The Wizard's Mask (pathfinder tales)

by Ed Greenwood

  Tantaerra rolled over to see who the Watchsword was bellowing at, just in time to see the brown-eyed man leap off the edge of the roof into the night.

  Two Watchswords rushed to peer after him, almost lost themselves over the edge, and hastily grabbed at tiles and the nearest tower to keep from falling.

  Tantaerra knew the man from Halidon wouldn't fall to the cobbles below. He'd catch hold of a balcony, stair, window or some such, and get clean away.

  Disgusted, a young Watchsword, clinging to one of the towers to lean out perilously and peer, was reporting just that to the older, gray-haired officer who'd shouted the orders. "Clean away, sir! Three buildings on, and I've lost sight of him! Leaps like a spider!"

  "No doubt," the ranking Watchsword said sourly. "Which leaves us with these two who were fighting him-presumably after arranging to meet him in this empty house. For no good nor legal purpose, I think. Take them."

  The Masked had been crawling slowly up the roof, all weapons put away-and a ring of Watchswords had been warily closing in around him.

  "No!" The Masked said sharply. "Don't touch it! There's a curse!"

  Tantaerra looked over at him in time to see Watchswords drawing back from where they'd been about to unmask him.

  "A likely tale," the Watchguard commander growled. "Off it comes."

  Tantaerra watched the ring of Watchswords waver, all of them hesitating.

  "I'm telling the truth," The Masked told them grimly-and the cautious hands reaching for him drew back again.

  The commander sighed in exasperation, stumped along the roof-ridge, reached down, and wrenched the mask off.

  There was a collective not-quite-gasp, a shared indrawn breath, as every Watchsword stared at the revealed ruin of a face.

  Into the silence that followed, the man they were staring at said politely, "Please return that to me as quickly as you can. The curse is not of my doing, and I can't protect you or anyone from it. Quickly."

  The Watchguard officer regarded him expressionlessly for a long moment. Then, without a word, he handed the mask back.

  "Weapons," he commanded The Masked curtly. "Slowly."

  Mask back in place, the man Tantaerra had hired back in Halidon started handing over steel. A sword, two daggers, a third …and then a well-hidden fourth, before he stopped, folded his arms, and looked up at the Watchguard officer.

  "Keep going," the patrol commander growled. "I know you have more."

  The Watchswords Tantaerra hadn't quite reached yet stirred on the roof above her. She stopped climbing to meet them.

  "After we surrender our weapons," she piped up, deciding she'd been meekly silent long enough, "then what? Is it too soon to tender my personal complaint to Lord Ravnagask?"

  "Much," the commander replied flatly. "You're in for some harsh questioning first. He'd probably add some heavy questions of his own, if you somehow got to see him. Thieves and murderers aren't welcome in Braganza."

  The Masked was yielding up daggers from both boots. "That's good to hear. However," he added loudly, "we happen to be neither. We're merchants from afar, newly arrived in fair Braganza-but chased out of the room we rented, a short while ago, by warring bands of recruiters for the Mereirs and the Telcanors. Who were so bent on carving each other up that we feared for our lives, and sought a rooftop to sleep on-only to find a foe up here, too!"

  The lead Watchsword's eyes were cold. "Merchants you may be, from time to time …as are all who have something to sell. Yet to my eyes you match descriptions just arrived from Halidon, of two fugitives who murdered a high-ranking investigator on a rooftop there. Not to mention burned down no less than three warehouses full of valuable wares. And here we are, on a rooftop."

  The Masked blinked, then spread his hands. "This is what passes for evidence in Braganza? Do you arrest anyone you find on a street after someone breaks into a warehouse from-gasp! — a street? Be aware, before you answer, that my next report to Canorate will certainly make mention of how you treat us, Watchcaptain."

  "Oh? See that it mentions murder," the Watchguard commander replied, "and three warehouses."

  The Masked waved a dismissive hand. "My, my, busy little fugitives you have in …where was it? Halidon? Not that doings in backwaters of the land are any concern of ours, officer. What is of concern to us is being so aggressively accused of such things, out of seeming nowhere. And I cannot help but ask myself, is this accusation of yours one more part of this foolish feud that seems to have swept Braganza? Are you and your fellow Watchswords for Mereir? Or for Telcanor?"

