Faces (29 page)

She stepped forward and put the Mask on his face.

Even as she did so, she feared it would break and shatter as hers had, that in a moment she'd be trying frantically to heal Keltan's torn skin and broken nose. But though he gasped and staggered back a step or two as the magic-infused clay came to life and writhed into its new form as an exact copy of the face beneath it, the Mask did not shatter. “That . . . was unpleasant,” he said, voice muffled by the Mask's small mouth opening. “Glad I skipped out on it the first time around.”

“You think that was unpleasant, you should try donning one that fails,” Mara told him. Then wished she hadn't, since that brought back memories of her first horrific Masking just as she reached for the white Mask to complete her second. She took a deep breath and placed the Mask on her face. It squirmed horribly, just as she remembered—but this time, it stayed intact, and so did her face.

It felt very strange to look out at the world from behind a Mask. Edrik, Chell, and Antril were staring at them both. She licked her lips, and her tongue jerked back in surprise as it encountered the slick ceramic surrounding her mouth. “I really hate this,” she muttered.

“You and me both,” Keltan said.

“And you're sure these Masks won't betray you?” Hyram demanded.

Mara turned her head toward him. “I'm sure. Mine reveals nothing except purity and innocence. His reveals only unwavering loyalty and obedience to the Autarch. No Watchers viewing either will have the slightest suspicion that whatever we tell them is anything but the truth.”

“Which will come in very useful if you're stopped along the road,” Edrik said. “Unless, of course, they decide to execute you on the spot. But at least you have a better chance of making it than I thought.” He thumped his fist on his heart in salute. “Good luck, Mara Holdfast. Good luck, Keltan.” He turned to the others. “Good luck, all of you. May we meet again in the courtyard of the burning Palace.” He mounted and rode away without looking back.

“That's a rather grim version of ‘see you later,'” Keltan commented.

“This is an enormous risk, Mara,” Chell said. “Are you sure it's the only way?”

“I'm sure,” Mara said.

“Well, if anyone can do it, you can,” he said. “You saved my life the first time we met. Before I even knew the power you could wield, I thought you were an extraordinary girl. I haven't changed my mind.” He looked at Keltan. “Do what you can to keep her safe.”

“I intend to,” Keltan said.

Chell copied the salute Edrik had used, though Mara had never seen any of the Korellian sailors make the gesture before. “Good fortune to you both,” he said. “We'll be in position tomorrow night. See you at the wall.”

Antril repeated the salute. “Good fortune,” he said.

Chell gestured to the others in the small strike force and they rode away, following the departing army, though they would soon be far ahead of them. To Mara's surprise, Hyram hung back. “Good luck to both of you,” he said. “I hope . . .” His voice trailed off, and without saying what he hoped, he turned his horse and galloped after the others.

“There's a friend I lost,” Mara said sadly.

“Maybe not forever,” Keltan said, gazing after Hyram thoughtfully. Then he shook his head and turned back to her. “We'd better get moving, too. We're in a race.”

Mara nodded and climbed wearily back into the saddle of her horse, a roan mare this time. Knowing he would be traveling incognito as a Watcher, Keltan had chosen a black gelding to match his black uniform and Mask.

“I hate you,” she said conversationally to her new mount, whose ear flicked back in her direction as she reached forward and patted the mare's neck. “I hate all horses. Nothing personal.”

Keltan laughed. “At least you don't fall off of them every few minutes like those first few times you tried riding. Remember?”

“I remember. I've had a
little
practice since then.” She sighed. “Well, then . . .” She dug her heels into the mare's flanks, Keltan followed suit, and they were off.

They needed to get to the main road that ran down the Heartsblood valley to make the best possible time, but cutting straight across it again would cost them more time than they'd save. Instead they angled, riding up the western slope of the valley and down the other side in a generally southwest direction. Mara's buttocks and thighs ached and burned from the all-night ride she'd already endured, but she held on grimly as they trotted when they could and walked when they couldn't. A gallop would have been smoother, but that was one gait they
didn't
use. They needed to make haste, but they also had to save the horses. If one went lame, all was lost. Whiteblaze trotted along happily, sometimes ahead of them, sometimes with them, sometimes off to the side.

