Mist growled at Winterhart, “I’ve fulfilled all my promises to you, warrior. Free me now, as you promised,” the dragon’s spirit demanded.
Winterhart stepped forward and tapped the golden wand on Mist’s disembodied skull. “Rest now, wyrm,” the halfling said.
The light spinning about in the skull’s eye sockets seemed to flow toward Winterhart’s golden wand, then vanished. The bone of the skull crumbled into dust. An eldritch wind blew through the cavern, blowing the dust about in a cyclone. By the glow of the brazier the dust seemed to take on the shape of a red dragon.
“Farewell, you red-headed witch,” Mist’s voice whispered, “and farewell to you, Olive Ruskettle.”
Then the wind increased, knocking Winterhart to one knee before carrying the dust away to some far plane.
Olive had her sword pointed at Winterhart before the other halfling could rise to her feet. “You’ve known all along that Victor Dhostar is the Faceless?”
“Of course,” Winterhart replied. In the blink of an eye, the prim halfling had drawn her own sword and crossed the blade against Ruskettle’s. “That is why I led you here, so you could witness his moment of triumph.”
Twenty-Three
Battle With the Night Masks
With Winterhart on one knee, Olive pressed her advantage before the other halfling had a chance to demonstrate her superior skill with a blade. Olive circled to Winterhart’s left side and lunged with her blade, but the younger halfling switched her sword to her left hand and parried her opponent neatly.
“Ruskettle, you’re making a mistake,” Winterhart declared. “I’m not working for the Faceless.”
“Oh, no,” Olive replied sarcastically. “You just have a secret entry to his lair so you can come for tea.”
As the two halflings faced off against one another, Jamal looked around for something, anything she might use to help Olive fight Winterhart. A two-handed broadsword hung on a wall behind the iron golems. The actress grasped the weapon by its hilt and slid it from the hooks that held it in place. The sword was unbelievably heavy, and Jamal was unable to raise it without her arms shaking from the exertion.
“Perhaps you would care to try something smaller, Jamal,” a man whispered behind her.
The actress swung around, trailing the broadsword with her, but unable to raise it to defend herself. Kimbel stood in a doorway, eyeing her with cruel amusement. She glared at the assassin who unfastened the scabbard about his waist and tossed it at her feet.
Distracted by the sound of Kimbel’s voice, Olive retreated a step from her opponent, giving Winterhart a chance to get to her feet.
“Winterhart,” Kimbel barked, “you haven’t got time for this. The Faceless is about to address his troops. You’ll miss your cue.” The assassin retreated through the doorway.
Winterhart dashed after him, calling out, “Come on, Ruskettle, Jamal. You don’t want to miss the fun.” She disappeared into the darkness beyond the door.
Olive exchanged a confused look with Jamal; then the halfling raced after Winterhart. Jamal dropped the ridiculously heavy broadsword. She considered for a moment the sword and scabbard Kimbel had given her. It could be a trick, but she needed a weapon. I really wish I’d read the script before I jumped into this play, she thought as she followed Olive.
On the other side of the doorway, hewn into the bedrock, was a stairway. There were more than a hundred steps, and Olive was breathless when she reached the top. The door was a pivoting section of wall, which someone had propped open with a spike driven into the floor. A tapestry hung over the door on the far side, concealing it from view. With her dagger, Olive poked a hole in a threadbare spot in the tapestry and pressed her eye up close.
She looked out on a dais and, beyond that, a cavernous chamber. Once, long ago, this had been the audience chamber of King Verovan, but when the castle had fallen into the hands of House Vhammos it had been converted to a dining hall, with feasting tables on the dais and in the hall below.
Now Night Masks packed the room, hundreds of them, dressed in costumes as varied as the citizenry of Westgate. There were merchants and priests, sailors and drovers, pickpockets and cutthroats, all wearing domino masks and all of them armed with deadly weapons. All had their attention focused on the dais. Ten figures wearing black robes and half masks of white porcelain stood on the stairs leading up the dais. Olive recognized one of them as Kimbel despite the mask he wore.
A man dressed in a blood-colored robe of velvet stood at the top of the dais. His face was a magical blur of colors. He stepped forward, and a buzzing sound spread through the room as hundreds of Night Masks realized he was their master.
“The Faceless,” Jamal whispered behind Olive. The actress had poked her own eyehole farther up the tapestry.
Kimbel motioned for silence, and a hush fell over the room.
“You see, I live while those who oppose me have perished!” the Faceless thundered. The magical distortion of his voice, caused by the mask that obscured his features, sent a shiver down Jamal’s spine. “The nobles opposed me, and they are no more. The croamarkh opposed me, and he is no more. The sell-sword Alias and her companions opposed me, and they are no more. This night I claim rulership of this city, and all of you who are loyal to me will be rewarded!”
A cheer went up from the crowd.
“Tonight begins a new era for Westgate,” the Faceless continued. “The treasure of King Verovan is ours to take—”
At the mention of treasure another cheer rippled through the crowd. Gold always had a way of rallying the troops, the Faceless thought. He waited patiently for the din to die down.
“There will be danger,” the Faceless warned matter-of-factly. “Verovan’s treasure lies in another plane, and like most treasure hoards is guarded by creatures that dwell in that plane. Your lives will be at risk, yet your reward will be great. All of you who survive will receive a share of what is looted from the hoard. Once that share is yours, you will no longer be criminals, but the wealthiest men and women in Westgate.”
There was another cheer, but the Faceless cut it off with a sharp motion of his hand. “I am the one who made the Night Masks the most powerful guild in the Heartlands. I am the one who destroyed your enemies. I am the one who will lay Verovan’s treasure at your feet, but first you must pay my price.” The Faceless paused.
The room went silent as each Night Mask worried what that price might be, and each considered what price would be too high.
“I demand your fealty,” the Faceless announced in a sepulchral tone, “not as a crime lord, but as your king! I will make Westgate the greatest empire in the Realms, and you shall all share in the riches of that empire! If you share in my vision, if you accept my terms, kneel now before me.”
Like faithful worshipers, the Night Masks below the dais knelt as a body. The Night Masters on the steps did not seem certain whether or not they too were required to join in this physical display, but when Kimbel knelt, the others followed. If any one of them held a republican sentiment or inwardly questioned the wisdom of agreeing to so empower an anonymous crime lord, they did not share it with their fellows.
“All hail the Faceless,” Kimbel cried, “King of Westgate!”
“The Faceless,” the crowd shouted, “King of Westgate!”
The Faceless, surprised but very pleased by Kimbel’s call for the crowd’s allegiance, held up his arms and basked in the adulation of the thieves of Westgate. Unfortunately, his moment of glory was followed immediately by an uncomfortable silence as hundreds of Night Masks grew anxious for their reward and wondered if it was too soon to get off their knees.
“All hail the Faceless,” a shrill but clear voice called out from the back of the dais. “Master of an honorless, greedy mob. Traitor to his duty and family. Murderer of his father and his lover.” The speaker leaped up on the feasting table behind the Faceless so that all could see the red-haired halfling woman in leather armor—Winterhart. The sound of her sword slipping from its scabbard slithered through the length of the hall. She aimed the blade at the Faceless’s neck.