The Shattered Mask (21 page)

With his black-bearded features only inches from her own, blocking out everything else, she couldn’t see his right hand performing its next manipulation, but she didn’t have to. She understood very well what it must be doing. Spinning the knife, reversing his grip so he could drive the point into her spine.

Her own weapon was passe and out of position for an instantaneous stab at his back, nor did she think she could break free of his hold in the split second remaining. So she butted him in the face.

His nose broke with a crack, his body jerked, and, thanks be to Mask, his dagger didn’t slam down into her flesh. She instantly followed up with a second head butt, a stomp to the foot, and a knee to the groin.

His grip slackened. Shoving him back, she tore herself free, gave him a snap kick to the knee, and, seeing that he was staggering, too hurt and dazed for the moment to wield his dagger, stepped in and slammed the pommel other own weapon against his forehead.

The bravo fell, and she grinned in satisfaction. Many would say she’d been lucky to defeat such an opponent, but she preferred to think that while he had been the better dagger fighter, she was the stronger combatant in general, and that was what had yielded her the victory.

“Ho!”

Shamur turned. Thamalon was standing aboard a catboat at the edge of the floating city. He had his buckler in his left hand and his throwing knife in his right, and although

the watermen who inhabited the craft were regarding him sourly, they weren’t making any hostile moves.

“By the time the ruffian reached this part of the cluster,” Thamalon said, “it was obvious he didn’t intend to make for the docks. So I followed after you.”

“Good,” she replied. “Bide there a moment.”

Shamur scrutinized the bravo. Whimpering, he seemed to be conscious, but incapacitated nonetheless. She dropped his dagger and short swords over the side, and, keeping a wary eye on him, found a sweep and rowed the sloop up to the catboat. The two hulls banged together, and one of the watermen cursed.

“Sorry,” she told him, then turned to Thamalon. “Climb aboard. We might as well chat with our friend here privately, without any other misguided boaters attempting to interfere with us.”

“Good idea.” Thamalon stepped onto the sloop, and she pushed off with the oar.

Once she was sure they were drifting away, Shamur glanced around to catch Thamalon staring at her with a strange expression on her face, and for some reason, his regard made her feel self-conscious. “What?” she demanded.

The nobleman blinked. “Nothing.” He stooped to examine the waterman from whom the bravo had attempted to steal the sloop. “This fellow should be all right. It looks as if our friend just knocked him out.”

“He’s lucky the bastard didn’t stick a knife in him,” said Shamur. “Perhaps he had qualms about killing a fellow boater. Anyway, let’s talk to him.” She nudged the captive with the toe of her boot. “We know you’re awake. Let’s chat.”

The captive warily opened his eyes. “What do you want with me?” he croaked. “You talk like I’m some sort of ruffian, but I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You bolted as soon as you heard that two strangers were seeking you, ostensibly to give you a reward,” Thamalon said. “Is that the act of an innocent man? To me, it seems

more like the jumpiness of a blackguard who took part in the assassination of two nobles less than twenty-four hours ago.”

The bravo swallowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re lying,” Shamur said, “and there’s no chance of you convincing us otherwise. It was dark when you saw us last, and we’ve changed our appearances since, but look at my face. Look closely.”

The bully did as she’d bade him, then blanched and cringed. “You people are dead!”

“No,” said Shamur, “just very annoyed. We can vent our spleen on you, or you can tell us who hired you and your fellow toughs.”

“I don’t know. I was just a member of a crew,” the waterman said, “just doing as I was told. I never heard the wizard’s name, nor saw him without the moon mask.”

“Then tell us how you wound up working for him,” she said.

He hesitated. “I can’t. If I turn nose, the others will kill me.”

“Do you think we won’t?” she replied. “Husband, I believe this fool needs to be convinced that we’re in earnest.” She hefted her dagger. “What shall we take, a thumb?”

“An eye,” said Thamalon with a lightness that served well to reinforce the bluff. “It always gets a man’s attention when you pop an eye.”

“Very well.”

They flung themselves onto the bravo, who screamed and flailed wildly, but who, spent and battered as he was, could do little to keep them from pinning him to the deck.

“Try to avoid any further struggling,” Thamalon advised the rogue. “If you thrash about, the blade could plunge too far down, all the way into your brain.”

