Кейт Новак - Masquerades

The sound of their footsteps was muffled by the water in the air so that the adventurers appeared to be three wraiths gliding along the streets. Dragonbait squinted, concentrating on using his shen sight so that they wouldn’t be surprised by anything coming out of the fog. They strode due east on Silverpiece Way to the bridge that crossed the River Thunn.

Five stone arches supported the River Bridge, and the road across it was wide enough for two large wagons and several extra pedestrians to use at once. The bridge was not only a masterful feat of engineering but a dumping ground for stone carvings looted from King Verovan’s castle when he had died. Brooding gargoyles held out stone braziers flickering with oil flames, which pushed ineffectually at the foggy darkness. Curling sea serpents made up the bridge’s railings. The statues of ancient historical figures lined the center, dividing it into two distinct lanes.

At high tide, the river below would slam into the rising waters of the sea, creating a surging wave that ran the width of the river just downstream from the bridge. Now, at low tide, the two bodies of water collided near the mouth of the bay, no more than a mere rill on the water’s surface. The river level also dropped down a few feet, uncovering a wide expanse of muddy sandbank beneath the bridge. The adventurers veered from the bridge and made their way down to the sandbank.

“This must be a good place to dig for clams,” Alias noted.

Olive shook her head. “According to the halflings in the Thalavar household, there’s some sea serpent called the quelzarn that lurks in these waters. People who come down here tend to disappear.

“Disappearances no doubt arranged by the Faceless to conceal his lair,” Alias guessed. She pulled Melman’s key from her pocket, and, holding the key loop up to her eye, scanned the stone embankment. She pointed to a featureless spot a little ways downstream at the foot of the embankment. “There,” she said, handing the key to the halfling.

Olive peered through the key loop. It was like looking through a soap bubble. Rainbows of color swirled before her eye, but when she looked toward the spot where Alias pointed, a hot white light shone before her eye. She offered the key to Dragonbait, but the saurial declined to use the magic item, disdainful of handling any Night Mask magic unless absolutely necessary. Out of habit, Olive ran her finger down the teeth of the key, registering its shape, before returning it to the swordswoman.

Once more Alias held the key up to her eye. She strode purposefully toward the stone embankment. Olive could detect only slight, irregular frost cracks in the rock. Alias reached out with her hand and touched a spot on the rock. “There’s some sort of keyhole here,” she said. Then she guided the key to the hand she held on the wall like a woman trying to unlock a door in the dark.

The key slid smoothly into the rock; Alias twisted it, and from beneath the ground came the sound of a huge bolt being thrown.

The erratic pattern of cracks joined in the shape of a rough-hewn door some three feet across by five feet high. The door popped a few inches out of the wall. Dragonbait grasped its edge and muscled it open.

Behind the entrance lay a tunnel several feet wider and higher than the door. Alias looked around. An outcropping of rock in the muddy bank blocked any view from the bridge. The riverbed widened considerably just below the bridge, so no one standing on the opposite shore at night would be able to see more than the light of their lantern. It was a location well hidden in plain sight.

Olive thrust her lantern into the inky black tunnel. Brickwork lined the walls, floors, and arched ceiling as far back as they could see. All three adventurers drew their blades and slipped through the door. Dragonbait growled the command for his blade to ignite.

There was a ring attached to the back of the door. Alias gave it a tug, pulling the door nearly closed so that it did not attract visitors behind them, but leaving enough of a gap that they could flee the tunnels easily should the need arise. Then the trio plunged into the darkness.

Thirty feet down, the passage emptied into a larger tunnel with an uneven floor and a canted ceiling cut directly into bedrock. This tunnel appeared to be far older. Along its length were several side passages, all of which were bricked up. The older tunnel went on for some distance straight ahead.

Finally the passage widened slightly. On one side were ten empty sconces, and on the other, ten empty pegs.

“At last we’ve found the cloak room of the Faceless,” Olive joked.

Another ten feet ahead, the passage spilled out into a large vault cut out of the solid stone. The walls were bare, and the furnishing was sparse but impressive: a massive obsidian table streaked with veins of gold, polished to a liquidlike luster. Ten large wooden chairs, five to a side, stood about the table, and at the head, on a raised dais, stood a throne of the same black-and-gold material as the table. On the table sat a brass brazier, unlit but stoked with fresh charcoal. Beside the brazier lay a black cloth covering a small object.

Alias lifted the black cloth. Beneath it was a white porcelain mask, a domino mask painted about the eyes and a glyph on the forehead.

“The mark for Gateside,” Alias noted. “Melman’s district.”

Olive proceeded around the room, tapping the walls and looking for secret access ways.

“Is the Faceless simply letting the others know of Melman’s death or informing them that he himself was responsible?” the paladin mused.

Alias shrugged and laid the black cloth back over the mask.

“Yes!” Olive whispered from the wall behind the obsidian throne. She knocked again, and they all heard the distinct hollow sound. Olive could just make out with her fingertips the hair-thin crack that betrayed the edges of a secret passageway. After several minutes searching, though, she was still at a loss for a handhold, button, or switch to open it. Alias pushed on the edges of the door in case it pivoted, but without result.

“Try Melman’s key,” the halfling suggested.

Alias peered at the closed passage through the handle of the iron key. “Nothing,” she reported.

“Guess it was too much to hope that Melman would have access to the Faceless’s inner sanctum,” the halfling muttered.

“We may need a mage for this,” Alias said with a sigh, wondering just how many times she was going to have to go to Mintassan for help.

“Boogers,” Olive cursed.

There was a sharp crack, and the entire wall panel swung slightly outward and upward, revealing another stone passage.

Alias looked at the halfling, stunned.

“I guessed the secret word!” Olive cried out excitedly.

From behind them came the clicking sound of the saurial’s laughter. Dragonbait was standing behind the obsidian throne with a clawed finger resting on a panel in the back of the throne. As they watched, the saurial pushed the panel and the door swung closed.

“I would have thought of that next,” Olive said with a sniff.

Dragonbait reopened the door. Just inside was another empty sconce. Most notable about this passage, though, was the damp, pungent smell, not of the sea, but of sewage. Wrinkling their noses, the adventurers proceeded through this new tunnel, Olive in the lead, with Alias and Dragonbait just behind her.

Despite the lantern she carried, Olive did not see the chasm that abruptly crossed the passage until she was right on top of it. Fortunately, the stench and the sound of running water had warned her to slow down and she was able to back away from the edge before she stepped into the yawning void. Alias and Dragonbait halted beside her, and they all peered downward. Across their path lay a circular sewage tunnel lined with brick. They stood near the top of the tunnel. On the other side, nearly twenty feet away, the passageway to the Faceless’s lair continued on. Ten feet below them the sewage of Westgate churned and surged past.