“It’s time I assessed your reputed skill with a blade,” Olive said.
“Is this another trial, Mistress Ruskettle?” Winterhart asked.
“No. Just a little exercise while we discuss tactics.” Olive gave Winterhart’s wooden blade a smack with her own. Winterhart responded by weaving her sword warily.
“I applaud your initiative following Lady Thistle last night,” Olive said. “I can’t, however, say I think much of the way you gave yourself away.” She struck a blow aimed at Winterhart’s thigh.
Winterhart parried the strike easily. “Does this mean you will try to convince Her Ladyship to keep me on as her personal maid?”
Olive shook her head, parrying a blow of Winterhart’s aimed directly at her heart. “I can’t afford to invite censure on myself. Someone’s got to undo the damage you’ve done.”
“Damage I’ve done?” Winterhart squeaked, lunging with her blade at Olive’s shoulder. “Victor Dhostar is the one who’ll being doing all the damage. That man is a menace,” the younger halfling snarled.
“Agreed,” Olive replied, leaping backward to avoid the lunge.
“If you know I’m right, you have to keep me close to Lady Thistle,” Winterhart said, pressing her advantage, lunging again with her blade at Olive’s shoulder. “Did you see how she blushed when I asked her if she’d given him a token? Did you notice she left the veranda instead of ordering me away? Even she knows I’m right.”
“It doesn’t matter who is right to a girl like Thistle,” Olive said with a sigh, smacking the hilt of Winterhart’s sword away from her body. “It matters who makes her feel good about herself. Dhostar makes her feel like a woman. You made her feel like a child. You’ve practically driven her into Dhostar’s arms. I’ve got to try to make her feel like a lady before Dhostar makes her forget her position.” She struck a blow against Winterhart’s hip.
Winterhart’s blade whipped back before Olive had a chance to parry. The tip of the younger halfling’s weapon slid across Ruskettle’s throat.
Olive stepped back and saluted with her practice weapon. “You have the drive and the skill and the reflexes,” she told Winterhart, “but you still have to learn when to pull back. I’m assigning you to help Kretschmer drill the new recruits. That would be a better use of your skills, I think.”
Winterhart glared at Olive.
More softly, Olive added, “Should you happen to show any more initiative and follow Lady Thistle about, without getting caught at it, or letting her know afterward, that would probably be the best use of your skills.”
Winterhart smiled slyly and saluted Olive with her own wooden blade.
Kimbel stood in the center of the Faceless’s new lair, turning slowly, surveying the contents of the room. From inside his shirt he pulled out a golden rod and began tapping it against all the magic in his sight, against the remaining iron golems, against the masks worn by the Night Masters, against the enchanted staves and weaponry hanging on the wall. A tiny spark jumped from the wand each time it touched a magic item.
A bell chimed, and Kimbel turned to face the magical portal mirror as a figure stepped through and entered the lair.
“You’re late,” the assassin noted calmly to the new arrival, a comely halfling dressed very primly.
“I’ve been reassigned,” Winterhart explained. “Ruskettle’s got me drilling the Thalavar castle guard. You’ve never seen a sorrier bunch of would-be warriors. I couldn’t get away until lunchtime.”
“You aren’t eating with the others? Someone might suspect you’re not a halfling,” Kimbel said.
“It will be over before anyone guesses the truth,” Winterhart replied.
“So you aren’t Lady Thistle’s maid anymore? Do you think you’ll get a chance to snatch her brooch in your new position.”
“No, but despite my warnings, Thistle is obviously crazy about your master. I’m sure he’ll have no trouble sweet-talking her into handing it over to him. He’ll probably enjoy that more than receiving it from one of us.”
An evil chuckle drifted around the pair. “So true,” a disembodied voice agreed.
Kimbel whirled about, the little golden wand in his hand held out at the ready, but Winterhart stayed his hand. “It’s only the dragon skull,” the halfling woman said. She turned to the corner of the room where the dragon’s skull sat balanced on an iron tripod, its eyes glowing like hot coals. “Hail, Mistinarperadnacles Hai Draco,” the halfling said coolly.
“Hail, servants of the Faceless,” Mist replied and chuckled again.
“And what amuses you so?” Kimbel asked the creature.
“I have lost my life, my body, and my freedom, yet I still have my sight,” Mist replied, “and a dragon’s sight is not easily deceived by invisibility, illusion, or other magic.”
“Prove it,” Winterhart challenged. “Tell me what you know.”
“Very well. You, Miss Winterhart, are no more a halfling than I, but I know what and who you are,” Mist retorted. “As for Kimbel, I think the Faceless would be very interested to know the truth about his magically enslaved assassin. There is a way, however, to ensure my silence. You know what it is.”
Winterhart nodded. “Once the Faceless has obtained Verovan’s hoard for the Night Masks, I will grant you your boon.”
Victor Dhostar sat in his office in the Tower, listening to one of the city’s accountants explain why the budget for the preceding month had been exceeded by twenty thousand gold pieces, but how the deficit for the current month would only be half that amount if the croamarkh passed the oar and sail tax. Fortunately, the croamarkh was delivered from having to deal immediately with the budget nightmare by a knock on the door.
“Come,” the new croamarkh called out.
A guard entered the room. “Excuse me, Your Lordship. Lady Thistle Thalavar is here.”
“Thank you. Please show her in,” Victor said. To the accountant he explained, “I’m afraid my business with House Thalavar is more urgent than this problem. We will have to continue this discussion later. Make another appointment with my scribe.”
“But, Your Lordship, we need—”
“Dismissed,” Victor growled with an expression that would brook no argument.
The accountant gathered his books and pens and bowed. He bowed again to Lady Thistle as she entered the room. As the accountant exited, Victor smiled with delight. The croamarkh had no appointment with Thistle, but on the off-chance she would take it into her head to visit him here he had left instructions that she be shown up immediately. “What service can I do for Your Ladyship?” Lord Victor asked.
“I can wait if I’m interrupting your work,” Thistle began.
“Lady Thistle, you are the head of one of the leading families of Westgate. I wouldn’t dream of keeping you waiting.”
As he rose from his desk and circled around to stand before the girl, Victor noted how his flattery caused her to straighten with pride. “Besides, if I kept you waiting and you left, I would be disappointed that I’d missed seeing you.” He took up the girl’s hand and brushed his lips along her fingertips.
“I’ve given a lot of thought to our conversation last night,” Thistle said. “I’m feeling very unhappy that I would not—could not give you the token you asked for.” She touched the feather brooch pinned to her gown. “After more careful consideration, I have decided to give you my wholehearted support, and you will have my token, tonight.”
“Oh, Thistle, my darling,” Lord Victor whispered. He swept the girl up in his arms and kissed her as if she were a woman.
“Lord Victor,” Thistle remarked when the croamarkh finally released her, “I fear you’ve mistaken my meaning.”
Victor stepped back and turned his head away as if to hide his disappointment. “Forgive me, Lady Thistle, I thought … I dared hope …”