by Kate Novak
“I fail to see any humor in the situation,” Victor snapped.
“It’s the irony,” Kimbel retorted. “Where the warrioress has been led astray, an accountant comes to the truth.”
Victor sniffed in recognition of Kimbel’s point, then ordered, “Get the body to the new hideout. When you finish that, begin to search and mark all the books with references to smoke powder so I have evidence of the former croamarkh’s pilfering.”
“And may I inquire as to your plans, Your Lordship?” the former assassin queried as he opened the library door.
“I have to get ready for the masquerade ball,” Victor said with a laugh as he strolled from the room. “You know us merchants. Banes of the dance floor and dessert tables.”
Eighteen
The Masquerade
Alias returned to Blais House in the late afternoon, lugging a red velvet gown made from so much fabric it weighed nearly as much as the adventurer’s sword. Jamal accompanied her, carrying the baldric and the masks Alias had chosen for herself and Dragonbait. The saurial had gone out, but he returned just as Jamal was buttoning up the side of Alias’s gown.
To Alias’s questioning look the paladin explained in Saurial, “I’ve been to see Mintassan about a few matters.”
“Anything in particular?” Alias asked as she slipped the diamond-patterned baldric over her head.
Dragonbait shot a glance at Jamal. The actress was beginning to fuss with Alias’s hair. “It would be better in private,” he answered.
On the pretext that Dragonbait was too modest to change with the actress about, Alias asked Jamal to excuse herself. The actress agreed, promising Alias she’d be waiting in the hotel lobby to see them off.
“Well?” Alias prompted once she’d closed the door behind Jamal.
“Olive was here earlier,” the paladin explained.
“And?”
Dragonbait shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t really know that he credited Olive’s story, which made it very difficult for him to present it at all. Of course, if he actually believed the halfling, the truth would be even harder for him to reveal.
“She doesn’t trust Victor Dhostar,” the saurial said.
Alias chuckled as she worked her way into the white slippers Jamal had loaned her. “Neither does Jamal. It seems to be a way of life in Westgate—mistrusting all the noble merchants. According to Jamal, it should be a crime for people to make that much money for so little labor or talent.”
“What do you think?” Dragonbait asked.
Alias tied her scabbard to the baldric she wore. “Well, I’m sure there’s more than a few Haztor Urdos among them.”
“I meant about Victor,” the paladin explained.
Alias smiled. “Victor’s different,” she said. Dragonbait said nothing, but continued to stare at Alias until she felt obliged to elaborate. “He’s wonderful, charming, clever, thoughtful, and, to use a phrase Jamal’s fond of, he’s a fine figure of a man.”
“Olive thinks he lied to us about the key, that he did not enter the Faceless’s lair the way he claimed, that he knows his father is the Faceless, that he is using you to depose him.”
Alias glared at her companion. “That’s ridiculous,” she snapped.
“You do not think he suspects his father?”
“Of course he suspects his father. He’s just loyal to him, the way I was to Finder, like you said. Remember? The day you told me how sky-blue virtuous he appeared?”
Dragonbait nodded. “Suppose I hadn’t told you that. Would you think the same of him?”
“Of course I would,” Alias said in an exasperated tone. “Because he is. It’s not his fault his father might be a criminal.”
“Olive thinks Victor must have used a different entrance to the lair and lied to us about using the key.”
“Oh, and Olive has never been one to jump to conclusions,” Alias said with sarcasm. “I’ll find out about the key from Victor tonight. We’ll get this settled then. You should be getting dressed. Victor will be here soon.” She turned to the window and began vigorously yanking a brush through her hair.
Dragonbait changed into his best tunic and strapped on his sword. As he peace-bonded his weapon with a cord of silk, he said, “I spoke with Mintassan about the magic that makes the Faceless and the Night Masters undetectable.”
Alias turned about. “Probably something like what makes me undetectable. Cassana could have bought or stole the skill from the priests of Leira. Durgar won’t believe in the Faceless because he can’t be detected by magic. I wonder, if he tried to detect me, would he conclude I don’t exist, do you think?”
