The servant from the house of Urdo reached for the papers, but Luer Dhostar grabbed his wrist. “You tell your master,” he said to the servant, “that this document releases only the statuary, not the ten pounds of smoke powder we found hidden inside. He will also be charged with the time it took our men to drill out the bottoms of each statue and empty them of the proscribed substance.” With that, he pushed the servant’s hand away.
The servant fled from the scene like a game bird released from a trap.
Only then did Dhostar turn his attention to the newcomers. “Well?” he addressed Kimbel.
Kimbel smiled pleasantly despite his lord’s glare. He stepped forward and gave the croamarkh a half bow. “Milord,” he said, “may I present Alias and Dragonbait?”
Lord Dhostar stepped out from behind the table and inspected the adventurers with the appraising look he might give a shipment of goods. He dispensed with pleasantry and preamble and addressed the pair directly. “It’s been brought to my attention that the pair of you interrupted a number of Night Mask activities last night.”
Alias could tell by his tone that he did not require an affirmation on their part, though he made the statement sound so much like an accusation that she wondered if he was expecting her to make a denial. Alias remained silent beneath the croamarkh’s gaze, but kept her eyes locked on his.
The croamarkh raised his eyebrows in appreciation of the woman’s nerve. He continued. “Common tongues are always quick to wag about heroes. Wiser tongues question. So—whom do you serve?”
It was hardly the question Alias expected, so she was for a moment confused by it. She shot a look at Dragonbait, who she could see was studying the croamarkh with his shen sight. As the paladin did not seem to be exhibiting the same violent reaction he’d had to Kimbel, the swordswoman relaxed and answered the question simply. “No one.” Then she decided she’d better rephrase that. “I sell my sword as I choose,” she said. “At the moment, it’s available.
“So you are not an agent, representative, or servant of another house?” Lord Dhostar queried sharply.
“I’m not working for anyone in Westgate,” the swordswoman responded, her brow knitting in irritation with the cross-examination.
Lord Dhostar frowned, apparently unable to believe that she was truly free of allegiances. He stared hard at her, trying to assess her truthfulness. As he did so, another man wearing the trading badge of the Dhostar family approached. He was dressed less fashionably than Kimbel, in a simple white shirt, dusty brown breeches, and muddy riding boots, but from the way he took a place at the croamarkh’s right hand, Alias presumed he was a servant of higher rank. He was tall and handsome, with wavy brown hair and bright blue eyes, and although he looked only thirty-some years old, he was more self-assured in the croamarkh’s presence than anyone else Alias had seen. He held a packet of letters up, and, as he stood waiting patiently for Dhostar to finish his business with the swordswoman and take the packet, the younger man grinned and winked at Alias.
Finally, the croamarkh harrumphed and said, “We have a watch in this city. It keeps the common people orderly. The Night Masks, however, are a lawless bunch. I want someone to deal exclusively with them. I want them knocked down every time they have the arrogance to rise. I want them to start fearing the consequences of crossing me. I’m prepared to pay you a retainer of one thousand gold coins. After a ten-day trial, I’ll evaluate what I think your continued service would be worth and we can negotiate your pay.”
“I’ll need more information and some time to consider your offer,” Alias replied.
The croamarkh raised his eyebrows again. No doubt it had been a long time since he’d offered someone that much money and been told he must wait for a reply. “Fine,” he replied sharply. “Victor, here,” and he jerked his head in the direction of the new arrival who’d winked at Alias, “will be your liaison. You can ask him your questions and let him know your answer by this evening.”
“So, Your Lordship,” Victor asked the croamarkh, “are you going to authorize the hiring of more staff for customs inspection?”
“Only if the inspector fires the staff he has,” Dhostar growled as he took the parcel of letters from the younger man. “If my people worked as well as his do, I’d be a poor man. Convince this woman she would do well to accept my offer. I’m returning with Kimbel to our own docks.”
“Yes, Your Lordship,” Victor replied.
Without even a nod, the croamarkh strode away with Kimbel in his wake.
Alias shot Dragonbait a questioning look about the croamarkh.
“Gray,” the paladin said.
“Gray? Just gray?” Alias complained in Saurial, hoping for some other insight into Dhostar’s character. Gray was neutral, neither evil nor virtuous.
“Bleak and empty, a cold rain drizzling on an abandoned keep. Strong and very, very proud,” Dragonbait replied.
Victor, unable to hear the high-pitched tones of the adventurers’ conversation in Saurial, stood before them grinning, waiting for Alias to speak. After a moment, he ran his fingers nervously through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead, and spoke up. “Well, I have my orders. Do you mind if we walk while we talk? I have to look over some ships that have come in for inspection.”
“Fine,” Alias said, following the man from beneath the canopy. The three walked along the broad stone quay, in the direction of the lighthouse that stood at the mouth of the harbor.
Victor began brightly, “The Night Masks have been a thorn in Westgate’s side for, oh, fifteen years, at least. Most people consider them part of the price of doing business here, but the croamarkh is a man of law and justice. He wants the citizens of Westgate freed from the tyranny of their lawlessness.”
“Yes,” Alias said, “I can see he’s frantic with worry for them.”
“I beg your pardon?” Victor said.
“Luer Dhostar is a merchant. His first concern is that his books show a healthy balance. Now that that balance is so obscenely huge, there’s no challenge to his work, and, not content with being the bane of the dance floor or the dessert table, he takes on the mission of proving his greatness. He keeps a carriage large enough to house a halfling family. He hangs over customs workers, demonstrating he’s more competent than they in a job he couldn’t stomach for a week. He tries to hire professionals to do away with a thieves guild he tolerated for his first three terms because now they are an embarrassment. Their continued unchallenged activity proves they have more power than he. He has no more concern for the people of Westgate than the Night Masks do.”
Victor was stunned into a momentary silence. When he spoke again, though, his tone was fervent. “You’re wrong. Father cares very much for the people of Westgate, as do I. He just has a hard time showing it.”
“Very diplomatic,” Dragonbait chided Alias in Saurial. “You’ve just insulted your new employer to his son.”
Alias closed her eyes and stated the now obvious, “You’re his son.”
The young man bowed low. “Victor Dhostar, scion of House Dhostar, heir to Croamarkh Luer Dhostar, bane-in-training of the dance floor and the dessert table, at your service.”
Alias felt a paralyzing blush climb to her face.
Dragonbait gave her an order in Saurial.
“How do you do, Your Lordship?” Alias said, repeating, like a puppet, the phrases the paladin fed to her. “I’m Alias, and this is my companion, Dragonbait. Dragonbait begs that you forget this swordswoman’s foolish gaff.”
“What gaff?” Victor asked with a smile. Then he was serious once again. “It is true, some of what you say. We are concerned with our books’ balances, and Father does like to show off, but we merchants aren’t all heartless. Just as I’m sure there are some compassionate sell-swords.”