by Kate Novak
Dragonbait tapped on the casing about the swordswoman’s legs.
“I didn’t know manes could go hard like this,” Alias said.
“The manes that make up this mist are not like ordinary manes. This planar pocket, or the years they spent trapped in here away from the Abyss, has altered them,” Dragonbait said. He smashed his sword against the casing, without effect. The scent of violets wafted from the saurial’s throat—the scent of his fear.
“Alias, listen carefully,” the paladin ordered. “These manes are hungry for more than your flesh. They want to devour your essence—your spirit and your soul. But they can only do that if they can find a weakness—” The paladin paused to slash through another wave of manes, then continued. “They look for open wounds on your soul and spirit and drink from them like flies. You have to rid yourself of those things that make you bleed inside—”
“What’s going on?” Mintassan’s voice called out. The sage was drifting across the mists, flying just high enough to remain out of reach of the manes. “Lady Thistle’s outside, holding the portal open. She said you might need some help.”
“Can you teleport us out of here?” Alias asked.
“Afraid not—something in the makeup of this plane resists alteration magic,” the sage explained. Upon spying the shell surrounding Alias’s legs, he gave a low whistle. “That looks bad. Perhaps it can be dispelled,” he suggested.
Dragonbait shook his head. “It’s not magical. It would be more use if you could circle us with protection from evil,” he said.
The sage must have already cast a spell to understand Saurial, for he immediately began circling the warriors, casting the protection spell Dragonbait had asked for. When he’d finished, the manes all began moving away. They lingered at the edge of Mintassan’s magic boundary, waiting for it to dissipate. The mist, too, flowed out of the circle of protection. The shell about Alias’s legs, however, remained.
Trying desperately to conceal his own anxiety, Dragonbait spoke as calmly as he could. “Concentrate on your feelings,” he instructed Alias. “Clear your heart of everything that poisons it. Verovan’s soul was cut by his greed, Victor’s by his lust for power.”
“Victor’s dead,” Alias said softly. “The manes got him.”
“I know,” the paladin replied. He did not mention that he could feel the man’s evil spirit hovering nearby, no doubt waiting to witness the swordswoman’s death. “You have to let go of your anger and hatred for Victor Dhostar.”
Alias did not reply immediately. She didn’t know how to tell the paladin that she didn’t wish to do as he bid her. She cherished her anger and hatred of the nobleman. Victor had deceived her in the worst way. She had every right to be angry, to hate him.
The saurial sighed, realizing how hard it must be for Alias to give up the powerful emotions. They had fastened themselves so strongly to her essence that losing them would feel like losing herself. She could not accept that there was so much more to her being than these poisonous, wounding feelings. He ran his fingertips down the brand on her sword arm, trying to kindle a spark of the link that bound their souls together.
Alias shivered at the paladin’s touch. She could sense his great serenity, his compassion, his tenderness and concern. She knew, though, that she was nothing like him, would never be, could never be as good. There were times she wished she were, but wishing did not make it so.
Dragonbait looked up suddenly at the manes massing behind Alias. He could feel their evil darkening, growing more powerful.
Alias struggled, but she remained trapped in the mist shell.
“Alias, please,” the paladin begged. “Let it go. I know you can do it.”
“I can’t,” the swordswoman snapped. “I’ve tried.”
“You can!” Dragonbait snapped back.
“No, I can’t!”
“She doesn’t dare,” Mintassan interjected. “It’s her only protection.”
“Protection?” Dragonbait growled. “It’s trapped her in this evil place. How is that protection?”
“If she gives up her anger and hatred, there’s nothing left but bitterness and despair,” the sage pointed out. “Why would she want to feel them?”
The paladin nodded. Bitterness, the shadow of anger, and despair, the evil without a color. He wasn’t very familiar with them, so he’d forgotten them both. Mintassan knew them though, intimately.
“Alias, what Mintassan says is true. You’re holding onto the anger and hate because you’re afraid of the bitterness and despair. You know they’ll hurt you even more. But you can shed them, too. Trust me.”