  The patrol commander stiffened, his eyes flashing. "Let me inform you of something, prisoner. The Watchswords serve the Lord of Braganza. We're loyal to our oaths and to our city, and hold ourselves above the Mereir and Telcanor foolishness-which is a festering rot that shall be rooted out soon enough!"

  He slammed his fist down on the roof-ridge beside him. As if that had been a cue, the air behind the assembled patrol was suddenly full of hurtling cobblestones-missiles that thudded into Watchsword backs and arms and heads. The struck soldiers toppled, several falling off the roof with despairing cries.

  Over this din rose a voice that rang like a bugle. "Die, foul dogs of Mereir!"

  The Watchcaptain turned, sword flashing out. "Stand together, Watchguard! Together!"

  Two stones came right at him. The patrol commander dashed them aside with a curse, and then there seemed to be no more stones, just a line of dark-armored men charging across the rooftop. Men who'd stealthily come up the same stair the Watchguard patrol had used, and now stood between the Watchswords and any way down from the roof alive.

  "Telcanor! For Telcanor!"

  "Telcanor!"

  "Mereir!" one Watchsword snarled back, in the instant before blades met and men started hacking at each other deafeningly. The Masked pounced on the constable who'd taken most of his weapons from behind, slammed the man's face into the roof so hard a tile cracked under it, then did the same to the next Watchsword, so he could recover his entire arsenal.

  Tantaerra stayed where she was, chin-down on the tiles, watching men chopping and slashing each other above her.

  Among the Telcanor attackers was someone who moved with far more agility, ducking low and coming fast, avoiding everyone else as he made for the Watchcaptain who commanded the patrol. It was the man from Halidon. Obviously he'd found and led this band of Telcanor warriors right back to the rooftop he'd so recently fled from, to mount this attack. But why? Who was he, and what was he up to?

  The Masked had seen the man too, and shot a questioning look Tantaerra's way. She jerked her head at the night behind herself in a "Let's be gone from here!" signal, saw him nod, and started climbing carefully across the roof to join him.

  It wasn't an easy traverse. Wounded or dying men and women kept crashing to the tiles and then sliding or rolling down it, taking anyone in their way down to the street with them. As she clawed her way across blood-smeared tiles, more than one body tumbled past to thud wetly on unseen cobbles below.

  Halfway there, a particularly furious clash of arms made Tantaerra look up from trying not to kill herself long enough to see that the Watchguard commander was down. Their mysterious pursuer was now fighting his way toward The Masked, yet the patrol seemed to have rallied, and he was having to fight his way through at least five Watchswords to reach his quarry. Five good warriors who were holding their ground.

  Heartened, Tantaerra hurried as quickly as she dared, reaching The Masked just as he finished prying up a roof tile to lay bare the lattices beneath.

  "That dagger you just ruined," he muttered, reaching out a hand for it.

  Tantaerra gave it to him. Without another word he tied it to an end of cord he'd just wound around two lattices as a stop-wedge, hauled her to his breast as if he was a wet nurse and she a hungry baby, and launched himself down the roof.

  Tantaerra clung to him grimly through the battering that followed, trying to turn her fingers into talons, digging into T
he Masked's chest, not caring if she tore out hair by the handful.

  Her clawings made him growl in pain as they went over the edge, the cord unrolling from around him in jerks that came faster and faster, tumbling them head-over-bootheels.

  "What're you trying to do to me?" Tantaerra shrieked, flinging both arms around his masked head and shouting right into his ear. "I'm going to spew!"

  "Spew away, then!" he bellowed. "If our friend up there cuts the line before we get low enough-"

  There was a sudden, sickening lack of tension in the cord, and then they were falling, the severed end of cord leaping after them.

  They struck hard cobbles, bounced once, slammed down again, and rolled, groaning in mutual pain. Luckily they'd only fallen about the height of a small room, but gods, it hurt.

  Gasping for breath, Tantaerra rolled free of The Masked, clutching a lot of hair-and his mask.

  She looked back and saw him reaching for her, his eyes ablaze with fury in that melting ruin of a face.

