by Kate Novak
It was quiet in the passage, but Alias hustled them through it, fearful that it might collapse. When they finally reached the dry wash, she set down the halfling and took a rest. Melman collapsed on the ground.
Dragonbait stood over the Night Master, assuring himself that Melman didn’t try to escape before Alias was through with him. “What are we going to do with this one?” he asked the swordswoman.
“Well, I had thought we might lock him up in one of the cells below his own house,” Alias said. She peered over the edge of the dry wash and watched the flames dancing along the roof of Melman’s former abode. “I don’t think we should bring Lord Victor into this, considering the deal we’ve made with Melman.”
“You’re going to have to impose on Mintassan again,” the paladin noted.
“I know,” Alias sighed. In the south of Westgate, a false dawn blossomed as the roof of Melman’s house collapsed and the flames shot higher into the air. “He’s not going to be happy about my turning his house into a home for retired Night Masks.”
“But he will oblige you, I think.”
Alias nodded, realizing uncomfortably that, while House Dhostar was paying her to take out the Night Masks, other people were shouldering even greater shares of the burden to get the job done.
Fifteen
The Lair of the Faceless
The fog that had drifted through Westgate’s streets the night before now climbed as high as the city’s wall and poured into the outlying countryside. The midday sun, covered with layer after layer of clouds, was powerless to burn off the mists. From the top floor of the Tower Alias surveyed the few islands of solid matter high enough to poke above the gray shroud: the towers of the merchant nobles’ castles, the heaven-aimed spire of the Temple to Ilmater, the Westlight, and the Tower, where she stood.
She’d come to the Tower to see Durgar, but he’d gone out to investigate the remains of last night’s mysterious fire. Taking one last look at the covered city, Alias hurried back downstairs to meet Dragonbait and Olive, who had waited for her in the reception hall below.
The halfling, who had regained consciousness soon after they’d left the secret tunnel, now paced up and down the hall, unable to hide her eagerness to hunt for the Faceless’s lair. She bore a long, jagged scar on her leg, but Dragonbait had healed her wound sufficiently so that it gave her no pain. Dragonbait stood very still beside the gate, but from the twitch in his tail Alias could see that he, too, was anxious to be going. He had even grown less annoyed by Alias’s promise to Melman that she would free him later; an attitude that would hold only as long as it appeared Melman had been truthful with them.
“Looks like we go alone,” Alias said after explaining Durgar’s absence. “The watch captain on duty says he doesn’t have the authority to send a patrol out to investigate unless the peace is being disturbed.”
The three adventurers donned their heavy cloaks, and Olive lit the lantern she carried before they went outside. Westgate was like a ghost city, for the fog shrouded commerce as well. There were no booths or carts set up in the market; very few shops appeared open, and those that were had no customers. Even those people hardy enough to venture the streets at night remained indoors in the fog. Alias wondered if even the Night Masks avoided working in the fog.
The sound of their footsteps was muffled by the water in the air so that the adventurers appeared to be three wraiths gliding along the streets. Dragonbait squinted, concentrating on using his shen sight so that they wouldn’t be surprised by anything coming out of the fog. They strode due east on Silverpiece Way to the bridge that crossed the River Thunn.
Five stone arches supported the River Bridge, and the road across it was wide enough for two large wagons and several extra pedestrians to use at once. The bridge was not only a masterful feat of engineering but a dumping ground for stone carvings looted from King Verovan’s castle when he had died. Brooding gargoyles held out stone braziers flickering with oil flames, which pushed ineffectually at the foggy darkness. Curling sea serpents made up the bridge’s railings. The statues of ancient historical figures lined the center, dividing it into two distinct lanes.
At high tide, the river below would slam into the rising waters of the sea, creating a surging wave that ran the width of the river just downstream from the bridge. Now, at low tide, the two bodies of water collided near the mouth of the bay, no more than a mere rill on the water’s surface. The river level also dropped down a few feet, uncovering a wide expanse of muddy sandbank beneath the bridge. The adventurers veered from the bridge and made their way down to the sandbank.
