by Kate Novak
He let the myriad colors slide along his consciousness. He stopped, focusing on a very dark purple to his right. He peeked out one eye. Kimbel, the former assassin, stood on a staircase, watching the guests from behind the guards.
Dragonbait closed his eye again. In a moment, he could sense a deep red hatred speckled with green jealousy. The paladin confirmed his guess. Haztor Urdo, hating Alias, jealous of Victor’s pleasure in her company.
With his eyes squeezed tightly shut, the paladin let the colors wash over him longer, until he could sense their pattern as they moved about the blue that he knew must be Alias, as they stepped back from her, circled around her, pulled her close.
Blackness like a shroud covered the blue flame of Alias’s spirit, blackness so dark, it devoured the light from her, giving up none of it. Blackness was the lust for power, the voracious appetite for control over all others, the desire that swallowed its tail and devoured the being’s own universe.
Dragonbait whirled and glared at the man holding Alias in his arms. Once again, where Victor stood, the paladin saw the blue flame so like Alias’s. Now he concentrated on what lay beneath the blue. As if Victor’s soul were a canvas, he stared at it for the pentimento that lay beneath the illusion of virtue painted on the surface.
Then he could see it—the image that lay beneath what Victor had seemed. There were pits of blackness filled with black serpents, all poised to devour whatever came their way. As Victor reached a hand out to the swordswoman, Dragonbait saw a serpent wind about the flame of Alias’s spirit, prepared to crush the life from it before making it a meal. Despite himself, Dragonbait let out a mewling cry and nearly toppled forward.
It was a moment before he could gather his shen sight back into whatever spot it rested when not in use. He saw a flame of blue, tinged with a little green jealousy just before his vision cleared. Thistle stood before him, her hands resting gently on his shoulders. “Are you all right?” she asked slowly, in a manner that presumed that because he did not speak her tongue, he could not hear or easily understand it.
The paladin nodded, tapping his chest to indicate he’d only swallowed something the wrong way.
As Thistle turned to get a glass of water for the saurial, Dragonbait watched Victor with new insight. He remembered how Mist had claimed the noble was a pawn to his ambition and desires. The wyrm always did have a talent for understatement, the paladin thought with a wry sense of amusement.
The dance ended, and Alias strode from the dance floor, hand in hand with Victor. Dragonbait excused himself from Thistle and moved toward the couple.
“I must speak with you,” the paladin said to Alias in saurial, “alone.”
“Can’t it wait?” Alias asked, eager to reach the refreshment table and ease her parched throat.
The paladin shook his head to indicate it could not. With a sigh, the swordswoman excused herself from Lord Victor’s company. She followed the saurial to a less-crowded section of the room.
“What is it?” Alias asked. She removed her mask and spoke in Saurial so that she would not be overheard. “Night Masks?”
“No, it is Victor,” Dragonbait replied. “Olive is right. We cannot trust him.”
“Would you forget about Olive? She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
“It is not just Olive. I have seen it with my shen sight. He is corrupted. He is an evil man.”
“Four days ago your shen sight saw he was virtuous,” Alias argued heatedly.
“I was deceived somehow. Some illusion covered the truth.”
“How do you know you aren’t being deceived now?” Alias demanded.
“Olive convinced me that I was wrong.”
“I think Olive talked you into seeing something that isn’t there,” Alias snapped. She burst into a tirade, which consisted of several growls and clicks audible to the other party goers around them, and a few of them glanced nervously in her direction. “I’m tired of hearing about your shen sight, of the way you judge everyone with it. There’s more to people than your paladin visions. What they say and what they do is what really matters. That’s how I know Victor is good,” she declared. She spun around and bolted off.
While the swordswoman and the paladin argued, Kimbel slipped up behind Lord Victor.
“Is everything in place?” the merchant asked.
“Yes, but there may be a problem,” the servant whispered. “The lizard was studying you and seemed to have an attack of some kind. I suspect he has seen past the illusion projected by your amulet of misdirection.”
“Bloody hell,” Victor muttered. “He’s talking with Alias now.”
