The Shattered Mask Read online

  With a clattering crash, the elemental swept the roof of the chapel away as easily as a maid clearing cobwebs with a broom, leaving the chamber open to the sky. Leaning over the top of the wall, the creature reached for its quarry.

  Shamur could see the top rung of a ladder affixed just below the rim of the shaft, but she and Thamalon had run out of time to use it. The nobleman took a last stride and jumped, and as the creature’s hand plunged down at her, she did the same.

  She fell for less than a second, then hit bottom, lost her balance, and sprawled on an earthen floor. An instant later, the giant’s hand smashed into the mouth of the shaft, and, too large to penetrate farther, lodged there, blocking out what little light had reached the bottom before. Clods of dirt pattered down.

  Immediately there came a grinding, crunching noise, and more earth fell. Shamur realized the elemental was trying to force its arm down the shaft, and she thought it entirely possible that it would succeed. Even if its raw strength proved insufficient, it might have some sort of power over soil and stone.

  Groping for her in the blackness, Thamalon’s hand brushed the top of her head. “Did you hurt yourself falling?” he asked. “Are you still able to walk?”

  “I am.”

  “Then come on.” He hauled her to her feet, then pulled her into what must be some sort of narrow, low-ceilinged tunnel. By banging her shoulder on one, she discovered that splintery wooden supports stood at intervals along the way.

  The lightless passage shook, the supports groaned, and chunks of dirt rained down. Crashing and pounding sounded through the earth. Evidently the giant had abandoned its efforts to force its hand down the shaft and was tramping around overhead demolishing the rest of the castle. Shamur couldn’t guess whether the creature was hoping she and Thamalon would come up elsewhere in the ruin, expressing its pique that they’d eluded it, or deliberately trying to collapse the tunnel.

  In any case, she feared that the ceiling might indeed be on the verge of falling. Just ahead of her in the darkness, one of the support timbers gave a sharp crack. Dirt showered down all around her, and then something much, much harder crashed down on top of her head. The sharp, unexpected pain slammed her down on her knees. She felt consciousness guttering out and struggled desperately to hold on, but still, everything slipped away.

  Shamur cried out in frustration and fear, and her eyes flew open. Peering about, she saw she was lying in a dilapidated lean-to, likely some hunter or charcoal burner’s shelter. A fire smoked and crackled in the center of the floor, and the russet cloak she’d dropped back in the clearing covered her like a blanket. Outside the hut, daylight shone on a tangle of leafless, snow-silvered trees, proof that she was still in the woods.

  Wrapped in his own cape with its bloodstained ermine collar, utterly filthy, Thamalon sat cross-legged on the other side of the fire, watching her. His long sword lay naked beside him, while her own weapon was nowhere in sight. She supposed she’d lost it when she’d been knocked unconscious.

  “You called out,” he said, his tone cool, his face impassive. “You’re awake.”

  “Yes,” she said, her throat so dry that her voice was a painful rasp. She swallowed. “I was dreaming about our escape. You must have realized I’d gotten hurt, and carried me out of the tunnel.”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you know the passage existed?”

  “First things first. Do you still want to kill me?”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. She sat up, though it made her head throb cruelly. “Ilmater’s bonds, of course not! I know now that you didn’t poison my grand-niece. That shadow that spoke with Lindrian’s voice … I don’t understand it, but somehow, when I talked to him, I was actually talking to it. Moreover, the fact that the phantom’s master could even conceive of such a ruse implies that he’s the one who truly committed the murder.”

  “Or rather, that he has ties to those who did,” Thamalon said, his voice little warmer than before. “He seems too young to have slain anyone thirty years ago. How are you?”

  “Sore—especially my head—stiff, cold, grimy, thirsty, and hungry,” she said. “But essentially all right.”

  “I can do a little something about the hunger,” he said, handing her a bundle of paper, which, when she unfolded it, proved to contain a square of date-nut bread. Trust him not to venture into the woods without a snack tucked into the pigskin pouch on his belt, or a flint, steel, and tinderbox, for that matter.

  She took a bite of the pastry. “I still want to hear how you knew about the tunnel,” she said through the first mouthful.

  His green eyes widened, and she realized that never in their three decades together had he ever seen her gobble a morsel with such unladylike voracity. But of course it was far too late to worry about such things now.

  “I’ve built my share of strongholds over the years,” Thamalon said. “Trading outposts and Stormweather Towers itself. I wanted to make them secure, so I undertook a study of fortifications, during which I happened to learn that these old castles Rauthauvyr raised often had a secret tunnel leading out. I didn’t know exactly where it would be located, so I had to leave you to guard my back while I went to look for it.”

  “And since they didn’t know it existed, our enemies must think the giant killed us, and our bodies lay buried somewhere in the wreckage of the fort.”

  “Since they stopped hunting us and went home, it would appear so.”

  “Good. We should try to figure out who the wizard is.”

