The Shattered Mask

Chapter 15

Shamur was cutting at the air, testing the heft and balance of yet another new broadsword, when she overheard a bushy-bearded butcher in a bloody apron regaling several associates with a booming account of attempts on her children's lives. Suddenly alarmed, she hastily paid the asking price for the weapon-the vendor was plainly surprised that she hadn't bothered to haggle-then strode across the marketplace to the newsmonger. Thamalon tramped along behind her.

"Mammoth spiders and scorpions crawling everywhere," the butcher said, milking the story for all it was worth, "so thick that the walls were black with them! A dozen evil necromancers conjuring showers of hail and vitriol from the air! The battle completely demolished the playhouse! Should you visit the site this morning, you won't see a building at all, just a field strewn with wreckage."

"Excuse me," Shamur said.

"My brother-in-law was there," the bearded man continued, not heeding her. "He witnessed every-" "Excuse me," she repeated, more forcefully. He rounded on her. "What?"

"I realize you're trying to tell this tale in your own fashion, but I beg you to clarify one point straightaway. Were any of the Uskevren sibs or their retainers killed?" The butcher sneered. "I understand they lost their wizard and the captain of their household guard during the fight, but the sprouts all got away." For an instant, Shamur felt lightheaded with relief. "Isn't that always the way? Feuding nobles tear Selgaunt apart and endanger the lives of us commoners, but somehow the arrogant bastards themselves survive to plague us another day."

"And meanwhile, where's the Hulorn?" asked a good-wife with a wicker basket slung over her arm. "Reciting poetry? Swooning over a painting? Not keeping the peace, that's for sure!"

"We'd be better off without an aristocracy," said a tanner, his trade apparent from the stink that clung to him. "There are other ways to run things. The philosopher Rutilinus said…"

Shamur and Thamalon moved away. "Torm's fist," the nobleman said, "we knew the children were in a certain amount of danger, but I certainly didn't expect two attacks in less than twenty-four hours. Deadly serious attacks, by the sound of it, even allowing for the exaggeration that inflates any tale as it makes the rounds."

"Our side must have believed itself prepared for the second assault," she said, "yet poor Captain Orvist and Master Selwick were slain anyway. That's… troubling."

'To say the least." Thamalon looked fretful and irresolute as she had seldom seen him, and for some reason, the sight tied a knot of complex emotion in her breast.

"You love the children, don't you?" she said.

He snorted. "You sound surprised."

"You always seem so disappointed in them."

"I am. Each of them has a great deal of growing up to do before he or she would be fit to lead our House, or even support it in any meaningful way, and it's disgusting that they aren't even trying! But that doesn't mean I don't care about them, or that I'm ready to give up on them."

Shamur shook her head. "I didn't realize. In recent years, after we Karns recouped our fortune, and the children were nearly grown, that was one of the reasons I continued my masquerade."

"I don't follow."

"I was afraid to give you the opportunity to annul our marriage, illegitimatize Tamlin, Thazienne, and Talbot, remarry, and sire an heir more to your liking."

He scowled. "It's clear why I was never able to understand you, woman, but it's becoming painfully obvious that you never understood me, either, and since I wasn't trying to conceal my true nature, that's a puzzle. But I suppose we have more immediate questions to ponder. We know now that the children are in graver peril than we supposed. Should we stop prowling the city incognito and go home, so we can look after them?"

Shamur frowned as she mulled it over. Finally she said, "They still have guards, Erevis, and the walls of a fortified mansion to protect them. Moreover, judging from our friend the butcher's admittedly garbled account, they did a fair job of fighting on their own behalf."

Thamalon snorted. "That must have been a fluke."

Shamur felt a reflexive surge of anger. They'd quarreled so often over Tamlin and Talbot, he belittling them, or so it had seemed to her, and she defending them. "That's unkind and unfair."

To her surprise, he hesitated, then said, "Yes, I suppose it is. Whatever their flaws, Tazi and Tal at least know how to swing a sword. Tamlin, too, perhaps. But be that as it may, you were observing that even with Jander and Brom gone, the children still enjoy a fair amount of protection."

"Yes, and I hope they have the sense to be careful from now on. So perhaps in the long run, we'll serve them best by holding to our present course and tracking down Master Moon. Whereas if we emerge from hiding, he might well go to ground for a month or a year, then strike again when we relax our guard."

"You have a point," Thamalon said. "I guess it's on to the Scab, then."

