by Kate Novak
“Urdo,” Victor responded in kind, his tone chill.
“Hiring swordswomen for your company now?” Urdo taunted Victor with a sly grin.
With an expertly executed shove, Victor pressed Haztor against the wall of the foc’s’le and held him there with a finger pressed against the younger man’s windpipe. With his face close to Haztor’s, Victor replied, “Considering the company you are known to keep, you would do well to keep your mouth shut.”
Victor turned to Alias, and in a mild and pleasant tone asked, “Would you excuse me for a few minutes? I have some business with this scion of the Urdo clan. Please, help yourself at the banquet table. I’ll join you there.”
Alias considered asking Victor to ignore the insult. Urdo wasn’t the first to snub her this evening, and he probably wouldn’t be the last. She recognized, though, that there was more to the conflict between the two men than an insult to herself. The young Urdo had challenged Victor’s power on his own turf. “I am hungry,” the swordswoman replied, and, slipping past Haztor, drifted over to the buffet tables.
A number of portly merchants were parked in front of the tables where beef, pork, and mutton were being served. At a table laden with seafood, several young men were challenging each other to down unhealthy portions of some of the more exotic offerings—fish eggs, pickled cuttlefish, and raw squid. Alias slid up to a table featuring a huge, edible centerpiece of fruits surrounded by slices of wine cheeses fanned out like playing cards. Accepting a plate from a servant, she filled it with pieces of Vilhon Blanc and Turmish brick, and some grapes plucked from the centerpiece. Another servant provided her with a slipper of mead. With her hands full, Alias backed away from the table.
The swordswoman took a sip of the wine. She started with surprise as the taste blossomed in her mouth. She took another sip to confirm her suspicion. Evermead! A wine made in only one place—the elven island of Evermeet, twenty-nine hundred miles away. The Dhostars had imported it all the way to Westgate. Alias was more impressed by this feat of transportation than the building of all the galleasses on the Inner Sea. She sipped blissfully at the sweet wine with her eyes closed, remembering, as if in a dream, simpler days and friends long gone.
When she’d finished the wine, the spell was broken. She looked toward the bow, where Victor was speaking with Haztor Urdo. Victor seemed relaxed and friendly, while Haztor looked tense and nervous.
“Your glass is empty,” someone at Alias’s side noted.
Alias turned to find herself face-to-face with Lady Nettel Thalavar. It was like turning the corner in a cavern and running into a dragon, a smiling dragon. The old woman was far more imposing than any Westgate noble Alias had met yet. She stood as tall as Alias and held her ground. There was none of Luer Dhostar’s bullying or Ssentar Urdo’s viciousness about her. She was simply a strong woman, unafraid of strangers.
Compared to the other guests, the noblewoman was dressed quite plainly, in a conservative black-velvet gown. Her white hair was twisted into a bun at the top of her head. Her only jewelry consisted of a gold wedding band, a strand of pearls, and a brooch of a stylized feather fashioned of copper aged to a green patina. The elderly woman motioned toward Alias’s glass, and a servant appeared immediately to fill it from a wineskin.
“I am Lady Nettel,” she introduced herself. “And you are Alias of the Magic Arm,” the noblewoman stated as she regarded Alias through a set of lenses mounted on an ebony rod.
Alias, unused to the description, did not reply immediately.
“Alias the Sell-Sword. Ruskettle’s friend. Jamal’s cheap hero. Dhostar’s young champion. Stop me if I mention one you prefer,” Lady Nettel requested with a grin.
“Just Alias,” the swordswoman replied and bowed formally at the waist. “I’m pleased to meet you, Lady Nettel. Olive speaks very highly of you.”
“As she does of you,” Lady Nettel answered. “I am very grateful for the assistance you rendered to her protecting my wine. Thank you.”
“You are most welcome,” Alias replied. “I only wish it had ended better than it did.”
“Yes,” Lady Nettel agreed. “Please, allow me to present my granddaughter and heir, Thistle.”
