Masquerades

Sixteen Suspicions

The sewer passage surfaced in a storm drain. After taking a moment to get his bearings, Victor pointed them in the direction of an outdoor ale garden called the Rosebud. There the merchant noble sent a runner for his carriage, and tipped the proprietor generously for the use of his well in the back. Pouring buckets of fresh water over each other, the four managed to scrape all of the sewer muck and most of the smell off their skin and clothes. Olive, gathering up her sopping cloak, excused herself, declaring she had a previous engagement. Alias didn’t argue. She was anxious to grill Victor about the source of his key, and she knew the merchant lord would say nothing in Olive’s presence.

Shortly after the halfling had gone, a young serving boy brought them three mugs of mulled wine. Alias allowed herself a few minutes to enjoy the sensation of warmth creeping back into her bones, then she forced herself to return to the business at hand.

“Victor, you have to tell me where you found the key,” Alias insisted.

Victor stared hard into his mulled wine as if an answer might appear in the mug. “I began thinking about what you said last night, that maybe Father was paying the Night Masks on the side but was too proud to admit it. I started searching through his desk in secret. I couldn’t find anything about payoffs, but I found this key. It was in an envelope with instructions on how to use it.”

“And the instructions?” Alias asked. “Were they written in your father’s hand?’

“Yes,” Victor admitted. “I thought I should check it out by myself, in case it wasn’t anything important.”

“Or in case it was,” Alias commented.

“It doesn’t prove anything,” Victor insisted. “There could be a perfectly good reason why he had the key. You have a key, too?”

Alias nodded.

“How did you get it?” the noble asked.

“I took it from Melman shortly before the Night Masks blew up his home with him in it,” the swordswoman explained.

Dragonbait looked at Alias with surprise. She was deliberately misleading the noble to believe that Melman was dead.

“Victor, did you tell your father I was checking up on Melman?”

“When I got home last night. We had this stupid argument. He said I was distracting you from your duties. I told him what you told me at the party about Melman.” The young man’s eyes widened in surprise. “You don’t think—he couldn’t. It’s just a coincidence. My father is not involved with the Night Masters!”

Now it was Alias’s turn to look down into her mulled wine for a reply.

“You said yourself, last night, that you didn’t think Father was the Faceless, that he had no reason to be involved with them. He hired you to get rid of them,” Victor argued. “Wait! He could have gotten the key from Kimbel after Kimbel tried to assassinate him.”

“Then why didn’t he turn the key over to Durgar?” Alias asked.

Unable to come up with a ready excuse, Victor shifted tactics. “What would you do if you found the key in the possession of someone you loved? If it were, say, in Dragonbait’s purse?”

Alias exchanged a look with the paladin. “I would ask him about it,” the swordswoman replied.

“You wouldn’t just take it to Durgar first, would you?” Victor retorted.

Alias sighed. “Victor, Dragonbait is like a brother to me. I’ve known him all my life.”

“I’ve known my father all my life, too,” the merchant noble countered.

“Very well,” Alias said. “I’ll ask your father about the key before I mention it to Durgar. I will give him a chance to explain.”

“No!” Victor exclaimed. “That is, I’m asking you to give me a chance to ask him. He’s my father, and, well, I think I should be the one to ask.”

Alias couldn’t imagine Victor getting a straight answer from his verbally abusive father, and, if Luer Dhostar should actually be involved with the Night Masks, there was a chance Victor would be in danger.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Victor said, “but you’re wrong. My father would never hurt me. He has a good reason for having this key. You’ll see. Let me handle this.”

Alias nodded reluctantly. “All right,” she said. “I have to report to Durgar about the lair today, so he can send the watch in at the next low tide. I will tell him you accompanied us there. I will not mention you had a key just yet. But, Victor, I can’t keep that from him for long. I must have some explanation from your father by tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, then,” the young merchant agreed. “I have all sorts of tasks to finish for the ball. We can discuss it then.”

“Ball?” Alias asked.

“Yes. Oh, I almost forgot.” Victor replied with a sheepish grin. “I’m afraid your invitation is just a little damp.” He reached into his cloak pocket and drew out a soggy sheet of parchment folded in thirds. The sealing wax was marked with the croamarkh’s insignia. Victor held it out to her.