They reached the road in midafternoon. After that, the going became easier for the horses, though not for Mara, who was beginning to seriously wonder if there were any way to use magic to add padding to her rear end.

Then, without warning, they rounded a corner . . . and confronted a Watcher heading the other way. Whiteblaze growled softly. “No, Whiteblaze,” Mara murmured, and he subsided.

The Watcher stopped in the middle of the road. Keltan and Mara had little choice but to do likewise. Whiteblaze sat on his haunches a little ways off and watched, eyes narrowed.

“Where are you from, brother?” said the Watcher. “And who's your young friend?” He glanced at Whiteblaze. “Nice . . . dog?”

“Silverthorne,” Keltan said. “Name's Cornil.” He and Mara had talked about what he should say in just such an instance; now she was glad they had. He gestured at Mara. “This is Prella, daughter of the village headman. Got a fiancé in Tamita she's never met—arranged marriage.” He pointed at Whiteblaze. “And that's no dog. It's a wolf. Raised as a pup by the Headman to protect his daughter.”

The Watcher laughed. “She'll have to pen it up for the wedding night if he's to get grandchildren. Wolf's likely to think she's being attacked.”

Keltan laughed heartily, playing his role. Mara sat as still as possible, doing her best to project a vacant air. Apparently she was succeeding. After the initial glance, the Watcher hadn't looked at her again.

“Anything else new in Tamita I should know about?” Keltan continued.

“You'll find the barracks rather empty,” the Watcher from Tamita said. “The Autarch ordered three-quarters of the force out a few months ago to squelch a bandit uprising, and they're still garrisoned up north along the coast somewhere. Keeps the rest of us hopping, I can tell you that. Double shifts. Triple, sometimes.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice even though there was no one in sight but the three of them. “And you want to hear something even weirder? The Autarch has everyone aged fifteen to eighteen, boys and girls alike, doing weapons training. Started the same time he sent out so many Watchers. Almost like he thinks bandits might attack Tamita itself.” He leaned back in his saddle again. “It's made the whole city jumpy. People getting into fights for no reason, that sort of thing. We've even had a spate of Mask shatterings. Followed by a spate of executions, of course.”

“We had some trouble with bandits near Silverthorne,” Keltan said. “People kind of jumpy up there, too. Haven't had any Masks shattering, though.”

“Just a city thing, probably,” the Watcher said. “It was a nasty winter. Maybe it's just spring fever.” He touched his finger to his Masked forehead. “Ride safe. I'm off to Yellowgrass. Had a report a couple of Watchers have gone missing. Bandits again, I'm thinking. Keep your sword loose in its scabbard, lad.”

“Thanks, I will,” Keltan said, and the Watcher from Tamita rode past them. They both turned to watch him go, then looked at each other.

“Good job,” Mara said. She felt immensely relieved. Her fake Watcher's Mask had worked perfectly. And that gave her reason to hope that her fake Child Guard one would as well.

Keltan touched his Mask. “You, too,” he said. “And you have no idea how glad I am about that.”

About an hour later they came to an inn. Mara wished they could have taken a room, but there was no time. At least they could water the horses and give them a rest, and while the horses were recovering, enjoy a hot meal. Mara found it awkward and uncomfortable to eat while wearing a Mask. Drinking was easier: public eating establishments served wine and beer and water in special cups with elongated spouts for slipping inside a Mask's mouth hole. Whiteblaze had a raw steak to eat and a bone to gnaw on. After an hour and a half they rode on into gathering twilight.

During most of their journey from the village the weather had been excellent. But that night a wind came up, and the stars vanished, and it was in a cold, driving rain that they finally crested a ridge and gazed at the city of Tamita. The lights of the houses and towers climbing Fortress Hill behind the wall looking warm and inviting . . . and a very long way away still.

“Can't get through the gate until—”

“First light,” Mara said. She sighed. “Of course.”

“We might as well camp.”

They'd brought only one tent with them. They couldn't manage a fire in the driving rain, and so they climbed into the tent to eat cold bread and cheese by the light of a single candle lantern. Then they stretched out side by side to sleep, rolled in their blankets against the chill.

The rain thrummed on the canvas. Whiteblaze was off somewhere in the storm, hunting, Mara supposed. She hoped he didn't try to shoulder his way in later, sopping wet.

