Кейт Новак - Masquerades

Victor rose to leave just as a message arrived for Thistle, so Olive was assigned the task of escorting the croamarkh from the castle. Victor paused at the door and turned to the halfling. “I know you’re hurt by what happened to Alias,” he began.

Olive scowled. “How nice of you to remember her.”

Victor took a deep breath and pressed on, “She knew the risks, and all of Westgate is in her debt. I want to propose a statue in her honor. Would you like that?”

Olive was silent for a moment, then asked, “Lord Victor, have you mistaken me for a child?”

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I missed something.”

Olive sniffed. “Yes, you did,” she agreed coolly, “and now I miss something as well. If you’ll excuse me.”

Victor bowed and stepped outside. Olive shut the door firmly behind him. He’s sorry, he says, the halfling thought cynically. “If I find out he had anything to do with Alias’s death, he’ll be sorry, all right,” she muttered as she stalked down the hall.

Even if he weren’t involved in Alias’s death, Victor Dhostar was a vain jackass. Statue, indeed! He may have deceived Alias, but he was not going to ensnare Thistle, Olive resolved. Not if she had anything to say about it.

Unfortunately, Thistle made Alias’s impulsive nature seem positively reasonable. When Olive returned to the veranda, the young noblewoman was in a heated discussion with Miss Winterhart.

“I felt a little sorry for him,” said Thistle. “He’s like one of those tragic figures in a sad, romantic opera. He strives to break up the Night Masks, yet on the eve of his triumph, he loses both his father and his love.”

“Triumph!” Winterhart laughed in an imperious tone that in any other household might have gotten her bounced down the front steps. “What triumph?”

“Why, over the Night Masks,” Thistle responded, flustered by Winterhart’s attitude. “Everyone agrees that since everything has quieted down so, the Faceless must be dead and the Night Masks in chaos.”

“Really?” Winterhart exclaimed. “Did you think thieves observed a period of mourning?” She looked at Olive. “Is she old enough to hear about the Grayclaws?”

“She runs House Thalavar. I guess she must be. The Grayclaws,” Olive began before Thistle could lose her patience, “is the name of the thieves guild in Tantras. Tantras is a dead magic zone, so murder is just a little more common there than in other cities. Should the Grayclaws’ guildmaster meet an untimely demise, as happens every few years in that city, everyone knows about it—immediately. There’s blood in the streets for weeks while various factions vie for control of the guild. The Tantrans call it a spell of red weather. I suppose there’s a very slight possibility that it’s different here in Westgate. It could be that the Faceless ran everything so tightly that his minions are afraid to make a move without him. It’s much more probable, however—”

“—that the Faceless is still around,” Winterhart concluded, “and his grip on the Night Masks is as tight as ever.”

Thistle considered their assessment silently for several moments. “It would be awful if that were true,” she said at last. “That would mean that Victor lost both love and father for nothing. That poor man.”

Winterhart gave Olive a frustrated, angry look. The elder halfling shrugged, resigned to the battle to come. It was going to be a fight to keep Thistle away from Victor, but at least she seemed to have a reliably informed ally in the very proper Miss Winterhart.

Victor noted that the door closed a trifle fast behind him—not enough to merit an insult, but enough to make the halfling’s point. In a few weeks, he thought, it might be reasonable for the Night Masks to make a reprisal attack on the halfling who was the friend of the woman responsible for killing their leader.

Victor climbed into his carriage and set off for the Tower. He didn’t know how much longer he could tolerate the interminable paperwork and meetings. He spotted Jamal’s street troupe giving a performance, and, overcome by an urge to procrastinate, ordered the driver to stop.

The Faceless lived, at least on stage, though Jamal had replaced her stolen prop mask of coins with a veil of golden fabric. She was ordering her Night Masks about with a large wooden spoon, ordering them to “be still.” The Night Masks would freeze in impossibly ridiculous positions under the Faceless’s merciless eye. Jamal’s Faceless would smack an offender for twitching or swaying, and he would go catapulting forward. One Night Mask tried to surreptitiously pick a fellow thief’s pocket, but was spotted and received a smack for his action.

The audience, and it was a small one, appeared unimpressed as the Faceless put the collected Night Masks through a precision drill. They dropped to the floor as one and jumped around like frogs while Jamal sounded the beat with the pounding stick. Victor noted that the various puppets representing the noble families were not in use, and that there was nothing mentioning the new croamarkh, either good or ill. He wasn’t sure whether to be pleased by that or not. Jamal might have complained about her eviction from Mintassan’s, but she might also have at least given the new croamarkh credit for the relative peace in the city, even if she didn’t seem to believe the Faceless was deceased.

Then up popped a figure wrapped completely in black bandages, save for its right arm, which was bare. The arm was marked with Alias’s tattoo and wielded a wooden sword. Jamal’s Faceless quailed in the presence of Alias’s disembodied spirit and sent the Night Masks out to stop it. The thieves were quickly bested, one after another. Then the spirit chased the Faceless himself around the small stage until he tripped. As the villain lay on the ground, the arm pressed the sword into his breast. The shrouded figure cried out, “Heroes never truly die!” and lunged forward. The Faceless shuddered and expired.

Scattered, bored clapping broke out in the crowd, but that did not prevent Jamal and her troupe from bouncing nimbly to their feet and bowing to the applause.

Victor grinned with delight. Most of the populace was sick of the Night Masks, bored with dead heroes, tired of Jamal’s proselytizing theater. If something happened to Jamal, there would be fewer questions.

Of course, destroying potential threats took a low priority with all the other work to be done. With a sigh, Victor, signaled his driver to continue on to the Tower.

There, annoyed at being kept waiting by the croamarkh, a Thayan representative awaited, a female Red Wizard who really only wanted to be reassured that trade would continue as it had under Luer’s administration. The Thayan was followed by a Sembian, various Dalesmen, and representatives of King Azoun’s court. Each, in turn, was similarly reassured. One of the surviving old nobles, Maergyrm Thorsar, had scheduled an appointment to lecture the croamarkh on Waterdhavian moneylenders. Victor was afraid he’d fall asleep before he was able to show the old bore the door. After Thorsar came the widow of Ssentar Urdo, who was protesting a rumor she had heard that Alias would get a statue when none was being erected for the widow’s dear, departed husband and sons. Then, when Victor thought his schedule was finally cleared, Durgar arrived with the arrest reports, which required the croamarkh’s attention due to the delicate nature of some of the arrested persons.

As it was, Victor was drained, both mentally and physically, when he finally escaped back to his castle. Yet not even then could he rest. He stood wearily as Kimbel bedecked him in his heavy, dark robes, tied on the porcelain mask that protected him from magical discovery, and finally covered him with the coin mask, which transformed him into the Faceless.