Alias held up a hand as if to ward the invitation away like an evil spirit. “Victor, I’m supposed to be uncovering the identity of the Night Masters and the Faceless. I can’t be rushing off to every party in Westgate.”

“This isn’t just a party. This is the Regatta Masquerade Ball,” Victor argued. “It’s the major social event of the season. In King Verovan’s day it was called the Naval Ball, but since the king’s demise, we celebrate it as a commemoration of his folly. Everyone will be there.”

With a sigh, the swordswoman took the folded document from the merchant and turned it over. It was addressed to her and Dragonbait.

“Besides, we have a reason to celebrate. You’ve found the Faceless’s lair. I know I ruined our chances trying to capture him by setting off that water trap, but once you get Durgar’s men down there at the next low tide to clear out his treasury and that mask thing that protects him and his lieutenants—well, it will really only be a matter of sweeping up, won’t it? Please, say you’ll come.” Victor reached out and took her hand. “You’ll need to come anyway to hear what my father has to say—about the key. Besides, I’ve really been looking forward to dancing with you.”

“I’ll come, to hear your father explain the key to me and Durgar,” Alias said. She tucked the invitation into the vest beneath her chain mail. “Maybe I’ll dance,” she added, “if I think then that I have something to celebrate.”

The young serving boy came out to announce that Lord Victor’s carriage was waiting at the front gate. Alias declined the merchant noble’s offer of a lift back to Blais House.

Between feeling shy in front of both the carriage driver and Dragonbait and feeling less than attractive with her hair plastered against her head and the scent of sewage lingering about her, Alias was prepared to see Victor off with no more than a friendly squeeze of his hand. The young merchant apparently did not feel similarly inhibited. He pulled the swordswoman close and stole a quick kiss from her before he climbed up beside his carriage driver. “Until tomorrow,” he said.

Alias nodded.

As the nobleman’s carriage pulled away, Alias turned and looked toward the River Thunn. “I wonder how quickly the tide comes in.”

Dragonbait did not reply. He was staring at the back of Victor’s carriage, which seemed to have picked up a small, wet, halfling-sized bundle on the rear boot.

“Maybe,” Alias said, “if we can get Durgar to hurry, we’ll be able to clean out this lair before nightfall.”

One of the few joys of being half the size of the dominant race of Faerûn, Olive reflected as she hung on to the low-slung storage area at the rear of Victor’s carriage, is that unless someone is on the lookout for you, it’s easy to hide just beside them. Even if the day were not ridden with fog, it was unlikely that she would be detected. She looked just like an old horse blanket someone had thrown in the back, and she was too light a stowaway for the horses to seem burdened. She kept her ears pricked during the ride through the city, out the West Gate, and through the countryside to Castle Dhostar, but Victor and his driver did not even attempt a conversation with one another. The halfling was not surprised. According to her mates at the Thalavar household, the Dhostars were very strong believers in the separation of stations.

Things might have been dicier for the halfling had their destination been a real castle with a curtain wall and guards at the portcullis, but Castle Dhostar was really just a very large manor house. Victor hopped down from the carriage, and, as the driver pulled away, Olive rolled out of the boot and slipped into the shadow of a yew tree by the drive. There were no guards at the front door, but, as Victor let himself in, he called for someone named Kane, and a butler appeared to take the merchant lord’s sewer-drenched cloak.

Olive sneaked into the front hall as the butler was pulling off Victor’s muck-encrusted boots. She slipped into the shadow beneath a table against the wall. As the servant handed the nobleman a pair of comfortable house slippers, Olive caught the words, “Your father … the library … soon as you arrive.”

The halfling listened for the sound of Victor’s retreating steps, and, as soon as the butler disappeared with Victor’s wet things, she slipped down the hallway after the merchant lord.

Fortunately, Castle Dhostar was an easy place to sneak around in. Apparently Luer Dhostar did not believe in wasting money on candles to light the halls. The servants all carried their own lights, so Olive could see as well as hear them coming and take cover in a shadow as they passed. There were plenty of shadows cast by the usual bric-a-brac of the wealthy: out-dated armor, stuffed animal trophies, stone statuary, ancient urns on pedestals.

Olive pressed her ear against several doors without hearing Victor’s or Luer’s voice. Then, from a room just ahead, she heard the croamarkh shouting. Victor had left the door open, so Olive peered inside. Luer Dhostar sat at a desk; his son stood before him, receiving a paternal dressing down.