“No!” the bravo shrieked. “Get off me! I’ll tell! I’ll tell!”

“Drat,” said Shamur, “I never get to have any fun. All right, then, spill it.”

“The thing is, I belong to the Quippers,” the ruffian said.

The nobles exchanged glances. Named for a species of savage freshwater fish that, traveling in schools, posed a threat to even the largest animal, the Quippers were a notorious outlaw fraternity operating chiefly on the waterfront, where their crimes often involved smuggling, theft, and extortion. The gang had been in existence for a long while; Shamur had had dealings with them in her youth, and in recent years Thamalon had occasionally tried to suppress them and so eliminate a threat to honest merchants.

“Then was the murder scheme a reprisal against me?” Thamalon asked.

“No,” the bravo said. “We were hired, just as you first supposed, but I swear, I don’t know by whom.”

‘ “Then we’ll have to ask some of your cohorts,” Shamur said. “Where do the Quippers have their stronghold these days?”

“In the Scab,” the ruffian said.

Thamalon frowned. “That’s unfortunate, but never mind. Let’s discuss your future. You’ve already said yourself that your cronies will kill you for informing on them, and I personally will make sure that the Scepters start hunting you tomorrow. If you want to live, I’d advise you to flee Selgaunt this very night.”

“How?” the bravo rasped. “The way your woman beat me, I can hardly walk.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” Shamur said. “Meanwhile, you’re a waterman, so make yourself useful. Bring this boat back around to link up with the others.”

Groaning and grunting the while, the bravo obeyed. When the sloop floated next to the catboat once again, Thamalon waved his hand, bidding the man with the ring in his lip begone. Perhaps fearing that his captors would change their minds, the ruffian limped quickly away.

“I hope he doesn’t run and warn his gang,” Shamur said.

“I doubt he will,” Thamalon replied. “He meant it when he whined that they routinely kill informers. In any event, we couldn’t very well maintain the pretense that we’re dead and turn him over to the Scepters, also. Nor could we drag a

prisoner around with us. So unless you had the stomach to kill him in cold blood…”

“No,” she said. “Anyway, I assume our next stop is the Scab.”

He looked at her, and once again, she noticed that same odd quality in his gaze. “I hope you don’t mean tonight. At the risk of you curling up your lip and calling me ‘old man’ again, I have to say that after what we’ve been through, I’ve had enough cold weather and exertion for a while. I’d rather repair to one of those shabby little inns along the harbor, and tackle the rest of the Quippers tomorrow.”

She smiled. “I must confess, I’m not quite as young as I once was, either, and I daresay that’s not such a bad idea.”

Bileworm had spent much of his existence in proximity to colossal fortresses built of iron, basalt, and sorcery, but even he had to admit that the playhouse called the Wide Realms presented a pleasing spectacle, if only in a tawdry, terrestrial sort of way. The entrance to the theater, a ring-shaped structure with a tiring house and stage at the rear and a pair of multi-level galleries curving out and around to meet at the gate in the front, shone like a jewel in fields of magical light, as did the gaudy pennants flying and banners hanging from the thatched roof. The humbler patrons had all packed inside prior to the start of the performance, but a few aristocrats were still arriving, pulling up in their carriages, on horseback, or strolling behind torch-bearing linkboys in scarlet capes. Music, the declamations of the actors, and, periodically, applause, cheers,

laughter, catcalls, and booing, drifted up through the open space in the center of the building.

Of course, Bileworm hadn’t come to admire the view but to scout the disposition of the enemy, and having accomplished his task, he supposed he’d better return to Master and report. He turned and skulked along the rooftops, a shadow moving virtually invisibly against the night sky, until, lengthening and then shortening his leg, he stepped lightly down into the alley where the wizard and his mortal henchmen waited.

Garris Quinn, clad tonight in a plum-colored hat with an upturned brim and yellow plume, a loose, thigh-length mandilion overcoat in the same colors, and baggy galligaskiri breeches, glanced around, discovered Bileworm leering at his elbow, yelped, and recoiled.

Not the least bit startled by his aide’s outburst, or at least not betraying it if he was, Master casually turned toward his familiar. “What have you learned?” the masked wizard asked.

“They’re guarding the lad,” Bileworm said, “just as you expected. They have warriors hiding in four buildings adjacent to the Wide Realms, six to ten in each detachment. I imagine other guards are waiting inside the playhouse.”

