Кейт Новак - Masquerades

Olive seethed silently. The friend-of-the-dead trick was an old halfling con. She was insulted that someone thought she was good enough to play it using Alias’s name, and insulted that anyone thought her fool enough to fall for it. “You were a friend of Alias, too, hmm?”

“We met and talked,” Winterhart responded calmly. “I was impressed by her. I am truly sorry she is dead.”

Well, Olive thought, at least she’s smart enough not to claim that Alias was an old friend from way back. Aloud she asked, “And you knew her from the Dalelands?”

“Yes.” Winterhart’s head bobbed just a tad.

“Then you know what song she first sang in the taproom of the Old Skull Inn,” Olive said offhandedly.

“It was The Standing Stone ,” Winterhart said, displaying the first trace of a smile, “an old elven tune with words by Finder Wyvernspur, the Nameless Bard. That was an easy one. Want to ask what her favorite color was?”

“Her favorite color was blue,” Olive lied, waiting for Winterhart to take the bait.

“Red,” Winterhart corrected. “Blue reminded her of her tattoo, which she thought of as a symbol of her previous enslavement. Shall I tell you how she first met Elminster, or how she nearly skewered Giogi Wyvernspur, or in which boot she kept her throwing dagger?”

Olive smiled, delighted to be convinced of something for a change. “What is it you can do, Winnie?” she asked.

“The name is Winterhart, and I prefer Miss Winterhart,” the younger halfling corrected. “I would make a suitable lady’s companion. I am trained in human customs and dress. I am also skilled with the sword, dagger, and bow, and can provide protection for the young mistress.”

Olive looked with some surprise at Winterhart. “Think fast!” she snapped and threw her half-full mug at the younger halfling.

Miss Winterhart dodged slightly to her right, her left hand snaking up and snaring the mug by its handle. She set it down smoothly without spilling a drop and slid it back in Olive’s direction.

Olive’s reflexes were too deadened by drink to stop the mug in time. It slid into her lap, drenching her with its contents of liquor-laced ale. Olive stood up and cursed.

“Drinking is a filthy habit,” Winterhart declared. “I have no truck with it.”

Olive cursed some more as she tried unsuccessfully to brush the liquid from her leggings.

“And bad language is another thing,” Winterhart added primly. “Foul words lead to foul deeds.”

Olive did not reply. She studied Winterhart as carefully as she was capable of in her inebriated condition. The girl had fast reflexes and a strong will. If she was telling the truth about being skilled with weaponry and proved to have a modicum of halfling sense, she might be just the sort of woman suitable to take over as Thistle’s bodyguard.

There was something else about Winterhart that impressed Olive. It was not the woman’s sobriety and primness, but what Olive sensed, or imagined she sensed, lay behind those traits. Winterhart had been hurt somehow, in the past, and she held herself tightly in check so that she didn’t fall apart. It didn’t make her a powerful ally, but it meant she had just the sort of strength Olive lacked. Nothing, Olive realized, could take away the pain of Alias’s death. With Winterhart behind her, however, Olive knew she would find the courage to avenge the swordswoman’s death. She would make the Night Masks pay for Alias’s murder, and if she found out Victor Dhostar was involved, she would make him pay, too.

Had Olive been sober, such an unrealistic goal might never have occurred to her—she was far too cautious. She was not sober, though, and she saw in Winterhart not just a halfling seeking employment, but a sign from the gods.

“Mistress Ruskettle, do you have an answer for me?” Winterhart demanded.

Olive smiled grimly at the other halfling. “All right,” she agreed. “I’ll give you a trial period. But I’ll be watching you like a hawk!”

Miss Winterhart nodded. “I don’t fear being watched, Mistress Ruskettle. As for trials—” Winterhart’s eyes focused on something in the distance, and her voice trailed off as she spoke. “—I am quite used to trials,” she said.

Olive watched the younger halfling’s gaze as it followed the progress of the new croamarkh’s carriage away from the Tower. “Some trials are more difficult to bear than others,” Olive muttered, though she spoke not to Winterhart, but for her own benefit.

“Blast them all to Baator!” Lord Victor thundered as he strode into the main hallway of Castle Dhostar. He threw his cloak at the footman. The butler appeared briefly, but upon seeing the look on his master’s face, he retreated back into the servants’ quarters, unwilling to deal with the young lord unless called upon to do so.

Victor stormed into the library, where Kimbel was calmly reviewing piles of Mintassan’s books and scrolls. In the center of the table hovered a glowing sphere that the assassin had stolen from Blais House when he’d retrieved the swordswoman’s armor.

“Difficult day running the city?” Kimbel queried as he rose and crossed to a sideboard. He poured a generous amount of Evermead into a glass and carried it to his master.

Victor had thrown himself in a chair and sat there brooding.

“I think this land was once completely forested,” the croamarkh muttered. “Then the bureaucrats invented paperwork.” He took the glass of Evermead, gulping it down like water. “There is a form for everything, sometimes two forms, on occasion, three. And gods forbid you sign anything without reading it, or else some clan might receive a windfall and the other clans will start screaming for your blood. And while you’re reading every bloody piece of paper the city clerks put in front of you, the other clans are robbing you blind, since you haven’t got the time to address your own business. Why can’t they just learn to shut up and follow my orders? That’s why they made me croamarkh, after all.”

“Interim croamarkh,” Kimbel corrected softly.

“Maybe I didn’t kill enough of them,” Victor mused. “Any charges we can trump up against one or two of them? Make an example of them to keep the others in line.”

“Most unwise,” Kimbel replied. “It would be bad for business, and the reaction of those remaining would be distrust rather than fear. These are not Night Masters, but nobles, and even the young and inexperienced ones have believed all their life that power is their right. Besides, you already eliminated the most likely candidates.”

“The irony,” Victor snarled, “is that I’ve kissed up to them for years to assure myself this rotten job, only to discover that I have to keep kissing up to them to keep it. We need a monarchy around here. I’m tired of all this open rebellion.” He turned to Kimbel sharply and asked, “Did you recover my mask?”

Kimbel nodded. “Durgar stashed it in a desk drawer, no doubt unable to come to grips with having covered up Luer Dhostar’s infamy. I replaced it with a stage prop of Jamal’s, which I looted from Mintassan’s lair. It may be some time before Durgar realizes it’s not the genuine article. And, of course, I knew you’d appreciate the irony.”

Victor allowed himself a smile. “Good old Durgar. There’s some more irony. I think I impressed him, arguing that we should tell the ‘truth.’ about Father. But Durgar is so anxious to preserve the established order that he concealed all father’s crimes.” An unsettling thought occurred to the young lord. “You don’t think he doubts that Father was the Faceless, do you?”

“He does not appear to be pursuing the matter,” Kimbel replied, pulling a heavy tome from the pile and opening it to a page marked with a red ribbon. “Now, this is fascinating,” the assassin said as he perused the page. “A fortuitous coincidence, no doubt, considering your interest in monarchy.”