“In the sewers! Gond’s gears! What were you thinking? You could have been killed! “You are a Dhostar, not some cheap hero from the street plays. You hire people to take risks for you, then you stay away from those people. That way, when they make mistakes, you don’t suffer directly.”

When they make mistakes? Olive wondered. What mistakes?

“Anyone could have set off that trap,” Victor replied. “You can’t blame Alias because a halfling couldn’t resist handling things.”

He’s blamed me for picking up that mask! Olive thought with a huff. What a little rat.

Just inside the open door was a large stuffed displacer beast mounted rampant, its forepaws and tentacles batting the air. Lord Luer or one of his ancestors was quite the accomplished hunter. Olive slipped into the library, positioning herself behind the trophy beast.

“I hired this woman to take care of the Night Masks, not drag you on dangerous jaunts into the underworld. It’s bad enough you’ve been neglecting your duties—”

“I have not been neglecting my duties,” Victor snapped in a low growl. “There isn’t a single obligation to you, the family business, or Westgate that I have not fulfilled.”

Luer Dhostar drummed his fingers on his desktop. “First you champion her acting friends in front of the rabble,” he accused his son. “Then you spend last night’s cruise almost exclusively in her company, time you might have spent with your peers, men and women of your own rank. Now I find you’ve been diving into sewers with her. That is not the life of a Dhostar.”

“No, the life of a Dhostar is all cold figures and hard cash. There’s no room in it for honor or courage,” Victor taunted, stepping forward and wringing his shirt sleeve out on the accounting books spread out before his father, leaving puddles in the blue ink.

Lord Luer turned several shades of red, though Olive couldn’t be sure whether he was more angered by his son’s words or his reckless disregard for bookkeeping. For a moment it seemed as if Victor, faced with his father’s apoplectic wrath, showed a moment of fear, a recognition that he had gone too far, for he backed away suddenly from his father. In the next moment, however, the young man’s back stiffened, and he stood his ground.

Several moments of icy silenced followed, then Victor said, “I’ve issued Alias and her companion an invitation to the masquerade ball.”

“And you expect the other noble families to accept her because you keep dragging her into their presence?” Luer said with a laugh.

“I don’t care about the other families. I expect you to honor her for the service she’s done us. She’s discovered the Faceless’s lair for you. Within a few days she may have his identity.”

“That’s what I’ve paid her for. I am not required to reward her success with invitations to socialize with her betters,” Luer growled. “Since you have so injudiciously invited her, I suppose there is nothing I can do. Welcome her to the ball, introduce her as your guest, dance with her. I will not be there. I will not watch my son cavorting with a common adventuress or seem to give my approval with my presence.”

“Father, you cannot mean that. You are blowing this all out of proportion. I haven’t forgotten my rank or hers. I am simply extending a courtesy to a very useful employee. I assure you I have no intentions of forming an alliance beneath my station.”

Funny you forgot to mention that to Alias, Olive thought.

“Your lack of propriety is not my concern,” Luer replied to his son. “It is the appearance of impropriety I cannot tolerate. If that girl is there, I will not attend the ball.”

Someone rapped at the door frame, and Luer barked, “Enter.”

Kimbel stepped into the room. “Excuse me, Lord Luer,” the assassin-turned-servant begged. “Lord Orgule has sent his son with a message. He awaits your reply in the hall.” Kimbel proffered a scrap of parchment.

Luer read the message and cursed softly. “Orgule could foul up a one-horse parade,” he muttered, pushing himself out of his chair. “I’ll speak with the boy myself,” he said as he stalked over to the door. Just before he stepped out of the room, he whirled about to address Victor once more. “Get into some dry things,” he ordered, “before you ruin the carpets.”

When the croamarkh had gone, Kimbel closed the door softly behind him. Victor flopped into his father’s chair and propped his feet up on the desk.

“He is a fool, you know,” the young lord said.

“So you have informed me,” Kimbel replied without a trace of irony or humor.

“He refuses to see how useful Alias is,” Victor steamed.

Useful! Olive thought angrily. Is that all you have to say about a girl who’s welcomed you with her arms and lips and given you a token of her regard? You Westgate nobles are so romantic.

