The Shattered Mask (27 page)

Bileworm watched avidly as Master smothered the woman. By his standards, it wasn’t an especially long or excruciating death, but he could certainly imagine Wyla’s terror and frustration as, deprived of all capacity to resist, she suffocated, and that gave him something to savor.

After a minute, Master took the folds of cloth away and held his hand above her mouth, making sure her breathing had ceased.

“Well, thank goodness that’s done,” he said. “I thought those two loafers in the loft were never going to leave.” “Shall I?” Bileworm asked. “Of course.”

The spirit spiraled upward, stretching his substance thfn, then swooped down and slid through the tiny space between Wyla’s upper and lower teeth. Once he was completely inside her, and had aligned his own ethereal limbs with the coarse matter of the corpse’s, sensation came. The floor, hard and cold against his back. His hand clenched painfully tight on the sword hilt. A slight rawness on his face, where the weave of Master’s mantle had chafed Wyla’s skin.

He reached inside himself for the lame warrior’s memories. For an instant, he glimpsed a chaotic jumble of images and sensations, loves and hates, joys, sorrows, and regrets. Then it burst like a bubble and left nothingness behind.

He frowned, prompting Master to ask, “What’s the matter?”

“We have a problem,” Bileworm said, climbing to his feet, surprised by the sharpness of the twinge in the calf of the bad leg. “I own the body, but her mind is gone.”

“Don’t worry. It shouldn’t matter.”

Bileworm hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. No one will doubt you’re the person you appear to be. Why should they? Nor will our dupes, worried as they surely are, bother you with personal questions to which you have no answers. Their only concern will be the tidings you bring.”

Shamur watched with admiration as Thamalon, seemingly recovered from the ill effects of his head wound, approached the dais and throne at the far end of the cavernous chamber. With his chin held high and his easy smile, he looked more like an honored envoy at the court of some friendly monarch than a prisoner in a den of robbers and murderers.

Meanwhile, the chieftain of the Quippers, a blond, square-jawed hulk as huge as Talbot or Vox, evidently liked to affect the appearance of a simple fisherman, for he sported the sandals, slop-hose, and open, sleeveless tunic that such folk often wore in clement weather. The creature on his knee, however, rather spoiled the illusion, for it was a gray, red-eyed galltrit. Such gremlins lived in filth and, like leeches, subsisted on the blood of others. No

common waterman would treat such a nasty beast like a pet. Shamur suspected no one would, unless his own disposition and habits were equally foul.

Arriving at the foot of the dais, Thamalon inclined his head, respectfully but by no means servilely. “Good morning, or is it afternoon by now? Either way, you must be Avos the Fisher. My name is Balan, and my companion is Evaine. We work for the House of Karn.”

It was a bold lie, but not, Shamur thought, an idiotic one. Though Thamalon had opposed the Quippers off and on for a number of years, it had always been through the medium of the Scepters and other agents, never face to face. It was quite possible that none of the rogues assembled in this room had ever seen him up close, or her either. Or at least, not unless the knave in question was one of the those who had accompanied Master Moon into the woods.

Even if some of them had, the Uskevren still might go unrecognized. They’d changed their appearances since the previous encounter, and, by venturing unescorted into the Scab, had behaved in a manner that no one would expect of an aristocrat. Moreover, all the scoundrels gathered here presumably “knew” that Shamur and Thamalon were dead, and that false certainty might serve to disguise them best of all.

She held her breath as she waited to see if he was going to get away with the deception. ‘-

By the time the ruffians in the street had finished subduing and disarming her, she’d realized she hadn’t been stabbed or cut in the back after all, just clubbed very painfully, and thereafter, all the toughs had contented themselves with battering her with the flats of their blades, their boots, or other blunt implements. Evidently they wanted to take her and Thamalon alive for questioning.

The bravos tended in the most cursory fashion to their wounded comrades, rifled the pockets of the slain ones, then roughly hauled the nobles to their feet and marched them away, one scoundrel running on ahead to carry the news of their apprehension. At first the Quippers virtually had to

carry Thamalon, but to Shamur’s relief, he revived by the time they reached their destination.