“No,” the paladin replied. “Not if it contradicted the evidence of his eyes. Mintassan suspects that the Faceless’s helmet of disguise was not the only piece of magic looted from the Temple of Leira before it was burned. There might have been objects that could misdirect other sorts of magical detection. Perhaps even something that could blind my shen sight.”
From the street outside came the sound of carriage wheels rumbling on the cobblestones.
“That could explain why you read the croamarkh as completely neutral, if he is the Faceless, “Alias noted as she turned to look out the window.
Dragonbait nodded, but did not add his worse suspicion. He was unwilling to admit there was any magic that could thwart his shen sight, which was, to his mind, a gift from his god. Without proof, he could not bring himself to slander Lord Victor.
“That’s Lord Victor’s carriage,” Alias announced, snatching up her porcelain mask. Her gown rustled as she swept toward the door in a most unladylike dash.
It was too late to say anything more, the paladin realized, picking up his own feathery mask. The timing was all wrong. She would not hear it anyway. Although she had made no admission, it was clear to him that she loved Victor Dhostar.
“Come on,” Alias chided from the hallway. “I don’t want to keep him waiting.”
Dragonbait followed his companion from the room.
Victor stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at Alias with delight written all over his face. Was it possible, the saurial wondered, that the merchant’s pleasure could be a ruse? With his shen sight, the paladin studied the man as he bowed low before Alias. Once more he saw nothing but the cool blue flame that symbolized virtue. Dragonbait shook himself. It was entirely possible that Olive was wrong and that Victor was everything he appeared. The paladin descended the stairs, determined to make no more judgments until he’d heard what the merchant noble had to say about the key and his father.
Victor made a polite, although less dramatic, bow to greet Dragonbait. From the corner of his eye the paladin caught sight of Jamal in the shadow of a pillar. She winked conspiratorially at the paladin as Victor ushered his guests out of the hotel.
From the anteroom behind the actress, a small voice noted, “They’ve dressed alike.”
Jamal turned to face the little half-elven servant girl, Mercy. “Pardon?” the woman asked.
“Lord Victor and Mistress Alias,” the girl explained. “The fabric of the sash about his waist is the same as her baldric—the same diamond design. And his tunic is dark red velvet, too. A darker shade than Mistress Alias’s gown, but close. He has her favor on his tunic, too.”
“Her favor?”
“She gave him a lock of her hair the other night. I saw her cut it off. I was watching from my window,” Mercy admitted. “It was so romantic.”
Jamal frowned. “It looked romantic. That’s not always the same as being romantic,” she muttered.
“No, Ma’am,” the girl replied, too well trained to argue. She scurried off to avoid any further disagreeable comments. The aging actress leaned back against the pillar, realizing she must sound like an ill-tempered old maid. It was a curse, knowing so much. It made it impossible for her to suspend her disbelief and accept a fairy-tale romance as fact. Westgate nobles did not court for love, and they certainly did not court commoners. What was Victor Dhostar up to?
she wondered.
The ride to the Tower, where the ball was to be held, was brief but lively. Victor steered the carriage skillfully through streets full of people apparently gathered to watch the pageantry of the nobles in their splendor. The crowds recognized not only Lord Victor but Alias as well, and cheers and shouts greeted them all the way to the market. Still, Alias felt compelled by Dragonbait’s dour look to lean over and ask the merchant noble, “Have you spoken with your father?”
Victor nodded and returned a wave to a gathering in an outdoor cafe. “I’ll tell you about it later, in private.”
The watch was posted around the perimeter of the market, allowing only those who had an invitation to the ball to approach. Victor pulled his carriage up to the edge of the green. A member of the watch in buffed leather armor and a white capelet with a white plume jutting from his helmet helped Alias down from the carriage. Victor’s elderly driver stepped up from the green to take the horses’ reins from his master and move the carriage out of the way of newer arrivals.
Lord Victor donned his mask, a mere strip of red velvet with eyeholes bordered with gold stitching. Alias and Dragonbait did likewise, then their host led them up a path covered with ornate carpets. The market had been cleared of its mercantile trappings, leaving the crowds about the green a clear view of the nobles as they climbed the path to the Tower.
