by Kate Novak
Durgar got wearily to his feet. “I’d best be getting back to the Tower to see what assistance I can give the survivors.” His shoulders were bowed—the weight not of his responsibilities, Alias knew, but of his grief. Magical spells could cure broken ribs, but not spirits. Victor walked the priest to the door, speaking to him in a hushed whisper. The noble returned to the swordswoman’s side as all the watchmen followed behind their leader.
“I should return to the Tower, too,” Alias said to Victor. “I have to find Dragonbait. I haven’t seen him since we left the ball.”
“I did, just after you left to chase the golem. He was behind the stair, healing an injured member of the watch.”
“Then he was all right?”
“Looked all right to me, though I’m no expert on how saurials are supposed to look,” Victor said. “I guess there’s really nothing more I can do until morning. All the nobles who were still able ran off to bolt their castle doors. Durgar’s seeing to the injured.”
The young man looked back down at the chair where his father’s corpse had been. “I don’t know if I want to be alone right now. Would you come back to Castle Dhostar with me?”
Alias hesitated. It was hardly an invitation Victor could have made were his father still alive, she knew. It was bound to cause talk. Victor could use her support, though, especially after all he’d been through. There was really nothing else she could do tonight, either, and she was beginning to feel weary. She nodded her consent.
They walked back to the market green, where Victor found his carriage, attended by his driver. He dismissed the driver and took up the reins himself.
The drive from the city was quiet and uneventful. They leaned on each other, but neither spoke much. No one greeted them at the door, and Victor explained that, save for Kimbel and his carriage driver, the servants had all been given the evening off in honor of the ball.
Victor ushered Alias down the hallways and into the library, where Kimbel was tending a blazing fire in the hearth. After all the violence and the chill of the night air, the room seemed blissfully warm and peaceful, in spite of the malignant servant. Kimbel bowed and left the room without a word. Alias noticed that there was another bottle of Evermead on the table, with two glasses.
“Were you expecting me to return with you?” Alias asked.
Victor shook his head. “The other glass would be for my father. I just realized, Kimbel probably doesn’t know yet that Father is—is dead.” He sighed. “I suppose I can wait until morning to tell him, if he hasn’t picked it up in the servant hall by then.”
The nobleman poured them each a glass of Evermead as Alias wondered if the Dhostars ever drank less expensive wines. “You look lovely,” he said as he handed her a glass.
Alias laughed. “My hair’s a rat’s nest, I’ve torn my gown, and I’m covered with iron golem rust.”
“You look lovely to me. He sat down at the desk, but Alias stood warming herself before the fire.
“I spoke with Durgar before he left us,” Victor said. “He agreed to call a meeting for tomorrow morning of all the surviving heads of the noble merchant families. It doesn’t look good, I’m afraid. From what I could see of the casualties, most of the noble merchant houses are going to end up in the hands of third children or second cousins. Do you think it’s possible what you said, that the Night Masters killed my father for opposing the use of the golems on the nobles?”
“It makes a certain amount of sense. But then, so do a lot of other scenarios,” Alias said as she laid another log on the fire. “Your father might have wanted to use the golems on the nobles to consolidate his grip as croamarkh. The Night Masters might have realized he was using them, and fearing he would betray them, destroyed him. What I can’t figure out is why the Night Masters went to so much trouble to be sure we found your father’s body but then made sure the golem took it away from us. I’m surprised they left his coin mask, too. A piece of magic that powerful—why didn’t they take it from him after they killed him?”
Victor reached calmly into one of the desk drawers and pulled out an ornate ring, set with a huge black opal. Pushing a tiny nub forced the opal to slide aside, revealing a needle tipped with poison. Alias, staring thoughtfully into the fire, did not notice the merchant lord’s actions.
“It was as if they wanted us to discover that your father was the Faceless. Did they think I would stop hunting for them if they slew their leader? Unless—”
“Unless what?” Victor prompted as he leaned back in his chair.