On the outside, that terminus was yet another grimy, crumbling brownstone tenement. Inside, she saw that the Quippers had transformed the bottom two floors of the building into what might almost be deemed a parody of a spacious, lordly hall, tearing out the ceiling and most of the interior walls to create a single open space. The renovation had left scars and grit behind. Rats scuttled in the shadows. Trash and litter rotted wherever anyone had cared to drop it.

Yet atop the rubble and decay lay a veneer of luxury, like sweet frosting on a toadstool. Costly furniture, disintegrating rapidly from the hard and careless use it was receiving, stood haphazardly about the floor, along with kegs of ale and racks of wine. Paintings and tapestries hung crookedly on the walls. Some had been used for target practice, and the hilts of throwing knives jutted from their surfaces. Others had been scrawled upon in the expression of a coarse and ribald wit. Shamur surmised that all these once-fine articles constituted booty stolen from the docks. A miscellany of nautical implements, including oars, harpoons, nets, and a collection of painted figureheads, added yet another note of bizarreness to the decor.

The hall was likewise full of surly-looking toughs and their hard-eyed doxies, many of whom had peered curiously as the Uskevren’s captors shoved them toward Avos the Fisher’s seat.

Now the huge rogue sneered down at Thamalon. “What did you think you were playing at,” he rumbled, in a voice as deep as Shamur had ever heard issue from a human throat, “poking around in my domain?”

Shamur felt a frisson of excitement. Avos hadn’t challenged Thamalon’s assertion that the two of them were mere agents of the House of Karn. Evidently he believed it. The nobles were still in deadly peril, of course, but perhaps not quite as much as if the Quippers had known who they really were. It was just conceivable that they might be able to talk their way out of this predicament.

Thamalon smiled up at Avos. “In retrospect, it doesn’t seem like such a good idea. But our master commanded us to come to the Scab and ferret out information. We hoped we could obtain it and depart without attracting unwanted attention. Plainly, we were overly optimistic.”

Avos snorted. “Aye, cully, you were. There was a time when you might have slipped in and out unnoticed, but not anymore. These days, I rule the Scab, and I know it every time a roach crawls or a louse bites. Now, what were you trying to find out?”

Thamalon shrugged. “If your spies”—at this the galltrit preened and leered, baring its pointed fangs, and Avos scratched it behind the ear—”overheard us, you presumably know already. We’re inquiring into the murders of Shamur Uskevren, who was born a Karn, and her husband.”

Some of the watchers muttered to one another. Avos shot them a glare, and they subsided. “Why, I didn’t even know they had been murdered,” the big man said, in a tone of mock innocence that made it plain he didn’t care whether Thamalon believed him or not. “What makes you think the Quippers had anything to-do with it?”

“Lord Karn is certain you did,” Thamalon replied. “As I understand it, one member of your band, a fellow with fish-scale tattoos and a gold ring in his lip, related the tale to the wrong streetwalker, who subsequently sold it to my employer.” V

“That pinhead!” one of the onlookers exclaimed.

“Quiet!” Avos snarled, then gave Thamalon a malevolent smile. “I can’t imagine how you’d ever be able to repeat anything I say, but I suppose I should deny everything just as a matter of principle.”

“That would be prudent, though futile,” Thamalon said. “The assassination of two of the most prominent nobles in the city is a grave matter. Should your involvement become common knowledge, Selgaunt might rouse itself and do whatever’s necessary to eradicate the Quippers. Fortunately for you, however, Lord Karn understands you fellows were acting for someone else, a peer from a rival House, most

likely, and that’s the man he particularly wants to chastise. So I propose a bargain on his behalf. Give up the person who hired you, and the House of Karn will keep your secret and leave you in peace. We’ll even pay you.”

Avos’s piggy pale blue eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you seek me out right off if you wanted to make a deal like that?”

“Because we didn’t actually want to,” Thamalon said. “The Karns would have preferred to learn their enemy’s identity without having to spare you the retribution you deserve, let alone compensate you. But my partner and I are realists. Our current situation being what it is, we’d much rather reach an accommodation with you than have you kill us.”

Avos grinned. “But that’s what I ought to do. It would send a message to everybody else who might want to come sniffing around my little fiefdom.”

“It’s not a message that will deter Lord Karn. He has plenty of other agents.”

