Kate Novak - Masquerades

"Lord Victor of House Dhostar," the seneschal announced. "Alias, Foe of the Faceless, and Dragonbait, Companion of Alias."

"Foe of the Faceless?" Alias repeated with disbelief, her laughter muffled behind her mask.

"It's the thought on everyone's mind, here," said Victor. "You might as well admit it."

Dragonbait pushed on his mask, which kept slipping up on his reptilian muzzle. He wished irritably that the Foe of the Faceless had not chosen him a mask with feathers. They kept tickling his eyes.

The interior of the Tower was awash with light. Hundreds of candles bufned from a large central chandelier of cast iron, and all about the perimeter hung magical globes of light enchanted to appear as if salamanders and efreeti were dancing inside the orbs. Two great mirrors hung opposite one another, reflecting back into the room all the light they caught and creating the illusion of two infinite corridors filled with revelers.

The watch officers' desks had become buffet tables, and a ten-piece orchestra was playing a rondo. A dozen couples occupied the center of the floor, spinning in their own little orbits around an imaginary central point. The stairs to the upper levels were blocked by more of the watch, decked in white plumage.

The guests' clothing was rich and varied, but it was the masks that impressed Alias the most. They ranged from simple domino masks and silk veils to full face sculptures of papier macho and enamel. There were silvered globes of the sort worn by priests of Leira, the goddess of illusion, and more than a few veils of strung coins or beads. Most amusing were the masks that were common to street theaters everywhere: the Merchant, the Gossip, the Red Wizard, the Cat Burglar, the Twins.

Alias spotted Durgar dressed in his silvered armor but wearing the mask of the Doctor, a pompous character in street plays who always offered bad advice. With its high forehead, bulbous nose, and thick handlebar mustache,the mask looked like a parody of Durgar's own face. The swordswoman would never have credited the priest with such a sense of humor.

Catching sight of Haztor Urdo's black, puffed out hair, Alias paused to watch him. The Night Mask noble was wearing the mask of another theater staple-Captain Crocodile, the foolish, brash young warrior who blusters, but at heart seeks only love. Haztor was flirting with a woman dressed in an extremely low-cut gown made of fabric covered in mirrored facets and a silvered globe mask. Alias watched them just long enough to see the woman slap the young man and stalk off.

Alias chuckled. "Their battles are fought at the ball," she quoted. "Pardon?" Victor asked.

"A song that my-* She hesitated a moment. "That Finder Wyvernspur wrote about nobility in general," she explained. In a low voice audible only to Victor and Dragonbait, adjusting to the rhythm of the orchestra, Alias sang softly: "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."

Victor smiled. "That sounds like Westgate," he agreed. "Good evening, Lady Nettel," he said.

Alias turned to greet the elderly Thalavar matriarch. The noblewoman was dressed as before, in a black velvet gown and her verdigris feather brooch, her only concession to the masquerade a bit of white silk tied about her eyes, with eyeholes cut into it. In her wake she pulled her niece, Thistle, and Olive Ruskettle.

Olive cut a dashing figure in the green-and-white Thalavar livery, which included a huge, floppy hat bedecked with a great green plume. She wore a mask of silver glittering with fake emeralds. Al ias could see other halflings in the crowd similarly costumed.

Thistle wore a veil of fine white lace over her face and was bedecked in a pink gown with a very high collar and short, ballooning sleeves. Long pink gloves covered her lower arms. As she approached Alias, her eyes were glittering with excitement.

"See what I have?" the young woman exclaimed, holding out her right arm for Alias to see.

Thistle's right glove was embroidered with a blue stitchwork very similar to Alias's own tattoo. Waves and thorns crested from wrist to elbow, but where Alias's pattern displayed a rose, the young noblewoman's featured a thistle.

Alias nodded politely, grateful that her face was masked and her amusement hidden.

"It is a compromise," Lady Nettel explained with a smile, "one that myjht keep her from attempting any major transformations in her appearance for a few months. Victor, I do not see your father here."

"My father was… detained," Victor replied, avoiding Alias's look. "He's asked me to stand in his stead until his arrival."

Alias was about to pull Victor aside and demand that he elaborate on his last statement, but Olive was tugging on the swordswoman's bodice to get her attention. "Did you and Dragonbait talk?" she whispered anxiously.

Alias frowned down at the halfling, wishing now that the mask she wore did not hide her displeasure. "This is not a good time, Olive," she growled.

Olive lowered her eyelids suspiciously, but with Lord Victor so near she did not dare elaborate. "Fine. I guess П1 go check out the buffet table."

Alias turned back to Victor, who was making excuses to Lady Nettel that he needed to circulate. Thistle asked Dragonbait to escort her and her grandmother about the room. The paladin nodded his assent. As he let each Thalavar woman take an arm and draw him off, he tilted his head in Victor's direction. His meaning was perfectly clear to the swordswoman. "You said your father was going to be here," Alias declared heatedly.

"He is," Victor replied, nodding at a passing Thorsar dignitary. "We… talked this afternoon. When I showed him the key, he looked surprised, but he wouldn't speak about it. He promised that he would come later to talk to you and Durgar before the end of the ball."

"Victor," Alias stressed, "you have to go to Durgar with this right now. Your father could be using this time to flee the city."

Victor shook his head. "My father isn't going to flee. This is his city. I think maybe the key belonged to another noble, and Father is covering for him. He just needs time to decide how to handle this gracefully."

Alias shook her head at Victor's stubborn loyalty to the croamarkh. Part of her wanted to bolt the party immediately and track down Luer Dhostar, while the other part was willing to wait for Victor's sake, even though it probably meant losing the Faceless. She sighed and nodded. Til wait," she said.

"Good. Then, since you're waiting, we may as well dance. Would you do me the honor?" Victor asked, extending his arm. He froze for a moment as an uncomfortable thought occurred to him. "You can dance, can't you?" he asked. "I can manage," Alias replied with a laugh.

Victor called the dance a Westgate procession, but Alias knew it as a Shadowdale reel. It was simple and repetitive, but Alias found herself enjoying it nonetheless. The orchestra was skilled and lively, and the nobles on the dance floor at least showed her no animosity. She looked into Victor's blue eyes, and her heart soared.

Along the sidelines, Dragonbait stood Bwtwring politely to Thistle as the young woman explained the origins of all the different food on the buffet table. All the while, he stared at Victor Dhostar, wondering whether Olive could be right.

The halfling popped up beside him, munching on a sticky roll. "Shen sight still out of focus, eh?" she taunted, noting the look with which he fixed the croamarkh's son. "You could stand on your head. Maybe that would turn everything right side up." She wandered off to another table for some liquid refreshment.

The saurial glared after her for a moment, then smiled. Only Olive could suggest something so ridiculous that might actually have merit. Not upside down, but backward, the paladin thought. He turned about to face the buffet. As Thistle chattered on about the longer growing season required for melons, the paladin closed his eyes and reached out with his shen sight.