  "I didn't mean-" she gasped, as he swept his mask out of her hands, clapped it back into place, then snatched her up and started to stagger along the street.

  "Not angry …with you …" he grunted, unsteadily gathering speed. Right behind him, a plummeting Watchguard of Braganza greeted the cobbles with a sprawled and final splat.

  A sword followed, all by itself, clanging and ringing like a maltreated bell as it bounced and clattered. Then another man crashed down wetly.

  By then, they were more than a cross street away and hurrying, and Tantaerra had her breath back.

  "I can run for myself, you know," she told her hireling, who was staggering and breathing heavily.

  "Good," he gasped, setting her down with more speed than grace. "Then look back and tell me if you can see our friend anywhere. Following us, for instance."

  Tantaerra looked, casting her eyes everywhere, even along rooftops across the street from where the battle was still raging.

  "Can't see him," she reported, scurrying to catch up to The Masked, who hadn't stopped hastening down the street, reeling in the severed cord as he went into an untidy bundle. "Which means-"

  "Nothing," The Masked put in grimly, saying that last word in unison with her. "He could be anywhere. If the right sort of rooftops happen to be handy, he could even be ahead of us, waiting for us."

  "You're not used to such a foe," Tantaerra murmured, looking up at his masked face as they ran. "Not used to being afraid."

  The Masked looked at her. "I'm not afraid," he said gruffly. "I'm pissed off. I want a good night's sleep and a decent meal-and a long, hot bath wouldn't come amiss, either. And I doubt I'm going to get any of those very soon. I had the sleep snatched away from me when I thought I'd procured it, and since then, I've been too damned busy fighting and running to be afraid."

  "Lanterns ahead," Tantaerra told him, pointing.

  "I can see that," he replied testily. "What I can't see is what's behind me-I'm not wearing the mask with the mirrors. Check again-are we being followed?"

  Tantaerra swung around again-in time to see an all-too-familiar shoulder and arm duck into an alley mouth. "Yes," she said bitterly. "By him."

  "Then we head for those lanterns," The Masked growled.

  He strode right toward the bright lanterns, and all the armed and armored men holding them.

  Tantaerra dashed after him. "He's right behind us, running down the street, sword out!"

  The Masked cast a quick look over his shoulder, saw their mysterious foe two streets back and closing fast, and chuckled.

  "A rescue!" he shouted, sounding desperate. "Fellow men of Mereir, a rescue! We are beset by vile Telcanors!"

  His cry was answered by snarls and curses, and Tantaerra saw that amid the eager, angry armed men was an improvised litter made of cloaks slung over poles. On it sagged a bandaged and bloody man whose face-through several dark and swollen bruises-she recognized. The warrior of Mereir who'd come to their room at the Hearth to try to recruit them.

  The Masked pointed down the street at the brown-eyed man, sprinting with sword in hand.

  With a roar, the Mereirs charged, leaving four litter-bearers hesitating with the wounded man between them.

  The brown-eyed man took one look at them, skidded to a halt, spun around, and raced back the way he'd come.

  Like a pack of hungry dogs they swarmed after him, shouting and waving their swords.

  The Masked watched that pursuit dwindle into the night. He'd only just turned back to bid the litter-bearers farewell when shouts and the clangs of clashing swords arose from far down the street.

  "They've found the Telcanors," he announced with satisfaction, and led Tantaerra away down a handy alley.

  "Where're we headed?"

  "A rooftop that lacks Mereirs clashing with Telcanors-and sleep," The Masked told her flatly. "Before I start snoring as I walk."

  Tantaerra pointed into the gloom ahead. "That one, perhaps?"

  Ahead, the alleyway was scorched with soot and awash in ashes, many wagon-tracks crisscrossing through those heaps of tattered blackness. They spilled out of the gutted back of a tall mansion that had hosted a recent fire. Fresh planking and stonework shone amid the blackened ruin, where rebuilding had begun. Night-lamps glimmered high in occupied houses beyond, shining down on what looked to be an intact roof.

  "How sturdy?" The Masked wondered aloud. "Dirty work getting up there, too."

  "Ladders," Tantaerra replied. "I don't think even Braganzan builders can fly."