“This must be a good place to dig for clams,” Alias noted.
Olive shook her head. “According to the halflings in the Thalavar household, there’s some sea serpent called the quelzarn that lurks in these waters. People who come down here tend to disappear.
“Disappearances no doubt arranged by the Faceless to conceal his lair,” Alias guessed. She pulled Melman’s key from her pocket, and, holding the key loop up to her eye, scanned the stone embankment. She pointed to a featureless spot a little ways downstream at the foot of the embankment. “There,” she said, handing the key to the halfling.
Olive peered through the key loop. It was like looking through a soap bubble. Rainbows of color swirled before her eye, but when she looked toward the spot where Alias pointed, a hot white light shone before her eye. She offered the key to Dragonbait, but the saurial declined to use the magic item, disdainful of handling any Night Mask magic unless absolutely necessary. Out of habit, Olive ran her finger down the teeth of the key, registering its shape, before returning it to the swordswoman.
Once more Alias held the key up to her eye. She strode purposefully toward the stone embankment. Olive could detect only slight, irregular frost cracks in the rock. Alias reached out with her hand and touched a spot on the rock. “There’s some sort of keyhole here,” she said. Then she guided the key to the hand she held on the wall like a woman trying to unlock a door in the dark.
The key slid smoothly into the rock; Alias twisted it, and from beneath the ground came the sound of a huge bolt being thrown.
The erratic pattern of cracks joined in the shape of a rough-hewn door some three feet across by five feet high. The door popped a few inches out of the wall. Dragonbait grasped its edge and muscled it open.
Behind the entrance lay a tunnel several feet wider and higher than the door. Alias looked around. An outcropping of rock in the muddy bank blocked any view from the bridge. The riverbed widened considerably just below the bridge, so no one standing on the opposite shore at night would be able to see more than the light of their lantern. It was a location well hidden in plain sight.
Olive thrust her lantern into the inky black tunnel. Brickwork lined the walls, floors, and arched ceiling as far back as they could see. All three adventurers drew their blades and slipped through the door. Dragonbait growled the command for his blade to ignite.
There was a ring attached to the back of the door. Alias gave it a tug, pulling the door nearly closed so that it did not attract visitors behind them, but leaving enough of a gap that they could flee the tunnels easily should the need arise. Then the trio plunged into the darkness.
Thirty feet down, the passage emptied into a larger tunnel with an uneven floor and a canted ceiling cut directly into bedrock. This tunnel appeared to be far older. Along its length were several side passages, all of which were bricked up. The older tunnel went on for some distance straight ahead.
Finally the passage widened slightly. On one side were ten empty sconces, and on the other, ten empty pegs.
“At last we’ve found the cloak room of the Faceless,” Olive joked.
Another ten feet ahead, the passage spilled out into a large vault cut out of the solid stone. The walls were bare, and the furnishing was sparse but impressive: a massive obsidian table streaked with veins of gold, polished to a liquidlike luster. Ten large wooden chairs, five to a side, stood about the table, a
nd at the head, on a raised dais, stood a throne of the same black-and-gold material as the table. On the table sat a brass brazier, unlit but stoked with fresh charcoal. Beside the brazier lay a black cloth covering a small object.
Alias lifted the black cloth. Beneath it was a white porcelain mask, a domino mask painted about the eyes and a glyph on the forehead.
“The mark for Gateside,” Alias noted. “Melman’s district.”
Olive proceeded around the room, tapping the walls and looking for secret access ways.
“Is the Faceless simply letting the others know of Melman’s death or informing them that he himself was responsible?” the paladin mused.
Alias shrugged and laid the black cloth back over the mask.
“Yes!” Olive whispered from the wall behind the obsidian throne. She knocked again, and they all heard the distinct hollow sound. Olive could just make out with her fingertips the hair-thin crack that betrayed the edges of a secret passageway. After several minutes searching, though, she was still at a loss for a handhold, button, or switch to open it. Alias pushed on the edges of the door in case it pivoted, but without result.
