City of Masks (29 page)

“You won’t be just walking, you’ll be pushed out in front of all the Lords and Guild Masters,” he said and lowered his voice. “The only people who protested—besides the King and me—were the Temple Priests, and they have little power to prevent your death, but there might be a way, Shirin.”

She looked at him, her face as still as the mask she once wore. At least he had her attention now.

“You can get to another city, Old Torrick, perhaps, or even to the Midlands. There’s work there, and a life for you, if you want it.”

She laughed, a hollow sound in that cellar.

“And how will I get there, Bane? Alone, without food or gear of any kind? No horse, no mask, and prey for the first demon to find me?”

Garet leaned forward. They were alone, and she was a trained killer, but he had things to say he dared not let be overheard by the guards outside the door.

“To the northeast, past the orchards and at the end of the wood lots, is an old logging station. It won’t be used now until the fall. Follow the creek that leads into the orchards directly across the fields from the Third Ward. Keep going, and you will find the station on its banks. In the tower is a bag of food, a good knife, and a bow with some arrows, not many, but some. I couldn’t get the mask you had. Sacourat sent it to the Hall when she found it in your uncle’s home.”

“Why, Bane? Why help me, and why are you dressed like an ordinary man?” Shirin asked. The chains clinked as she shifted forward to study him in the light of the single candle.

Garet had explained himself to others enough lately, so he just said, “Because I must,” as an answer to both questions.

Her eyes darted around the room. She lifted her hands and looked at the manacles around her wrists. Her fingers curled into fists. “So, even now you want to leave me in your debt.”

Garet shook his head and laid a hand on hers. “Live, Shirin. Live and leave your hate of me at the city gates. Then we’ll be even.”

The guards let him out, and he went up the many stairs to find the King waiting for him in the guard’s storeroom. It was stacked with swords, spears, shields, and sundry pieces of armor.

“What did she say?” Trax asked. He wore a simple grey tunic and trousers, lacking even the poorest gems. There were shadows under his eyes, and his voice had none of its usual bantering tone.

“Nothing of the Masks, Your Majesty. Will the exile go ahead?”

Trax signaled Garet to sit then settled himself on a stool beside a pile of gauntlets. “It must, though I loathe the idea. Your Hallmaster has me chained like Shirin. If I refuse, half the people might rise against the Palace to demand her exile.”

Garet shook his head. “It isn’t my Hall anymore, and Branet is not my Master. I’ve laid down my sash, Trax.”

The King’s eyes widened. He tapped a finger to his lips. “Well, I had heard that, though I could scarce believe it. I thought you a Bane to your bones, Garet. Did you do this because of Shirin’s fate, or were there other reasons?”

“I did it because I . . . must be useful,” Garet said. He stood up and started pacing. His anger at the forces pushing him this way and that could not be contained on a stool.

“Why did Heaven bring me here from the Midlands? Why did it make me a Bane, Trax, if not to be of use? I want to . . . fix things, since the world is so broken, and I can’t do that in the Hall anymore. What other reasons could I have?”

“I can’t imagine Salick is happy with this,” Trax observed.

“We are . . . no longer together,” Garet said. He stopped at a table holding scraps of leather, punches, and thick, curved needles. He slammed his fists down so hard that it all danced on the wood.

Trax stood up and came over to him. He laid a careful hand on Garet’s shoulder.

“Having felt her wrath—justifiably, of course, unlike you—I have some sympathy for your plight. Now, Barick says you need a job. He wants to give you one, but I need you more. Will you be my agent, Garet? Help me find out who is behind the Masks so that we can bring this to an end.”

Garet turned to face the King. There was granite in his tone when he replied. “So Branet can exile them as well?”

Trax shook his head. “No. It pains me, but I must let Branet have this blood, but only this once. I know the people better than he does. Once it’s done, they will forget they wanted it and be horrified by her fate. The next time the Hallmaster demands such cruelty, I’ll have all of the city on my side, and we need not repeat this farce. The chain gangs will suffice for the rest of them.”