“Don't touch the sides of the tent,” came Keltan's voice out of the darkness just inches from Mara's head. “It will let the water through.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Mara said.

She felt strangely tense, and sleep simply wouldn't come. Part of it was knowing that tomorrow she would try to infiltrate the Child Guard, and then to confront the Autarch, the terrifying goal she had been working toward for so long . . . but had never thought she would be attempting to achieve without the help of the Lady.

But part of it was the nearness of Keltan. She was acutely aware of his body so close to hers, and not
just
because of the magic she could sense in him. She found herself thinking of his kisses. Of the feel of his arms around her. She imagined him rolling over, whispering to her, “As long as we're alone . . .” She imagined warm kisses, hot hands on bare skin. But she also imagined tasting his magic, draining it from him. How could she ever give herself over to the former when she would always long for the latter?

She imagined all those things, and could not sleep.

Keltan apparently did not have the same problem. He was already snoring gently.

She sighed.

Some day
, she thought.
If I live.

If I'm still me.

It was a thought she had barely dared to express even to herself until that moment, but lying in the dark, listening to rain and wind and Keltan's deep breathing, she could not hide from her own mind. The impact of the Lady's magic, of her powerful soulprint, had changed her somehow, made her more like Arilla.

So what
, she wondered,
will become of me when the
Autarch's
soulprint fills my mind?

She fingered the black lodestone amulet. She did not think it would be much good in that tidal wave of magic.

Keltan rolled over, his back to her. Mara tried to put her fantasies and fears alike out of her mind, and fall into the sleep she desperately needed . . . but she had very little success.

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
in broad daylight, they rode to the main gate of Tamita. The clouds had blown away overnight and the rising sun turned the dew-laden grass along the road into fields of diamonds. Mara felt horribly conspicuous, especially as they drew closer, passing among the tents of others who had camped outside the wall to be ready for the gate to open in the morning or to make their way around the city to the Outside Market. The feeling eased, though, as she noticed the people they were passing rather conspicuously
not
looking at her, their eyes sliding past her once they glimpsed Keltan's blank black Mask. Even the pair of Watchers they passed, mounted and stationary at the side of the road to keep an eye on the people heading into the city, looked first at Keltan, clearly saw nothing amiss, nodded, cast a cursory and incurious glance at Mara, and then turned their attention elsewhere. And thus it was without any fuss at all that they rode into the capital of the Autarch, whom they hoped very soon to assassinate. It was almost surreal.

All the same, Mara kept her head down and her hood up. There had been a lot of morbidly curious onlookers at Traitors' Gate the morning her father had been hanged and she had blown down a large chunk of the city wall, and she suspected they had vivid memories of that day—and therefore, potentially, of her. Even though she was Masked now, the Mask unavoidably looked like her, and gazing boldly out at the citizens of Tamita seemed an unnecessary risk.

She was also horribly aware that somewhere on the road behind them, and probably not very
far
behind them, riders were galloping toward Tamita to warn the Autarch of the approach of the unMasked Army. If they did not penetrate the Palace before that warning was given, they might lose their chance . . . and it seemed slim enough as it was, despite the confidence she had tried to display to Greff's parents and to Edrik.

They rode up Processional Boulevard from the gate, past high-class shops only the wealthiest of Tamita's citizens could afford to patronize. Well-dressed ladies with elaborate hairdos piled high above their ornate Masks chatted coolly with one another along the boardwalks bordering the boulevard, paved with massive blocks of white stone. Mara remembered sitting on the city wall with Mayson (she felt a pang and pushed it aside ruthlessly—
no guilt, not now
) and laughing at the countrywomen in the Outside Market who did nothing with their hair. She had not had her own hair done properly since her disastrous Masking. Now she was one of those country girls she had mocked.
Well
, she thought,
it's hardly the only change since then
.

The guardhouse was just where Jess had said, and just where Mara remembered it: to the right of the Palace Gate, which stood open, though of course it was heavily guarded by Watchers. “Here we go,” she murmured to Keltan. “Ask for Prilk.”

“I remember,” he said. Together they rode up to the guardhouse, a stone building about half the size of Mara's old house, and dismounted. The only door, which faced Processional Boulevard, stood open. Keltan stuck his head inside. “I'm looking for Prilk,” he said to someone Mara couldn't see.