Shamur attached the scabbard of her new sword to her belt, and the two nobles headed south, away from the waterfront and into the warehouse district. A frigid breeze chilled their faces and plucked at the folds of their cloaks. Snowflakes began to fall from the leaden clouds overhead.

"Are the children truly as feckless as you make them out?" she asked after a time.

"Of course they are," he said. "If you weren't always so keen to disagree with me, you'd perceive it, too."

"Do you think the estrangement between us is somehow to blame?"

"I don't know," Thamalon replied. She sensed that he felt as uncomfortable contemplating the possibility as she did. "I tried to be a good parent. So did you. Who could do more?"

"I wonder if I tried hard enough," she said. They halted at an intersection to let an ox cart laden with garden statuary go by. "How could I have, when my children don't really even know me?"

"Don't think that," he said. "Yes, you wore a mask for them as you did for everyone else. But the love and care you gave them were genuine, were they not? That was your true self, shining through."

"I hope so. Still, my situation must have influenced the way I treated them. It surely poisoned the bond I shared with Thazienne. From early on, when we first realized what a young hellion she was, I tried to mold her into the kind of staid, proper noblewoman that I myself hated being, and looking back, I don't even know why. Was I jealous of her for fencing, wrestling, and enjoying the life of the streets when I could no longer do those things myself? Am I that petty and spiteful?"

"Judging from my own experience," said Thamalon, "yes." He grimaced. "No, never mind, I shouldn't have said that. Your coldness toward me has no bearing on your performance as a mother. Actually, I believe you always meant well in your dealings with all the children, Tazi included. What's more, you were right to think she needs some reining in. Eventually, her penchant for theft is likely to land her in serious trouble."

"You may be right," she said, picking her way around a mound of filthy slush. "After all, that's what happened to me." They walked a few more paces. "I've been thinking about what you said before. You were right. I couldn't emulate my grand-niece's warm, gentle nature for very long. Once we were married, I had to change, in order to push you away."

Thamalon laughed an ugly little laugh. "You don't have to keep reiterating that you found me repulsive. I've already gotten the message."

"That's not what I meant." They strode past a furniture maker's factory whining and banging with the sounds of lathes, saws, and hammers. Shamur had to raise her voice a bit to make herself heard over the racket. "You didn't repel me. You were sweet and loving, and that was the problem. I realized the affection wasn't actually for me but for a dead girl, that your fondness would turn to rage and loathing if you ever discovered I was an impostor, and somehow that made our closeness too strange, difficult, and even painful to bear."

"I'm sure that had you revealed your true identity in the first year or two," he said, "I would have reacted as you say. Later on, I would still have been dismayed, but by that time you were an integral part of my life and the mother of our children. Perhaps, once I recovered from the shock, it wouldn't actually have mattered.

Since you never found it in your heart to trust me, we'll never know."

Shamur didn't know what to say to that. She was relieved when they rounded a corner and the Scab came into view, recalling them to the task at hand.

Like much of Selgaunt, the Scab was built largely of brownstone. Some people claimed that the sandstone blocks that had gone to construct it possessed an odd, rusty tint that made them precisely the color of clotted blood. Others maintained that the walls in the rookery were the same hue as those found elsewhere, but that fanciful minds perceived them differently because of the area's sinister reputation. For while the city had other dangerous neighborhoods, the Scab was generally regarded as the worst. A maze of narrow, twisting alleys and decaying tenements, it was home to the poorest of the poor and every variety of vice and depravity. Shamur had heard that the Scepters never entered the rookery except in force, and even then with the greatest reluctance, which she supposed made it a desirable haven for the Quippers. "Not an especially charming sight, is it?" Thamalon said. "Not to my eye," she agreed. "Watch yourself in there. We mustn't look nervous or otherwise out of place."

"Don't worry about me," he replied. "Unlike my father, I never made common cause with pirates or bandits. But in the bad old days, when my fortunes were at low ebb, and scoundrels of all stripes assumed one lone, friendless trader would prove an easy mark, it helped me to learn to treat with them on their own level. Shall we?"

He gestured toward the arched entrance to the Scab. Once, the gate had probably been imposing, but now it was covered with lewd graffiti and looked as if it might collapse at any moment.

When they passed through, the first thing Shamur noticed was the mingled stench of various types of waste. Like the residents of other precincts, the inhabitants of the Scab tossed their refuse into the street, the difference being that no night-carter dared enter the rookery to collect it. The smell was sickening even with the muck half frozen. She hated to think how foul it was in the summer.

