“Would you like the same demonstration I gave to Gateside?” the Faceless queried, a certain amount of amusement creeping into his magically disguised voice.
All voices were silenced immediately. The Faceless motioned for all to be seated.
“Alias is dead. Of that you had proof. Perhaps you would like me to leave her arm on this table as a centerpiece for a few weeks. Alias’s allies and the croamarkh who hired her are also dead. It is hardly my fault that people are fools enough to believe she succeeded in destroying me. Nonetheless, for the moment it suits my plans for people to believe in my demise. The new croamarkh is far more pliable than his father was, and he will serve us well, but it is important that his power be more firmly established. Therefore we will let him take credit for my destruction, for the time being.
“As for how much money you are losing, Thunnside, I really don’t care. You’ve earned more wealth in this position than a dragon could hoard in its lifetime. If you could contain your urge to gamble, you would still have all that wealth. And, last, but not least, Harborside. Your business at the moment is to contain your forces. This is essential to your continuing in your current position. I guarantee it will be worth your while.”
Having poured oil on their turbulent waters, the Faceless pressed on. “As a direct result of our success against Alias and her allies, information has come into my hands regarding the treasure hoard of King Verovan.”
There was a collective gasp, just barely audible, but unmistakable. The Faceless smiled. Now he had them by their pocketbooks. Verovan’s legendary hoard was the secret fantasy of every thief in Westgate.
“The young fool Mintassan discovered the secret,” the Night Masters’ lord explained, “though the sage never investigated it. Just as legend has it, there is a magical gate from the battlements above. Unlike all who have tried before me to locate this gate, I have discovered the location of the key. Once I have that key, Verovan’s hoard will be ours to pillage.”
A murmur of approval rose from the nine surviving Night Masters, but the Faceless was not finished. He silenced them with a stroke of his hand. When they grew silent, their master continued. “I want you to call together your lieutenants, their assistants, and their assistants’ minions, along with whatever fighters, priests, and wizards you trust and choose to reward. We will gather in the main hall of Castle Vhammos in three nights’ time to loot Verovan’s hoard. Then there will be no doubt that it is the Night Masks who truly rule Westgate!”
Harborside led a round of applause, which silenced any other questions or doubts. The Night Masters filed out, congratulating themselves on their good fortune.
Seated on his stone throne, Victor, the Faceless, cradled a heavy head in his hand. It was exhausting managing a city, a family business, a criminal cartel, and a seduction all at once. When he finally had Verovan’s treasure, he would turn loose his golems on this nest of thieves. Then there would be nothing standing between him and his eventual empire.
Twenty-Two
The Gathering Storm
Olive’s attempts to steer Thistle away from Victor were thwarted by the hard-line attitude of her supposed ally, Miss Winterhart. The halfling newcomer, while capable, intelligent, and alert, had to be the most tactless halfling in Faerûn. Unfortunately, Olive did not discover this flaw until the morning after Thistle’s dinner date with Victor Dhostar, and by then it was too late.
That morning Olive was headed toward the dining hall, her mind on mushroom-and-chicken omelets, when she heard Thistle, angry and strident, shout, “It is none of your business what Victor and I did last night.”
All thoughts of breakfast took a back seat to whatever potential disaster was brewing with the mistress of the house. Olive veered in the direction of the shout. She spied Thistle seated on the veranda, cornered by an irate Winterhart.
“It is very much my business if it threatens you or your household,” Miss Winterhart snapped back just as Olive stepped outside to join them.
“Something amiss?” Olive asked helpfully, hoping to instill some calm in the air before the other halflings in the household heard the argument and began gossiping about it.
“This new halfling of yours,” said Thistle, her eyes squinting with annoyance, “is prying into my private affairs. Her manner has gone beyond mere halfling cheek, and verges on full-fledged impertinence.” If Thistle had been standing, Olive was sure she would have stamped her dainty little foot, but she was not, and so Olive was spared that bit of theatrics.
“She sneaked out to dine with Victor Dhostar last night without a chaperon or a bodyguard,” Winterhart explained to Olive, “and she did not return until well after the midnight bell.
“I am mistress of this house,” Thistle retorted shrilly. “I will not be given a curfew.”
“Of course not, Lady Thistle,” Olive agreed. “Yet midnight is a little late for a dinner engagement to run, even in Westgate. Surely you can understand how Miss Winterhart must have worried for your safety.”
“There was nothing to worry about,” Thistle replied, her voice softening a little. “It was just a dinner aboard The Gleason, a farewell banquet for the captain and the officers. Afterward we climbed up the lighthouse, just for the view. That’s all.”
“A likely story,” Winterhart exclaimed.
“I beg your pardon?” Thistle said with a shocked expression.
“You heard me,” Winterhart replied. “He didn’t take you up there for the view. He took you up there so he could give you his little speech about how he dreamed of finding Verovan’s treasure so he could use it to make Westgate the greatest city in the Realms—greater than Waterdeep. How he’ll make Westgate safe, fill it with scholars and musicians, irrigate the fields.”
Thistle started at the mention of Verovan’s treasure, but her tone was as cold as the Great Glacier when she answered. “I do not appreciate my own staff spying on me. How dare you follow us?”
“Did you believe him when he told you he felt he could conquer the world with you by his side? When he asked if he would have the support of a clever, beautiful lady, what did you tell him? Have you given him a token of your esteem?” Winterhart asked snidely.
The girl reached without thinking, to feel the feather brooch pinned to her gown. “I find this petty espionage most unappealing,” she snapped back, but her face flushed scarlet as she spoke.
“How else can I be expected to protect you from such a devious scoundrel?” Winterhart demanded.
“Victor,” Thistle replied icily, “is … not … a … scoundrel. Mistress Ruskettle, I think you should find some other duties for Miss Winterhart. I simply cannot tolerate her as a lady’s maid.” The girl rose and strode imperiously back into the castle.
Olive surveyed Thistle’s untouched breakfast tray and plucked a piece of bacon from the plate. She crunched on it as she thoughtfully appraised Winterhart.
The younger halfling glared back at her. “How can she be such a fool to fall for that arrogant, conniving greengrocer?” Winterhart growled.
“She’s a girl, Winterhart,” Olive said, picking up a forkful of fried potatoes. “Remember when you were a girl? When you argued with your mother about the relative worth or worthlessness of some boy who took your fancy? When you were certain you could take care of yourself without anyone’s help? When no one could reason with you?”
“I was never like that,” Winterhart argued.
“Never? I’m beginning to wonder about you, Winterhart,” Olive said and wolfed down the forkful of potatoes.
She motioned for the other halfling to follow her down to the lower courtyard, where Kretschmer, one of the few surviving members of Lady Nettel’s guard, was drilling the new recruits Olive had hired. Olive pulled two wooden swords off the rack and tossed one to the prim halfling. Winterhart caught the practice weapon smoothly.