Gatecrash

UNMASKING

They walked Jace for what must have been several city blocks, down sloping tunnels and over creaking wooden footbridges. He could see nothing through the blackness of the blindfold, but he tried to keep his wits about him. For a while he tried to memorize the route they took, so if he escaped he could retrace his steps. But his Dimir captors led him in spirals, pushing him through shifting walls and over echoing watercourses, over unidentifiable surfaces designed to confuse the senses.

Finally they sat him on a wooden stool. When the blindfold was removed, Calomir stood before him in a misty undercity chamber, incongruous in the bright green and white of his Selesnya soldier’s dress.

Jace checked that the mage-assassins were still behind him. They were, no doubt with a bevy of spells ready to destroy Jace if he made a move. He looked back at Calomir. “What are you?”

“It is time we met formally,” said the elf. “I am Lazav.”

What had been the figure of Calomir melted, dripping away like a sped-up wax candle, and then reformed again into a new shape. This new man wore a hooded cloak, like Jace’s, except it was worn and threadbare with age. Jace could only see the bottom half of the man’s face. His skin was as worn as his cloak, wrinkled and thin.

Jace didn’t know if he should know the name Lazav. He had the feeling few did.

“The dragon’s little announcement is unfortunate,” said the man Lazav. “We’ll have a bit more competition now. But we’ll have to adapt, won’t we?” The man’s voice was hollow, and yet full of menace. It was too close, too knowing, too possessed of a stillness that signified confidence in his own power. “But the fact that they’ve opened up the maze to all the guilds also means that the Izzet haven’t been able to solve it by themselves yet.”

Jace’s brain flew, putting together the pieces. “You’re Dimir,” he said. “A shapeshifter of some kind, with enough mind magic to keep me from spying.”

“Correct.”

“You sent the vampire.”

“And I had to put him away for a long time, because he failed to take from you what I wanted. But you’ve done well, haven’t you? You’ve recovered that which you lost.”

Lazav took a half-step toward Jace. His presence was stifling. Though the man was no larger than Jace, Jace felt a wall of pressure emanating from him, pushing into him, tipping him back on the stool.

Jace wasted no more time. He threw his psychic senses at Lazav’s mind. But Jace found no ingress. Lazav’s mind remained unreachable as when he had been Calomir, locked away from him, impenetrable.

“You’re Calomir,” said Jace.

“Oh, you’re just putting that together?” A grin spread across Lazav’s cracked lips. “To be entirely precise, poor Calomir’s been dead for some months now. He was a good soldier to the Conclave, and a wise advisor. I am merely his replacement.” He bowed theatrically. “Not a worthy one, I’m afraid. But the Selesnya, especially the lovely Emmara, seem to have accepted the performance.”

“You’ve been advising Trostani. Goading the Conclave into attacking the Rakdos. You had them declare war on another guild as retribution—for a kidnapping you engineered.”

Lazav shrugged. “I appreciate the recognition of my work, but of course that’s only part of it. To the Orzhov I’m a wealthy pontiff with the ear of the Grand Envoy of the Syndicate. To the Golgari, an advisor in Jarad’s inner circle. The Boros know me as a scout on a griffin, who always happens to deliver alarming news of the other guilds. And her irascible commanding officers always listen.”

“So you spread misinformation to the guilds.”

“The districts run on information. Secrets are the lifeblood of the world. I provide a valuable service to those in need.”

“You traffic in lies.”

“It gives you comfort to believe that, I know. But I am hardly to blame. I may spread information selectively, but people hear what they wish to hear. If my message finds a place in one’s heart, then it’s the heart that’s false, not the message.” Lazav spread out his hands, encompassing the chamber, the sleeves of his cloak hanging heavy from his arms. The mortar of the ancient bricks in the wall behind him traced a network of lines, twisting and spreading up into the ceiling, up toward the surface of Ravnica.

“I see it now,” Jace said. “It’s all for the maze. Infiltrating the Selesnya. Setting up the Rakdos. Warmongering to spark a guild war. It’s all cover for your plan to take what’s behind the Implicit Maze.”