The Tower was alight with magical faerie fire, which formed the symbols of all the noble houses of Westgate, from Athagdal to Vhammos. Alias shuddered to think about all the nobles’ homes guarded only by sleepy servants. The Night Masks must make quite a haul on nights like these, she realized.
There was a small queue of glittering nobles inside the Tower’s entrance.
“What are we waiting for?” Alias whispered.
“This is a formal ball,” he explained. “We must be announced, so the others present know we are here.”
“And can give us the once-over,” Alias mused.
“Don’t worry,” Victor said. “You look radiant.”
When they reached the front of the queue, Victor leaned over to give their names to the acting seneschal, another member of the watch with a white capelet and white plume.
“Lord Victor of House Dhostar,” the seneschal announced. “Alias, Foe of the Faceless, and Dragonbait, Companion of Alias.”
“Foe of the Faceless?” Alias repeated with disbelief, her laughter muffled behind her mask.
“It’s the thought on everyone’s mind, here,” said Victor. “You might as well admit it.”
Dragonbait pushed on his mask, which kept slipping up on his reptilian muzzle. He wished irritably that the Foe of the Faceless had not chosen him a mask with feathers. They kept tickling his eyes.
The interior of the Tower was awash with light. Hundreds of candles burned from a large central chandelier of cast iron, and all about the perimeter hung magical globes of light enchanted to appear as if salamanders and efreeti were dancing inside the orbs. Two great mirrors hung opposite one another, reflecting back into the room all the light they caught and creating the illusion of two infinite corridors filled with revelers.
The watch officers’ desks had become buffet tables, and a ten-piece orchestra was playing a rondo. A dozen couples occupied the center of the floor, spinning in their own little orbits around an imaginary central point. The stairs to the upper levels were blocked by more of the watch, decked in white plumage.
The guests’ clothing was rich and varied, but it was the masks that impressed Alias the most. They ranged from simple domino masks and silk veils to full face sculptures of papier maché and enamel. There were silvered globes of the sort worn by priests of Leira, the goddess of illusion, and more than a few veils of strung coins or beads. Most amusing were the masks that were common to street theaters everywhere: the Merchant, the Gossip, the Red Wizard, the Cat Burglar, the Twins.
Alias spotted Durgar dressed in his silvered armor but wearing the mask of the Doctor, a pompous character in street plays who always offered bad advice. With its high forehead, bulbous nose, and thick handlebar mustache, the mask looked like a parody of Durgar’s own face. The swordswoman would never have credited the priest with such a sense of humor.
Catching sight of Haztor Urdo’s black, puffed out hair, Alias paused to watch him. The Night Mask noble was wearing the mask of another theater staple—Captain Crocodile, the foolish, brash young warrior who blusters, but at heart seeks only love. Haztor was flirting with a woman dressed in an extremely low-cut gown made of fabric covered in mirrored facets and a silvered globe mask. Alias watched them just long enough to see the woman slap the young man and stalk off.
Alias chuckled. “Their battles are fought at the ball,” she quoted.
“Pardon?” Victor asked.
“A song that my—” She hesitated a moment. “That Finder Wyvernspur wrote about nobility in general,” she explained. In a low voice audible only to Victor and Dragonbait, adjusting to the rhythm of the orchestra, Alias sang softly:
“For all of their dancing,
Posturing, prancing,
They’ll fight with their backs to the wall.
Till then they are eating
And drinking and meeting;
Their battles are fought at the ball.”
Victor smiled. “That sounds like Westgate,” he agreed. “Good evening, Lady Nettel,” he said.
Alias turned to greet the elderly Thalavar matriarch. The noblewoman was dressed as before, in a black velvet gown and her verdigris feather brooch, her only concession to the masquerade a bit of white silk tied about her eyes, with eyeholes cut into it. In her wake she pulled her niece, Thistle, and Olive Ruskettle.