“The rabble is rather taken with her, thanks to Jamal,” Kimbel noted, “but, aside from House Thalavar, the noble families are cool.”

“Short-sighted fools,” Victor muttered. Olive could see his jaw clenched in irritation.

“It’s hardly surprising,” Kimbel pointed out. “Every one of them has some involvement with the Night Masks, which they wish to remain hidden. They do not perceive this Alias as an ally. You do not want to offend them. After all, it is still the noble families who choose the croamarkh.”

“Hah!” Victor laughed, and there was a bully-like tone to his amusement. “Imagine how they’ll all look when they discover that their very own croamarkh is the leader of the Night Masks.”

Olive almost gasped with surprise.

“It should leave them in a decided quandary, sir,” Kimbel replied as calmly as if he and the merchant lord were discussing the price increase of Selgaunt marble.

Victor laughed the same unpleasant laugh again. “They’ll be no better off than the rabble they consider their inferiors. The only way they’ll manage to hold on to their power is by choosing a popular candidate—the one wearing the token of Alias of the Inner Sea—the woman who freed them from the yoke of the Night Masks.” Victor took a small case from his tunic, opened it, and displayed the braid of hair that Alias had cut off and given him. It was now fastened to a pin. “If the nobles are frightened enough by the Faceless’s plot to destroy them all, they may even be convinced that it is time to restore a monarchy, return Westgate to the status of a kingdom.”

“Is it certain then that the croamarkh will be revealed as the Faceless?” Kimbel asked.

“Alias and her companions stumbled upon me investigating the Faceless’s lair. I got in with this key,” Victor said, holding up the key he’d shown Olive earlier. “Unfortunately, like a fool, I touched off a water trap and we were all washed out to the sewer, where we barely escaped the quelzarn. I had to admit to Alias that I found the key in my father’s desk. She has given me time to ask him to explain the key. I do not think he will do so.”

“No,” Kimbel agreed.

“Alias should be with Durgar now, planning to check out this lair at the next low tide. In the meantime, you and I both have lots to do,” the noble said, rising to his feet. “Come along.”

Victor strode to the door. He passed so close to the mounted displacer beast Olive hid behind that the halfling could feel the breeze of his passing. Olive held her breath as the nobleman exited the room.

Kimbel paused for a moment by the doorway, and the former assassin’s eyes narrowed, much the same way, Olive thought, as Dragonbait’s did when the paladin was using his shen sight. Kimbel stared directly at the displacer beast. Olive knew he could not possibly see into the dark shadows of the ill-lit room, but she grew acutely aware of the sound of her heart pounding in her chest, and if she could have stopped it from beating at that moment, she would have. Her fingers tightened about the hilt of her sword, prepared to draw it in a hurry.

“Kimbel!” Victor called from down the hall. “We haven’t got time to waste!”

The geased servant’s head snapped back at an unnatural angle as if against his will. He turned to the door and exited the room without looking back.

Olive breathed as silently as she could. She did not move from her hiding place until the sound of Kimbel’s footsteps had faded into nothingness.

When Alias and Dragonbait returned to the Tower, Durgar was still out sifting through the ashes of Melman’s home, no doubt making sure the treasure found in the basement was thoroughly catalogued before it could be looted. The two adventurers left a message for the priest and hurried to Mintassan’s.

There they found Jamal in the middle of a lesson with Kel. The boy seemed much more subdued. Apparently the young Night Mask had gotten a look at Melman’s branded face when he had brought the former Night Master his lunch, and now he was seriously rethinking his original career choice.

Mintassan sent Kel off to study on his own. Once the boy was gone, Alias told the actress and the sage of the afternoon’s adventure just as she intended to relate it to Durgar—not mentioning Victor’s second key. She felt just a hint of guilt deceiving Jamal, but the alternative, she knew, was to have the key and the croamarkh’s reputation called into question in Jamal’s very next street performance.

Mintassan, eager to get a glimpse of the quelzarn, asked if he could join the next party down to the lair.

“You’re on,” Alias agreed. She’d been secretly hoping the sage might be enticed into lending his expertise to the expedition. “I was hoping we might make it down there again before high tide.”