She and Thamalon began working their way from one tavern to the next, for despite the evidence of poverty abundant on every side, the Scab had more than its share of such establishments, squalid little ordinaries operating in dank, low cellars, cramped rooms devoid of seating, or even out in the open wherever some entrepreneur chose to set a keg on a pair of trestles. The nobles eavesdropped on the conversations of the rough men swilling stale beer and raw spirit, and joined in when it seemed feasible. Shamur was relieved to see that, as he'd promised, her husband's impersonation of a blackguard was reasonably convincing.

She enjoyed the game of fishing for information, knowing that if they misspoke, they'd likely face a room full of naked blades. But when they were simply traversing the streets, the sordid life of the Scab depressed her. Primarily, it was the children. She saw infants gaunt with starvation. Toddlers scavenging through the mounds of trash. Gangs of ragged, hard-eyed youths ranging the streets in search of the weak and unwary, not robbing for sport as she once had, but simply to survive. Little girls selling their bodies. Even a filthy, drunken surgeon of sorts who mutilated youngsters to prepare them for a life of begging.

At this last spectacle, Thamalon gave a wordless growl of disgust. "I've always heard it was bad in here, but I never dreamed it was this bad. There must be a way to clean up this cesspit, or tear it down and build something better. To put the needy inhabitants to work, and send the villains packing."

"The thought does you credit," she replied. "Someday soon, you can explore the subject with the city council, assuming, of course, that we make it out of here alive."

"Yes," he said, "assuming that." They descended a short flight of stairs to yet another wretched cellar taproom, the sole difference being that the proprietor of this one had apparently gone to the trouble to give it a name and a sign, clumsily daubing a pair of crossed blades on the door.

Snitch liked spying in the Crossed Daggers. The tavern was no warmer or more comfortable than a number of other filthy little taverns scattered through the Scab, nor was the conversation of the inebriated louts who drank there any more diverting. But the host, prompted by what Snitch regarded as preposterous optimism, kept a bottle of good brandy under the bar, just in case a discerning and prosperous customer ever wandered in by mistake. A gall-trit like Snitch, a gray, bat-winged gremlin the size of a human hand, had no trouble sneaking up and raiding the supply, then slipping back to his hidey-hole undetected. Licking his chops with his long tongue, relishing the aftertaste of the liquor, he was just about to resume his post, a shadowy depression in the dilapidated wall, when the man in brown and the woman in black and gray walked in.

At first glance, they looked like just another pair of bravos, cleaner and less brutish than some, perhaps, but nothing out of the ordinary save for the fact that Snitch had never seen them before. Still, Avos the Fisher had captured and trained him to be his watchdog when he was only a pup. He'd been spying long enough to develop an instinct for it, and that sensibility told him to observe the newcomers closely. His crimson eyes narrowed, and his big, pointed ears perked up.

For a few minutes, the strangers sipped their ale quietly, seemingly keeping to themselves, but Snitch, a professional eavesdropper himself, sensed that they were attending to the conversations of the other patrons. As time passed, he judged from the subtle way they shifted closer that they were particularly interested in the remarks of a scrofulous tough with symbols of strength and good fortune tattooed on his cheeks and brow. The drunk was boring the taverner with a slurred account of his various exploits as a hired sword.

The willowy woman sauntered up beside him, rested her hand lightly on his, and, when he lurched around to face her, gave him a smile.

"Moon above," she purred, "I've been through a scrape or two in my time, but nothing as dicey as you describe. You just might be the toughest warrior I've ever met, and I insist that you do me the honor of letting me buy you a drink."

Snitch noticed the woman's companion looking on with a hint of ironic amusement in his green eyes, but the drunk took her flattery at face value. "Sure, darling," he said, leering, "you bet."

He tried to throw his arm around her and yank her close, but she evaded the fumbling attempt so deftly that, inebriated as he was, he might not realize she'd even moved, let alone avoided the embrace on purpose.

"I imagine you get hired for all the serious fighting that goes on around here," the woman said. "Did the Quippers use you on that crew they put together a day or two ago?"

Snitch bared his needlelike fangs. Since no one outside the gang was supposed to know about that particular job, his master would be more than interested to know that strangers were asking questions about it. The galltrit waited until none of the humans was looking in his direction, then spread his membranous wings, sprang from his perch, and flew out the door.

