Last of all, the Faceless thought with a cynical grin, display for them an illusion of their power and choice. “I call then for a vote, allowing me the use of these resources”—he motioned to the golems—“to use at my discretion.” He pulled a short dagger from his belt and held it out. The blade glistened with a drop of greenish ichor. There was a sharp collective intake of breath from the Night Masters. All wondered if another compatriot would perish at this meeting.
“How say ye to my proposal?” the Faceless asked. “Yea or nay?”
Nine resounding yeas echoed around the table, each Night Master eager to prove his or her loyalty by the zeal with which he or she replied.
Visual aids, the Faceless reflected, never failed to smooth the course of democracy. He smiled with pleasure at the wisdom of his minions.
Dragonbait awakened instantly at the knocking on the door. Alias was gone already. He vaguely recalled her prodding him earlier to tell him she was going with Jamal back to the dressmaker’s. He considered rolling over and ignoring the knock. After the late hour he had finally retired, he felt he was owed more sleep, even if it was nearly noon. If it was Mercy at the door with a breakfast tray, the half-elf girl would let herself in and leave it on the table.
There was the sound of a key rattling in the lock, then the sound of another key, then another. Then a wire slid through the keyhole.
Dragonbait swung out of bed warily and grabbed his sword.
The door swung open, and Olive Ruskettle slipped into the room and shut the door behind her. “It’s such a pleasure to find a challenging lock for a change,” the halfling said in place of a greeting. She pushed her lock-picking wire into her hair.
The saurial lowered his sword and set it back against the wall. Good morning to you, too, he signed, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Alias has gone out with Jamal, he explained.
Olive hopped up into a chair by the table. “I know. I waited until I saw her leave. I wanted to talk with you in private.
The saurial yawned toothily. Impatiently he signed, What is it now, Olive?
“It’s about Victor Dhostar.”
What about him?
“He can’t be trusted. You’ve got to convince Alias somehow to drop him like the slimy toad he is, and fast.”
The paladin glared at the halfling for her effrontery. I told you I’ve already studied him with my shen sight. There is nothing evil in him. I trust him completely.
“Well, I think the old shen sight’s going, pal,” the halfling retorted.
The paladin bristled. To say his shen sight was wrong was the equivalent of suggesting he had slipped from the grace of his god.
Smelling the fresh-baked bread scent of the saurial’s fury, the halfling hurried to put a different tone to her words. “It’s like Elminster always says—good and evil aren’t always. You’ve been tricked somehow. Instead of relying on this paladin magic all the time, you should use the evidence of your other senses. Like my mom used to say, ‘Handsome is as handsome does.’ And Lord Victor doesn’t at all, at least not handsomely.”
What evidence? the paladin signed, barely in control of his temper.
“Well, the key he had, for starters,” Olive said.
He explained the key to Alias and me.
“Yeah, I know. He told you he got it from his father. I heard him admit it when I followed him home.”
Yes. I saw you stow away on his carriage. He is only trying to protect his father the way you used to cover for Finder Wyvernspur’s crimes. It proves only that his judgment is poor, not that he cannot be trusted.
“The key he had wasn’t the same as the one Alias had.”
The saurial cocked his head in confusion. What do you mean?
“It wasn’t the same cut. It was nothing like it.”
The paladin shrugged. Different kinds of keys can open the same door, he signed and pointed to the door to the room, as you so aptly demonstrated.
“Yes, if they have certain similarities. Melman’s key and the key Victor said he got from his father, they’re as different as night and day. And I know my keys, as I so aptly demonstrated.”
There might be magic on the key that opened the door, Dragonbait argued. And magic is not your forte.
“Then there’s the question of footprints,” Olive continued, undaunted. “There weren’t any on the sandbar as we approached the door. If Victor had entered by the same door, we would have seen his footprints.”
Dragonbait struggled to remember the sandbar the afternoon before, anxious to dispute the halfling, but, truth to tell, he had not noted the condition of the sandbar one way or the other. He could have waded in earlier before the tide was at complete ebb, and the water carried away his prints, he signed.
“His boots weren’t wet, and there were no wet footprints in the sand on the other side of the door,” Olive argued. “He not only failed to mention there was another way in, which he must have used, but he also lied to us to cover that fact.”
Dragonbait thought of the smashed magical portal mirror they’d found in the lair last night. He scratched his head, trying to think of some excuse for the young noble. Covering for his father was one thing, but neglecting to mention a second entrance indicated something far more serious.
“Then there’s the quelzarn,” the halfling continued. “Those things aren’t dumb animals. They cast magic. There were four tasty morsels in the water. One with a sword and scales—you—one with chain mail—Alias—one in leather—me—and one with no shell on him at all—Lord Victor.”
It was attracted to the light of my sword, Dragonbait argued.
“A quelzarn hunts by scent first. They say one can smell blood in the water a mile away,” Olive commented. “If you hadn’t smelled juicier, it would have taken me. More importantly, it was upstream from all of us. It had to pass Lord Victor before it surfaced beside you and me. Then there’s the moment in the side tunnel when it lunged at Lord Victor. He had his hand in his pocket, fingering something. I’m willing to bet he has some charm against the creature.”
They sell such charms on the docks, Dragonbait pointed out, to anyone willing to pay two silvers.
“But I’ll bet his works better than those,” Olive replied.
It does not prove your point, the paladin insisted.
“Not alone. You have to study the whole body of evidence,” the halfling retorted. “Allow me to continue.”
The paladin remained silent.
“There’s the question of Victor’s only known confidant—the person with whom he discusses his day-to-day problems.”
His father? Dragonbait queried by hand.
“Hardly,” Olive replied. “Oh, to be sure, he kept the croamarkh informed of Alias’s discovery and our expedition into the sewers. He also reassured the old man that, where Alias is concerned, he has no intention, and I quote, ‘of forming an alliance beneath his station.’ But the most sinister point of all—guess who it is that Victor Dhostar has chosen as a confidant, who he trusts with all his schemes. Go on, guess.”