Masquerades h-10 Read online

  Alias and Dragonbait hung at the fringes of the growing crowd. With so many witnesses, the Night Masks were unlikely to try an ambush, but Alias fidgeted with impatience and anxiety. Hanging around a celebration, while amusing ordinarily, was not getting them closer to their destination, and the Night Masks could employ more subtle methods of reprisal. With so many people about, an assassin could stand right behind her, and she might not notice until she felt a dagger between her ribs.

  Fortunately, Dragonbait had other senses available. The saurial paladin scanned the crowd, squinting his eyes in the manner of a buyer trying to discern the fine print of a merchant's bill of sale. "Well?" Alias prompted.

  Dragonbait snarled testily. Elminster had once told him that human paladins detected the presence or absence of only evil, a less elegant and simpler sense, but certainly better suited to crowds. When the saurial paladin used his shen sight in a random gathering of humans like this, he was bombarded with more information than he could analyze. So many individuals, so many colors of souls and spirits and intentions, cascaded past him, around him, and through him.

  Alias held her breath. An eternity seemed to pass before Dragonbait motioned with his muzzle toward the timbers being assembled into a makeshift stage. "That skinny human in the leather leggings and vest," the paladin said.

  Alias locked glances with the lanky man lounging against the piled timbers, and the man quickly looked away.

  "There and there," Dragonbait added with another jerk of his muzzle. "Beneath that apple tree. They may or may not be Night Masks, but they have the darkest readings of any among this rainbow of souls, and they definitely don't like our presence."

  "They're Night Masks, all right," Alias said. "A reprisal squad, by the look of them. They'll be packing poisoned knives. Standard guild operating procedure requires they teach us a lesson for hanging on to our own property. They intend to corner us somewhere, poison and gut us, and leave a calling card on our corpses." "Calling card?" Dragonbait queried.

  "A domino mask," Alias replied. "To remind the populace that they really rule here, not the noble merchant families. The Night Masks do not like people standing up to them. It's bad for business. Makes it harder to intimidate the next mark." "Shouldn't we alert the watch?" the paladin suggested.

  "We are not in Suzail or Shadowdale. This is Westgate. The watch is safe inside at this hour. What we should do is a little reprisal work of our own. Come on."

  Dragonbait followed after the swordswoman, though he was certain he did not like the glint in her eye. Alias weaved her way through the crowded plaza, stopping to admire the roasting fish, the musicians, the dancers, buying a loaf of bread from a baker and a bag of produce at a fruit and vegetable stand, and chattering in the dwarvish tongue of the south with an old dwarven brewer who was doing a brisk business among the crowd from his wagon of beer kegs. She pressed some platinum coins into the brewer's gnarled paw. The dwarf smiled broadly and turned to shout at his workers.

  Dragonbait furrowed his brow in confusion; he knew how much Alias hated ale. No doubt she was enlisting the dwarf's aid, but the saurial couldn't imagine what the brewer could do to help them battle assassins. He turned bis concentration back onto his sken sight to fix the positions of the three supposed Night Masks. The thieves circled around their quarry, following them through the crowd, stopping when they stopped, looking the other way whenever Dragonbait looked at them.

  Once Alias reached the far edge of the plaza she nudged the saurial and, free of all human interference, the pair broke into a run. The three stalkers, no longer worried about remaining undetected, hurtled after them.

  The chase was short, less than half a block, to a passage so narrow that Alias had to turn sideways to slip along it. By the light of the bonfire in the plaza, Dragonbait could see that their pursuers now had their knives out, and, as Alias had predicted, the weapons dripped with green ichor. The saurial dodged after Alias, annoyed that she had not shared with him whatever plan she had, no doubt because she knew he might not approve of it.

  It was dark in the passage. The only light came from the entrance where they'd come in. In a moment, that too was in shadow as the Night Masks slid in after them. The thieves were laughing now, certain that they were about to make their kills. With his shen sight, the paladin noted that their evil was stronger when they were together than when they stood apart.