Thistle Thalavar, who had been staring wide-eyed at Alias, lowered her eyes and curtsied. She was dressed rather more elaborately than her grandmother, in a white gown trimmed with miles of pink ribbon. Her yellow hair was elaborately plaited all about her head and decorated with tiny flowers. She wore a diamond necklace that must have been an heirloom, since it was far too expensive for so young a woman.
“You are the talk of my household,” Lady Nettel announced, “with the halflings hailing you as Ruskettle’s warrior companion, the servants raving about your street theater antics, and the youngsters speculating about you and Victor.”
Alias smiled politely, hoping she would not blush, but Thistle looked horrified. “Grandmama!” she said after a gasp.
Grandmama held up a hand, and Thistle hushed. “Young people are always gossiping, trying to figure out where everyone around them fits into society. Such a waste of time.”
“Because the people themselves don’t even know where they fit in?” Alias asked.
Lady Nettel smiled and shook her head. “Because we weren’t meant to fit into society. We must be what we are, and let society fit around us. That is how I have always lived my life. And you?”
“That’s always been my choice,” Alias agreed.
“Like your tattoo?” Thistle asked, her words starting to spill over each other. “You chose that. Did it hurt? Do you regret it?”
“Thistle,” Lady Nettel spoke in a warning tone.
“How else will I know?” Thistle insisted.
Lady Nettel sighed. “Please excuse her. We had an argument that had nothing to do with you.”
“That’s all right,” Alias said. She turned to Thistle. “My tattoo was not really my choice. Someone branded me when I was a captive. It didn’t hurt, because I was unconscious at the time. It’s not a regular tattoo, though, but magical. I cannot regret it, since I had no choice in its existence, but it can be very tiresome. It is not something one can remove like a dress or jewelry. It is always there, the same design, the same color. Once I hated it, but no longer. It reminds me of a special time in my life and of the bonds I share with my brother and my sisters and with my father.”
“I see,” Thistle said, more thoughtful. “Thank you for telling me.”
Lady Nettel raised her glass to someone behind Alias. A moment later, Alias felt a hand on her shoulder as Victor Dhostar took a position beside her.
“Lady Nettel,” Victor greeted the elderly noblewoman, adding a deep bow. He winked at Thistle and asked, “How are you, Dervish?”
Thistle colored deeply at the nickname and tried unsuccessfully to appear too haughty to notice the young Dhostar.
Lady Nettel chuckled. “Congratulations on your new vessel, Lord Victor,” she said. “It hasn’t sunk yet under the weight of Westgate’s pride. It must be well-constructed.”
“I’ll pass your compliments on to father,” Victor answered.
“Hah!” Lady Nettel replied. “If those compliments belong to anyone, they’re yours. For all his meddling, Luer hasn’t peeked in a shipyard for six years. Can’t take the dust. This is your victory, young man, and everyone knows it.”
Victor bowed his head wordlessly.
“Well, I’ll let you steal away with your guest,” Lady Nettel said. “I’m sure she’s not here to entertain me.” With that, she moved off with Thistle, followed by a wake of other guests all vying for the Thalavar matriarch’s attention.
Alias offered Victor some cheese from her plate. The ship was rounding the harbor entrance now, and everything on the ship cast two shadows, one from the stern light, the other from the lighthouse. Looking across to the Westlight plaza, Alias saw a group of people scurrying around in the twilight, setting up some sort of display on the northern shore of the peninsula.
&nbs
p; “What’s going on out there?” she asked Victor.
“Ah, well, that’s a surprise. You’ll just have to wait and see,” the nobleman said.
Alias nodded. “I shouldn’t ask, but how did your business go with young Urdo?” the swordswoman queried.
Victor grinned conspiratorially. “We discussed how easy it was to make an apology. Taking my cue from my father, who apologized for his arrest, I thought I might just apologize in advance in case Haztor happens to fall overboard and no one notices. Should he falter in his attempt to swim ashore or, gods forbid, should the quelzarn happen to devour him, I assured him that my apologies to his family would be profuse if not sincere.”
“There isn’t really a quelzarn, is there?” Alias asked, knowing that such giant sea serpents were reputed to be very rare.