“Maybe so, cully, but we’re not afraid of any of them. Lots of high-and-mighty merchant nobles have tried before to wipe out the Quippers, and we’re still here.”

“But I imagine life is pleasanter when you’re spared the necessity of defending yourselves against such a siege.”

“That’s doesn’t mean we’d turn traitor or informer to keep it from happening.”

“Of course not,” Thamalon said dryly. “I’m sure you’re a steadfast band of brothers. Loyal as paladins in a romance, but only, and this is the key point, to one another. I suspect that any outsider who opts to trust you takes his chances. Am I right?”

“No, you’re not right,” the big man growled, “not always. But… I didn’t altogether like the way this particular job went down. Oh, Uskevren and his lady dying, that was grand. That was fine as cakes and wine. But too many of the lads have been killed or hurt, lads I need to attend to my business, and nobody bothered to warn me what we were getting into. I don’t appreciate that. So, Balan, swear by your god that Lord

Karn will abide by any agreement you make, and then tell me how much gold you’re offering.”

“No!” shouted one of the onlookers, a small man with a pointed black goatee, and lines of gold piping running up the legs of his breeches and the breast of his doublet. “You can’t set these snoopers free. She killed some of our mates! That woman there!”

“Shut up, Donvan!” Avos roared, and the little man quailed. “If a female could kill them, we’re better off without them.”

Shamur could tell from his subordinates’ expressions that some resented their leader’s cold dismissal of the deaths of their comrades, but no one saw fit to voice another protest.

Her heart raced with exhilaration. Against all rational expectation, Thamalon had succeeded. His glib trader’s tongue had won them their lives and even the information they had sought.

Or so it seemed until someone shouted, “Hold it!”

She turned and saw a plump, unhealthy-looking man in a costly but hideous mauve and chartreuse doublet, the same would-be coxcomb who had stood with Master Moon and the shadow creature at the edge of the clearing, scurrying forward. Evidently he’d entered the brownstone unnoticed a moment or two before.

“What do you want, Garris? ” Avos asked, an edge of impatience in his voice.

“Look at them!” Garris cried. “Everybody look! Don’t you recognize them? Avos, I know I said I watched them die, but somehow, these people are Lord and Lady Uskevren themselves!”

The room fell silent as everyone gawked at the nobles. Shamur looked at the armed men clustered all around her and decided it would be pointless to try to break for the door. Finally, Avos exclaimed, “Umberlee’s kiss, it’s true!”

His composure unruffled, Thamalon gave Garris a nod. “You have a keen eye, sir.” He turned back toward the giant on the throne. “I see no reason why this revelation should spoil our negotiations. I’m still willing to pay for the name

of the man who hired you, and now, of course, to ransom my wife and myself as well.”

Avos laughed. “You’ve got brass, old man, I’ll give you that. But I don’t suppose you truly believe we’d ever turn you loose. You’ve always gone out of your way to persecute the Quippers, and now we’re going to return the favor. Then later, after we’ve had our fun, I’ll sell what’s left of you to your secret enemy. You can find out who he is when you look him in the face, that is, if we let you keep your eyes. Grab them, mates!”

So be it, Shamur thought. Thamalon’s gambit had failed, and now she must try the ploy she had conceived on the walk to the outlaws’ lair. One of the toughs who were moving in to seize her was half a step in advance of the others. Rounding on him, her bruised limbs protesting, she shouted, “Bring a waste, cove!” Then she kicked him in the groin.

Someone tried to grab her from behind. “Shamur knows that cog,” she growled.

She thrust her elbow back into his gut, stamped on his foot, and then, when his grip loosened, pivoted and smashed her forearm into his jaw. His front teeth broke, and he reeled backward.

She spun back around to face the rogues rushing up behind her. “Come on!” she screamed. “You capons! You cousins! Shamur will bash out your crashing-cheats! She’ll curb out your glaziers and eat them like grapes!”

Since she knew she had no chance of fighting her way free, her resistance was in one sense a sham. But she had to buy herself sufficient time to let them hear her rant. For all she knew, they might have intended to stuff a gag in her mouth before commencing whatever torture they had in mind.

Now, plainly, they had heard her. They were hanging back and staring, some with more comprehension than others. “She speaks Cant,” Donvan said.