“Then we’d better not waste any time,” the sage replied. “Jamal, you game? We’ll take a shortcut.” He took up Jamal’s hand in his right hand and Alias’s in his left hand. Jamal snagged Dragonbait’s arm. “Silver path, Thunn Bridge,” the sage intoned.

Alias felt a buzz in her ears, and a moment later she, Jamal, Dragonbait, and Mintassan all stood in the center of the bridge over the River Thunn. Although she realized Mintassan must possess far more powerful spells than teleportation, the swordswoman was a little taken aback by how casually he used it. “A little showy, aren’t you?” she teased the sage.

“Just lazy,” Mintassan retorted with a grin. He moved over to the edge of the bridge and peered at the riverbank through the fog. “Where’s this door?” the sage asked.

“It’s hidden from the view of the bridge by some rocks,” Alias explained. The fog was no thicker than it had been this morning, but Alias was unsuccessful in locating the rocks. The rocks, along with the sandbank, were already under water. “It could be tricky getting back in. We’ll have to do some wading.”

“In the Thunn’s current, with a sea serpent in the water!” Jamal exclaimed. “Better count me out.”

“Which way does the door open?” Mintassan asked.

“Out,” Alias explained, realizing with disappointment that the water would make the door very difficult if not impossible to budge.

“I could pass us though the door with a dimensional portal,” the sage suggested.

“Most unwise,” a voice said from behind them, and out from the mists stepped Durgar, flanked by a large contingent of the watch. “But then you were always a bit reckless, weren’t you, Mintassan?”

“Not everyone wants to live to be as old as you, Durgar,” Mintassan taunted.

Durgar smiled coolly at the sage. He held up the note Alias had left for him at the tower. “This door is the entrance to the alleged Faceless’s lair?” he asked Alias.

The swordswoman nodded. “I obtained this key from a Night Mask,” she explained, handing over the magical key that Melman had given her. Briefly she described how she, Dragonbait, Olive, and Victor had explored and then been expelled from the Faceless’s lair. Just as she had before, she omitted any mention that Victor had also had a key and had been in the Faceless’s lair before she’d arrived.

“This site is now under the jurisdiction of the watch,” the priest declared. “As such, you may not explore it without an official escort. And since I neither expect nor will allow any of my own people to attempt any magical entry that might endanger their health, we will wait until low tide, when the door can again be opened.”

“That won’t be until hours after midnight,” Mintassan growled.

“We can’t get in, they can’t get in,” Durgar pointed out. “I plan to station men in hiding about the bridge and the shore. Perhaps we will catch some Night Masks attempting to enter.”

“I don’t think that’s likely,” Alias argued. “As elaborate as the water trap was, I can’t imagine that it didn’t also include an alarm to warn the Faceless, wherever he might have been at the time.”

“Well, we shall see,” Durgar said. “If, a half hour after low ebb, no one has appeared, then I shall go in with my men. I’d appreciate your presence at that time as guides,” he said, addressing both Alias and Dragonbait.

“And can I come, too?” Mintassan asked, imitating a schoolboy begging a favor of an adult.

“If you choose to bring another advisor,” the priest said to Alias, eyeing Mintassan somewhat disapprovingly, “that’s your business. You, though, woman,” he addressed Jamal, “have no business here.”

“Jamal’s advice, Your Reverence, has been crucial in helping me locate this lair,” Alias argued.

“That may be,” Durgar replied, “but, as she is not known for her discretion, she is not welcome. As you will recall from your discussion yesterday with the croamarkh, your employer, there are more serious aspects to these investigations than feeding the curiosity of theatrical vagrants.”

“Theatrical vagrant. I like the sound of that,” Jamal said with mock indignation. “Certainly a step up from being a lackey to the likes of Haztor Urdo.” She sneered.

Durgar’s eyes narrowed, but he did not reply to the actress’s implied insult.

“We’ll be back at low tide,” Alias said. Mintassan reached for her hand, no doubt prepared to whisk the two women and the saurial away with magic, but Alias said, “I’d like to walk.” She proceeded down the bridge with Jamal at her side.

“Very well,” the sage sighed, and took a position alongside Dragonbait, following the two women.

As they strode through the streets, Mintassan began expounding on the varying legends about quelzarns. Dragonbait listened intently, eager to learn all he could about a creature he might battle again, but Alias drifted back a few paces to apologize to Jamal for Durgar’s insistence that she be left out.