“I suggest you continue with the plan,” Kimbel said. “If there is a problem, you can deal with her once you are alone. I can deal with the lizard.”
“Remove him, but do not kill him yet,” Victor ordered. “She might be able to sense that somehow. Make it appear innocent.”
“As if he left town in a fit of paladin snobbery,” Kimbel suggested.
“Yes. Nice touch,” Victor agreed. “Go.”
The former assassin slipped away. Victor looked in Alias and Dragonbait’s direction. Alias appeared to be arguing with the paladin, which was certainly a good sign. The merchant lord spotted Thistle Thalavar standing beside her imposing grandmother. The girl was as good a pawn as any, Lord Victor thought. He hurried over to ask her to dance.
Alias returned to the spot where she’d left Victor, only to discover he’d escorted Thistle Thalavar out to the dance floor. She slipped her mask back on, grateful for the way it hid her fury. She watched as Thistle seemed to hang on Victor’s every word. The merchant lord may think of her as a child, but it was obvious the young girl thought of him as a hero. Alias felt miserable standing alone in the room full of people, but she could hardly blame Victor for abandoning her. After all, he was supposed to mix with the guests. The swordswoman was just toying with the idea of finding herself another dance partner when Victor and Thistle parted company. Thistle moved in Dragonbait’s direction and Victor came toward Alias.
The young noblewoman soon cornered her quarry and dragged the saurial onto the dance floor for a quadrille.
“I thought your friend could use a little coaxing onto the dance floor,” the nobleman explained as he rejoined the swordswoman. “He looks far too dour for a celebration. Thistle said she’d see what she could— Alias, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Alias retorted hurriedly. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”
“Well, you’re shaking, for one thing,” Victor replied as he placed his warm hands on her shoulders. “And, well, with your complexion, you do tend to color when you’re angry. Even your shoulders are red. Perhaps we should talk in private. Come upstairs with me.”
The white-caped guards on the stairs parted for the son of Luer Dhostar and his guest. Halfway up the stairs, Alias shot a glance down at the dance floor. Dragonbait was acquitting himself admirably, keeping up with Thistle’s steps, but the swordswoman could tell his heart was not in the motions.
Victor hesitated before opening the door to the conference suite. “I need to explain something. I was planning on asking you up here to—to talk. I realize maybe this is a bad time for it, so please don’t misunderstand.”
He swung open the door, and Alias felt her heart melting despite her anger. The drab conference room had been transformed into a romantic faerie realm. The large table was glittering from lit tapers of perfumed wax. Bolts of silk fabric and oversized pillows covered the floor between the table and the hearth, where a fire blazed and crackled. A bottle of Evermead, two glasses, and a platter of fruits and cheeses sat on a tray beside the hearth.
“We can just sit at the table, if it will make you more comfortable,” Victor said.
Alias stepped into the room, and Victor followed, pushing the door closed behind them. Feeling a little foolish, she walked past the table and sat down on one of the pillows. She inspected the bottle of Evermead. It was more than a
hundred years old.
“Now, tell me what’s wrong,” Victor insisted, sinking onto a cushion beside her.
Alias shook her head. “It’s nothing, Victor … really. Dragonbait and I just had an argument. He can be so—so—Oh! It just doesn’t make any sense! Victor, have you been telling me the truth about your father?” she demanded.
Victor looked into the flames of the fire. “No,” he admitted softly.
Alias removed her mask, then reached up and untied the strings of the fabric covering Victor’s eyes and pulled it away. She laid both masks down on the pillow beside her. Then she said, “Victor, you have to tell me everything you know.”
“You have to understand,” Victor said, looking her in the eye. “I love my father. I’m sure he thinks somehow what he’s doing is right. He’s not an evil man, Alias. He’s just—well, he’s just so certain that he’s always right.”
“You know he’s involved with the Night Masks?”
