Кейт Новак - Masquerades

There was another cheer, but the Faceless cut it off with a sharp motion of his hand. “I am the one who made the Night Masks the most powerful guild in the Heartlands. I am the one who destroyed your enemies. I am the one who will lay Verovan’s treasure at your feet, but first you must pay my price.” The Faceless paused.

The room went silent as each Night Mask worried what that price might be, and each considered what price would be too high.

“I demand your fealty,” the Faceless announced in a sepulchral tone, “not as a crime lord, but as your king! I will make Westgate the greatest empire in the Realms, and you shall all share in the riches of that empire! If you share in my vision, if you accept my terms, kneel now before me.”

Like faithful worshipers, the Night Masks below the dais knelt as a body. The Night Masters on the steps did not seem certain whether or not they too were required to join in this physical display, but when Kimbel knelt, the others followed. If any one of them held a republican sentiment or inwardly questioned the wisdom of agreeing to so empower an anonymous crime lord, they did not share it with their fellows.

“All hail the Faceless,” Kimbel cried, “King of Westgate!”

“The Faceless,” the crowd shouted, “King of Westgate!”

The Faceless, surprised but very pleased by Kimbel’s call for the crowd’s allegiance, held up his arms and basked in the adulation of the thieves of Westgate. Unfortunately, his moment of glory was followed immediately by an uncomfortable silence as hundreds of Night Masks grew anxious for their reward and wondered if it was too soon to get off their knees.

“All hail the Faceless,” a shrill but clear voice called out from the back of the dais. “Master of an honorless, greedy mob. Traitor to his duty and family. Murderer of his father and his lover.” The speaker leaped up on the feasting table behind the Faceless so that all could see the red-haired halfling woman in leather armor—Winterhart. The sound of her sword slipping from its scabbard slithered through the length of the hall. She aimed the blade at the Faceless’s neck.

“My gods,” Olive gasped under her breath. “She’s going to get herself killed.

“But if that isn’t an entrance to die for,” Jamal whispered, “I don’t know what is.”

The aura of puissance momentarily faded from the Faceless as he retreated from the point of the halfling’s weapon and nearly took a tumble down the dais steps.

“Maybe we could grab her and escape down the stairs,” Olive whispered. She began to pull back the tapestry, but Jamal set a heavy hand on her shoulder and held her back.

“Wait,” the actress whispered. “Heroes never truly die,” she added with a delighted grin on her face.

She’s as crazed as Winterhart, Olive thought.

The Night Masks held their breath, waiting to see what their master would do.

From behind his mask the Faceless glared with fury at the insolent halfling facing him. It would not look particularly valiant for him to skewer the vermin, but none of his Night Masters showed the least inclination to grab the creature and throw it at his feet. All were no doubt afraid of losing a hand to the steel weapon still pointed in their master’s direction. Even more aggravating were the charges the halfling brought. How had she discovered his secrets?

He would have to make a joke of her. It was not the dignified beginning he imagined for his reign, but he had to keep her from making further accusations. “Did you intend to challenge me all by yourself?” the Faceless asked with a tone of amused derision.

Miss Winterhart smiled. “Well, to tell the truth, I did bring a few friends.”

Olive’s heart leaped to her throat. Surely this crazy halfling didn’t expect the three of them to fight a horde of Night Masks! Did she expect Olive and Jamal to step out from behind the tapestry and make another dramatic speech?

Apparently Winterhart had not been counting just Olive and Jamal among her few friends. The halfling swordswoman gestured to the back of the hall just as platoons of the city watch marched toward the back ranks of Night Masks. The soldiers all wore leather armor and copper helmets and were armed with swords and crossbows. The room rang with the echoes of their boots stomping on the stone-paved floor.

Durgar the Just stood at the front of his troops in his silver plate armor, carrying his mace like a staff of power. “In the name of the watch,” the priest bellowed, “I order you to lay down your weapons and surrender. Failure to obey will be met with lethal force. This is your only warning.”

The Night Masks, who for years had considered the watch a joke, were not about to surrender to them when the largest treasure they’d ever looted was nearly theirs.

The thieves charged first, with their weapons drawn. The front ranks of the watch knelt in a precision maneuver, leaving the second rank clear to toss out great capture nets. The kneeling first rank let loose a volley of crossbow bolts. Night Masks at the battle’s front who were not dragged down by the heavy, weighted nets, were felled by the shower of missiles.

The Night Masters and the Faceless began moving toward the door hidden behind the tapestry. Winterhart leaped down from the table in front of them, blocking their escape. The Faceless and four of the Night Masters drew swords.

“I guess this is what you call a cue, isn’t it?” Olive asked the actress.

Jamal nodded grimly. She pulled back the tapestry, and, with swords drawn, the pair burst onto the dais to back up Winterhart.

In the back of the hall, swordsmen of the watch maneuvered right and left on the thieves, and soon steel clashed against steel. There was a burst of light as some thief, equipped with a powerful amulet, teleported from the hall. Three thieves standing behind their fellows aimed wands at the watch. Blasts of eldritch energy issued from the wands, and five swordsmen were knocked back by an invisible rain of blows. A moment later, however, all three wand-armed thieves became pincushions of crossbow bolts—a warning to any other Night Masks that those using magic would be favored targets.

On the dais, those Night Masters not armed with long blades shrank back from the naked steel presented by the two halflings and the actress. The remaining four flanked the Faceless.

Winterhart squared off against the Faceless and one Night Master, Jamal against a second Night Master, and Olive against the remaining two. Winterhart dealt the Faceless an immediate blow to his sword hand with the flat of her blade, and her return sweep parried a blow from the Night Master who stood beside him. Faceless lost his grip on his weapon—the blade spun across the dais. The leader of the Night Masks was forced to retreat to retrieve his weapon.

Jamal remembered immediately why she’d given up adventuring twenty years ago. The thought of a sharpened steel blade slicing through her skin, her flesh, and her innards filled her with a nauseating fear. In his scornful offering of a sword, Kimbel had challenged one of her greatest fears. She wished desperately that she was wearing some kind of armor or carrying a shield, but she knew that in the shape she was in the weight of the armor would be too great and she needed both hands to keep the sword before her steady. The goddess of luck must have been looking out for her, though. The Night Master before her seemed to be neither an aggressive nor skilled fighter. Perhaps he’d drawn a blade only to impress the Faceless. Jamal held her own, parrying the blows the Night Master delivered. She even managed to draw first blood across his arm.

Olive was not feeling so fortunate. One of the two humans attacking her was a burly man, quite skilled with his weapon, while the other human was so tall that she had trouble keeping her sword high enough to parry his blows aimed at her head. She’d only just managed to ward off a stroke that might have decapitated her, but the cost was accepting a smack to the ribs. Her leather jerkin kept the blade from cutting into her, but the force of the blow knocked the air out of her and left her side throbbing. As if that weren’t enough, it appeared as if the assassin Kimbel were about to join the two swordsmen in their attacks on the older halfling.