“Unless he really wasn’t the Faceless, and the real Faceless wanted to pin it on him,” Alias said excitedly. “Surely the real Faceless couldn’t have been killed so easily. He could have them all on the floor in agony with just a spell word. It was one of the Faceless’s powers. He used it just two, no, three nights ago … but— Victor, that’s it! You’re father is innocent! They did set him up! They probably planted the key as well!”
Alias turned suddenly from the fire and looked down at the young nobleman. Victor stood suddenly. “You can’t be serious,” he said.
Alias paced before the fire. “Durgar said three nights ago he and your father sat up all night balancing their accounts and going over records, right?”
Victor nodded.
“Until dawn, when Ssentar Urdo came by,” Alias continued as she swung about. “But, according to Melman, the Faceless was attending a meeting that night with all the Night Masters.”
Victor seemed to be scowling, unable to understand what she was saying.
“Don’t you see? Your father could not be the Faceless or even a Night Master,” Alias explained, “because he was not at that meeting. He was with Durgar.”
“Are you sure of the night of the meeting?” Victor said with an anxious tone. “Melman could have lied about the night, or you might have misheard him.”
“No problem,” Alias said. “We’ll get Durgar to do a detect lie spell and ask him again.”
“Ask—” Victor gasped. “Ask him? He’s alive? You’ve captured one of the Night Masters alive?”
“Yes,” Alias said. “I told you I got the key to the Faceless’s last lair from him.”
Victor looked aghast. “I thought you’d stolen it— I mean that that halfling Ruskettle acquired it for you. Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.
Alias sighed. “When we talked about it before,” she explained, “I was afraid your father was a Night Master, maybe even the Faceless, and I thought you might be passing information on to him—innocently of course. Then, too, I knew you might not approve of the arrangement I’d made with Melman. I agreed to let him go, providing he told me everything he could, and providing he wasn’t lying.”
Victor looked stricken. “So where is Melman now?”
Alias looked slightly guilty. “He told me all he knew, and it checked out. By now he’s on a boat bound for Cormyr. But we could have Mintassan meet him in Cormyr and bring him back for something as important as clearing your father’s name.”
Victor nodded thoughtfully. “It shouldn’t be too hard to find a branded Night Master,” he mused aloud.
Alias nodded in agreement, then paused. “How did you know Melman was branded?”
Victor opened his mouth and closed it. “Didn’t you mention it?” he asked, perplexed.
Alias frowned, reviewing in her perfect memory every conversation she’d had with Victor concerning Melman. She’d said the Faceless had branded someone, but not who. “No, I’m certain I didn’t,” she said.
Victor crossed to where Alias stood and laid a warm hand on her shoulder. “My love, I have my own sources.”
“What sources?” Alias demanded. “Victor, I have to know. You can’t keep hiding things from me.”
“Alias, I have other friends besides you who have been investigating the Night Masters for me, but I can’t reveal their names. You have to trust me. You do trust me, don’t you?”
Alias was about to assure him that she did when she
looked up into his eyes. There was something calculating there, and the words died in her throat. Dragonbait’s warnings came back to her immediately. She thought, too, of Kimbel. The former assassin had been at the ball, but had avoided the golem rampages, then returned to the castle and sat quietly at the fireside, prepared for Victor’s return, unruffled by the affairs of the evening.
She was suddenly overly conscious of Westgate’s reputation for intrigue and betrayal. “Of course I trust you,” she managed to say, but she knew her voice sounded hollow.
Victor took her glass of Evermead from her hands and sipped at it. “We need to be careful in the next few days,” the noble said, his eyes pinning her in place. “After all that has happened, the city is going to be full of rumors and unrest. I think we should tell the people that we’ve found the Faceless, that he’s dead. It will help settle things down more quickly.”
There was something hypnotic about Victor’s voice, and Alias had to shake herself to throw off its influence. She raised a hand to touch Victor’s cheek, trying to reassure him of her loyalty even as she argued with herself. “Victor, a lie like that is a two-edged sword. It can help you at first, but in the end it can cut you in half. We have to tell the truth, that we found your father murdered wearing the Faceless’s regalia, but that the Faceless may still be at large.”
