Кейт Новак - Masquerades

“That’s highly unlikely,” the Faceless countered. “Since they’ve outmaneuvered us three out of three times, they can hardly feel threatened by us. I fear we must make an example of them.”

“But if my men cannot find them,” Enforcement argued, “how can we—”

“I said we out of courtesy,” the Faceless interrupted. “This is a matter for my own personal agents, not lesser merchants who play at the games of their betters.” There was silence around the table, and a few faces reddened with embarrassment. “I’ll determine what is to be done about the out-of-towners by our next meeting. As for the quality or lack thereof of certain reports this evening—”

Gateside, External Revenue, and Enforcement all held their breaths.

“Should there be any more glaring omissions in future reports, there will have to be changes in the ranks,” the Faceless threatened. “As for the failure to subdue two unknown outsiders, that could happen to anyone. You, though, Gateside, were assigned to take care of Jamal the Thespian, a simple, little actress with no extraordinary strengths. You announce she is marked, then fail to confirm her demise, and finally simply presume she’s expired according to your wishes. Now that she is forewarned, I will have to assign my own agents to handle her. Because of your carelessness and the subsequent inconvenience to me, you will sacrifice half your share of income this month.”

Gateside opened his mouth to protest, but caught himself. After a long, brittle moment, he nodded his head in compliance.

“The meeting is adjourned,” the Faceless snapped.

The Night Masters rose and filed toward the exit. External Revenue and Enforcement smiled menacingly at one another. Gateside glowered, but the others were careful to avoid making eye contact with him.

The Faceless remained seated as his agents departed. Each Night Master took a smoky torch from a sconce in the wall and traveled down the tunnel leading away from the meeting chamber. No one spoke, even in the tunnel, for fear that the Faceless would overhear.

The Faceless rose and paced across the dais. When the sound of footfalls ceased from down the tunnel, the Night Mask lord pushed a panel in the rear of his throne. Behind the throne a section of stone slid back silently, revealing a secret passageway carved through the bedrock.

The Faceless picked up a torch and strode down the passage as the secret door slid closed behind him. He stopped after fifty paces, just before the passage opened into a great underground sewer. Dark water swirled below, and something just beneath the surface made a wake, which splashed up the sides of the sewer. The Faceless drew out a small ivory ball intricately carved with the twisting form of a sea serpent. A gleaming ruby represented the creature’s eye. The Faceless pressed on the ruby and stepped out onto the narrow span that crossed the upper regions of the sewer.

On the opposite side of the span, a second, shorter passageway led to a cavern more vast than the meeting room of the Night Masters. Here were stored the Night Masks’ treasury and arsenal. The Faceless strode by the piles of riches and weaponry without a glance.

At the far end of the cavern, the Faceless halted before a large pool of water. A fountain identical to those in the squares in the city above splashed on the surface. Stones enchanted with magical light spells had been tossed into the bottom of the pool so the water shone with an eerie green radiance and the light played on the wall with every ripple of the water.

The Faceless bent over the pool and peered within its depths. Something large and shadowed floated suspended between the bottom and the surface. “Mistinarperadnacles Hai Draco,” the Faceless whispered.

The large, shadowy thing rose, breaking the water like an island rising from some primordial sea. Water slid down its gleaming white surfaces, dripped from the tips of its horns, poured from two empty eye sockets, then two nasal chambers and finally streamed from between the huge fangs of the great, gaping jawbone. The disembodied skull of the dragon Mistinarperadnacles Hai Draco hovered over the surface of the water. A sickly yellow light spun about in its eye sockets, a light that sprang from the necromantic powers animating the dead monster’s remains.

A voice seemed to whisper in the air above the fountain, “What is your will, milord?” The dead dragon’s words did not emanate from her remains, but seemed to drift about the room.

“When I first summoned you from your eternal sleep and bound you to my service,” the Faceless said, “you told me something of a pair you held responsible for your demise, a lizardman and a red-headed swordswoman.”

“It was a saurial, not a lizardman,” the dead dragon’s voice whispered.

“Do not play games with me, Mistinarperadnacles. Tell me what you know of this swordswoman and her companion.”

There was a slight pause, and the glow in the dead creature’s eye sockets strengthened.

“The woman called herself Alias of the Inner Sea, Alias of Westgate, and Alias the Sell-Sword. She travels in the company of a noble saurial warrior she quaintly calls Dragonbait. His name among his own people could roughly be translated as Champion of Justice. He and Alias share some magical bond.”

“Just how good are they?” the Faceless asked.

“They were each able to defeat me in combat, albeit not without some minor help. That’s why I died in their service. Champion’s skills are unsurpassed among his own people. This Alias, though, is the luckiest sell-sword I’ve ever witnessed in battle. Lady Luck, the goddess Tymora, must keep an eye on her.”

“How can they be scried?” the Faceless asked.

“As far as I know, they cannot. Apparently there’s some enchantment cast on Alias that hides her from friends and enemies alike. Even King Azoun’s wizard Vangerdahast couldn’t locate her.”

“Do they have any Harper connections?”

“It’s possible. Neither Alias nor the saurial wore the Harpers’ little pin, but the saurial said Elminster the Sage had given Alias a magical stone, and a bard told me Alias had taught her certain songs, which I recognized as belonging to Finder Wyvernspur.”

“Who?”

“Finder Wyvernspur. He was a Harper, one of the founders of the Harper revival in the north three centuries back. Fell into disgrace, I believe.”

“So would you say this woman and her companion would be formidable foes?”

“Foes. You don’t want them as foes, milord. They are not going to be frightened or defeated by mere thieves. They fight dragons and ancient gods and live.”

The Faceless drummed his fingers on the ledge around the pool of water. “If they are as dangerous as you say, then perhaps they would make useful allies,” he suggested.

The air all about the cavern rang with laughter.

The Faceless scowled. “I fail to see the humor,” he barked.

“I forgot, your language does not carry the subtleties of my own. I’ll explain slowly enough for your mammalian brain to comprehend. As I said, the saurial warrior’s true name translates roughly as ‘Champion of Justice.’ In other words, he serves the god Tyr. I called him a noble warrior because he has dedicated himself to Tyr’s noble cause.”

“Like a paladin?” the Faceless asked in surprise.

“Not like one, is one. Or would be if he were human. Saurials with such dedications have gifts similar to human paladins,” Mist explained.

“Including the Sight?” the Faceless queried.

“The near equivalent,” said the dragon, “More akin to my own race’s ability to detect the unseen. He discerns the roiling mass of an individual’s thoughts, feelings, and desires that make up the soul and the spirit, and is able to divine with a certain accuracy the individual’s intentions. It is called shen sight. I don’t imagine he would have remained with Alias all these years unless the shen sight of her was pleasing to him. He called her his soul’s sister.