“You found him,” said a voice. Keltan stepped back, and a Watcher appeared in the doorway. He had a thick thatch of silver hair and brown eyes. His already thin lips thinned further in a moue of disapproval behind his Mask's mouth slit. “Who's this, then?”

“Her name is Prella,” Keltan said. “She's from Yellowgrass.”

“And why is she here?”

“She's a cousin of one of the Child Guard. Greff,” Keltan said. “She has bad news about his parents.”

“Greff.” Prilk nodded. “I know him.” He cocked his head to one side. “Why'd she rate a Watcher escort?”

“Coincidence,” Keltan said with a shrug. “I was coming this way on my own business. Offered to ride with her.”

Prilk's lips twitched. “Coincidence. Right.” He looked at Mara. “How long since Masking, girl?”

“Couple of months,” Mara said. She kept her head down and barely murmured her reply, hoping Prilk would think her shy rather than terrified of being identified.

“Have a good trip?” he said to her.

She nodded mutely.

He looked past her at Keltan. “Bet
you
did,” he said, a leer in his voice, and sudden anger seized her. She could kill him where he stood—

She shoved the fury down, hard, and swallowed.

“Yes, I did,” Keltan said, with a dirty chuckle. And that made the fury surge again, even though she knew he was only playing a role.

I've got to control this rush to anger
, she thought.
I've
got
to. It'll get us both killed.

It's the Lady. She's still in here with me.

She's also dead
, she told herself firmly.
And you're not. You
can
control it. You
have
to.

“Let me check the schedule,” Prilk said. He disappeared inside, came back a minute later. “All right,” he said. “Greff will be released from the Autarch's presence in two hours. I'll have him brought here. You can meet him in the back room, girl.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Ten minutes. And I'll be in there with you.” He glanced at Keltan. “No need for you to be there,” he said.

“I'd like to be, if I can,” Keltan said. “I knew Greff growing up.”

Prilk shrugged. “Suit yourself. Two hours.”

He went back inside.

Mara and Keltan walked away from the guardhouse, leaving their horses tethered outside it. “Two hours,” she murmured to him. “And the riders from the Watcher Army could arrive any minute. Once the Autarch hears their warning, will he allow his Child Guard to leave his presence at all?”

“I don't know,” Keltan said. They walked a few more minutes, ambling back down Processional Boulevard toward the main gate. “Mara, can this actually work?” He glanced at her. “I don't want you hurt.”

“I won't be hurt if this fails,” she said. “I'll be dead. So will you. So will everyone we know in the unMasked Army. So will Chell and all his men. But we will
also
be dead even if we
don't
try to overthrow the Autarch. Maybe not right away, but soon enough. So what choice do we have?”

Keltan sighed. “Perfectly true. Perfectly depressing.” He looked up and down the boulevard. “So. Two hours. What's a good place to eat?”

“Do you have money?” Mara asked.

Keltan shook his head.

“Neither do I. And we might be just a little conspicuous in a restaurant anyway, don't you think?”

“But I'm hungry,” Keltan said plaintively.

“There's still some sausage and hard cheese.”

“Which we ate for the last three meals,” Keltan grumbled, but in the end, they ate the last of their marching rations sitting on a low wall that bordered a fountain and watching the Masked denizens of Tamita go by. “I hate eating in a Mask,” Keltan complained. “You have to cut everything up into small bits to fit through the opening. Which is extra-small in a Watcher Mask.” He tossed a piece of sausage to Whiteblaze: the wolf gobbled it up and looked up hopefully for more.

“It looks funny, too,” Mara said absently. She wasn't really paying much attention to Keltan. She was feeling the ebb and flow of magic all around her as people passed by. A little from most, a lot from the occasional Gifted. So much magic.
And how much of it is the Autarch drawing on through the newest Masks?
she wondered.

She remembered what the Watcher on the road had told them about the Autarch forcing youngsters “fifteen to eighteen” into arms training. All of them would be wearing the new Masks. Could he control them, as the Lady had controlled her villagers in the mining camp?

She remembered thinking, when she was little, that the Autarch could see everything at once, that he was looking out through the eyes of the Masks. Her father had told her that was nonsense. But now she had met the Lady, who could look out through the eyes of her wolves . . . though Mara had never mastered the trick. Had the Lady also been able to look out through the eyes of the villagers in her Cadre, her “human wolfpack”? Did the Autarch have that knack, as well?