“I’ve suspected it for some time. There hasn’t been any money missing, but I guess he’s been making some other kind of payments. He’s in charge of all the smoke powder the city confiscates. There’s a lot of it. It isn’t all in the warehouse where the books say it should be. When I told him I’d found the key, I also told him I’d discovered about the smoke powder. He seemed pretty shaken. He asked me to cover for him, to give him time to take care of some personal matters. He promised me, though, that he would come here tonight and explain things to you and Durgar.”
The young man looked away, and Alias could see there were tears in his eyes. “It doesn’t look good, does it?” he asked.
“No. It doesn’t,” Alias agreed.
“You’d better go back downstairs,” Victor said. “It would be better for you if you weren’t seen with me, I think.”
“Why not?” Alias demanded.
“My father is going to be the center of a scandal, Alias. He could be involved with the Night Masks. Gods! He might even be the Faceless. I have to stand beside him, but there’s no reason for you to be involved.”
“Victor, no,” Alias said, feeling her heart breaking for the young man’s pain. “Look. I can’t approve of your father, but I love you. I’m not going to abandon you because of something your father did.”
“I love you,” Victor replied, “which is why I can’t allow you to stay. I don’t want your name dragged down with ours.”
“If you love me,” Alias whispered vehemently, “you’ll let me stay.”
Victor smiled sadly. He ran his finger across her cheek, then down her neck and along her shoulder. “You are so very beautiful,” he whispered. “You made me feel so lucky.”
Alias put her hand behind the nobleman’s neck and pulled his face close to her own. “I am not leaving you. You say you love me. Prove it,” she demanded, and she threw her arms about his neck and pressed her lips against his own.
Lord Victor slid one hand about the swordswoman’s waist to pull her closer as his other hand rested over Alias’s porcelain mask, covering its eyes completely.
Below, in the main room of the Tower, the interminably long quadrille had ended and Dragonbait excused himself from Thistle Thalavar’s company as quickly as good manners allowed. Now he scanned the crowded room for either Alias or Victor. In the end, it was Olive who found him. She tugged anxiously on the hem of his tunic.
Where is she? he signed surreptitiously.
The halfling jerked her finger in the direction of the stairway. “With Lord Victor,” she growled. “Didn’t you talk to her?”
Dragonbait cursed in Saurial and began pushing his way through the crowd, toward the stairs. He managed to climb four steps before his way was blocked by a wall of leather armor and white plumes.
Dragonbait hesitated, considering whether he should fetch Olive to translate his need to the guard or whether he should just shove his way past them. He had just decided on the more forceful option when the screaming began.
The paladin wheeled just in time to see a huge figure leap down from one of the mirrors mounted on the wall and land with a great thoom on the stone floor. The creature was twice the size of a human, kettle black, with a head shaped like a dragon’s. An identical creature had already landed on a young noble, who screamed as his legs were crushed beneath the monster’s weight. The saurial recognized the figures as iron golems from the lair of the Faceless. A third appeared in the mirror, pausing only for the first two to move out of the way before it, too, leaped down onto the floor.
The crowd was already panicking, driving like a herd of cattle for the entrance, only to find that the portcullis to the entrance had been lowered. Those in the rear were being decapitated by blows from the iron golems’ fists, while those in the front were being crushed by their fellow guests.
A fourth and a fifth golem emerged from the mirror before the guardsmen poured off the stairs to meet the assault.
Dragonbait hovered uncertainly. He could search upstairs for Alias or battle the creatures. As a sixth golem appeared in the mirror, he knew he must act. With a sharpened claw, he cut the peace-bonded cord from his weapon and drew his blade. Then he launched himself at the magical mirror, swinging his sword.
The mirror shattered in a burst of light. Glass rained on the guests, but if there were any other golems, they would not be entering the Tower as easily as the first six had.
The paladin crunched broken glass beneath his feet as he landed. He turned in time to witness Haztor Urdo, with his sword drawn, run toward the sixth golem. The nobleman feinted to the right, then struck the creature on the opposite leg, but his blade broke on the monster’s iron surface. The golem grabbed the youth by the arm, slammed him hard against the wall, then released him. Haztor’s body slid down the wall, leaving a long, bloody smear, his Captain Crocodile mask still smiling.