“Thank you for giving us the benefit of your tactical expertise,” said Master, a hint of impatience perceptible in his tone. He’d been out of sorts since Thamalon Uskevreife eldest boy had escaped him earlier that day.

“Then it’s a trap,” Garris said uneasily.

Master sighed. “I’m surrounded by strategists, it seems. Naturally it’s a trap. Did you think that with young Talbot’s parents missing, and his brother already assaulted, his retainers would let him wander off to do his acting unprotected? But we’re going to trap the trappers.”

Garris nodded. “All right. Do we attack?” The bravos massed behind him stirred.

“Not yet,” said Master. “Since I want to neutralize all the warriors outside without giving any of them a chance to warn their compatriots inside, Bileworm and I will attend

to that particular chore by ourselves while you fellows wait here.”

The spirit sniggered. “I thought you promised I could take it easy from now on.”

“All you have to do is lead me to the guards,” Master replied, “so it shouldn’t tax your stamina unduly. Specifically, I want you to guide me to the aspects of the watch posts opposite the Wide Realms. Presumably, the soldiers are all peering out at the playhouse, and if we approach their positions from behind, they shouldn’t see us coming.”

Bileworm grinned. “Consider it done.” He escorted Master to the improvised sentry station on the east side of the theater, a candlemaker’s shop. The familiar assumed the warriors had paid the proprietor, his family, and any apprentices to clear out for the evening.

Unfortunately, the establishment had no back door. “You could climb in through a window,” Bileworm whispered.

“I might make noise,” Master replied, his voice equally low. “Let’s try a little magic.”

The wizard removed a pinch of sesame from one of the pockets in his dark blue mantle, swept his hand in an intricate mystical pass, and whispered a sibilant tercet. The air in the vicinity rippled for a moment, like hot desert air birthing a mirage, then a round hole appeared in the wall of the shop.

Master slipped inside. Bileworm followed and found himself in a storeroom, with tubs of beeswax and tallow sitting about. Voices murmured through the doorway leading to the front of the shop.

The wizard took out a blowpipe, tiptoed to the opening, raised the weapon to his lips, and puffed explosively. Bileworm watched several armed men fall unconscious; the unlucky ones who’d been standing thumped down to the floor. After a moment, two of them started to snore.

“I concocted this dust when I was young, and used up most of it before my death,” Master remarked. “I was pleasantly surprised to return thirty years later and find the rest still in its jar. I guess no one else in the family knew what it was.”

“Are we going to kill these mortals?” Bileworm asked.

Master sighed. “I wish you’d grow up a little. We have riper fruit to pick. Come on, we’ll go back out through the hole.”

As they made their exit, Bileworm reflected that Master simply lacked panache. Yes, they had no need to murder the slumbering warriors. Yes, it would require a few moments that might be spent more efficiently elsewhere. Yes, the method he had in mind would cause a stir when they’d already resolved to be stealthy. But still, with all the combustibles on hand, the candlemaker’s shop could be made to burn magnificently, and the heat would almost certainly wake the soldiers up in time to perish in agony in the flames.

Deploring a squandered opportunity, the spirit led Master to the other watch posts. The warriors stationed to the south and west succumbed as easily as the first detachment, but matters fell out a bit differently at the last stop on their circuit, a fragrant perfumery, the shelves behind the counter lined with porcelain and crystal bottles. After the blowpipe discharged its contents, one warrior remained on his feet, a lean, middle-aged man with a stern, humorless mouth, pale, narrow eyes, and a grizzled widow’s peak. Judging from the markings on the blue surcoat he wore over his mail, he was probably Jander Orvist, captain of tlje Uskevren household guard.

Though surely startled by the sudden collapse of his men, Jander nonetheless reacted quickly. He drew his long sword and charged the wizard. Giving ground, Master plucked a packet of folded paper from his mantle, brandished it, and spoke a word of power.

Jander was only a stride away from being close enough to attack when the spell took hold. A smear of slick white slime materialized beneath his boots. Slipping, he cut at the wizard anyway, a stroke that would have landed had not Master parried it with his staff. Purple radiance sizzled from the black wood, down the blade of the long sword, and into Jander’s body, playing about his armored limbs as he fell.