by Kate Novak
Thistle Thalavar, new leader of House Thalavar, gently unpinned her grandmother’s copper brooch. As her tears splashed on her grandmother’s corpse, she fastened the brooch to her own gown. Then she and Olive fled to the halflings’ last defensive position, under a buffet table.
Nineteen
The Unmasking
Ultimately it was a mild-mannered gate crasher who managed to turn the tide. Yielding to Dragonbait’s request, Mintassan had been keeping an eye on the proceedings at the ball. Cloaked in an invisibility spell, he had slipped past the seneschal and stood quietly in the corner, wearing the mask of a bearded, graying wizard with pipe clenched between his teeth. The paladin had not been able to even guess what might go wrong at the ball, but once the golems had arrived, the sage knew exactly how to bring the situation under control.
Magic being nearly useless against such monsters, Mintassan teleported back to his home. There, on his desk, tucked in box full of straw, was the remedy for iron golems. He had prepared it this morning after realizing the Faceless still controlled a troop of the creatures. Arriving in the back of his workroom, the sage dashed to his desk, prepared to scoop up his secret weapons and teleport back immediately. He halted before the desk and nearly froze in panic. The objects he sought were missing.
Fortunately, Mintassan was far more levelheaded than his reputation credited him. He also was not so old that he could not remember being a boy and the sorts of things boys enjoyed doing.
“Kel!” he hollered, dashing up the stairs two at a time. He threw open the door to the boy’s room and gave a great sigh of relief. The box lay on the bed, three glass globes packed within. Kel sat on the floor, waving a nail in front of a fourth glass globe. Within the globe a tiny insectlike creature pawed frantically at the glass ball, causing it to roll after the nail almost as if the ball were magnetically attracted to the iron.
“I was just playing,” the boy insisted.
Mintassan snatched up the box and the fourth globe and hissed, “Silver path, tower stair.”
Before Kel’s astonished eyes, the sage vanished.
Mintassan reappeared in the Tower on one of the staircases. Grimly he assessed the battlefield. Only one golem had actually been felled, lying in two twitching halves on the floor. Durgar was hammering on a second golem’s legs with such determination that the creature was limping noticeably, but then so was the old priest.
With an uncanny aim, Mintassan threw one ball each at the remaining four unscathed golems. The glass smashed against the iron monsters, releasing the tiny creatures within. They grew as they fell, so that by the time they hit the floor they were five feet in length, each sporting four insectlike legs, an armor-plated back, a long, bony tail with a paddle-shaped tip, and, most importantly, long mobile antennae. They were easily recognizable by the few experienced adventurers present as rust monsters—normally docile animals with a voracious appetite for all things iron.
The first freed rust monster struck its antennae against the legs of the iron golem looming over it. The golem’s legs turned brown and crumbled beneath it, so that it toppled to the floor, crippled.
The second rust monster took a moment longer to get its bearings, giving the golem beside it time to reach down and grab it—a serious error on the golem’s part. The rust monster’s antennae wrapped around both arms like whips. The golem’s arms crumbled to rust, freeing the rust monster it had just grasped. The golem stumbled off as the rust monster chomped on the rusted remains of its arms. Though able to move, the golem was now unable to continue grappling or punching at the guests, though it continued to chase them.
One rust monster was slain by a powerful strike of a golem’s fist, but as the iron behemoth pulled away, it lost its hand at the wrist, struck by one of the dying animal’s antennae. The fourth and final rust monster scrambled on top of its golem, rusting it from the head down to the shoulders and arms, through the torso, and down to the knees. The ferrous-loving animal rolled about in the huge pile of rust as it chomped on it like a cat in a field of catnip.
Having thrown all his weapons, Mintassan looked about for Dragonbait. Just before he’d teleported to his workshop to fetch the rust monsters, the sage had seen the paladin slashing at one of the golems. Now, however, the saurial was nowhere to be seen. There had to be nearly fifty people dead and dying on the Tower floor, but the saurial was not among them.