  Alias stopped in front of him. In Saurial she ordered, "Hand me the staff and take your own sword. Stay low and give me a light on my signal."

  Dragonbait passed the ashen staff and took his own enchanted blade into his hand. Behind him he heard one of the assailants curse as he realized his night vision was no better than his prey's. "Now," Alias commanded.

  The thieves heard a deep growl in the passage before them. They halted, and a moment later cried out as the saurial's sword burst with a great roaring noise into a brilliant blue-white flame that temporarily blinded them. When they finally adjusted their vision to the now lighted passage, they were much less certain of their victory. Dragonbait crouched before them holding out his. fiery blade. The passage was already warming from the energy the weapon gave off. Behind the saurial, Alias stood with her cloak thrown back and her sword at the ready. Dragonbait could smell the green ichor that dripped from Alias's blade, and he gave a low chuckle, whieh sounded quite ominous to their opponents.

  "Come on, boys," Alias taunted. "Are we going to fight or not?"

  While the Night Mask enforcers were not unused to resistance, their opponents were not usually equipped with such deadly weaponry. Raw steel did not frighten them, but they had no desire for a taste of their own poison, and the fiery sword made them cringe instinctively. There was also something unnerving about the fey tone in the swordswoman's voice. They were assassins, not warriors, and they'd come to kill, not be killed. They began backpedaling down the passageway.

  They found their way blocked by a larger-than-man-sized ale keg seated upright. It became clear to the paladin what Alias had purchased from the dwarven brewer. With a grin, Dragonbait closed in on the assassins. Alias followed just behind him.

  "Surrender now, and I'll let you leave with your lives," Alias said. The Night Masks looked back at Alias and Dragonbait,then at the keg, then back at their would-be victims.

  Dragonbait rotated his wrist so the point of his weapon traced little looping circles of light in the air.

  The lead Night Mask dropped his poisonous weapon, and the other two followed suit.

  "I don't think you have the paperwork for any of those weapons, boys," Alias said. "Better leave them all with me so I can evaluate them."

  The Night Masks hesitated. Dragonbait growled and ran his fiery blade down the side of the building to his right so they could see the scorch marks left on the stone. Soon there was a pile of Night Mask weaponry lying at the saurial's feet.

  "Keep stripping, boys," Alias ordered. "I'll tell you when to stop."

  Out in the street the dwarven brewmaster had set up a second bar to handle the spreading crush of party-goers. The red-headed swordswoman had paid him to block the alley with the large keg once he saw the Night Masks follow her in. Then, as per the swordswoman's additional instructions, he announced that he would be giving out free samples from the great barrel of Chondath Dark Ale. He waited until he had a sizeable crowd about him, then tipped over the great keg standing across the passageway and knocked a tap into the end.

  From the passageway beyond, the old dwarf heard the redhead say, "You'd better get moving, boys. I may not give you a second chance."

  The dwarf moved back from his tap as three men came rushing toward him and clambered over the keg of ale. The crowd howled with laugher, for all three men were naked save for their domino masks. These they clutched in a desperate effort to conceal what modesty they had left. The trio bolted through the crowd as fast as they could and disappeared into the dark streets. No doubt they stopped eventually to steal some new clothing, but they were not seen in W
estgate again.

  As Dragonbait and Alias climbed over the keg, the brewmaster offered them both a mug of ale from the barrel Alias had purchased. Alias declined, but insisted that Dragonbait enjoy a pint.

  While the saurial sipped his beverage, Alias drew out the loaf of bread she'd bought and began using it to wipe green goo off her sword. She offered the paladin a bite first. "You know I hate avocado," he replied.

  Alias shrugged. "I've gotten quite fond of it. It has that rich, buttery flavor. The flavor of revenge." She popped into her mouth a chunk of the bread spread with green fruit.

  "Was there a point to all of that, other than to amuse the crowd?" Dragonbait asked.

  "A point?" Alias repeated. "We don't need a point. They tried to rob us, and we got even. It was a good joke. Humor, remember humor?" She finished polishing her sword and sheathed it next to the saurial's enchanted blade.