Olive cut a dashing figure in the green-and-white Thalavar livery, which included a huge, floppy hat bedecked with a great green plume. She wore a mask of silver glittering with fake emeralds. Alias could see other halflings in the crowd similarly costumed.
Thistle wore a veil of fine white lace over her face and was bedecked in a pink gown with a very high collar and short, ballooning sleeves. Long pink gloves covered her lower arms. As she approached Alias, her eyes were glittering with excitement.
“See what I have?” the young woman exclaimed, holding out her right arm for Alias to see.
Thistle’s right glove was embroidered with a blue stitchwork very similar to Alias’s own tattoo. Waves and thorns crested from wrist to elbow, but where Alias’s pattern displayed a rose, the young noblewoman’s featured a thistle.
Alias nodded politely, grateful that her face was masked and her amusement hidden.
“It is a compromise,” Lady Nettel explained with a smile, “one that might keep her from attempting any major transformations in her appearance for a few months. Victor, I do not see your father here.”
“My father was … detained,” Victor replied, avoiding Alias’s look. “He’s asked me to stand in his stead until his arrival.”
Alias was about to pull Victor aside and demand that he elaborate on his last statement, but Olive was tugging on the swordswoman’s bodice to get her attention. “Did you and Dragonbait talk?” she whispered anxiously.
Alias frowned down at the halfling, wishing now that the mask she wore did not hide her displeasure. “This is not a good time, Olive,” she growled.
Olive lowered her eyelids suspiciously, but with Lord Victor so near she did not dare elaborate. “Fine. I guess I’ll go check out the buffet table.”
Alias turned back to Victor, who was making excuses to Lady Nettel that he needed to circulate. Thistle asked Dragonbait to escort her and her grandmother about the room. The paladin nodded his assent. As he let each Thalavar woman take an arm and draw him off, he tilted his head in Victor’s direction. His meaning was perfectly clear to the swordswoman.
“You said your father was going to be here,” Alias declared heatedly.
“He is,” Victor replied, nodding at a passing Thorsar dignitary. “We … talked this afternoon. When I showed him the ke
y, he looked surprised, but he wouldn’t speak about it. He promised that he would come later to talk to you and Durgar before the end of the ball.”
“Victor,” Alias stressed, “you have to go to Durgar with this right now. Your father could be using this time to flee the city.”
Victor shook his head. “My father isn’t going to flee. This is his city. I think maybe the key belonged to another noble, and Father is covering for him. He just needs time to decide how to handle this gracefully.”
Alias shook her head at Victor’s stubborn loyalty to the croamarkh. Part of her wanted to bolt the party immediately and track down Luer Dhostar, while the other part was willing to wait for Victor’s sake, even though it probably meant losing the Faceless. She sighed and nodded. “I’ll wait,” she said.
“Good. Then, since you’re waiting, we may as well dance. Would you do me the honor?” Victor asked, extending his arm. He froze for a moment as an uncomfortable thought occurred to him. “You can dance, can’t you?” he asked.
“I can manage,” Alias replied with a laugh.
Victor called the dance a Westgate procession, but Alias knew it as a Shadowdale reel. It was simple and repetitive, but Alias found herself enjoying it nonetheless. The orchestra was skilled and lively, and the nobles on the dance floor at least showed her no animosity. She looked into Victor’s blue eyes, and her heart soared.
Along the sidelines, Dragonbait stood listening politely to Thistle as the young woman explained the origins of all the different food on the buffet table. All the while, he stared at Victor Dhostar, wondering whether Olive could be right.
The halfling popped up beside him, munching on a sticky roll. “Shen sight still out of focus, eh?” she taunted, noting the look with which he fixed the croamarkh’s son. “You could stand on your head. Maybe that would turn everything right side up.” She wandered off to another table for some liquid refreshment.
The saurial glared after her for a moment, then smiled. Only Olive could suggest something so ridiculous that might actually have merit. Not upside down, but backward, the paladin thought. He turned about to face the buffet. As Thistle chattered on about the longer growing season required for melons, the paladin closed his eyes and reached out with his shen sight.