Garet considered this, thinking of how Torfor had reacted to the sentence. He smiled wryly at the King. “I think you might be right. Some are already horrified, but are you sure you want to hire me? You know my nature, Trax. I speak my mind, for all the trouble it gets me! Do you think I’ll last long in the job?”

Trax smiled. “Oh, I hope so. I need at least one honest man to frighten all the scoundrels.”

“And what about you?” Garet asked. He cocked his head to one side and put his hands on his hips.

Trax feigned innocent outrage. “Me? Why, as the biggest scoundrel, at least in your eyes, I will probably need the most frightening.”

He stopped his playacting and looked at the ex-Bane. Garet could see how lack of sleep and worry had aged the usually buoyant man. “Garet, I’m asking you to be useful. Please help me fix my broken city.”

He held out his hand, and Garet grasped it.

“I will, Your Majesty.”

“Good,” Trax said, beaming again. “You’ll need to dress the part. We can get you a good coat, at least, and a sword. You have to bear a sword to be in the King’s service! Find one here, and then see my Chief of Guards. She will set you up with what you need.”

“How do I find the Masks?” Garet called after the retreating King.

Trax’s voice drifted back. “Use your brains, King’s agent. Use your brains!”

Picking through the various swords hanging from pegs on the wall or sticking, hilt up, out of baskets, Garet picked a practical-looking weapon with a wide, sturdy blade sharpened on one side and coming to a strong, slightly curved point. He swung it a few times. The balance was not bad, and the metal rung true when tapped with a hammer.

Holding it, he felt the enormity of the change he had brought upon himself. Events may have pushed him to leave the Hall, but working for the King was his choice. He swung the sword several times, until it felt more natural to his hand. This was nothing like the big, double-edged swords the King’s Guard carried, but he thought it still might cut a demon’s throat.

The sheath was intact, the guard and pommel were strong, but the strapping around the grip was loose. Garet picked up what he needed from the table and sat down to fix it. While his hands worked, he took the King’s advice and used his brain to think of a way, anyway, to trace the Masks.

THE LORD’S HOUSE
of the Thirteenth Ward was a fine structure of stone and glass, as light and airy as a crystal chandelier set on the dull ground. The four grey towers that guarded it, joined by walls and oaken gates, were not as cheerful. They housed the Lord’s relatives, his retainers, and various hangers-on. In years past, they were said to have held dungeons and armories, but Gost had assured Kaela that this was but a rumor.

She waited just outside the tall doors, wishing she could sit down while a cart was brought around to take her to the Temple. Just now, however, she didn’t want to seem weak, no matter how much the future Lord of the Thirteenth Ward kicked and wriggled inside her.

“With my dear Husband and his uncle making so many demands on the Guards’ time, I’m grateful that you could be spared to accompany me,” she said to the dour woman standing at her side.

“They don’t use women guards much, M’Lady,” the guard said, and adjusted her sword to better fit sitting in the cart, which now rumbled around the corner of the house, pulled by a patient pony.

The guard helped Kaela up and then joined her, taking the reins from the groom. Their passage through the Ward was slowed by the number of people in the streets. It seemed commerce and community had cautiously reappeared after a week of fear.

“Do you think them Masks drove the beasts away, M’Lady?” the guard asked. She had a broad face, a squat nose, and looked, Kaela decided, as if she had been born as a bear and then mostly shaved.

“I’m not sure, Cruster, isn’t it? What is your opinion on the matter?”

“Mine?” the guard asked. “Well, I think it’s a trick, M’Lady. Can’t trust them things.”

“Well said! Well said, Cruster! You are a most perceptive woman. I think you are right; it is a trick. And the Masks have done nothing but stir up the city against themselves. Why look what happened to that woman but two days past! Were you there with my Lord husband at her exile? I could not go. His uncle felt it was too sad a spectacle for one in my condition.”