  The Masked shook his head. "Prudent builders stash their ladders high, out of reach, then take the last ladder away with them. Otherwise they'd lose every one the first night, and-"

  He came to a halt, staring at the neat stowage of a dozen ladders leaned together against one wall.

  "Obviously Braganzans aren't prudent," Tantaerra purred.

  Her masked companion sighed. "Or they trust in the Watchguard patrols."

  "That's what I said," Tantaerra said sweetly.

  It took more than a little grunting effort to haul the ladder they used up onto the roof after them, but that roof felt solid enough to sleep twenty masked men and a score of halflings.

  Sleep, that most elusive of Braganzan delicacies.

  This time, however, they found it.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Luraumadar.

  "Go away," The Masked snarled, or thought he did. Was he still asleep?

  Luraumadar. The mask's whisper was louder and more insistent than usual.

  The Masked blinked. It wasn't dark anymore. He turned his head to stare into the strengthening light, and found himself gazing across rooftops in a chill dawn. Smoke was curling gently up into still air from more chimneys than he could count. He felt stiff and cold.

  Except for just above his right hip, where he was very warm. He looked down along his body. His employer was curled up against him, her snores butter-soft, one hand over her nose. For warmth, of course. That hand had left fire-soot across her cheek.

  The Masked gazed at that smudged face. Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra. A little spitfire, to be sure, yet one that he just might start to become ever so slightly fond of, razor tongue and all.

  She murmured something inaudible in her dreams, stirred-and farted loudly enough to awaken herself.

  She came bolt upright to glare at him, hands darting to dagger hilts. "Well, masked man? What are you staring at?"

  "One of the more diplomatic patrons I've worked with," he replied, chuckling.

  "Keep me less hungry and closer to a handy chamber pot and a warm and private place to make use of it, and you'll find me even more diplomatic," she snapped, elbowing him in the ribs and kicking off against his hip to put distance between them. "Great stinking human."

  When he made no reply, and didn't move, she erupted. "Well? Am I going to have to find us something to eat? Who paid good silver to whom, hey?"

  Ten silver weights. Not enough, of course. A hundred times that wouldn't be enoug
h for what he'd been through, and they both knew it.

  The Masked merely looked at her. She cocked her head to one side and gave him an exasperated glare.

  Ever so slightly fond, yes.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The builders, as it happened, had brought their own little row of covered chamber pots, and even a few filthy cloaks that could serve as a temporary privacy tent.

  They hadn't, however, been quite so kind as to leave anything to eat at their worksite, so The Masked followed his nose, leading his sharp-tongued client to where the nearest smells of frying and fresh-baked bread were coming from: a ramshackle joining of three former houses that were now Thaener's Fine Lodgings. With rumbling stomachs, man and halfling sought the front door, and a meal.

  Thaener was long dead, it seemed, surviving only as a benignly beaming portrait presiding over the feasting-room. He smiled down on the ravenous eating of the two guests who arrived much earlier than most, and his merry countenance changed not a whit as they sighed, patted now-full bellies and stretched contentedly, then rented a room and paid extra for a warm bath to be brought up to it.

  "Your masks, and my being a halfling, make us rather too easily remembered," Tantaerra said slowly, watching steam rise after the last small-keg of water had been poured into the bath and the keg-bearers had lurched out of the room. "We should do something about that before we set about exploring Braganza."

  "Such as split up and go separately?" The Masked suggested, as he securely bolted the door. "I have masks that look less like masks and more like battered old faces, if I keep a hood up to shade them."

  "I …" Tantaerra's voice trailed off, and she turned away.

  His patron wasn't happy about something. Something she'd rather not admit.

  The Masked sighed, took off his cloak, and looked for some way to hang it to guard her precious modesty.

  "What're you-oh. Don't bother." Tantaerra straightened from sniffing at the little ewer of soap-flakes. She was already half unlaced, her hair-combs out and tresses tumbling about her shoulders.

  The Masked tossed the cloak aside. "So what's bothering you?"

  "What d'you mean?"

  "The princess," he announced to the nearest wall, "is reluctant. And even more reluctant to impart to me what she's reluctant about. In this, demonstrating that halfling women can be just as obstinate and foolish as human women."