“Of course there is,” Victor insisted. “What do you think eats all the garbage tossed into the bay?”
Alias gave the nobleman a suspicious look. “Have you ever seen this quelzarn?” she demanded.
“Many times,” he replied, then added, “though only on foggy nights, when I’m alone, without, alas, any witnesses to back up my story.”
Alias laughed. “So where is Haztor now?” she asked.
Victor looked around the deck, then shrugged. “I’ve no idea,” he answered, raising his eyebrows theatrically.
“Victor, you wouldn’t—” Alias looked around the deck uncertainly.
The young nobleman chuckled. “He’s over there, hugging the mainmast. I don’t imagine he’ll go anywhere near the rails this evening. He’s not a strong swimmer.”
Alias looked in the direction Victor had nodded. Haztor Urdo was surrounded by several young men and women who chatted with him amicably, but he was indeed keeping the mainmast at his back.
“I haven’t seen Ssentar Urdo,” Alias noted. “Wasn’t he invited?”
“Each noble house is invited, and each sends at least one representative so the rest of the houses cannot gossip freely about it. Ssentar Urdo, however, is prey to seasickness. Ordinarily Ssentar would send his oldest son, Mardon, and Mardon’s wife. By sending Haztor in his stead, his father is showing Haztor his support. Haztor, despite the scandal of being arrested as a Night Mask, will remain a power. Consequently, sycophants will flock about him, seizing this opportunity to offer their support. Such people are liable to snub you, given a chance. They aren’t worth worrying about.”
“Considering the company I’m in, I doubt I should notice them,” Alias replied. She set aside her empty plate and glass. “Shall we continue our tour?”
Victor smiled, took her arm, and steered her aft. “The masts and keel,” he explained, “were fashioned from redwood logged in the far north, around Hartsvale, land of giants and giant trees.”
“And where do you get the oarsmen?” Alias asked, “Sentenced criminals?”
“Sometimes,” responded Victor. “This particular crew, however, is made up of shareholders.”
“Shareholders?”
Victor nodded, “Of course. You didn’t think we’d risk all the heads of Westgate in a boat with a crew of criminals, did you? People work better when they have a stake in the outcome. In this case, fight better and row better. They get a small portion of the profits this ship will make for House Dhostar. Any who agreed to serve for this frivolous maiden voyage gets a double share of the first venture. We have no trouble finding rowers.”
At the deck level, the stern castle was open to the fore. In the rear, two sailors manned the tiller, but the rest of the area was taken up by tables for the guests. Luer Dhostar and most of the noble clan elders sat at a table in the front of the sterncastle, drinking, playing dice, and telling sea stories from their past. The croamarkh nodded briefly at his son. He gave no indication of noticing Alias. Durgar, who sat on the croamarkh’s right, smiled ever so slightly at the swordswoman, but then turned his attention back to some elderly noble describing a run-in he’d had with pirates back when the world was young.
Victor led Alias past the tables to the stairs in the back.
“Up or down?” Alias asked.
“Up,” said the young noble. “Down is storage and berths for the crew.”
Alias climbed the steep stairs and paused at the first level. Victor gave her a peek into the officers’ and guests’ quarters. All but the captain’s cabin looked cramped, but all were snug and smelled pleasantly of fresh pine.
They climbed another set of steep stairs and stood alone on the roof of the sterncastle. There was no one else up there. They could look down on the party below, but when they turned their backs, it seemed to disappear. Alias looked up into the darkness overhead, but due to the glare of the stern light, the lighthouse, and the waxing moon, she could pick out only the brightest stars. Victor strolled to the stern railing, and Alias drifted behind him.
For the first time Alias felt as if they were truly at sea, and not just because they’d left the bay. A stiff breeze shot across the port side. Alias shivered in the wind.
“I forgot I might need a cloak out here,” she said.
“In the interest of chivalry, I feel obliged to offer you an arm around your shoulder,” Victor said.
“In the interest of encouraging chivalry wherever I find it, I feel obliged to accept,” Alias replied.
Victor slid his arm around her back, and Alias leaned against his side. The wide sleeve of his tunic served well as a shawl, and the warmth of his hand on her shoulder was wonderfully pleasant.