“As you wish,” Victor purred. He bent his face down and pressed his lips against her own, but there was nothing gentle or warm in his kiss. It was indifferent and brief—a farewell kiss to a dismissed lover.
Alias grabbed at the nobleman’s sleeve. “Now is the time to pursue the Faceless even harder,” she said, still anxiously trying to convince him she was right. “He must think he’s safe, having framed someone else. He’s likely to get careless—”
Victor slashed the back of his hand across her face, tearing at her flesh with a spiked ring much like the one sported by the extortionist Littleboy. Alias gasped as a searing pain streaked down her left cheek.
The adventuress jerked away from the nobleman and tried to draw her sword from its scabbard, but her muscles failed her. The sword felt as heavy as lead, and her hand spasmed uncontrollably, so she could not grip the hilt. The poison on the ring was quick-acting. Her face, her throat, and her arm burned with an inner fire.
The room seemed to sway like the deck of a tempest-tossed ship. Alias tried to focus on Victor, who stood there sipping the Evermead from her glass. Despite her swollen tongue, she managed to slur out the words, “Victor, why?”
Victor laughed harshly as he set down her emptied glass. “I gave you the chance to lie for me, but you could not do so, could you, my darling? It’s just as well. You make a better legend than a lover. Besides, I really don’t feel like sharing my city with anyone.”
Victor chuckled some more, amused by her feeble, jerking steps in his direction. When her knees gave out beneath her, the nobleman stepped forward to catch her, his eyes sparkling with a sick delight. “You poor dear,” he said, looking into her wildly dilated eyes. “You served me so well, but I’m going to have to let you go. Still, I ought to thank you properly for all your help.”
He kissed her with a cruel passion, ignoring the way her body twitched and spasmed from the poison running through her veins. He was possessed with a feeling of absolute power. Like a vampire in a bloodlust, he didn’t pull away from her until he felt sated—sated on the control he’d taken of her emotions, of her actions, of her very life. By then, although the swordswoman was still twitching slightly, her breathing was shallow and irregular. It was only a matter of time before the poison reached her heart and stilled it in an icy grip.
Victor lifted the swordswoman, a little surprised at how heavy her dead weight was. He carried her from the library, through the main hall, then down a narrow spiral stairs to the wine cellar. He pushed on a bottle of wine, and a section of wall slid away, revealing a hidden passage. At the other end of the passage was a secret room.
Kimbel was waiting there, in the company of two prisoners shackled at the neck, wrists, and ankles to a thick iron post in the center of the room—Dragonbait and Mintassan. The saurial had been muzzled. The sage wore a disjointed, idiot’s expression on his face, and his tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth.
The lizard paladin lunged toward Victor, hissing through his iron muzzle, but he was halted by the iron collar around his throat. The sage fixed Victor with a desperate look and gibbered in a high voice.
Kimbel lifted an eyebrow at the appearance of the noble’s burden. “Is she dead?” he asked, curious.
“Not yet,” Victor replied as he laid the swordswoman down on a worktable. He smiled gleefully as Alias shuddered. “To what do we owe the honor of Mintassan’s company?” he asked.
“He spotted me carrying off the saurial,” the assassin explained, “but he fumbled his ambush attempt. I had someone from the Temple of Mask place him under a feeblemind spell until you decide what to do with him.”
The sage gibbered hysterically, beseeching the nobleman with his clouded eyes. Victor turned from the figure in cold disgust. “You’ll have to kill him. You can destroy the lizard, too, now that we are finished using his mistress. Make sure none of the bodies are found.”
“No one is going to believe all three just left town,” Kimbel pointed out.
