“If you’re not careful, he’ll make your troupe obsolete,” the halfling snarled.
If rumors flew before, now they teleported from place to place. Some said that the severed arm meant that Alias had battled the Night Masks and lost. Others insisted that the fact that the arm’s fist clutched a domino mask meant she had won, even though it had cost her her life. A third faction held that she, her companions, and all the Night Masters, including the Faceless, had never fought at all, but just been eaten by the quelzarn.
Olive told herself Alias could have survived losing her arm. Dragonbait and Mintassan might be with her even now. It was impossible, though, to come up with a reason why they didn’t return, why Mintassan didn’t just teleport them back to his home to reassure their friends that they were safe. Olive’s hope began slipping away.
Five days after the ball, Olive Ruskettle, captain of the House Thalavar guard, self-declared bard, and self-declared Harper, was making a halfhearted attempt to drink herself to death. She sat on the open patio of the Black Eye tavern, with its excellent view of the market and the Tower. Three days had passed since the funerals of the croamarkh and the other felled merchant lords. The official period of mourning completed, the market was once again blanketed by a tapestry of motley—the wares of both minor and noble merchants being offered for sale.
That, if no other reason, was enough to keep Olive ordering round after round of a highly potent southern drink known as Dragon’s Bite. She was disgusted by the way this city shrugged off its losses and returned diligently to the task of making money. There had been no funeral for Alias, Dragonbait, or Mintassan, no official period of mourning for the heroes who had so selflessly risked their lives for this town of money-grubbing greengrocers. Not that three days of mourning could be enough to honor adventurers of their caliber—adventurers who’d been her friends.
She wanted to blow this festhall of a city, to leave it to fester in its own greed, to head north where adventurers weren’t treated like carpets for merchants to wipe their feet on. Still, Westgate held her in its thrall. She had business here still.
First, of course, she felt obligated to honor Lady Nettel’s dying request to protect Thistle. Lady Nettel had been really decent. She would have made a good halfling. As for Thistle, Olive had actually grown to like the human child. She was a serious, hardworking girl, something Olive admired without actually emulating, of course. Three days of interviewing the halfling population of Westgate, and even some of the humans, had left Olive with the certainty that there was really no one else as qualified as she was to be the girl’s bodyguard.
Yet Thistle had walled herself up with her books, and there wasn’t much challenge in guarding a hermit. Olive had wiled away hours outside the door of Thistle’s study reorganizing every aspect of security for House Thalavar, its castle, its warehouses, its stockyards and its docks. The halfling was distracted to the point of madness waiting for the Night Masks to renew their vengeful attacks, but the thieves guild really did seem to be on hiatus. Thistle Thalavar, her castle, and all her property remained undisturbed.
The tension was enough to drive a halfling to drink. Olive drained her glass and thumped it on the tabletop, demanding a refill. House Thalavar would pick up the tab, making it possible to order drink after drink without actually plunking any money down or keeping track of how much one spent on liquor. Olive wasn’t sure that was a good thing, but it was certainly a comforting one.
Her second order of business in Westgate was what to do about the new croamarkh, Victor Dhostar.
When the evil mage Flattery had disintegrated her friend Jade, Olive had wasted no time avenging Jade’s death. Of course, then she’d had some formidable allies: Giogi Wyvernspur, who could shapechange into a wyvern; the mage, Cat; and the wizard, Drone. Here her only allies were an aging actress, a boy who had only just retired from his career as a Night Mask, and a castle full of pampered halflings. Then there was the question of popularity. No one had liked Flattery—all agreed he was a sick menace to society. Victor Dhostar, though, was a slick piece of work, friendly, smiling, concerned. Whatever emotion or reaction was appropriate to the situation, he could summon it to the surface. Even Alias had been fooled. Milil’s Mouth, he even had me charmed that first day, Olive recalled. On top of all that charm, he was croamarkh. While he was not quite a king, plotting his destruction certainly smacked of regicide, a serious crime even in a place like Westgate.
More importantly, without more information, she couldn’t really assess the extent of Victor’s guilt. He might not have anything to do with Alias’s death. The swordswoman was, after all, always taking risks. The Night Masters might have destroyed her whether or not Victor Dhostar was a nice guy. Victor could just be a selfish, power-hungry jerk who’d used Alias. The world was full of them. Olive fumed whenever she thought of the way he’d carried off the swordswoman’s arm, as if he owned it. Victor Dhostar was definitely one more reason to drink.
A pottery mug of Dragon’s Bite hovered at eye level, carried by a slim female halfling about half Olive’s age. The younger woman was dressed like a Luiren schoolteacher, in a long, black divided skirt and a starched white blouse buttoned tight at the wrists and to the top of its high collar. Her reddish blonde hair was twisted into a severe bun at the back of her head. She wore a bitter, no-nonsense expression on her severely angular face, which Olive thought might actually stop a beholder in its tracks, if beholders could leave tracks.
“You’re drinking too much,” the younger halfling said, setting the mug down none too gently. She sat down at the table across from Olive.
“Never would have guessed,” Olive snarled, taking a long pull on the fresh mug. She glared across the table at the new arrival until it became clear that her guest was not going to politely evaporate. “Was there a shift change? Are you my new waitress?” she asked.
“I’m not a waitress,” the newcomer informed her. “You’re Olive Ruskettle,” she said, not really questioning, but not quite certain either.
“Maybe,” Olive muttered.
“And you’re employed by House Thalavar.”
“Maybe,” Olive said with a sigh. She took another gulp of her drink.
“And you were a friend of Alias of the Inner Sea,” said the other halfling.
Olive slammed her mug down hard. “What in the Abyss do you want, child?”
The other halfling blinked for a moment, as if shocked by Olive’s outburst. Finally, she replied, “My name is Winterhart. I met Alias last summer in the Dalelands. I understand she is dead, and you were her friend. Please accept my condolences. I am also seeking employment. I’ve spent most of my days as an adventuress, so I have little experience as a servant, but Alias said I could use her as a reference. Does House Thalavar have use for a capable halfling?”
Olive seethed silently. The friend-of-the-dead trick was an old halfling con. She was insulted that someone thought she was good enough to play it using Alias’s name, and insulted that anyone thought her fool enough to fall for it. “You were a friend of Alias, too, hmm?”
“We met and talked,” Winterhart responded calmly. “I was impressed by her. I am truly sorry she is dead.”
Well, Olive thought, at least she’s smart enough not to claim that Alias was an old friend from way back. Aloud she asked, “And you knew her from the Dalelands?”
“Yes.” Winterhart’s head bobbed just a tad.
“Then you know what song she first sang in the taproom of the Old Skull Inn,” Olive said offhandedly.
“It was The Standing Stone,” Winterhart said, displaying the first trace of a smile, “an old elven tune with words by Finder Wyvernspur, the Nameless Bard. That was an easy one. Want to ask what her favorite color was?”