“I am not bitter and despairing!” Alias shouted. “I’m just stuck in a damned rock. Go get Durgar. Maybe he’s got some priest prayer that can break this thing open.”
Behind Alias the mist was taking on a serpent shape, and the serpent was rising up. “Alias, there isn’t time,” the paladin insisted. “Your life depends on it. Let them go.”
“I have no reason to be bitter or despairing,” Alias argued. “Victor was a monster, and I’m well rid of him. He wasn’t worthy of my love. I know that.”
“It’s not the loss of that worthless man that brings you pain,” Mintassan said. “It’s the loss of the love you felt. Your love was good, and when it died, it left you empty.”
The mist serpent began winding around the border of the spell of protection.
Alias glared at Mintassan. “I don’t have time for stupid conversations with sages. What do you know about my love? You don’t know anything except what you read in your dusty old tomes.”
“Oh, don’t I?” Mintassan replied, holding her eyes with his own. “Do you think it was easy for me watching someone I cared about fling herself at someone as unworthy as Victor Dhostar.”
Alias felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her, as if she’d run into a wall of understanding. When she’d first arrived, the sage had cared less about Westgate than she had, but for some reason he’d been there to save her life. Then he’d thrown himself into her quest for vengeance. Now he stood in this stinking, gods-forsaken, evil-ridden pit of a planar pocket arguing with her.
The swordswoman flushed with embarrassment. Why did he have to tell her this?
“So the question is,” Mintassan said, “if the lowly sage survived his battle against bitterness and despair, why won’t the great warrior woman risk battling them, too?”
Alias squeezed her eyes shut, trying to keep tears from falling out of them. Mintassan was right. She missed her love. It had made her feel warm and safe and happy.
But she could feel those things without it. She knew she could. Besides—she might even love again—maybe.
Dragonbait sighed with relief as the shell of mane mist began to melt from Alias’s legs and drift away from the adventurers.
“What in Mystra’s name is that?” Mintassan whispered, finally noticing the serpentlike evil wrapped about the circle of protection and hovering over them.
“The manes have found a focus,” the paladin said, “a leader to organize their attack.”
Alias spun around and looked up at the serpent of mist. She looked into its bright blue eyes. She gasped. “It’s Victor!”
“Move toward the portal,” the paladin instructed, taking Alias’s arm. “The circle of protection should move with us.”
As the three adventurers shifted their position, the serpent hissed with anger, but it uncoiled and let them pass, unable to withstand the magical constraints of Mintassan’s spell. It followed them to the portal, devouring mist as it moved, growing larger and darker.
The portal loomed ahead like a hole of darkness. Dragonbait stepped out onto the bridge and held his hand out to Alias.
As Alias stepped into the night sky over Westgate, she took a deep breath of the cool air and laughed. Mintassan flew out from the portal and swooped over the bridge.
Dragonbait gasped and spun about. His shen sight suddenly perceived a hundredfold increase in the evil emanating
from the mane serpent. Mintassan’s circle of protection had dissipated when he had flown through the portal. The serpent wavered over Alias’s head and struck before the paladin could pull her out of danger.
From the top of the tower, Jamal, Olive, Thistle, and Durgar watched in horror as a huge, dark serpent swung down over Alias and coiled around her body. Dragonbait thrust his fiery blade into the creature, and Alias stabbed at it with her sword. Little bits of glowing mist seeped from the creature wherever it was hit, but the beast remained intact, healing over the cuts almost immediately with some otherworldly power. Mintassan hovered over the beast and sent five magic missiles shooting into the creature’s hide, but they passed right through the monster and fell to the ground.
The serpent brought its head down to survey the warrior woman in its embrace. Noxious poison dripped from its fangs. It opened its jaw and brushed its tongue along her face. It was toying with her before it devoured her—lording its power over her, just as Victor had when he had embraced and kissed her poison-paralyzed body.
“Close the gate!” Olive shouted to Thistle.
“If I do that, the bridge will collapse. They’ll fall to their deaths,” the girl argued.
“Durgar, Lady Thistle said the place was full of manes. Aren’t they some sort of undead?” Jamal asked. “Maybe this thing is, too. Use your power to turn it away.”
