Richard Byers: The Shattered Mask

"My compliments," the wizard said, setting the mask on the table beside the candle. "You're sharp. I never dreamed you'd recognize me after so many years, and disguised in dim light, no less."

"But you're dead!" Lindrian whispered.

"Fortunately," Master said, "for were I alive, I'd be as ancient and decrepit as you. No offense. Actually, to be precise, I suppose I'm neither alive nor dead at the moment, but somewhere in between. I was dead, but in recognition of services rendered, my liege lord in the netherworld granted me a boon: to walk the earth again while I attend to unfinished business."

Lindrian swallowed. "You can't mean business with me. I never did anything to you."

"Of course not," Master said. "It was always me doing things to you. I imagined that if I wrecked your business ventures, I could ruin you, whereupon we Talendar could pick up your silver mines at bargain prices. The ruination of the House of Karn was my chief preoccupation at one time. But you never figured out who was afflicting you, and thus you never retaliated."

"It was you?" Lindrian said. For a moment, his barely controlled fear gave way to anger. "Damn you!"

Bileworm sniggered. "Rest easy, that's already been taken care of."

Lindrian turned, saw the spirit for the first time, cringed, and hastily turned back toward Master, who at least looked like an ordinary human being. "Then what do you want?" the old man asked.

"Do you remember how I died?" Master asked.

Lindrian hesitated, then said, "Thamalon Uskevren."

"Yes. To be precise, I died of the Owl's long sword opening my belly. It can take a long, excruciating time to succumb to a wound like that. I staggered and crawled a long way in search of help, my hands clasping the wound to keep my bowels from escaping, but at last my strength ran out. I sprawled in the mud and bled to death."

"That… must have been hard," Lindrian said.

"No, please," said Master, "you mustn't grieve, for as you can see, it wasn't the end of me. But the memory did stick with me through all that followed, and now, at last, I have a chance to exact some measure of retribution."

"I understand why you've come to me," Lindrian said, "and yes, I'll help you in exchange for my life. I never liked Thamalon anyway! What do you want me to do? Lure him into an ambush?"

Master's thin white lips quirked upward. "You'd betray your own kinsman, the benefactor who saved your House, on my behalf? I'm touched, or at least I would be if I trusted you. But actually, I have another scheme in mind. Bileworm, have you seen all you need?"

"Yes, Master."

"Then farewell, Lindrian. May your soul find itself in more congenial surroundings than did mine." The wizard set down his staff, picked up a plump pillow, and pressed it over the mortal's face.

Lindrian's emaciated limbs thrashed uselessly, and Bileworm smirked in delight. Master's face, however, was set with the resolution of one performing a necessary but noisome task. Not that he was squeamish about slaughter. He often relished it, but only when it was accomplished at a distance, by his magic or warriors under his command. He didn't like giving even a feeble old man the opportunity to fight and paw at him. On this occasion, however, it was necessary to kill without leaving a mark.

All too soon, in Bileworm's opinion, Lindrian's struggles ceased. One of the dead man's arms flopped half off the bed and pointed straight to the birdcage. Master discarded the pillow and wiped his dainty hands on the bed linen. "Your turn," he said.

The spirit reared up until his head brushed the fresco on the ceiling. Every portion of his body stretched thinner. Finally, stooping, he poured himself into the corpse's sour-smelling mouth.

Once he was completely inside, he thrashed and turned in the thick darkness like a man drowning in quicksand, until at last his own substance, permeating the corpse's body like arsenic suspended in wine, came into proper alignment with it as well. He felt the soft mattress beneath his form. He could feel Lindrian's gnarled, arthritic hand at the end of his arm and make the fingers close, evoking a throb of pain from the swollen joints. He took control of the cadaver's eyes and saw Master gazing down at him.

For that was the special gift of his kind. As certain other spirits had the power to possess the living, Bile-worm and his siblings could clothe themselves in the husks of the dead.

The only drawback was that while wearing these shells of meat and bone, they were more vulnerable than they were used to. He reflexively started to raise his hand to protect himself, then checked the motion. It wouldn't do for Lindrian to suddenly acquire a new mannerism.

Speaking of the old man's habits, Bileworm had best make sure he could employ the corpse's brain as well as its muscles. For that was the tricky part, and despite what he'd told Master, it was that capacity and not a few minutes of observation which would enable him to impersonate the nobleman successfully. He tried to call forth Lindrian's memories, and the images paraded before his inner eye.

"Well?" Master asked.

"The first time he took a riding lesson, he fell off the pony," Bileworm said. The initial three words were slurred, but the ones that followed were perfect, even with regard to their inflection. No one could have guessed that it wasn't Lindrian himself speaking. "From that, he acquired a secret aversion to horses that vexed him all his life. He killed a man in a duel when he was seventeen and afterward, weeping, he threw his sword in the river. To keep his valet from nagging, he ate a bowl of chicken broth and half a slice of toasted bread, even though he had no appetite. In short, Master, I know everything he knew. For the moment, I am Lindrian Karn."

"Good," the wizard said. "Then the fall of the House of Uskevren has truly begun."

Shamur seethed with impatience as she waited for Harric to hop down off the back of the carriage and open the door for her, but the proper lady she'd strived so doggedly to become wouldn't forgo such a courtesy under any circumstances, even the current ones.

Harric usually gave her a gap-toothed grin when performing a service for her, but this morning the footman's long, lantern-jawed face was grave, his brown eyes, soft with sympathy.

"I'm sorry, my lady," he said as he gave her his hand.

"Thank you," she replied, then started up the stairs to the tall front doors, their panels carved with scenes of miners mining, loggers logging, and weavers weaving, all, presumably, for the greater glory of the Karns. She climbed as briskly as dignity allowed.

Over the course of nearly a century, the lavish furnishings of Argent Hall had changed considerably, but it was still recognizably the home in which Shamur had spent her childhood. Today the great house had an air of desolation, as if loss had already paid it a visit. People whispered when they spoke at all, and the servants drifted pointlessly about as if they'd forgotten how to perform their duties.

Fendolac met her on the white marble staircase that led to the upper floors. As always, the rawboned scion of the House of Karn seemed a creature of angles and points, including a long spike of a nose, stiffly waxed mustachios, and a spade-shaped, straw-colored beard. His outfit carried on the motif, for he had a passion for blades and swordplay, and even on this somber morning, in the privacy of his own home, had taken the trouble to strap on a gold-hilted long sword, clip a matching poniard to his belt, and slip a stiletto into the top of his high doeskin boot.

Still, his expression was grim. Shamur had to give him that much credit.

"How is he?" she asked.

"Failing," Fendolac replied. "He says he had some sort of attack in the night, but he won't let us send to any of the temples for a healer. Perhaps you can persuade him. He's asked for you several times."