The guard shook her head. “No M’Lady. There weren’t many that did go, some say. Most Lords didn’t, nor the priests of the Temple, nor some of the guilds. Lord Kirel and your uncle were there and had a guard, though you needn’t worry ’bout that.”

“Yes, it seems we can hardly separate Maroster from my uncle,” Kaela said.

“Not him, M’Lady. None has seen him for days. It was Shaverl who took the duty.”

Kaela matched the name to a male guard with half of Maroster’s size and probably half of his limited wit. She waved her fan at the flies.

“Well, it was a sad sight, no doubt.”

Cruster spat over the side of the cart. “Bad way to go,” she said.

Kaela smiled. “I agree. But I’m sure the Banehall and the King will exile anyone involved in the Masks’ crimes, no matter how high . . . or low.”

Cruster looked alarmed at this and slapped the reins to make the pony move faster as if she could outrun the guilt she felt. Blameless pedestrians had to scramble out of the way.

“Easy, Cruster!” Kaela said. “I’m afraid I do not like speed in my condition.”

When the guard had reined in the pony, Kaela continued. “Yes, it’s better to be cautious, and to know who to trust to take the reins in a bad time, don’t you agree?”

Not used to talking in riddles, or talking at all, Cruster thought about this for the length of the Banehall Plaza before finally nodding, though they had crossed the bridge and entered the Palace Plaza before she spoke. “Problem is, M’Lady, your uncle’s got those reins tight in his hands, if I take your meaning. And he has that Tarock and Chirat of the Twelfth Ward to help hold them, if I don’t give offense by saying.”

Kaela put a gentle hand on the rather impressive biceps of her driver. “Cruster, there will come a time when my uncle reaches too far and falls to his own destruction. That is when another hand will take the reins, and she will need loyal guards to protect her. Do you agree?”

Cruster looked sidelong at her passenger, and nodded.

Kaela removed her hand and rubbed the large bump under her gown. “So tell me, my dear Cruster, how many women guards are there who have your good sense?”

She was pleased to see the woman soon ran out of fingers and needed to borrow some of hers.

It was a lucky day to visit the Temple.

FROM THE SHADOWS
under the Temple’s central dome, Salick looked down the stairs at the very pregnant Lady and her stocky guard dismounting from their cart.

That’s Kaela, a simpering, conniving woman, and Kirel’s wife. I’d best avoid her for she mustn’t know why I’m here.

She backed further into the shadows until she bumped against something, not a pillar, but a person who grunted in surprise.

Salick turned and saw the Chief Priest she had been sent to see, Chabost. The older woman tottered, and Salick supported her with a hand under her elbow.

“Thank you, Bane,” the priest said, and smoothed out the disarray in her sky-blue vestments. “Did you wish to speak with me, or are you here to speak with Heaven?”

“I have a message, your Grace,” the Gold said and produced an envelope from within her vest. “Hallmaster Branet wishes you to read and respond to this letter as soon as possible.”

“As soon as possible?” the old woman said, arching an eyebrow. She took the letter over to a bench just outside the ring of pillars that marked off the sacred from the ordinary. She sat down and looked up at the younger woman.

“Living as we priests do under Heaven, the ‘soonest’ we know of is a full night’s watching of the stars, or perhaps the turn of a single season.”

She unfolded the paper slowly with arthritic hands. After reading a few lines, she asked, “Do you know what is in here, child?”

Salick nodded.

“Then perhaps you might wait a while, in here or perhaps under the dome while I finish this and consider your Hallmaster’s demands.”

Salick stood a minute, watching the old woman read. As the time passed, she walked over to a pillar and leaned against it to remove her boots. After placing them behind the stone support, Salick walked forward into the shadows and under the jeweled representation of the night sky that lined the ceiling. It was cool and dark. The only light was reflected upwards from the polished floor, outlining diamond and ruby constellations when the sun broke through the remnants of the morning’s clouds.