“Try Melman’s key,” the halfling suggested.
Alias peered at the closed passage through the handle of the iron key. “Nothing,” she reported.
“Guess it was too much to hope that Melman would have access to the Faceless’s inner sanctum,” the halfling muttered.
“We may need a mage for this,” Alias said with a sigh, wondering just how many times she was going to have to go to Mintassan for help.
“Boogers,” Olive cursed.
There was a sharp crack, and the entire wall panel swung slightly outward and upward, revealing another stone passage.
Alias looked at the halfling, stunned.
“I guessed the secret word!” Olive cried out excitedly.
From behind them came the clicking sound of the saurial’s laughter. Dragonbait was standing behind the obsidian throne with a clawed finger resting on a panel in the back of the throne. As they watched, the saurial pushed the panel and the door swung closed.
“I would have thought of that next,” Olive said with a sniff.
Dragonbait reopened the door. Just inside was another empty sconce. Most notable about this passage, though, was the damp, pungent smell, not of the sea, but of sewage. Wrinkling their noses, the adventurers proceeded through this new tunnel, Olive in the lead, with Alias and Dragonbait just behind her.
Despite the lantern she carried, Olive did not see the chasm that abruptly crossed the passage until she was right on top of it. Fortunately, the stench and the sound of running water had warned her to slow down and she was able to back away from the edge before she stepped into the yawning void. Alias and Dragonbait halted beside her, and they all peered downward. Across their path lay a circular sewage tunnel lined with brick. They stood near the top of the tunnel. On the other side, nearly twenty feet away, the passageway to the Faceless’s lair continued on. Ten feet below them the sewage of Westgate churned and surged past.
“You’d think the Faceless would be concerned that a sewer inspector might stumble on this place,” Olive quipped.
“Cities the size of Westgate have enough underground sewers, pipes, and cisterns to confuse a dwarf. They probably built this tunnel before King Verovan’s time and promptly forgot it,” Alias retorted.
“How’re we going to cross it?” the halfling asked.
Alias shrugged. “The Faceless must have some way across,” she said.
Dragonbait picked up a handful of pebbles from the floor and tossed them into the chasm. They skittered horizontally in midair, some finally tumbling into the dark water below, but others remained suspended, resting on an invisible surface.
“Aren’t you clever,” Alias said, smiling at the saurial.
The paladin shrugged. He could detect the bridge from the way it masked the heat flowing up from the sewage below.
Alias stepped out into the void. Assured that the bridge was sturdy beneath her feet, she continued across, using her sword as a cane to tap out the edges of the bridge. It was only two feet wide, but flat and smooth. Nonetheless, when she reached the opening in the sewer wall at the opposite end and stepped off the bridge, she breathed a sigh of relief. She turned and waved for the others to follow.
Olive began crossing next, using her own sword as a guide. The halfling moved more quickly than the swordswoman had, but when she was halfway across the bridge, she froze.
Alias furrowed her brow in puzzlement. Olive had never been afraid of heights, yet now she stood motionless, looking down into the water. “Come on, Olive!” the swordsman whispered urgently.
“I can’t,” Olive retorted through clenched teeth. “I want to move, but I can’t! Feels like magic, maybe some kind of trap.”
Alias had just set one foot back on the bridge when something erupted from the water below. By the light of Olive’s lantern the swordswoman could make out a great serpentine beast—its body stretching out far longer than the lantern light could make out. Its back was covered in a diamond pattern of green and brown scales, and a green fin ran the full length of its eel-like body. It reared its head, revealing a yellow belly, and filthy water dripped from the slimy moss coating its scales. Thrusting upward toward Olive, it roared with a mouth large enough to swallow the halfling in a single gulp. Needle teeth glistened by the light of the halfling’s lantern. In the beast’s eyes Alias imagined she could detect intelligence and cunning. “It’s the quelzarn!” Alias shouted. “Olive, you have to move!”
