“As I say, I acquired this information from possibly its most accurate source, the slaves. My next step was to keep watch upon the three of you. Every day I noted what masks you wore and compared it with my chart. Rolver wore his Tarn Bird six times, his Black Intricate twice. Kershaul wore his Cave Owl five times, his Star Wanderer once, his Quincunx once and his Ideal of Perfection once. Welibus wore the Emerald Mountain twice, the Triple Phoenix three times, the Prince Intrepid once and the Shark God twice.”
Angmark nodded thoughtfully. “I see my error. I selected from Welibus’ masks, but to my own taste — and as you point out, I revealed myself. But only to you.” He rose and went to the window. “Kershaul and Rolver are now coming ashore; they’ll soon be past and about their business — though I doubt if they’d interfere in any case; they’ve both become good Sirenese.”
Thissell waited in silence. Ten minutes passed. Then Angmark reached to a shelf and picked up a knife. He looked at Thissell. “Stand up.”
Thissell slowly rose to his feet. Angmark approached from the side, reached out, lifted the Moon Moth from Thissell’s head. Thissell gasped and made a vain attempt to seize it. Too late; his face was bare and naked.
Angmark turned away, removed his own mask, donned the Moon Moth. He struck a call on his hymerkin. Two slaves entered, stopped in shock at the sight of Thissell.
Angmark played a brisk tattoo, sang, “Carry this man up to the dock.”
“Angmark!” cried Thissell. “I’m maskless!”
The slaves seized him and in spite of Thissell’s desperate struggles, conveyed him out on the dock, along the float and up on the dock.
Angmark fixed a rope around Thissell’s neck. He said, “You are now Haxo Angmark, and I am Edwer Thissell. Welibus is dead, you shall soon be dead. I can handle your job without difficulty. I’ll play musical instruments like a Night-man and sing like a crow. I’ll wear the Moon Moth till it rots and then I’ll get another. The report will go to Polypolis, Haxo Angmark is dead. Everything will be serene.”
Thissell barely heard. “You can’t do this,” he whispered. “My mask, my face…” A large woman in a blue and pink flower mask walked down the dock. She saw Thissell and emitted a piercing shriek, flung herself prone on the dock.
“Come along,” said Angmark brightly. He tugged at the rope, and so pulled Thissell down the dock. A man in a Pirate Captain mask coming up from his houseboat stood rigid in amazement.
Angmark played the zachinko and sang, “Behold the notorious criminal Haxo Angmark. Through all the outer-worlds his name is reviled; now he is captured and led in shame to his death. Behold Haxo Angmark!”
They turned into the esplanade. A child screamed in fright; a man called hoarsely. Thissell stumbled; tears tumbled from his eyes; he could see only disorganized shapes and colors. Angmark’s voice belled out richly: “Everyone behold, the criminal of the out-worlds, Haxo Angmark! Approach and observe his execution!”
Thissell feebly cried out, “I’m not Angmark; I’m Edwer Thissell; he’s Angmark.” But no one listened to him; there were only cries of dismay, shock, disgust at the sight of his face. He called to Angmark, “Give me my mask, a slave-cloth. . ”
Angmark sang jubilantly, “In shame he lived, in maskless shame he dies.”
A Forest Goblin stood before Angmark. “Moon Moth, we meet once more.”
Angmark sang, “Stand aside, friend Goblin; I must execute this criminal. In shame he lived, in shame he dies!”
A crowd had formed around the group; masks stared in morbid titillation at Thissell.
The Forest Goblin jerked the rope from Angmark’s hand, threw it to the ground. The crowd roared. Voices cried, “No duel, no duel! Execute the monster!”
A cloth was thrown over Thissell’s head. Thissell awaited the thrust of a blade. But instead his bonds were cut. Hastily he adjusted the cloth, hiding his face, peering between the folds.
Four men clutched Haxo Angmark. The Forest Goblin confronted him, playing the skaranyi. “A week ago you reached to divest me of my mask; you have now achieved your perverse aim!”
“But he is a criminal,” cried Angmark. “He is notorious, infamous!”
“What are his misdeeds?” sang the Forest Goblin.
“He has murdered, betrayed; he has wrecked ships; he has tortured, blackmailed, robbed, sold children into slavery; he has — ”
The Forest Goblin stopped him. “Your religious differences are of no importance. We can vouch however for your present crimes!”
The hostler stepped forward. He sang fiercely, “This insolent Moon Moth nine days ago sought to preempt my choicest mount!”
Another man pushed close. He wore a Universal Expert, and sang, “I am a Master Mask-maker; I recognize this Moon Moth out-worlder! Only recently he entered my shop and derided my skill. He deserves death!”
“Death to the out-world monster!” cried the crowd. A wave of men surged forward. Steel blades rose and fell, the deed was done.
Thissell watched, unable to move. The Forest Goblin approached, and playing the stimic sang sternly, “For you we have pity, but also contempt. A true man would never suffer such indignities!”
Thissell took a deep breath. He reached to his belt and found his zachinko. He sang, “My friend, you malign me! Can you not appreciate true courage? Would you prefer to die in combat or walk maskless along the esplanade?”
The Forest Goblin sang, “There is only one answer. First I would die in combat; I could not bear such shame.”
Thissell sang, “I had such a choice. I could fight with my hands tied, and so die — or I could suffer shame, and through this shame conquer my enemy. You admit that you lack sufficient strakh to achieve this deed. I have proved myself a hero of bravery! I ask, who here has courage to do what I have done?”
“Courage?” demanded the Forest Goblin. “I fear nothing, up to and beyond death at the hands of the Night-men!”
“Then answer.”
The Forest Goblin stood back. He played his double-kamanthil. “Bravery indeed, if such were your motives.”
The hostler struck a series of subdued gomapard chords and sang, “Not a man among us would dare what this mask-less man has done.”
The crowd muttered approval.
The mask-maker approached Thissell, obsequiously stroking his double-kamanthil. “Pray Lord Hero, step into my nearby shop, exchange this vile rag for a mask befitting your quality.”
Another mask-maker sang, “Before you choose, Lord Hero, examine my magnificent creations!”
A man in a Bright Sky Bird mask approached Thissell reverently.
“I have only just completed a sumptuous houseboat; seventeen years of toil have gone into its fabrication. Grant me the good fortune of accepting and using this splendid craft; aboard waiting to serve you are alert slaves and pleasant maidens; there is ample wine in storage and soft silken carpets on the decks.”
“Thank you,” said Thissell, striking the zachinko with vigor and confidence. “I accept with pleasure. But first a mask.”
The mask-maker struck an interrogative trill on the gomapard. “Would the Lord Hero consider a Sea Dragon Conqueror beneath his dignity?”
“By no means,” said Thissell. “I consider it suitable and satisfactory. We shall go now to examine it.”