Кейт Новак - Masquerades

“I’m growing tired of your hysterical impatience,” the Faceless snapped, and the other Night Masters drew their chairs back from the table as if their lord had just drawn a weapon.

“And I’m tired of your arrogant inertia. I’m not going to sit around on my nether cheeks while Dhostars’ little dollymop rips my operation to shreds!”

“Enough!” the Faceless growled. He rose to his feet, pointed at Gateside with a ringed finger, and uttered one word, “ Kreggarish! ”

A field of energy rippled across the room, and Gateside’s mask began to glow; the white porcelain shined golden from something beneath the mask.

Gateside fell forward across the table, screaming in agony. Enforcement and Thunnside, who flanked him at the table, rose from their chairs quickly and backed away. None of the others came to the portly thief’s aid. A few touched their own masks nervously, though they knew perfectly well it was the Faceless’s power that attacked their fellow.

Instinctively, Gateside clawed at the mask covering his burning skin; still the glow persisted around his face. The Night Master continued screaming, and his frame writhed in agony. Enforcement and Thunnside could detect the scent of charred flesh.

“ Jokash ,” the Faceless intoned, and the glow faded.

The Faceless’s spell had burned the flesh around Gateside’s eyes, leaving the image of a domino mask in bright scarlet.

“Consider that a warning,” the Faceless said coldly. “I might have let the fire burn long enough to sear your skull, but, in deference to your usefulness, I’ve left you with only a temporary scar.

Gateside slumped back into his chair. His eyes were tearing profusely, and his sobs were broken only by his gasps for breath.

“Your hysteria endangers us all. Now that I’ve marked you, you have no choice but to remain hidden for the next few days. Night Masks are not very popular at the moment. If you do not reveal yourself, you will not be in danger, and neither will we. Once the scars have begun to scab, a priest will be able to heal the damage. Consider it a test.”

Gateside summoned enough energy to nod weakly.

The Faceless turned to the others and asked, “Is there any other business? Does anyone else have doubts about my ability to deal with this sell-sword? No? Good. Enforcement, help Gateside out. This meeting is adjourned.”

The Night Masters shuffled silently from the meeting hall. Gateside leaned heavily on Enforcement, but he found the strength to turn for one last look at Westgate’s hidden master.

The magical blur about the Faceless’s head continued to mask his features, but Gateside was sure the fiend was smiling.

If Alias had been more attuned to city politics, the puppet show might have served her as a warning. Unfortunately, she hadn’t understood the show completely, so she headed unwittingly into the storm.

As usual she’d risen late in the morning, but this morning she did not feel rested. She’d slept badly, due, she knew, to the halfling’s death. Upon waking she remembered Jamal’s comment that the Night Masters had magic to kill or free any of their people imprisoned by the watch. Alias thought about the arrogant but ineffectual Night Mask swordsman. While she couldn’t believe he would be worth the Night Masters bothering over, she became too uneasy and restless to return to sleep. She decided to visit the Tower and assure herself that Durgar was dealing adequately with the thief.

Dragonbait had left her a note that he’d be with Mintassan, so she snatched up some breakfast rolls and set out for the Tower, where the watch and Durgar were headquartered.

At the edge of the market, a Turmishwoman was hawking short wooden skewers laden with roasted, spiced meat. The smell was not only enticing, but brought back memories of her old friend Akabar, who had once prepared her meat the same way. The Turmishwoman caught her eye and thrust out a stick laden with meat, saying, “Lady, you look hungry.”

Alias laughed. “I am,” she admitted. She bought two sticks of meat, and while she was wolfing down the dripping lamb, she noticed Jamal’s troupe. They were set up in the corner of an open-air cafe, apparently with the owner’s blessings, for he was doing a booming business selling chowder in bread bowls to the audience.

There was no sign of the Faceless. Evidently Jamal was still in no condition to perform and her understudy did not feel up to the role. The actress who usually played Alias was present, as were the halfling juggler and the actor wearing the Dragonbait costume.

On the stage were six small kegs stacked in a pyramid, representing, Alias realized, the barrels of wine in the Thalavar warehouse. One of the three stage Night Masks carried on her shoulders a cyclops head puppet—the symbol of House Urdo.

Alias tried to figure out the appearance of the Urdo puppet. Was House Urdo behind the raid? To get the wine?

There was the usual slapstick swordplay until the Night Mask carrying Urdo blew up a paper bag and popped it in the halfling’s face. Black powder billowed from the bag, and the halfling and the other two Night Masks dropped to the stage and lay still.

Alias swallowed back a return of last night’s grief. The audience reacted with an angry mutter, but their anger was not with the serious turn the troupe had suddenly taken; it was aimed at the Night Masks. Although human-halfling relationships were sometimes strained in Westgate, the general consensus was that only a coward would kill a halfling.

In the play, Alias’s reaction was swift and sure. She yanked the Urdo puppet away from the remaining Night Mask and kicked the thief off the stage. The Night Mask lay still at the audience’s feet. Dragonbait pulled out a miniature prison stocks, and Alias locked the Urdo puppet in it. The audience participated immediately, throwing scraps of food and rocks at the puppet and booing loudly.

The halfling rose from the stage and called out, “This collection’s for the family of Maxwell Berrybuck. He’s left behind a wife, a stout son, and two fine little girls.” As the musicians played a dirge, the Night Mask actors yanked off their masks. All the actors took up the small kegs and plowed their way through the audience, collecting far more coin than Alias had ever seen any of Jamal’s shows earn.

There was the trill of a watch whistle in the distance, and the entire acting troupe looked up. While Jamal might go toe-to-toe with the local authorities, her people obviously recognized the better part of valor. Wrapping themselves and their kegs of coin in their cloaks, they disappeared down one alley, the musicians down another. Although the actors had plenty of time, they made no effort to retrieve the food-spattered Urdo puppet, but left it sitting in the stocks.

Discretely, Alias stepped into the shadow of a building and looked down the street in the direction of the whistle. A phalanx of guards, headed not by Sergeant Rodney, but by the humorless, freckle-faced officer, bore down on the cafe. Of course, by the time they arrived, there was no one but innocent cafe customers picking at their chowder-soaked bread bowls and a puppet. The freckle-faced officer’s reaction to the puppet locked in the stocks surprised the swordswoman. He pulled the puppet out and ordered one of his men to hide it beneath his cloak. The patrol then turned and marched back toward the Tower.

Alias gave them a friendly nod as they went marching past her, but they all kept their eyes locked forward and did not acknowledge her presence. She shook her head with disdain at their rigid attitude. Not wanting to arrive at the Tower on the heels of the patrol, Alias strolled more casually through the market.