Olive, unable to comply, looked into the maw, wondering if she could cut her way out from the inside. She realized with a sickening dread that her chances of doing so were not good even if the magic that now held her disappeared once she was swallowed.
Just as the sea serpent’s head arched over Olive, the saurial scooped the halfling up in his arms and dashed across the bridge to the other side. The quelzarn snapped its jaws on empty air, squealed with annoyance, and slid back into the water.
Dragonbait set Olive down gently. The halfling was breathing so heavily that Alias was afraid she might pass out before she regained control.
“Why do these things always happen to me?” the halfling moaned. “Why didn’t it use magic to hold you in place?”
“Maybe it just wanted a light snack,” Alias teased. “It probably noticed your lantern. I went across without one.”
“Or you’re more resistant to its magic.” The enchantment holding Olive dissolved suddenly, and she started like a sleeper in a dream. “Boy, I really hate magic, sometimes. Now I’m all pins and needles,” she complained, rubbing her limbs.
They finally got Olive back on her feet again and continued onward. The passageway on this side of the sewer sloped upward, ending in a short staircase. Alias wondered if they might be climbing into the basement of a building by the river, but she realized they must be somewhere beneath a hill when they reached the top of the stair and they stood in one more underground cavern carved out of solid bedrock. Magical lanterns bathed the cavern in a bright yellow glow, leaving them no doubt that they had discovered what they’d been seeking.
“Jackpot!” Olive whispered in awe.
Alias nodded in agreement.
The Faceless’s treasury made Melman’s hoard look like the collection plate at a dead god’s church. Great sea chests, closed and locked, were stacked against one wall. A multitude of weapons, from swords and polearms to wands and staves, hung from another. Dozens of open amphoras stood in an alcove, stuffed to overflowing in the southern fashion with jewelry and gems.
On a workbench in the center of the room stood a rack like a tree—with twelve long pegs branching out from its central pole. Hanging from the peg branches were eleven white porcelain masks, each with a different glyph painted over the domino mask markings about the eye slits. A twelfth branch was empty—no doubt the one that had once held Melman’s mask. A large mirror was mounted on the wall
to the right of the workbench. To the other side stood two rows of statues. Behind the workbench a fountain pool gushed water in a burbling rhythm.
“I always say there’s nothing like the sound of a fountain for relaxing at the end of a hard day’s extortion and murder,” the halfling joked.
Alias held up a hand to silence the halfling. She thought she saw movement near the statues. She motioned for Dragonbait and Olive to take up positions on either side of the workbench as she moved around it.
The statues were iron, covered with a thin film of oil to ward off rust. They were about twice Alias’s height, molded in a humanoid form but with dragon heads. Alias was sure they were some sort of golem—automatons capable of serving as deadly guards. Those constructed of iron often breathed poisonous gas, and Alias found herself holding her breath as she approached them.
She reached out and touched the nearest statue. It was cool and remained immobile. If the statues were iron golems, they did not appear to be activated. They were set in a military formation, two rows deep. It was in the back line where she thought she saw movement.
The warrior woman slid between the two ranks, moving as silently as a cat. She saw a flash of light on metal behind the second rank. Swinging around the line, Alias raised her sword, prepared to skewer whatever skulked back there.
Fortunately, her mind analyzed what she saw before her instincts took over. She recognized the man in fine silk vestments who stood before her gripping with white knuckles a sword held out in an awkward defensive position.
“Victor!” Alias gasped.
Victor Dhostar lowered his sword and held his other hand over his heart as if to keep it from leaping out of his chest. His eyes were wide with both fear and astonishment. “Alias!” he exclaimed, breathing a sigh of relief. “Am I glad to see you!”
“Come on out,” Alias ordered, holding her sword level, still ready to strike. Magical creatures sometimes used the face of a friend as a ploy to get adventurers to lower their guard.
