Кейт Новак - Masquerades

“What?” Victor said.

Kimbel motioned for the croamarkh to come and look.

With some annoyance, Victor rose from his lethargic sprawl. He leaned over the tome, which had of late belonged to the sage Mintassan. The book was quite old, its cover cracked and frayed, its binding nearly disintegrated, its pages loose, covered in ornate, sweeping script.

“The writing is Elvish and dates back to the last days of King Verovan.” Kimbel explained, but Victor held up a hand to silence him.

“I can see that for myself,” the noble snarled. “You know Father insisted I learn all the subhuman languages—the better to trade with them, he would say.”

Victor frowned with concentration as he pored over the text. “This describes the procedures and protocols of King Verovan’s court.”

“I direct you to the fourth paragraph,” Kimbel said, “on the right-hand page.”

“Hmmm.” Victor ran his finger along the script, mouthing the words silently, too self-conscious to translate aloud in front of the assassin. “It’s about Verovan’s treasure hoard!” he whispered excitedly. “It’s under, no, tucked away in an interdimensional demiplane, guarded by a … portion of the king’s own soul!”

“Planes and dimensions were a specialty of young Mintassan’s,” Kimbel remarked.

“At the top of Verovan’s castle, there is a portal into this plane,” Victor translated.

“Matches the common folklore,” Kimbel said. “Verovan’s castle—that would be Castle Vhammos now, wouldn’t it? How terrible that the population of House Vhammos was decimated by the iron golems. The new lord of the castle is still, I believe, on business in Waterdeep, leaving the castle prey to all sorts of thieves. I presume the new croamarkh will want to step in and offer to protect this landmark until the new lord’s return.”

“The key to open the passage to the demiplane is described as a copper feather,” Victor said. “The new croamarkh would need such a key before he tried anything so blatant. What’s this scrawl in the margin?”

“I believe that is a notation of the late, unlamented Mintassan,” Kimbel said dryly.

“But what does it say? ‘Lily Netted’? Why do sages always have such awful handwriting?”

Kimbel bent over the book, peering at the notation. “I believe it says, ‘Lady Nettel.’ ”

“The symbol of House Thalavar is a green feather, and the Thalavars are distant relatives of the Verovan line,” Victor said excitedly. “Copper patina is green. Doesn’t—didn’t Lady Nettel always wear some kind of a garish green brooch? You don’t suppose they buried it with her, do you?”

Kimbel shook his head. “I believe Lady Thistle is now in possession of it. She was wearing it at her grandmother’s funeral.”

“King’s Verovan’s treasure hoard.” Victor laughed with fiendish glee. “The loot gathered from a lifetime of sucking Westgate dry. Why, the gold alone would be sufficient to build a small empire. And the key hangs on dear little Dervish’s bosom—that sweet young girl who’s been left all alone in the world.” Victor chuckled nastily.

Kimbel raised an eyebrow. “House Thalavar remains one of the most powerful rival houses. Forging an alliance with Lady Thistle could prove most useful when the council of merchants elects the next croamarkh.”

Victor snorted. “Croamarkh! Once I charm that key from little Dervish, I can be king, with or without her support. Although … she could prove very useful, as the swordswoman was useful. She’s popular, lovely—can’t swing a sword, but at least she’s of the proper class. And she is young and impressionable. She could be easily swayed by the interests of a kind and dashing noble, eh?”

“Assuming that said noble wasn’t still supposed to be mourning his last love,” Kimbel noted with a chill tone.

“I should call on Lady Thistle. We can commiserate with one another over our losses. A girl like that will do wonders to help assuage the sorrow I feel over the death of dear Alias.”

Kimbel insisted it should not appear as if the new croamarkh was singling out Thistle for special attention. He arranged for Victor Dhostar to pay a courtesy call on each grieving noble family to express his sympathies. The calls took two full days. House Thalavar had been scheduled last, and Victor came to think of it as a reward for the ordeals he suffered at all the other houses. At each call, one of the ruling survivors button-holed him with some demand, request, or poorly veiled threat involving the family’s continued support. Victor could only shake his head sadly at these people as if to reprimand them for sullying such a solemn occasion with common business.

He was received in the main hall of Castle Thalavar by Lady Thistle herself. The new head of House Thalavar was flanked by a pair of the ever-present halflings that plagued her particular household.

Victor recognized the halfling on Thistle’s right as Alias’s ally, Olive Ruskettle. The halfling’s suspicious questions in the Faceless’s lair remained ingrained in his memory. When he saw the icy look in her eyes, he wished he had thought to include her somehow in the party that had “disappeared” with Alias in the sewer. The furry-footed creature could have no proof of anything, but that might not keep her from spreading rumors. He reassured himself with the knowledge, delivered by Kimbel, that the halfling seemed to be handling her grief over the swordswoman’s death by crawling into an ale keg.

The other halfling was a reed-thin, stiff-backed girl dressed in a black gown so austere that she reminded Victor of the deceased Lady Nettel. As if that weren’t enough to make him uncomfortable, the halfling’s bright green eyes seemed to pierce Victor to his soul, looking for any smudge of evil with the relentless nature of a paladin’s gaze. The nobleman found himself unconsciously reaching to feel for his amulet of misdirection to be sure he was warded from her penetrating glare.

If these two were Thistle’s advisors, Victor knew he might have an uphill battle for the lady’s affection. Lady Thistle, however, proved to be as charming as her bodyguards were sullen. She was dressed in mourning, but her golden hair shone in the afternoon light, and her face was flushed with excitement. She wore the green feather brooch that had once been her grandmother’s.

Victor expected Thistle to try to show him how mature she was, and she did not disappoint him. Once she’d led the croamarkh out onto the veranda overlooking the city, she asked if he would prefer tea or wine. After the other three visits he’d made today, Victor really felt like wine, and he was really curious to see what effect it might have on Thistle, but the looks on the faces of the halfling bodyguards cooled his desires. He asked for tea. Thistle rang for a servant and ordered a tea tray, then motioned for Victor to take a chair opposite her. The servant who returned with the tea tray politely disappeared back into the castle, but Thistle’s two bodyguards remained standing behind her, like attack dogs restrained only by their mistress’s will.

The talk was irritatingly small, as it always was when dealing with other nobles. It started with stilted condolences on each other’s losses and then shifted to the weather. They discussed in a guarded way their latest shipments in from Thay or caravans from Amn. They speculated on whether or not the Night Mask threat had abated or even disappeared entirely. Thistle expressed the opinion that if it were so, they owed it all to Alias. Victor agreed completely, giving him a chance to appear more aggrieved as he added that he wished the price had not been so high. In the end, to the apparent alarm of both halflings, Victor got what he’d really come for, a dinner date with Thistle for the next evening.