Durgar looked exceedingly doubtful of the actress’s suggestion, but he began a prayer, nonetheless, asking Tyr to compel the monster to flee.
“It’s working!” Olive shouted.
The serpent began to turn translucent, all except the tongue, which took the shape of a man and fell from the monster’s mouth to the ground far below. The body of the serpent began to turn to mist, which drifted quickly back through the portal.
Unfortunately, the part of the serpent that had been coiled about Alias was no longer over the bridge. As the coils dissipated, the swordswoman fell with a shriek toward the ground—
To be caught by the arm by a flying sage.
Mintassan set the swordswoman down on the roof of the tower just as Dragonbait stepped off the bridge. They turned to watch the last of the mist escape through the portal, fleeing from the power of Durgar’s god. Thistle flung the brooch across the bridge and into the portal. The bridge retreated and disappeared, then the portal snapped shut, leaving the top of the tower in darkness.
Olive leaned over the battlement and stared down at the ground. Members of the watch held torches aloft as they surveyed the dark shape that had fallen to the ground from the top of the tower.
“It’s Lord Victor!” one of the watch shouted.
“He’s dead! He just fell from the tower!” another guard cried out.
“No,” Olive whispered to Jamal, “he fell a long time ago.”
Twenty-Five
Curtain Call
The day after Lord Victor Dhostar, Croamarkh of Westgate, was found dead at the base of the southernmost tower of Castle Vhammos, Mintassan the Sage held a private tea party to celebrate with four close friends. The Faceless was dead; the Night Masters and many of the Night Masks had been killed or captured. The deadly magic once at their disposal had been destroyed. Citizens of Westgate were tossing the remaining bullies and thieves into the harbor. They had a lot to celebrate.
Mintassan sat at the head of the table in his workroom with Jamal the Thespian and Olive Ruskettle on his left and Alias the Sell-Sword and Dragonbait the Paladin on his right. The boy Kel had been banished to an upper room to work on learning his letters with his new tutor, Mercy. The former Night Mask had accepted his and the half-elven girl’s banishment with such grace that it caused Olive to mutter, “Who’s teaching whom, and what’s being taught?”
After taking a sip from her mismatched mug of tea, sweetened with five sugar cubes, Olive returned to her interrogation of the conspirators, as she had come to call Alias, Dragonbait, and Mintassan. “So let’s see if I have this straight finally,” the halfling said. “After Kimbel shot Dragonbait and kidnapped him, Mintassan followed Kimbel and knocked Kimbel out. How’d you get the drop on an assassin as sharp as Kimbel?”
“My superior tactics and skill with weaponry,” the sage said.
He was invisible when he snuck up on Kimbel. He hit him on the head with a rock, Dragonbait signed in the thieves’ hand cant.
Jamal laughed. “Then you rescued Dragonbait, polymorphed Kimbel into yourself and yourself into Kimbel and feebleminded Kimbel, all so you could find out what Victor was up to.”
Mintassan nodded. “Yes. Actually the double polymorph and feeblemind was Dragonbait’s idea.”
“Figures,” Olive said. “Paladin’s are a sneaky lot, and Dragonbait’s the sneakiest of the sneaky.”
“You stayed in character pretty well,” Jamal noted as she poured a hefty dose of brandy into her tea. “Especially considering Dhostar brought you a dying Alias. You must have some acting blood in you after all.”
“If I had known at the time that Dhostar was the Faceless, that he was upstairs poisoning Alias,” the sage said softly, “I would have come up and stopped him without bothering to stay in character. Fortunately, knowing the Faceless had iron golems at his disposal, I had actually prepared a slow poison spell.”
“Because iron golems sometimes breath poison gas,” Alias explained.
“But the golems at the ball were the cheap Thayan kind, so they didn’t,” Olive noted. “Then you faked Alias’s death with a phony tattooed arm. Where did you get the arm?” the halfling asked.
“Ham hock with a polymorph spell cast on it,” Mintassan said. “Before that, though, came the hardest part of the plan.”