Shamur and Thamalon trudged down yet another twisted alley in search of the next tavern. The cold wind whistled down the narrow passage. The snow began to fall a little harder.

"Another miss," Thamalon grumbled, "and I daresay the oaf with the tattoos would have confided in you if he'd known anything. Your imitation of a lickerish trollop was quite convincing."

"You'd know, wouldn't you?" she snapped.

"Ah," he said, "I see we're back to decrying my venery."

She felt a pang of guilt. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I do that, either. Plainly, you don't deserve it. Everyone in our circle takes lovers, and no one regards it as shameful, or indeed, anything but natural. Even the cuckolds and forsaken wives don't care. Why should they, when they're dallying with paramours of their own?"

"You never did," he said, "at least as far as I know."

"No."

"Another way of spiting yourself, belike." "I don't know," she said. "Perhaps I simply realized that if my masquerade made it awkward to be intimate with you, I'd likely have the same problem with any other man."

"I'll tell you a secret," he said. "When we first married, I didn't want the same kind of half-hearted union as our peers. I intended to forsake all other women and devote myself to you alone. But later, when you rebuffed me…"

He shrugged.

"Of course," she said glumly. "Why shouldn't you seek the beds of other women, when I appeared so averse to having you in my own?" She sighed. "Tazi asked me that very question once. Of course, I refused to discuss the matter like a human being. I went all cold and haughty, the way I usually do with her."

He grunted. "I can't say I'm sorry. I see no reason to burden the children with every sad detail of our travesty of a marriage, although I suppose they must realize-" He stopped abruptly to stare down the alleyway.

Shamur did the same. Bullies armed with slings, cudgels, and blades were slinking out of doorways and up cellar steps.

"Well," she said, "it would appear that once again, some busybody has seen fit to alert someone else that two outsiders are poking then- noses in where they don't belong."

"I'd rather not fight if we can avoid it," Thamalon said. "They have us outnumbered, and with those slings, they could bring us down before we ever came into sword range."

"I agree," she said. "Let's try to get out of here." They turned and strolled back in the direction from which they'd come, resisting the urge to look behind them or run headlong, lest they provoke the bravos into charging. Meanwhile, Shamur listened intently, trying to judge whether the toughs were quickening their pace to close the distance.

Suddenly she heard a thrumming, and a split second later, a sling bullet whizzed past her ear. She and Thamalon broke into a sprint, zigzagging to throw off the aim of the slingers, and the bullies shouted and pounded after them.

A lead pellet cracked down into the frozen earth behind her. Her foot skidded on a patch of ice, but, her arms flailing, she managed to stay on her feet. Then another contingent of sneering bravos stepped into view ahead of her and Thamalon.

Now trapped between two groups of enemies, the Uskevren peered wildly about. Finally Shamur spotted a gap between two tenements. The crumbling brownstones had slumped toward one another, bringing their upper stories into contact, but a space remained at ground level.

"This way!" she shouted, and she and Thamalon scrambled toward the murky tunnel. Sling bullets hurtled all around them, but miraculously, none found its mark. She darted into the gap, and he followed. The corridor was so cramped it would have been impossible to run side by side.

It would take a good marksman to sling a missile down such a passage, but it could be done. Shamur feared she and Thamalon had a few seconds at most to find an exit before another barrage of pellets hurtled at their backs. She had all but given up hope of doing so when a gap in the wall to the right swam out of the gloom.

She plunged around the corner and found herself at the terminus of another alley. As she and Thamalon ran down it, the thudding footsteps of their pursuers echoing behind them, Shamur realized she had no idea where the passage was taking them, for both she and her husband were strangers to the Scab. They would have to flee blindly, uncertain which of the labyrinthine paths led out of the rookery and which looped back around to their points of origin. Whereas the enemy doubtless knew the slum intimately, down to every shortcut, twist, and turn. She suspected the bullies might not have much trouble keeping track of their quarry, getting ahead of them, or herding them wherever they wanted them to go.

Sure enough, the nobles sprinted around a bend and found several ruffians waiting. Instantly, the enemy whirled their slings. Shamur and Thamalon wheeled and retreated. They heard other foes rushing up from that direction, and scrambled down another branching passage.