  Dragonbait sipped his ale, looking at her over the top of his mug with a sad, paternal stare.

  "All right," Alias snapped. "There was a point. Those three may actually reconsider their lives of crime. At the very least, they won't be leaving their masks behind tonight."

  Dragonbait blew the air out of his cheeks with a har-rumph. "Three tiny leaves plucked off the tree of evil."

  "The axe hasn't been forged that's big enough to cut down the Night Mask tree in Westgate," Alias argued. She took another bite of avocado and bread. "Then one must dig out the roots," the paladin replied.

  "Dig out the roots. What's that supposed to mean? We came here to make a deal with Mintassan the Sage, not go into the tree-pruning business."

  "I thought you might want to help the people of West-gate, free them from the shadow of the Night Masks." "Why would I want to do that?"

  "You grew up here, after all," the saurial said with a sly grin.

  Alias glared at her companion, uncertain if he was trying to get her to renounce her false memories or really hoped to get her entangled in the web of treachery that made up Westgate's power structure. "I did grow up here," she insisted. She looked up at the buildings around her. The memories felt so real, so fresh. She'd been on this street before, when she was just a little girl, chasing a cat she'd hoped to keep as a pet. "As a matter of fact," she declared, "our house was just around the corner. I can show you." She slid off the keg of ale and headed down the street.

  "Alias, please, don't-" Dragonbait called. Now he wished he had not teased her.'When her memory betrayed her like this, it often ended in pain for her.

  But Alias was now in another world, one of nostalgia for a past she didn't really own. "Come on," she called back over her shoulder. "It shouldn't take us too far off our route."

  "Boogers," Dragonbait muttered. It was one of the foulest curses Olive Ruskettle had ever taught him. He shouldered the ashen staff and loped after his companion.

  "Around the corner" turned out to be one corner, three blocks, a second corner, an alley, and another corner. The part of the city they traveled through had seen better days. The cobblestones were intermixed with potholes and bald patches where locals had quarried the street to patch up their chimneys and walls. The paint on every door was peeling. Trees and shrubs in the gardens were all overgrown. Still, there was the occasional streetlamp made of a utilitarian post of iron with dimly glowing, smoking oil in a small bowl at the top.

  All of the shops on the ground floor were shuttered and locked tight, but there were a number of small lights in the upper stories-constellations of candles, lanterns, and the occasional magical light stone.

  "There," Alias announced in an awestruck tone, as if she had discovered the lost city of Shandaular.

  She pointed to a small, two-story building sandwiched between a stable and a dressmaker's establishment. According to a weathered old sign over the door, the shop on the first floor specialized in second-hand clothing. The original proprietor's name had been painted over, but no new moniker had been posted to take its place. "Very nice," Dragonbait said, as gently as he could muster, "We'd better be going, though."

  Alias scowled, "You don't understand. I was born here. I grew up here. I have memories of this place."

  Dragonbait sighed, "I know, but they're memories sung into you by Finder. You were never here, really here, before tonight. If you'd like, we can come back tomorrow when its light and ask if anyone here knew Finder. I think for now, though, we'd better-"

  Dragonbait's words were cut short as the front door of the shop smashed open and three humans barged out of the building-a man and a woman both with slight frames and close-cropped hair and a second man large enough to be a bouncer at a very rough bar. All three wore domino masks and were dressed in velvet dyed a black so deep that it absorbed light, as if they were chunks of the Abyss loose in the Realms. The big man carried a blazing torch. The smaller man banged a nail into the doorjamb. The woman hung a black domino mask on the nail, then nodded curtly at the big man. The big man flung his torch through the doorway, back into the building.

  The black-garbed woman shouted up at the houses all around, "Jamal is marked!" then all three figures dashed down the street.

  Alias raced forward and started to shout, "Fire! Bring water!" but her words were lost to the boom of a great explosion. The entire front of the store bulged outward, then tore loose in a gout of flame, knocking Alias and Dragonbait to the ground and covering them with burning rags.