“What?”
“Convincing Alias not to go storming up into Castle Dhostar and run Lord Victor through with a sword.”
“But why did you turn her into a halfling?” Olive insisted.
“Because it fit in with our plan,” Alias said. “When I recovered from the poison, I told Mintassan about all the things Victor had ever said to me. Learning of Victor’s fascination with Verovan’s hoard gave Mintassan an idea. He knew Lady Nettel’s brooch was the key to the hoard—”
“You knew about Verovan’s hoard?” Olive exclaimed.
“For about eight years,” the sage answered.
“And you never did anything about it?”
Mintassan shrugged. “I don’t need gold.”
“Bite your tongue!” the halfling demanded. “Such blasphemy. As if it isn’t bad enough that Thistle threw the key back into the portal so that no one can ever reach all that gold again.”
“She was also making sure the manes didn’t escape, Olive.”
“To get back to your plan,” Jamal insisted. “You knew Victor would go after Thistle, so you became a halfling to help protect her, since House Thalavar trusts halflings and hires them,” Jamal guessed.
“Yes,” Alias said. “Although I didn’t do a very good job. Thistle fired me. I guess I didn’t make a very good halfling.”
“You weren’t so bad,” Olive critiqued. “A little too bossy and crabby.”
“Well, I did use you for a model, Olive,” Alias pointed out.
Olive did not comment on the swordswoman’s claim. Instead she asked, “Why couldn’t you tell me, though?”
“And me,” Jamal seconded, glaring at Mintassan.
“I’m really sorry, Jamal,” the sage apologized. “But at first we didn’t realize how much Dhostar relied on Kimbel for all his information. If Dhostar had other spies watching the two of you, he might have learned you weren’t really grieving. I made sure Blais House had room for you before I followed Dhostar’s order to evict you from my house. As it turned out, Victor left everything to Kimbel. He trusted me alone in the Faceless’s secret lair. I was able to use a wand of cancellation on all the Night Masks’ magic. That’s also how I managed to get so much damning evidence on Victor and the Night Masters. I needed it, too. Durgar was hard to convince. He insisted on interrogating D
ragonbait, too, using another mage as a translator.”
“But Durgar still isn’t willing to admit Victor was the Faceless,” Jamal said with disgust.
“No. He admits Victor’s guilt,” Mintassan replied. “He just doesn’t want the rest of Westgate to know. He’s afraid it will cause unrest.”
“Well, it certainly makes me unrestful,” Jamal growled. “He put the fox in charge of the henhouse.”
“So Durgar is going to stick to the story that Victor died trying to find Verovan’s hoard in order to make Westgate a better city?” Alias asked. “Why is Thistle letting him do that?”
“Thistle has her own agenda,” Olive said, “as does a certain actress who had agreed to go along with the tale.”
Alias looked at Jamal in surprise.
“Thistle is going to get Durgar elected the interim croamarkh. Thistle and I like the idea of the interim croamarkh owing us a big favor,” Jamal explained with a grin.
“Why?” Alias asked suspiciously.
“The noble houses are in disarray. This is the time to push for giving the people political power. Before the end of the year I intend to see that every man and woman in this city has a vote.”
“Everyone? Halflings, too?” Olive asked.
“Oh, really! She’s not that crazy,” Mintassan said. He threw up his hands to ward off the looks he received from both the halfling and the actress. “Just kidding. Didn’t mean it.”
“Thistle has agreed to grant votes for other merchants and small shopkeepers and craftsmen, artisans and scholars,” Jamal explained. “I’ll talk her around to the rest. Back, though, to the conspirators,” Jamal insisted. “Did you ever find out why Victor hired you to go after himself? Wasn’t he taking an awful risk?”
Alias looked at Mintassan. The sage leaned back in his chair. “According to information Durgar gleaned from Kimbel, Victor was very concerned about rumors that the Harpers wanted to clean the Night Masks out of Westgate.”
“Harpers?” Olive asked.
“Harpers,” Mintassan explained. “They’re this semisecret organization who’re supposed to work for good—”