As the watch, under Durgar’s direction, dragged a rust monster in the direction of one of the remaining mobile golems, some other members of Durgar’s forces had managed to raise the portcullis to the outside. Nobles streamed out of the Tower like ants from a flooded nest. The sage was just about to teleport to the temple of Ilmater to fetch some priests to heal the wounded, when he spied Kimbel exiting through the portcullis.
The Dhostar manservant looked not only uninjured, but completely unruffled, as did the two guards in Dhostar livery who followed him carrying a lumpy, rolled up tapestry With a suspicious frown, the sage reached in his pocket for a spell component and whispered, “Light-pass.” His large form went translucent, then transparent, then invisible. Once transformed, the mage hurried after the former assassin, his minions, and whatever it was they found necessary to cart off.
Upstairs, isolated from the noise of the attack by the massiveness of the Tower’s construction, Alias lay with Victor Dhostar before the fireplace of the conference room. Shaking off the elegant torpor that enthralled her, she raised her head from Victor’s chest and looked up at him. “I love you,” she whispered.
“I love you, too,” the nobleman replied, “but now that you have your proof of that, we really should be getting back to the ball.”
Alias nodded. She rose to her feet and shook out the wrinkles in the skirt of her gown. Victor handed her her baldric and sword. She slipped the decorative belt over her head.
As soon as Victor opened the heavy oaken door, Alias heard disturbing sounds coming from the hall below. The thunderous crash of something heavy falling to the floor echoed up the Tower. When she reached the stairs, Alias could hear people screaming and moaning. She raced down the stairs. Halfway down, she spied Mintassan in front of her, but he vanished before her eyes. When she reached the spot where the sage had stood, she was aghast at the destruction she witnessed.
Members of the watch were pulling on a rope wrapped about the legs of an armless iron golem in an effort to topple the monster. Several other bits of iron golem lay strewn about the floor, surrounded by dead and wounded nobles. One last golem, missing only a hand, was hovering over a desk that was serving as a buffet. The monster looked as if it were trying to decide what to eat, but Alias spied something rustling beneath the tablecloth and realized the golem was deciding how to get at whomever hid below.
Just before the golem struck the desk with his remaining hand, crushing it to splinters, Olive Ruskettle and Thistle Thalavar dashed out from beneath the tenuous cover. They ran toward another desk, with the creature plodding after them. When it had them against the wall, Olive Ruskettle whirled about, her sword raised, in a hopeless effort to ward off the creature’s blow.
Alias released the peace knot tying her sword to her scabbard and drew her weapon. The swordswoman leaped from the stairs onto the golem just as it raised its remaining fist. Her sword connected with the golem’s dragon-shaped head, sending sparks flying as the steel of her magical blade cleaved through the iron skull.
The beast spun about and seemed to examine Alias for a moment. Then it turned again, pivoting slowly, stopping when it finally faced Olive and Thistle. Alias realized she was being ignored for a target of higher priority—either Olive or Thistle. Yanking free the tablecloth from the smashed desk, Alias whirled it like a net over the golem’s head.
“Olive, Thistle, quick! Hide,” the swordswoman shouted as she slashed at the creature’s leg with her sword. “Then stay very still.”
Olive dragged Thistle down behind the remains of a deceased noble, pulling the dead man’s cloak over thei
r bodies. Thistle started to argue, but the halfling stifled her protest with a quick elbow in the ribs.
Alias slashed into the golem’s leg, and the monster turned toward her as it tugged the tablecloth off its head. Upon spying the swordswoman, however, the golem once again ignored her in favor of scanning the room for its previous prey.
From the staircase, Victor looked on the carnage in shock and muttered, “Sweet Mystra,” an oath to the goddess of magic. Hearing the nobleman, the golem turned toward the stair.
“Victor, get back up the stairs and stay there!” Alias ordered, shifting so that she stood between the monster and the staircase. “It seems to be interested only in the nobles.”
