Kate Novak - Masquerades

First the stick, the Night Masters' lord thought. He began the meeting by tossing Melman's mask on the table.

The glyph that labeled it as Gateside's had been scratched off the porcelain. "Gateside is dead," he announced. The effect on the assemblage was immediate. To the Faceless, their fear and uneasiness was palpable… and exquisite.

Now the carrot, the Faceless prompted himself. "I have at this time no plans to turn the management of his district over to anyone else. It might be better, I think, to divide his duties and his income among those of you who | remain." A tingle of excitement passed though the Night Masters. It was a great risk, being a Night Master, but the rewards were what made the risk worthwhile.

And finally the challenge: "Before Gateside died," the Faceless declared, "he betrayed us to Alias the Sell-Sword. Before his betrayal, this Alias was nothing more than a mercenary, a trumped-up member of the watch. In betraying us, though, Gateside made her into exactly what he feared her to be-an enemy capable of destroying our organization."

The Faceless paused, letting his words sink in. It took his minions a few moments to shift their thoughts from their own greed to their own self-preservation. He ignored their impassive masks, but studied instead the pursed lips, the clenched jaws, the trickle of sweat along the cheek of Finance Management. Aside from fearing the loss of their wealth and freedom, some of them, he knew, had a childlike terror of being killed by this red-headed witch.

After a few moments, the Faceless continued. "I had not expected Gateside to betray us." It was an admission that he was, after all, only human, but one that also laid the blame squarely on the deceased. "Once I was made aware of his betrayal, I did everything in my power to keep the damage to a minimum. Our secret identities remain unthreatened." It was important to make them aware that he alone had preserved them from their enemies.

"The loss of a secure meeting place is a minor loss. Our treasury and our armory remain in our possession." Now to give them blood, the Night Masters' lord thought. "This swordswoman has lunged at us with all she had," the Faceless growled, "but we have parried her attack. Now it is time for our riposte."

Around the table, heads bobbed up and down in agreement.

"It is time to show this mercenary witch and all the people of Westgate that we are the true commanders of this city. It is time to let the merchant nobles know they cannot simply hire someone to free them from our rule." Smiles of satisfaction beamed from the Night Masters.

Finally, the Faceless thought, it's time to reveal my plan. "I propose," he declared, "that we use our long-hoarded troop of magical warriors in a single strike that will end the career of Alias the Sell-Sword and at the same time break the power of the merchant nobles once and for all. In light of Melman's betrayal, I will not go into the details of my plan, for security reasons. Are there any questions at this point?"

There should have been questions. Seven years ago, when the current faceless had managed to wrest the title and power from' the doppelganger who'd created this guild, there would have been questions. There had been at least three Night Masters then whose ability to reason, and consequently their power, had been strong enough to argue with him. Over the years, though, the current Faceless had skillfully eliminated these challengers. Melman had been the last. With his demise, there was no one left who would voice what the others hardly dared think, no piece of grit around which a pearl of wisdom might form.

Last of all, the Faceless thought with a cynical grin, display for them an illusion of their power and choice. "I call then for a vote, allowing me the use of these resources"-he motioned to the golems-"to use at my discretion." He pulled a short dagger from his belt and held it out. The blade glistened with a drop of greenish ichor. There was a sharp collective intake of breath from the Night Masters. All wondered if another compatriot would perish at this meeting.

"How say ye to my proposal?" the Faceless asked. "Yea or nay?"

Nine resounding yeas echoed around the table, each Night Master eager to prove his or her loyalty by the zeal with which he or she replied.

Visual aids, the Faceless reflected, never failed to smooth the course of democracy. He smiled with pleasure at the wisdom of his minions.

Dragonbait awakened instantly at the knocking on the door. Abas was gone already. He vaguely recalled her prodding him earlier to tell him she was going with Jamal back to the dressmaker's. He considered rolling over and ignoring the knock. After the late hour he had finally retired, he felt he was owed more sleep, even if it was nearly noon. If it was Mercy at the door with a breakfast tray, the half-elf girl would let herself in and leave it on the table.

There was the sound of a key rattling in the lock, then the sound of another key, then another. Then a wire slid through the keyhole.

Dragonbait swung out of bed warily and grabbed his sword.

The door swung open, and Olive Ruskettle slipped into the room and shut the door behind her. "It's such a pleasure to find a challenging lock for a change," the halfling said in place of a greeting. She pushed her lock-picking wire into her hair.

The saurial lowered his sword and set it back against the wall. Good morning to you, too, he signed, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Alias has gone out with Jamal, he explained.

Olive hopped up into a chair by the table. "I know. I waited until I saw her leave. I wanted to talk with you in private.

The saurial yawned toothily. Impatiently he signed, What is it now, Olive? "It's about Victor Dhostar." What about him?

"He can't be trusted. You've got to convince Alias somehow to drop him like the slimy toad he is, and fast."

The paladin glared at the halfling for her effrontery. I told you I've already studied him with my shen sight.

There is nothing evil in him. I trust him completely.

"Well, I think the old shen sight's going, pal," the halfling retorted.

The paladin bristled. To say his shen sight was wrong was the equivalent of suggesting he had slipped from the grace of his god.

Smelling the fresh-baked bread scent of the saurial's fury, the halfling hurried to put a different tone to her words. "It's like Elminster always says-good and evil aren't always. You've been tricked somehow. Instead of relying on this paladin magic all the time, you should use the evidence of your other senses. Like my mom used to say, 'Handsome is as handsome does.' And Lord Victor doesn't at all, at least not handsomely." What evidence? ttye paladin signed, barely in control of his temper. "Well, the key he had, for starters," Olive said. He explained the ffey to Alias and me. "Yeah, I know. He told you he got it from his father. I heard him admit it when I followed him home." Yes. I saw you stow away on his carriage. He is only trying to protect his father the way you used to cover for Finder Wyvernspur's crimes. It proves only that his judgment is poor, not that he cannot be trusted. "The key he had wasn't the same as the one Alias had." The saurial cocked his head in confusion. What do you mean? "It wasn't the same cut. It was nothing like it." The paladin shrugged. Different kinds of keys can open the same door, he signed and pointed to the door to the room, as you so aptly demonstrated. i

"Yes, if they have certain similarities. Melman's key and the key Victor said he got from his father, they're as different as night and day. And I know my keys, as I so aptly demonstrated."

There might be magic on the key that opened the door, Dragonbait argued. And magic is not your forte.

"Then there's the question of footprints," Olive continued, undaunted. "There weren't any on the sandbar as we approached the door. If Victor had entered by the same door, we would have seen his footprints."