It went on like that for a long, wearisome time, until both nobles were panting and drenched in perspiration. Whenever Shamur thought she'd spotted a route to safety, toughs would appear to cut them off, and they had to flee back deeper into the Scab. She was grateful that at least the ordinary inhabitants of the rookery didn't seem interested in aiding the Quippers, but they were evidently too leery of the gang to try to help their intended victims, either. Whenever the hunted or hunters approached, the poor darted into their homes, slammed and barred the doors behind them, and peeked out between the nailed boards or rickety, crooked shutters on their windows.

At last the Uskevren staggered into a malodorous little courtyard, where beady-eyed rats rustled through piles of festering trash. Three other alleyways led away from this spot, and, by now thoroughly disoriented, Shamur had no notion which one to take. Since for the moment, none of the Quippers seemed to be right on their heels, she paused to take her bearings and catch her breath.

Thamalon slumped against a soot-stained wall. "We did better fleeing through the woods," he wheezed. "The daylight and these closed-in spaces are killing us. We may have to try to fight, and the odds be damned."

"Perhaps," she said, shivering and drawing her cloak about her. Now that she'd stopped running, the wind was doing its best to freeze her sweaty tunic. "If we have to make a stand, let's do it somewhere they can only come at us from one direction, and only one or two at a time. But I consider that the option of last resort."

"Agreed. And wife, whatever happens, I want you to know one thing."

"What's that?"

"I blame you for our predicament. If you recall, I suggested we go home."

For a moment, she bristled, then realized he'd made a joke. "Don't be a spoilsport," she said, grinning. "Home is dull compared to this."

She still hadn't managed to figure out what direction they should take, but she could hear hunters calling to one another, stalking closer, and knew they shouldn't remain in the courtyard any longer.

"How about this way?" she said, pointing to an alley at random.

"It looks as good as any," he replied. "Let's move."

In fact, when they crept to the other end of the crooked passage and peeked around the corner, she decided their selection might be quite good indeed, for it had brought them back almost to the point at which they'd entered the Scab. The graffiti-blemished arch was about sixty feet to their right, and no one appeared to be guarding it.

"It looks too good to be true," Thamalon whispered.

"I know what you mean," she replied, "but in my experience, people don't always hunt you in the most effective way possible. Perhaps the Quippers really didn't leave any sentries here."

"Or perhaps not enough of them," he said, "and so far, this is as close as we've come to escaping this maze. Let's try to make a run for it."

They charged out into the narrow street and dashed toward the gate. Four bravos scrambled from their places of concealment to cut them off.

To the Pit with it, Shamur thought. She'd overcome worse odds in her day. Grinning fiercely, she drew her sword and ran on. Beside her, Thamalon did the same.

Something hummed, and she heard the distinctive smack of a sling bullet slamming into flesh and bone. Thamalon made a choking sound and fell.

She lurched to a halt, spun around, and saw the half dozen toughs rushing up the street behind her. Another sling bullet whizzed past her as she crouched beside her husband.

The back of his head was bloody, and he was clearly dazed. "Get up!" she said, tugging on his arm.

"Can't," he croaked. "You run. Maybe you can still get away."

Perhaps she could, particularly, it suddenly occurred to her, if she took to the rooftops. Certainly it would be prudent to make the attempt. But she couldn't find it in her heart to leave him lying helpless in the street when, for all she knew, the bullies meant to slay him out of hand.

"We're both going to get away," she said. "I'm going to kill every one of these bastards, and then we'll stroll on out of here."

She leaped to her feet, screamed, and charged the larger of the two groups of toughs. They clearly hadn't expected that, and for an instant, they froze. One of the slingers was still trying to fumble his short sword out of its scabbard when she cut him down.

Pivoting, she dropped a second ruffian with a thrust to the throat, and took a third out of action with a slash to the sword arm. The remaining ones fell back.

She could hear the four who'd been lurking near the gate pounding up behind her. She had only seconds to kill the men in front of her so she could whirl and fight the others. She advanced, the broadsword low, inviting attack in the high line. A scar-faced man in a red doublet took the bait and slashed at her face. She parried and drove her point into his chest.

At that same instant, another ruffian attacked. Since she was still yanking her weapon from his comrade's body, she had to slap his dagger out of line with her unweaponed hand. Then the broadsword pulled free, but the bravo had lunged in too close for her to readily use the blade. She smashed the pommel against his temple, and he dropped.

One left! She pivoted to engage him, and then her time ran out.

Pain blazed in the center of her back. Certain that someone had stabbed her, she snarled and tried to pivot around to maim him in turn, but lost her balance and fell. The surviving toughs surrounded her, striking and kicking, until she no longer had any strength to resist.