Could he be looking at them through someone's Mask even now?

She shuddered. Keltan noticed and scooted closer on the bench. “Cold?”

“It's not that,” she said. Then she reconsidered. “Not
only
that. It
is
chilly. And I left my cloak in my saddlebags.”

“Cold air must have moved in with that rain last night,” Keltan said. “Here.” He took off his Watcher's cape and passed it to her; she draped it around her shoulders, not so much because she was really cold as because Keltan had been so thoughtful. That alone warmed her. “This uniform is warm enough without it,” he went on. “Warmer than ordinary clothes, anyway.”

“Not really that ordinary,” Mara said, and it was true: she'd felt horribly self-conscious since entering the city, dressed as she was in the usual unMasked Army garb of sturdy brown trousers, scuffed brown boots, a forest-green shirt, and a padded black vest. (The entire army had shed the blue-and-white uniforms of the Lady, for obvious reasons.) She remembered how, as her Masking had neared, she had hated wearing the modest long skirts and long-sleeved blouses her mother had insisted she wear instead of the short tunics she'd worn as a child, but she wished she had something like that now.

All around were Masked women, all of whom wore proper long dresses, not trousers, and in a riot of color: blues and reds and greens, white belted with gold, black studded with pearls harvested from the shallows of the southern sea.
Well, well-off women wear those things
, she amended herself, but they were pretty much the only women to be seen along Processional Boulevard. There were plenty more women in the city who made do with ordinary white blouses and staid blue or black skirts like her mother had made her wear. And a few, she knew, who wore a good deal less, but only at night and only in certain neighborhoods. The Masks and everything else came off once they were indoors with their male “friends.”

She blinked. She didn't usually think about such things.

You were thinking about them in the tent last night with Keltan
, she thought.
And in that hut with Chell a few months ago, when you tried to put your hand down his—

“Pants,” Keltan said.

She jumped like she'd been stuck. “What?”

“Pants,” Keltan said. “That's what sets you apart right now. No women in Tamita seem to wear pants.”

“Not on Processional Boulevard. It's a place to see and be seen.”

“Yeah? Didn't spend much time in this part of town when I was growing up,” Keltan said sourly. “Father wouldn't have liked it. And he'd have taken it out on Mother.” He looked down. “I tried so hard to be good, so he wouldn't hurt Mother. And in the end . . .” He shook his head.

Mara glanced at him. He'd rarely talked about his family, but he'd told her that his father had killed his mother when he was ten, and had been hanged for it. He'd witnessed that, just as she had witnessed her father's hanging, but unlike her he'd been pleased to see his father die. “What did you do, after . . . that?” she said. “You've never told me. How did you survive?”

Keltan shrugged. “Apprenticed to a tanner.”

Mara made a face. “Yuck.”

“Important work,” Keltan said. “Skilled work. I learned a trade.”

“But the smell . . . !”

“You get used to it,” Keltan said. Then he laughed. “Actually, no, you don't. And it kind of follows you around. Which is why, even after my parents were gone, I wasn't on Processional Boulevard very often. I was glad enough to leave the tannery when I decided to flee my Masking.”

“Did you tell your Master what you intended?”

“How could I?” Keltan said. “His Mask would have cracked if he'd lied for me. Fact is, I've often wondered what he did after I left.”

“Maybe you'll find out when this is all over.”

“Maybe.”

Shouts suddenly erupted at the main gate. A horse neighed. A moment later it came galloping up the boulevard, whipped to a frenzy by the Watcher on its back, who used the same lash on anyone who didn't get out of his way fast enough. Mara saw an elderly woman, struck across the back of the head, cry out and fall to her knees, and anger flared inside her. Whiteblaze stood up and growled. So much magic around her. She could—

No
, she told herself.
You
can't.

“Rider from the Watcher army, I'll bet,” Keltan said softly to her. “The Autarch is about to find out the unMasked Army is on the way.”

“And he'll close the Palace,” Mara said. She jumped up, pulling off Keltan's cloak and tossing it to him at the same time. He caught it deftly. “It's almost time to go back to meet Prilk, isn't it?”