“Don’t give it a second thought. I certainly haven’t,” the actress reassured her. “Besides, I’ll squeeze the story of your expedition out of you later.”

Alias felt another twinge of guilt, reminded of how she’d kept secret the croamarkh’s key. The loyalty she felt she owed Luer Dhostar as an employer remained intact only because she hoped, for Victor’s sake, that the croamarkh had a good reason for possessing the key to the Night Masters’ lair. She felt a stronger loyalty, though, to Jamal, and not just for all the advice the woman had given her. She was still haunted by the phantom memories of a mother who looked just like the actress. In addition, the connection Jamal had to Finder Wyvernspur made Alias feel a certain warmth for her. She wanted something to make up for the key that stood between them.

“Lord Victor’s invited me to a masquerade ball tomorrow night,” she confided. “Dragonbait and I.”

“My goodness, how egalitarian,” Jamal said with a grin. “I wonder what he’s playing at?”

Alias shook her head. “He’s not playing at anything. He just likes my company.”

“A likely story,” Jamal retorted, her tone laced with dramatic suspicion.

“I suspect I’ll need a fancier gown from all Victor said about this event.”

“Definitely,” Jamal agreed. “Fortunately, I know a dressmaker who owes me several favors. Why don’t we just pop into her shop now?”

The two women excused themselves from the company of the sage and the saurial and made their way down a side street.

Jamal’s dressmaker was an elven woman called Dawn, who greeted Jamal with a suspicious look. She broke into a string of expletives when the actress explained Alias’s needs and time constraints. Jamal insisted that a designer of her talents was surely up to the challenge.

The elf eyed Alias critically for several moments. Finally she said, “The shoulders. None of these Westgate witches can compete there. Lady Nettel forty years ago, but none of the wilting lilies of this generation. We’ll leave the shoulders bare.”

“How will the dress stay up?” Alias asked.

“Elven magic,” Jamal chuckled.

For the next half hour the swordswoman fidgeted through measurements, pinnings, and some rather rude appraisals of her features. At last Dawn announced that Alias was free to go. Providing the swordswoman came by tomorrow for a final fitting before noon, the gown would be ready an hour before the ball.

“Her scabbard belt will spoil the gown’s lines. She’ll need a baldric for her sword,” Jamal informed the elf. “You were planning to wear your sword, weren’t you?”

“In this city, I wear it everywhere,” Alias confirmed as she studied the dozens of masks that lined the walls of the shop. For Dragonbait she picked out a half-mask covered in feathers and for herself a simple full face done in glazed porcelain. The mask’s arched eyebrows seemed to express exactly how she was beginning to feel about all the twists and turns her visit to this city had taken.

“This is actually getting exciting,” Jamal laughed as she and Alias left the shop and made their way through Westgate’s fog-bound streets. “It reminds me of a song Nameless sang about the Westgate nobs—something about battles at the balls.”

“Their battles are fought at the ball,” Alias corrected, in measured rhythm. She knew the song perfectly well, though she had never known before that Finder had sung it about Westgate. She turned to Jamal and spoke as openly as she dared. “I’m so glad we’ve met. I’m glad Finder knew you, glad that I got to know you, too. I’m going to bring down the Faceless for you, Jamal. I promise.”

The actress looked taken aback for a moment, but then she smiled and draped her arm around the swordswoman’s shoulders. “I appreciate that,” she said, giving Alias’s shoulders a friendly squeeze. “I think, though, that you look exhausted. You should get some rest before you throw yourself back into the fray.”

Back at Blais House, Alias found she could hardly keep her eyes open as she took her leave of the actress. Leaving Mercy with instructions to wake her at midnight, the swordswoman retired to her room to nap. Dragonbait was already there sleeping.

By the time the sandbar was uncovered again, the fog had cleared. The crescent moon shone brightly on the untrampled approach to the Night Masters’ lair. It was the perfect secret entrance, Alias thought. The tide washed away all signs of the Night Masters passing after every meeting.

There had been no sign of any Night Masters approaching the site, despite the fact that, according to Melman, this would be the night of their regular meeting. The Faceless had learned of their trespass, Alias realized, and had warned his followers. The Night Masters and their lord would elude Durgar this night, but soon much of their wealth and the magical source of their obscurement would be in the hands of the watch.