  “Not so fast,” said Thamalon. “I’ve had faceless enemies before. This one will keep for a few more minutes. What I want to know now, and without another second of delay, is, who are you? I’ve thought of one possibility, but it seems preposterous.”

  Shamur hesitated. She’d guarded the secret for so long it was hard to divulge it even now. Finally she said, “If you’re thinking I’m the first Shamur, the robber in the tales and ballads, you’re right.”

  “Explain,” he said. “All of it.”

  And so she did, beginning with the bored, hoydenish adolescent she’d been more than eighty years ago, a girl who had started sneaking out of Argent Hall to taste the boisterous life of the streets, and eventually become a thief for the excitement.

  Thamalon grimaced. “So that’s where Thazienne gets it.”

  Shamur blinked in surprise. “You know about her thieving?”

  “Not everyone manages to deceive me,” he said sourly. “The way you two quarrel, I’m surprised you know. But go on with your tale.”

  “Well, you know that after I was unmasked, I had to flee Selgaunt. Later, I fell in with a band of treasure hunters who were looting ruins south of the Moonsea. We broke into the wrong crypt, a chamber given over to magical devices the like of which I’ve never encountered before or since, where a guardian spirit appeared to battle us.” She could see the entity even as she spoke, a clawed, towering, shadowy thing, quick and savage as a leopard, and as terrible in its way as the masked wizard’s elemental.

  “Naturally,” she continued, “the wizards and priests among us threw spells at the spirit. Somehow, their sorceries brought the devices in the vault to life, and they started shooting bolts of magical energy around. One of them struck an amulet I was wearing. I knew the pendant bore an enchantment, but had never discovered the purpose.

  “The pearl in the amulet exploded, and instantly, or so it seemed to me, everything was different. Quiet. The spirit was gone. Much of the ceiling had fallen in, crushing the arcane apparatuses. My comrades lay dead, and looked as if they had been so for many years.

  “When I returned to civilization, I found out that in fact, they had. Somehow, fifty years had passed for the rest of the world, but not for me.

  “I reckoned that after so much time, it would be safe to return to Selgaunt, at least if I was discreet. You know what I found when I arrived. My family on the brink of ruin, their only hope an alliance by marriage with the House of Uskevren. So when the betro
thed girl was murdered, they prevailed on me to impersonate her and wed you in her place.”

  “How did they talk you into such a travesty?” asked Thamalon.

  Shamur shrugged. “After my displacement in time, they were the only people in the world I cared for, or even knew. Moreover, it was uncanny how my grand-niece had looked exactly like me, and even owned my name. I’d never truly believed in fate, but it gave me the strange, fey sense that it was my destiny to take her place.”

  “Indeed,” he said, “and while you were engaged in your philosophical ruminations, did it ever occur to you that you were dealing unjustly if not downright cruelly with me? Tricking me into a union with a stranger I didn’t love, and who most certainly didn’t care for me.”

  Shamur felt an unexpected twinge of shame. “To be honest,” she said, “no. I didn’t consider your rights or your feelings at all. As I said, we Karns were desperate. I suppose I should apologize.”

  He laughed. “Oh, please do. After all, you’ve only been causing me hurt for thirty years, culminating in an attempt to kill me. A little show of contrition will make everything right.”

  She sighed. “Thamalon—”

  “Enough,” he said. “I wanted to know how my life took the path it did, and you’ve told me. I don’t need to hear professions of remorse. We have a problem to solve. Let’s focus on that.”

  “Fine,” she rapped. “Then, who was Master Moon, do you think?”

  Thamalon shook his head. “I don’t know. I have a nagging feeling I’ve heard his voice before, but I don’t know where or when. You should have waited to make your move until he revealed his identity.”

  “I moved at a moment when he was busy enjoying the sound of his own voice, and his henchmen were distracted by it as well. If I’d waited, we might not have gotten a second chance.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Anyway, I have no idea who he is, either,” she said. “Nor could I identify any of the hired bravos, which is what they almost certainly were. In my youth, I was acquainted with half the bullies and cutpurses in the city, but now….” She shrugged.

  “Then we’re stymied,” he said.

  “Perhaps not. I can think of two people who might lead us to the wizard. One is Audra Sweetdreams, the other, the first rogue with whom I crossed swords as we broke free of the clearing. We might be able to find him, for I got a good look at his face, and also noticed he has fish-scale tattoos.”

  Thamalon’s green eyes narrowed. “Some of the watermen carry such marks. Of course, there’s no shortage of watermen.”

  “True,” she agreed. “Still, it will be easier to search among them than to comb the whole city at random. Now, here’s my thought. At the moment, we possess one advantage. Master Moon thinks I’m dead. He won’t take any extraordinarily precautions to keep me from tracking him down, and I can take him by surprise when I do. So I’ll make inquiries, and you’ll go home and protect the children. If the wizard wanted to kill both of us, he’s likely to strike at them as well, to annihilate the House of Uskevren for good.”

  “The ‘inquiries’ could be dangerous.”