Lazav’s grin flashed a remnant of yellowish teeth, a sight that Jace wished he hadn’t seen. “The maze is merely a means to my ends. It’s a delightful diversion for the guilds, while I grind away at the foundations of society under them. When I hold all the pieces, nothing will remain—no Guildpact, no peace, no law. No guilds! And therefore no competition for my ultimate command of all life and thought. It is simple, you see? I am a being of quite simple tastes. I only desire the annihilation of everything that is not under my power.” Lazav tapped a finger on Jace’s forehead. “Can you grasp that, mind mage?”

“I’ll kill you,” said Jace.

“Ah, then you do grasp it. Good. That means it’s time for you, finally, to divulge all you know about the maze.”

“I’ll tell you nothing.”

“Oh, I think you’ll find you have little choice in the matter. There’s someone waiting just below us who’ll be very anxious to redeem himself.”

Jace looked at his feet. There was nothing but solid stone floor beneath them.

Lazav’s form trembled, liquefied, and rearranged itself. He took on the persona of the Selesnya elf Calomir again. But Lazav’s grin remained on the elf’s face.

“And if you still don’t cooperate, well,” he said, now with Calomir’s elvish voice, “I’ll just have to apply more pressure. Perhaps I’ll have a conversation with a mutual acquaintance.”

“You’ll leave Emmara out of this.”

Lazav, in the guise of Calomir, nodded to the Dimir mages who stood behind Jace. They dragged him to his feet, then flipped him over and shoved him face-first onto the floor, pressing his chest down onto the stone. Their hands pressed on his back, and somehow they pushed him through the stone, his body falling through solidity, merging and slipping down through layers of earth like a ghost. Then he fell into air again, and collapsed onto a cold, hard floor. All was dark and quiet.

“Jace,” said Emmara’s voice in his mind.

Jace struggled to turn over. His body complained, but he maintained the mental connection with Emmara.

“I’m here.”

“I need you to come to me now. I’m at the Conclave. They’ve imprisoned me. Please come.”

“I’m sorry,” he thought to her. “I can’t be there just now. Just keep listening to my voice. Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid I must tell you that Calomir—the actual Calomir—is gone.”

“What?”

“The man we’ve seen is an impostor. A shapeshifter set on infiltrating the Selesnya. Calomir is dead. I’m very sorry.”

Silence. Emmara’s thoughts did not form words that Jace could hear.

“So if you see someone posing as Calomir,” Jace went on, “stay away from him, if you can. If you can’t, do whatever you have to do to stay safe. Stall him. Don’t let on that you know his secret. I’ll be there soon.”

Another silence. When he again heard her thoughts, there was a certain strained vibration to them, like an earthquake held to a slight tremor by sheer will. “This is true, isn’t it.”

“I’m afraid so. Emmara, I’m so sorry.”

“All right. I understand.”

There was another pause. Jace sat there in the darkness, waiting.

“Jace?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t lose contact with me.”

“I’ll be right here.”

“Don’t leave.”

“I won’t.”

The blackness around him was so complete that it felt useless having eyes at all. He smelled chilly, dank stone, and dust. He reached up and put his hand to the ceiling he had melded through, and touched the wall next to him. Both were solid, cold, and slightly rough, like cut granite. His breathing quickened. He may have been blindfolded during his journey down here, but he knew he was deep, far from sunlight—perhaps even far from a source of air.

He heard something move in the darkness, a shuffling against stone—something nearby.

“Is someone there?” he muttered.

“We’re glad he’s brought you to our little prison,” said a male voice. “Mirko and I are very glad you’re here indeed.”

Jace blinked in the darkness. He used a whiff of mana to conjure a globe of bluish light, and his surroundings emerged.

He was in a small stone room with a low ceiling and no apertures. Two figures appeared in the light before him: the vampire Mirko Vosk, his fangs bared, and the vedalken man who had been Jace’s research compatriot, Kavin.

“Kavin!” gasped Jace.

Kavin also bared a set of fangs. That was new.

“I owe this one a debt of pain,” said Kavin. “Let us share him.”

“What’s in his skull is mine,” said Vosk, his voice hoarse with malice. “The rest you may do with as you wish.”

Jace watched the two vampires approach him, glints in their eyes reflecting his sphere of light. His back was pressed against the wall.

“Emmara,” he thought.

“Yes?”

“Stay safe.”

“What’s happening?”

“I have to leave you.”

TO BE CONCLUDED