With a keen sense of satisfaction, Alias showed Durgar how to use the key to the lair, and she, Dragonbait, Mintassan, and twelve armed members of the watch followed the priest into the dark tunnel by the River Thunn.

Half the watch carried hooded lanterns, and Mintassan produced a small silver wand, which glowed with a magical light.

As the party moved into the conference room, Dragonbait tapped on the table. “Melman’s mask is missing,” he said in Saurial.

“Damn,” Alias whispered. A leaden feeling of failure settled over her. “The Faceless must have some other way in,” she said to Durgar, and she explained about the missing mask. “He might have come in the way we left, through the sewer,” Alias suggested.

“Or used magic,” Mintassan pointed out.

Dragonbait pressed the panel that operated the secret door. Alias nearly ran through the secret passage. She hesitated only a moment at the chasm over the sewer to check with her sword that the bridge was still intact and crossed over the sluggish water below.

Dragonbait clucked with annoyance at her impatience. He remained behind to present the invisible bridge to Durgar, Mintassan, and the watch. Dragonbait and the sage stood guard as the watch crossed, but the quelzarn did not appear. As the others trooped up the next passage, the sage stood looking over the chasm’s edge with disappointment. Dragonbait had to tug on his sleeve to get him to follow the others.

“I guess a watched quelzarn never surfaces,” the sage said as he continued on.

They found Alias in the empty treasure room, leaning dejectedly against one wall, staring at the shards of the mirror that had been mounted on the wall. Save for the broken mirror, the room was stripped of all trace of the Night Masks’ treasure. The chests, the weaponry, the wands and staves, the iron golems, the table holding the tree of masks—all were gone.

“The mirror,” Alias muttered. “I never thought about the mirror. As if the Faceless would need a mirror to check how his hair looked before his meetings. I’m such an idiot.”

Mintassan bent over and picked up a larger sliver of the broken, silver-backed glass. “Nice workmanship,” the sage commented. He held it out to Durgar. “Late monarchical period. Legend has it that there were several of these magical portal mirrors in Verovan’s castle. They disappeared in the looting that followed his death.”

“So all the Faceless had to do was pop through the mirror and carry the stuff back to wherever he has another mirror,” Alias noted.

“No,” Mintassan corrected, “all he had to do is order the iron golems to carry the stuff through. Much easier.”

Alias glared for a moment at the sage.

“Then, unable to carry the mirror through itself,” the sage continued, “the Faceless had to smash it so no one could walk through it and discover where he’d gone.”

“Well,” Durgar said, “while I’m willing to concede this might have been a meeting place of Night Masks and even a hoarding place for their ill-gotten goods, I can see no evidence before me of any creature known as the Faceless.”

“There is a Faceless,” Alias snapped. “Mist confirmed it when we spoke with her.”

“Mist? Ah, yes. The dead dragon. She might have been lying to you. Dragons will do that, you know,” Durgar pointed out.

“Mist’s skull is gone,” Dragonbait noted, peering into the pool, which had lately held the earthly remains of their former foe.

“I think, to be on the safe side,” the priest murmured, “we should leave before the tide turns and traps us down here.”

Durgar ushered the watch back down the stairs toward the sewer, but Alias remained behind, pacing the cavern floor with a barely concealed fury. There would be no end to the evil the Night Masks brought to Westgate unless she captured the Faceless. She thought of the rag man who had died when the Night Masks burned Jamal’s home, and the halfling who’d been killed in the explosion in the warehouse, and all the other people who were dead because of the thieves guild. With his minions and his smoke powder, the Faceless would continue to terrorize the whole city—no doubt he considered himself master of Westgate. Now he was somewhere safe, with all his power still intact, laughing at her failure. Alias let loose with a tremendous shout, a battle-cry from the north, a call for vengeance.

Durgar, who’d just looked back to ask the adventuress if she were leaving with them, took a step back in surprise, nearly tripping down the stairs. Mintassan felt his blood run cold from the emotion he sensed emanating from the swordswoman.

The saurial touched Alias’s tattoo, kindling the link they shared, trying to infuse some of his inner calm into her wild spirit.

The warrior woman shook herself out of her rage. “I will find him again!” she declared. “He cannot hide from me much longer.”