  Two

  Victims of the Fire

  Alias staggered to her feet. The smell of burning cloth, mingled with a complicated mixture of odors from Dragonbait, stung her nostrils. The; saurial stood beside her, apparently unscathed, emitting the scents of brimstone and violets, then baked bread and ham, as his confusion and fear gave way to anger and worry. He stood before her, holding his hands on her shoulders, but it was several moments before she realized by the occasional clicking of his tongue that he was speaking to her. She'd been partially deafened by the blast.

  Uncertain whether the saurial's hearing was any better than her own, the swordswoman signed with her hands, “I’ll be all right. We have to help the people inside.”

  She lurched toward the flame, then took a second step. By the third stride she had shaken off most of the bone-jarring effects of the blast, and by the fourth she was running into the blazing shop, Dragonbait hot on her heels.

  Most of the planking that made up the front wall of the shop and the shutter that had covered the shop's front window lay smoldering in the street, while the frame that remained standing blazed ferociously. Alias plunged though the wreath of flame about the doorway and paused a moment in the foyer. The entrance matched her "memory." The door on the right led to the clothing shop, now an inferno of burning cloth. A few feet beyond the shop door was the staircase to the apartments above; the staircase handrail was draped with fiery clothing, and the steps gleamed with burning oil.

  Dragonbait stood in the doorway on the right, peering into the shop. Alias signed. Don't go in there, it's too dangerous, but the paladin signed back, Someone's in there.

  Alias grabbed her friend's arm to hold him back. She remembered Old Mendle, who ran the shop long ago, when she was a child. He used to let her play dress-up among the bins of garments he had gathered from the better homes, and which Mrs. Mendle had then sewn or knitted back into serviceable shape. He lived in the back of the shop now, alone since Mrs. Mendle had died. Alias released her hold on the saurial warrior and gave him a nod to proceed.

  As she hurried up the stairs, using her cloak as a shield against the smoke and heat, she realized there probably was no Old Mendle. He was an invention Finder had put in her memory-unless he had drawn the indulgent clothier from some other, real, little girl's life.

  Whether the fire's victims were those she remembered or not made no difference to the swordswoman. She was angry that her remembered home was burning. The stairway rail, from which she remembered having led imaginary attacks on invisible dragons, collapsed into the hallway below, and her craw knotted in fury.
She paused on the landing where she had-no, where she remembered having had scribbled pictures with a charcoal stick. By the light of the fire, she could see there were scrawls on the wall still, but she hadn't time to examine them.

  She turned on the landing and dashed up the second flight of stairs; the steps had begun to list inward from structural damage. The smoke was thicker up here, and she bent down to stay beneath its lethal embrace. She turned again and peered down the hall at the doors leading to the three apartments. The arsonists had piled rags before each door and lit them.

  Alias pulled her sword and used it to thrust aside the pile of burning cloth in front of the door nearest to her. The door led to the apartment overlooking the streets, the apartment Old Mendle used to rent to transients with money to waste on the view. The Company of the Swanmays, an all-female band of adventurers, had once rented it, or so she remembered. Alias put her hands against the door. It was cool to the touch. She touched the knob. It, too, was cool, but it would not turn. The swordswoman stepped back, drew a lungful of smoky air, and gave the door a hard, sharp kick.

  The doorjamb, already weakened by the fire, splintered, and the door swung inward.'Alias peered into the darkness. She grabbed up a burning rag on the end of her sword to use as a torch. The room held four beds with straw tick mattresses, all empty. As she stood there, reassuring herself that the room was vacant, Alias heard a grumbling noise, and a section of the room's floor near the front wall collapsed into the shop below.

  Alias leaped backward just as a serpent of flame swept up the wall and kissed the room's ceiling. The swordswoman thought of Dragonbait. His scales gave him some protection from the fire, but not from a floor falling on him. Hopefully, with the aid of his shen sight, he'd already found his quarry and had pulled him out.