Alias couldn’t tell if the nobleman obeyed her, but the golem spun about, once more checking for targets. Then it turned again. Finding no more nobility to smite, it made its way for the exit.
A rust monster, bloated from gorging on more iron than it usually ate in a year, made a halfhearted wave at the retreating golem with an antenna, but did not bother to pursue the iron creature. The golem passed beneath the portcullis and trundled from the Tower.
Durgar, who knelt beside a bloodied but still breathing member of House Athagdal, looked up at Alias. “Follow the golem,” he ordered her. “I will follow when I can. Go with Alias,” he instructed three of his watchmen, who stood by uncertainly.
Alias dashed from the Tower with the watch behind her.
The injured golem was halfway down the Tower hill, moving northwest. Alias had no trouble keeping up with the monster, which even at top speed was ponderously slow. The swordswoman remained behind it and instructed the watch to do likewise. With mounting excitement, she realized the golem may actually lead her back to its point of origin—the Faceless’s new lair.
Alias was just wondering what had happened to Dragonbait when Victor ran up beside her, sword in hand.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said vehemently.
“I have to see where the golem goes. As long as I don’t let myself get cornered, I can always outrun it,” the nobleman argued.
Alias nodded, unable to counter Victor’s logic or his desire to see this through to the end.
The golem moved through the streets without incident. Any nobles that were left in the city were no doubt at home piling furniture in front of the doors, and no one else in the streets was so foolish as to challenge the monster.
Finally the golem halted before a ramshackle warehouse near the House Urdo docks. It banged once on the door, which swung open, bathing the golem in a yellow glow. The monster disappeared inside.
Alias ordered Victor and the watchmen to remain at the warehouse gate as she crept up to the door. The golem stood just inside, unmoving, as if awaiting instructions. Alias slipped past the creature, turned about, and tapped on its chest with the tip of her sword. The creature loomed over her, but remained perfectly still.
The swordswoman waved for the others to join her. Alias kept an eye on the golem as Victor entered the room, but the noble’s appearance did not reactivate the monster. Its killing spree was over for the time being.
The room was a cavernous vault. In the center stood a great table of ebony stone glittering with veins of gold, a twin to the one in the Night Masters’ last conference room. Most of the ten chairs surrounding it were pushed out, a few overturned, but the tenth chair remained against the table. What appeared to be a man was slumped in the chair. The man’s face was obscured by some strange magic, which blurred its features like rain damages a chalk portrait. A bloodstain clotted his robes. He was as immobile as the golem.
On the table before the figure lay a sheet of paper. Scrawled in blood was the message, “Death to all who betray and defy our will, noble or common, Night Mask or outsider. So say the Night Masters.”
As Alias was examining the sheet of paper, Durgar entered. He had battled the golems until they were no longer a threat, then spent his last remaining energies casting magical curative spells on the wounded. The old priest looked drained, but he would not, Alias realized, forsake what he perceived to be his duty.
Durgar stepped forward and took the paper from Alias’s hand. He scowled angrily at the words. Without ceremony, his face as emotionless as the golems’, the priest ran his hand down the dead figure’s face. A jingling mask of threaded coins came away in his hand.
The illusory blur of the Faceless became the features of Croamarkh Luer Dhostar.
Alias reached out to steady Victor, who swayed in shock and gasped, “Sweet Mystra! It can’t really be true.”
Durgar collapsed into the nearest empty chair, dropping the mask onto the table and cradling his head in his hands. “The croamarkh in league with the Night Masks. I can’t believe it,” the old priest whispered.
“It’s true, Your Reverence,” Alias said. “We have other evidence linking him to them. No doubt they turned on him for some perceived betrayal. Perhaps they decided to turn their golems loose against the nobles, but Lord Luer fought against them. Perhaps the golems perceived he was a noble and turned on him first. Perhaps—”
“Perhaps once I have recovered my powers I should cast a spell to speak with Luer’s dead spirit,” the priest said gravely. “Then we will get to the heart of the matter. There will be no— Look out!” Durgar shouted suddenly.
