alias had ever seen any of Jamal’s shows earn.
There was the trill of a watch whistle in the distance, and the entire acting troupe looked up. While Jamal might go toe-to-toe with the local authorities, her people obviously recognized the better part of valor. Wrapping themselves and their kegs of coin in their cloaks, they disappeared down one alley, the musicians down another. Although the actors had plenty of time, they made no effort to retrieve the food-spattered Urdo puppet, but left it sitting in the stocks.
Discretely, Alias stepped into the shadow of a building and looked down the street in the direction of the whistle. A phalanx of guards, headed not by Sergeant Rodney, but by the humorless, freckle-faced officer, bore down on the cafe. Of course, by the time they arrived, there was no one but innocent cafe customers picking at their chowder-soaked bread bowls and a puppet. The freckle-faced officer’s reaction to the puppet locked in the stocks surprised the swordswoman. He pulled the puppet out and ordered one of his men to hide it beneath his cloak. The patrol then turned and marched back toward the Tower.
Alias gave them a friendly nod as they went marching past her, but they all kept their eyes locked forward and did not acknowledge her presence. She shook her head with disdain at their rigid attitude. Not wanting to arrive at the Tower on the heels of the patrol, Alias strolled more casually through the market.
The market was a rainbow of tents and stalls erected each dawn and removed, by order of the watch, before sunset. Here all the merchants of Westgate were out in full force, extolling the virtues of their wares and pressing them into view of all potential customers. Even merchants who had a shop in town kept a stall in the market to hawk their best items.
A bolt of shining yellow fabric caught Alias’s eye, and she paused for a moment to finger the shimmering cloth. A moment was all the stall’s salesman needed to notice her interest and descend on her. He was a short young man in saffron robes and a long, long plait of hennaed hair. He had the most ridiculous patter about how silk from Kara-Tur was harvested from great purple worms herded by giants and spun into cloth with the aid of magic.
Alias had fought purple worms before and knew that the beast’s tail was armed with a scorpionlike stinger, not spinnerets, but she knew better than to reply. She’d learned from Akabar that such fanciful tales were a common merchant’s trick along the southern coast. If the potential buyer believed the tale, the product was enhanced. If not, any time spent arguing about the tale kept the buyer looking at the product, and, hopefully, increasing her desire to own it. Alias smiled wordlessly at the merchant and passed on. She could hear him tell another passerby how Mulhorand silk was made from moonspiders who tried to snare Selune each night from her orbit.
The swordswoman paused by a jewelry stall. As she lingered over a large display of silver and gold earrings, she began wondering what she would wear for the Dhostar boat party. She traveled light, and she suspected that nothing in her backpack would be suitable. She’d brought plenty of money to buy something, but there wasn’t time to have anything sewn.
Lost in her own thoughts, it was a few moments before Alias noticed the stall’s saleswoman, a southerner who, being quite tall and dressed in a gown splatter-dyed with every imaginable color, was hard to miss. Yet while the woman watched Alias curiously, she kept a respectful distance, allowing the swordswoman to browse without pestering her.
Alias examined three sets of earrings. The first was a pair of tiny daggers with blue stones in the pommels. The daggers were beautifully crafted, but Alias decided they were too fierce. The second set of earrings was a moon engraved with Selune’s face, matched with a dangling set of tears—the shards that followed the moon across the sky. The moon and tears, while clever, reminded her uneasily of the arguments she’d had with Finder Wyvernspur over his song The Tears of Selune. The third pair, a set of interlocking stars, reminded her of the stars in the Dhostar trading badge. Victor, she thought, would appreciate the connection. She held out the earrings to the saleswoman asking, “How much?”
“No charge,” the large woman said, shaking her head, “I recognize you. You’re Alias.”
“I couldn’t do that,” Alias replied with a smile as she reached for her purse.
The saleswoman’s face clouded for a moment with hurt, “Please, take them,” she insisted. “You have done so much good. Consider them a gift on behalf of all of Westgate.”
Alias chuckled, “The last time I received a gift on behalf of a whole town, I’d just killed a kalmari. I haven’t done that much yet here.”
“Hmmph,” the woman said dismissively. “Kalmaris are nothing. Night Masks, they’re trouble. You take those. Don’t feel bad. Once I tell people Alias-Who-Unmasks-the-Night wears my jewelry, I’ll sell it all.” She smiled broadly, revealing two rows of perfect white teeth.
Alias grinned at the woman’s sales acumen and nodded in agreement. As the merchant held up a mirror of polished steel, Alias pulled out and pocketed the emerald studs she normally wore and slid in the silver wires attached to the stars. She shook her head and smiled with satisfaction. She could hear the small, interlocked stars jingling softly, and they twinkled in the light. Now all I need is an outfit to go with my jewelry, she thought. Bidding the merchant farewell, she strolled deeper into the heart of the market, toward the Tower.
The Tower was a circular stone kee
p five stories high situated on a low hillock in the center of the market. The hillock, Alias suspected, was artificial, built up to cover not only the tower’s foundation wall but the first level of dungeons beneath. Two later additions abutted the east side, made of similar though not perfectly matched stone. The larger addition held rooms for public business: the registry offices for imports, exports, and other licenses and the courtroom. The smaller addition was a guarded entrance into the tower itself. Within the Tower the city kept its counting house and treasury, the nobles kept offices and meeting rooms, and the watch kept its armory and some barracks. Beneath the tower, an unspecified number of subterranean levels served as jails and dungeons.
Outside the entrance hall flew the banners of those in residence at the moment: the watch, Durgar, several other noble lords, and the croamarkh. The doorway of the entrance was a stone oval, which could be barred by an iron portcullis, which hung overhead, a security design repeated at the other end of the hall—at the entrance to the tower itself. There wasn’t a speck of rust on the heavy gates, and the chains that operated them were dust free and gleamed with oil. Durgar, Alias realized, must run a tight ship to keep in perfect working order gates that hadn’t been necessary for decades.
The entrance hall was abuzz with people coming and going—the watch, messengers, servants dressed in the livery of their respective noble houses, local petitioners and foreign merchants waiting to speak with the nobles, and, on occasion, an individual whose wealthy garb and wake of bodyguards, supporters, and supplicants indicated a member of a noble family. Only nobles and their parties were allowed to pass through the second portcullis unchallenged. All others seemed to be required to register their name and business at a desk stationed with three watch officers before being told to wait or go ahead. There was a long line before the desk.