Westgate was ablaze with lights that rivaled the stars above: the lighthouse, the streetlights, the campfires on the shore.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Victor said, regarding the city. “Lit up on a clear night like this, it looks every bit as magical as Evermeet, as exotic as Kara-Tur, as wealthy as Zakhara. Like a place of make-believe, a place where legends can be born.”
Alias made an agreeable and noncommittal, “Mmmm,” unable to put out of her mind the Night Mask rot at the city’s heart.
As if he could read her thoughts, Victor added, “If only we could excise the Night Masks without damaging the city.”
“Well, we may be another step closer,” Alias said. “I’ve traced a protection racket from the Shore back to a wealthy vintner in the city. His name’s Melman. I wanted to be sure he wasn’t some noble’s cousin or brother-in-law.”
Victor furrowed his brow in thought. “Melman. My father and I have exported some of his wine. No, he’s not related to any of the noble houses.”
“Good. I’m hoping he’s a high-ranking Night Mask or will lead us to one.”
“I’ve heard some stories. His house has an evil reputation,” Victor said. “Promise me you won’t go there alone.”
Alias nodded. She didn’t mention she knew the house well, or that she planned to visit it later this very night. There was no sense worrying the young nobleman.
“Better still, why not just have Durgar arrest the man?” Victor asked.
Alias shook her head. “Jamal,” she said, “has suggested that if we can just find the Faceless’s treasury, we should be able to capture the artifact that keeps him and the Night Masters magically sheltered from scrying and divinations. I’m hoping Melman might lead me to the Night Masters’ lair. He’s not going to cooperate, locked in a cell in the Tower.”
“How does Jamal know all this?” Victor asked.
“She has a network of her own informants,” Alias answered.
“I realize she must be a friend, but, well, she seems to know so much. Are you certain—do you think it’s possible that all this theater against the Night Masks is maybe a smoke screen? She could be one herself. She could be the Faceless, for all we know.”
Alias shook her head with a scowl. “That’s no more likely than your father being the Faceless.”
“Father! That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? You said he refuses to pay the Night Masks protection, yet the Night Masks haven’t wreaked their revenge on your operations as t
hey have on House Thalavar.”
“That’s because they’re afraid that Father would make good on his threat to start a war in the streets.”
“Or they have orders not to harm your oper—” Alias halted, struck by a sudden idea.
“What is it?” Victor asked.
“Or they’ve been geased not to harm your family. Kimbel would certainly make an excellent candidate.”
Victor shook his head. “I keep an eye on Kimbel. If he were running a thieves guild on the side, I would know. But I’m also sure the Faceless is not Father.”
“So am I,” Alias agreed.
“But you just said—”
“I was just pointing out that there are some inconsistencies. I suspect your father pays the Night Masks, but is too proud to admit it. He’s simply not a logical candidate. He has more money than an ancient dragon and the most powerful position in the whole city. He has no reason to belong to the Night Masks.”
Victor remained silent for too long.
“What’s wrong?” Alias asked.
“Nothing,” Victor assured her, shaking himself. “I was just thinking about how much my father wants to be croamarkh. You might almost say he covets the post. After his first two terms, I was sure he’d recommend me, but then he insisted the time was wrong for a new man and he offered himself for the third term. Then, after Lansdal Ssemm made such a mess of his four years, father told me he had to take up the next term, so I wasn’t blamed for any problems Ssemm left behind. I know I’d make a good croamarkh, but I need father’s support to be elected.”
“I know you’d make a good one, too,” Alias said.
“I have such plans.”
“I know. You told me about them the day we met.”
“Those are just the plans if I find Verovan’s treasure. I have others I’d start without it. Build a navy to protect our trading ships from pirates, for one, and train an army of Westgate citizens, not mercenaries, to protect our caravans from brigands, for another. I’ve even begun to toy with your idea of offering more people a vote in the council. Not everyone, like you said. That would be chaos. But smaller merchants and important artisans and craftsman. Bring in some new blood, like my father said about you.”