With a snarl, the paladin leaped onto the shoulder of one of the creatures. He knew heat helped such creatures repair themselves, so he did not ignite his sword. Fortunately, the weapon carried other powerful enchantments, so the blade bit deep into the side of the creature’s face, parting it like butter.
The golem reached up to grab the saurial, but the ornate dragon head prevented it from reaching its assailant. Dragonbait struck again and again with his sword, reducing the golem to spinning around in place while swatting ineffectually at the saurial.
The other five golems were not so distracted. The swords of the watch did not carry the necessary enchantments to slice through magically enlivened iron, and the monsters carved a wide swath through watchmen and party-goers alike. The frightened nobles’ only hope was to dodge between the beasts.
Durgar’s voice rose above the din, and Dragonbait caught a glimpse of the old priest, his mace glowing with its own eldritch power, smashing huge dents into one of the iron creatures. The golem was swift enough to grab Durgar by the arm, however, and it tossed the old man aside easily and moved back into the crowd, punching and crushing anyone in its path. The priest of Tyr landed heavily, but he rose, albeit unsteadily, and returned to the fray.
A smattering of magic missiles plinked without effect on a golem’s surface, indicating a few nobles were not above learning the Art. At least one mage must have had some advanced training, for he sent a lightning bolt arcing across the room. The bolt struck two golems and a handful of nobles. The humans collapsed to the ground, but the golems were slowed.
The situation was deteriorating quickly. With the golem beneath him cracking along its entire length and breadth, Dragonbait leaped clear and vaulted up the stairs, three at a time. Alias could help turn the tide of the battle, if he could only find her.
Kimbel stood waiting at the first landing, with a double-loaded drow crossbow aimed at the paladin. Dragonbait could smell as well as see the resinous putty smeared on the bolts’ tips, but he wasn’t quick enough to dodge the missiles. The first caught the saurial in the shoulder, the second in the chest. Dragonbait hissed and lunged in an attempt to skewer the assassin, but he fell
short and crumpled into a heap on the stairs.
“Looking for your mistress?” Kimbel taunted, lowering the crossbow. “I’m sorry, but she’s occupied right now.” He motioned for two men in guardsmen uniforms to collect the saurial’s body.
On the main floor, a tight knot of halflings surrounded Lady Nettel as Olive Ruskettle tried with limited success to keep any approaching golems from turning their attention on the matriarch. Lady Nettel was leaning heavily on a spear, which she had plucked from a fallen guardsmen. Just when it seemed as if Olive had managed to send one golem off to seek easier prey, Lady Nettel shrieked, “Thistle!”
Olive spotted the young noblewoman collapsed on the floor with a golem hovering uncertainly over her.
Olive dashed forward, but Lady Nettel was faster. The head of House Thalavar barged through her ring of bodyguards and stepped right between the iron colossus and her granddaughter. The old lady swung her spear to ward off the monster, but the shaft snapped like a twig against the creature’s iron arms. As Olive dragged Thistle back to the uncertain safety of the ring of halfling bodyguards, the golem lifted Lady Nettel in both arms and squeezed. Even above the din, Olive swore she could hear the sound of the old woman’s back breaking. Then the monster, disinterested in the dead, dropped Nettel Thalavar’s crushed, mangled body and wandered off.
Olive dashed over to Lady Nettel’s broken form; Thistle followed directly behind her, ignoring the bodyguards who tried to hold her back by tugging on the skirt of her gown. Astonishingly, the old woman still breathed, but she was twisted in an odd, inhuman fashion, and Olive could tell she was fading before their eyes. The dying woman called for Thistle.
Thistle bent close to her grandmother’s face. “You are … my heir,” Nettel Thalavar wheezed. “Take … the feather pin.”
Thistle began to cry, but Lady Nettel pushed her aside and grabbed Olive by the tabard. She gasped once, then whispered vehemently, “Protect … my … granddaughter!” The noblewoman never drew another breath. Her face spasmed into a contortion that looked anything but peaceful and froze.