Alias spun about, her sword at the ready, just in time to see the golem bat away the watchmen who stood guard over its form. The swordswoman threw herself in front of Victor before the monster could harm the nobleman, but instead the creature strode toward the dead body of the croamarkh.
Durgar rose, drawing his mace, but, with its remaining hand, the golem flipped the table onto the priest. Then the creature hefted Luer Dhostar’s body over its shoulder like a sack of potatoes and began plodding toward the door. Alias was prepared to follow, to battle the golem for the croamarkh’s corpse, but Victor held her back.
“Durgar will be crushed!” he exclaimed. “We have to get this table off him.”
Alias nodded. Victor was right. The priest’s life had to take priority. She laid down her weapon and helped Victor heft the table from Durgar’s pale form. Durgar groaned, but he still breathed.
The golem had left the warehouse. Alias could hear members of the watch shouting and banging on the monster with their useless weapons. She retrieved her sword and rose to leave, but Victor grabbed her gown. “Where’s Dragonbait?” he asked. “We need him to heal Durgar.”
“I don’t know,” Alias said. “Victor, I have to go after the golem.”
“Why?” he demanded. “Why risk your life for my father’s body?”
“Without it, Durgar can’t speak with his dead spirit. We might never learn the truth,” she replied.
“I’ve seen enough. I don’t think I want to learn any more,” the merchant lord declared. “There’s no guarantee my father will answer in death any questions he would not answer in life.”
Gently Alias took Victor’s hand from her gown and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. “We still have to try,” she said. Then she raced off after the iron monster.
By the time Alias caught up with the fleeing golem, it stood at the edge of the harbor, teetering on the thick wooden pylons that protected the shore. The watch soldiers had the monster cornered. Alias shouted for them to get a rope on it, but she was too late. Ponderously the creature rocked back, then forward, pitching headlong into the water with a tremendous splash.
The ripples spread outward until they hit the pier and bounced back. The moon was nearly full, but Alias could detect no bubbles or turbulence in the dark water below. She returned to the ramshackle warehouse. Victor was ordering one of the watchmen to fetch a priest for Durgar. The old man lay on the floor of the warehouse, his breathing strained and shallow, his complexion turning gray.
“It’s just cracked ribs,” Durgar assured Alias. “After years of combat wounds, I can tell,” he added with a grim smile.
Alias reported on the fate of the iron golem and Luer Dhost
ar’s body.
“Damnation,” Durgar growled with annoyance. “It could walk across the bottom of the bay and be halfway to the Pirate Isles before it corrodes. We’ll never get Luer’s body back now.”
The watchman Victor had sent out returned with a stern-faced young man in white robes, a follower of Ilmater, god of suffering. The others maintained a respectful silence as he knelt beside the elderly priest and began intoning a curative chant, his hands hovering over Durgar’s chest. When the young man had finished, Durgar took a deep breath, then another, and his complexion began to grow rosier.
“I just can’t believe it,” Durgar said as Victor helped him to sit up. “I’ve known Luer for years. I can’t believe he was—he was … Victor, I’m so sorry,” he concluded, patting the merchant lord’s hand.
“It’s all right,” Victor said softly. “He hid it well. I couldn’t believe it either, at first.”
“But your father lived for this city and for his business!” the old priest insisted. He picked up the Faceless’s coin mask and sighed. “Luer’s greatest pleasure was going over his books,” he said, still unable to grasp his friend’s treachery. “We used to work together in the Tower for company’s sake, me with my arrest records, he with his account books. Not two nights ago—no, three—he spent the whole evening tracking down an error in bookkeeping that proved one of his ship captains was skimming off his shipments. He used to say it was easier to catch a thief with an accounting ledger and an abacus than it was with a sword. It was nearly dawn before he found what he was looking for, but when he did, he was elated. Of course, it didn’t last. Ssentar Urdo came in to holler about Haztor’s arrest. Still, for those few moments, he was so happy. You can’t imagine a man’s a scheming criminal when he’s that happy doing his work.”