Victor peered down at Alias. He stroked the tattoo on her sword arm. “Have her lovely arm wash ashore at low tide, clutching a domino mask. Nice and ambiguous. The Faceless can reassure the Night Masters that he was responsible for the death of their foe, and Lord Victor can tell his people that a victory has been struck against the Night Masks, albeit at a great cost—the death of his love, the hero Alias. I won’t need to keep up the worried lover act. I can go straight to being the mourning lover—so much more sympathetic. See to the details.”
“Yes, milord,” Kimbel replied. “This one may last a while yet,” he noted, staring down at Alias, who still drew gasping breaths.
“Well, I’ve dismissed her. She’s no longer in House Dhostar’s employ, so she’s yours to play with,” Victor said. “Just not here. Be a good flunky and make sure she expires someplace where her vengeful spirit can’t haunt me. When you’re finished taking care of the bodies, loot the sage’s workshop. Do it ‘legally.’ Kick Jamal out on the street. With Mintassan gone, we can take care of her at our leisure.”
“And what will you be doing, milord?”
“I’ll be sleeping. I’m worn out from my battles at the ball,” Victor said with an evil chuckle. He left Kimbel alone in the workshop with the prisoners.
The assassin could hear his master’s voice drift down the spiral staircase. The merchant lord was singing the jaunty tune he’d learned from Alias:
“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.”
Twenty
Stirring the Ashes
The next afternoon found Olive Ruskettle slipping through the alleys of Westgate, her spirit deeply troubled. The light of day and the official proclamations from the Tower had done little to clear her confusion. She needed to speak with Jamal; the actress often helped her get her thoughts straight even as she was plying the halfling for information.
Olive was about to step out on the main road and cross the street to Mintassan’s house when she spotted the symbols on the cobblestone. There were two of them, scrawled in charcoal, in a most inexpert manner, but there was no doubt about their meaning. The first symbol was used by Harpers to mean danger. The second symbol was used by thieves to mean danger. Both were aligned to indicate Mintassan’s.
Olive stood in the shadow of the alley, studying all the approaches to the sage’s house. In a few moments, she spotted Kel, lurking in a doorway down the street. The halfling moved out into the main street, striding in the boy’s directi
on, without looking at him. She stopped by the door, pretending to study a slip of paper for an address.
“You put out those symbols, Kel?” she asked, without looking at the boy.
“Yeah. Jamal taught me to write ’em. Did it right, didn’t I?”
“Did it fine,” the halfling assured him. “What’s up?”
“Supposed to warn Jamal’s friends not to come by.
Dhostar’s spider Kimbel’s taken over the house, tossed Jamal and me out. Jamal’s up at Blais House.”
“Thanks. Keep up the good work,” the halfling said. She kept going, then slipped down the next alley to make her way to Blais House.
At the hostel, Mercy escorted her two flights up to a guest room far smaller than Alias’s and Dragonbait’s suite. The room was cluttered with Jamal’s costume wardrobe, puppets, and theater props. Jamal was seated at a table, scribbling furiously in a small black book. “I was hoping you’d come by,” the actress said.
“What is going on?” Olive demanded.
“I thought you could tell me,” the actress said in exasperation. She blotted the ink in her book and slipped it back into the bottom of her jewelry box. “That worm Kimbel came by Mintassan’s this morning with an officious-looking scroll claiming House Dhostar is supposed to oversee Mintassan’s estate in the sage’s absence. It had Mintassan’s seal on it, and Kimbel had seven large Dhostar guards with him, so I wasn’t in a position to keep myself from being thrown out on the street. I left Kel to warn off my friends. I don’t want all my contacts running into Kimbel or vice versa. The manager of Blais House is willing to let me stay here for a while.”
“Where are Alias and Dragonbait?” Olive asked.
Jamal shrugged. “No one saw Alias and Dragonbait return last night, but Mercy says Alias’s armor is missing. I guess Alias came back for it before going back out to hunt more Night Masks. I’m used to Mintassan disappearing into the night for weeks on end, but I’ll confess I’m getting a little nervous that Alias and Dragonbait haven’t returned. What happened at the meeting of the merchant nobles this morning?”