  “I can take care of myself. Moreover, Master Moon did something to me that no one else has ever done. He made me his dupe. I mean to show him just how deeply I resent that.”

  “I know just how you feel,” Thamalon said sardonically, “and I agree to your scheme with one amendment. I’m coming with you.”

  “No. I’m used to doing such things alone.”

  “Nonsense. You already told me you’ve had dealings with other thieves and traveled with a troop of adventurers. Are you worried I’ll slow you down? You should have noticed by now that, ‘old man,’ though I may be, I can take care of myself as well.”

  “I am aware of that,” she admitted. “But I don’t understand why you would want to accompany me, now that you know that all of our life together has been a lie.”

  “I may detest you, woman, but at the moment, what does it matter? We have an enemy to ferret out, it’s a risky task, and you’ll be better off with someone watching your back. Besides, if you want Master Moon to believe you dead, the ruse will be more convincing if neither of us surfaces. Whereas if I turn up alive, it will suggest the possibility that you might have survived as well.”

  “But what about the children?”

  “They’ve got Jander, Brom, and the guards to protect them. They should be safe for the time being, and in the long run, we’ll ward them best by eliminating this threat as expeditiously as possible.”

  She threw up her hands. “Very well. We’ll hunt together.”

  “Then if you’re able, we should get moving. Our foes left our capes lying back in the glade, but they stole our horses, and it’s a long walk back to town.”

  CHAPTER 12

  At the point where the city wall ended and the docks began, Shamur and Thamalon stood and regarded the expanse of water where the River Arkhen, or the Elzimmer, as the townsfolk generally called it, flowed into Selgaunt Bay. It was evening, with a frigid wind moaning in from the sea, and so, as it did every night, the “floating city” of the watermen had come back into existence. By day, countless boats ferried passengers and cargo about the harbor and along the river, or ventured out to sea in search of fish. At dusk, those who lived and worked aboard these vessels brought them together to form a great tangle that sometimes extended all the way to the north shore. It then became possible to step, climb, or jump from one deck to the next.

  Shamur and Thamalon hadn’t needed to hike all the way back into Selgaunt. Shortly after reaching Rauthauvyr’s Road, they’d encountered a wagon full of travelers willing to give them a ride, and more than willing to trade them plain homespun garments for their own rich nobles’ attire, which, though torn, blood-spattered, and filthy, could nonetheless be sold to a second-hand clothing dealer for a handsome price.

  Thus rendered inconspicuous, Shamur enjoyed the comfort and freedom of a mannish outfit of blacks and grays the likes of which she hadn’t worn in thirty years. The couple parted company with their benefactors in Overwater. In that wayfarers’ haven, they sold Thamalon’s gold and silver spurs to augment their store of ready cash, procured a healing salve for their sundry cuts and scrapes along with a bottle of black dye, and then went to a bathhouse. After they scrubbed the grime off, Shamur chopped her long tresses short, and both she and Thamalon colored their hair. Now thoroughly disguised, or so they hoped, they headed for a marketplace to equip themselves for the task ahead. Thamalon bought a new throwing knife and a gray steel buckler. Shamur purchased another broadsword, a dagger, and, once the shifty little merchant operating in the shabbiest corner of the market had been persuaded to trust her, a leather wallet lined with thief’s tools.

  Still later, back on the south side of the river, the aristocrats’ first stop had been a futile one at Lampblack Alley, where they’d found Audra Sweetdreams and her two ruffians lying slain on the floor of her shop.

  It had all taken more time than Shamur would have preferred, and she’d been impatient to reach the docks and begin the search for the tattooed bully. Still, the floating city exerted a kind of fascination. Colored lanterns shone aboard scores of sloops, skiffs, barges, and houseboats as if in imitation of the stars appearing overhead. Mouthwatering cooking odors wafted ashore from the boats, as did laughter and a lively tune performed on songhorn and hand drum. Despite herself, the noblewoman paused to take in the spectacle.

  Thamalon said, “It is a bit of a marvel, isn’t it?”

  Surprised to hear her own thought echoed, Shamur turned to regard him, and saw that he’d finally left off glowering at her. He wore a simple, unadorned brown cloak, jerkin, trews, and low boots. It occurred to her that with his hair dark as his eyebrows, he must look rather as he had in those grim days before she ever met him, when the House of Uskevren was deemed ruined for all time in everyone’s reckoning but his own.

  “Yes,” she replied. “I’ve always liked looking at it, and regret
ted that living where we do, as we do, I don’t often see it anymore.”

  His mouth tightened. “Of course, you think I’m to blame for that, and for depriving you of all your other pleasures.”

  “No!” she said. Sweet Sune, it had been like this for a long, wearisome time now, a sad consequence of their estrangement. Even when one of them intended no derogation or reproach, the other was touchy and quick to take offense. “That isn’t what I meant.”

  “If you say so. Come on.” They walked out on the northernmost dock, and, the planks creaking beneath their feet and the smell of saltwater in their nostrils, approached the first of the boats tied up there. It was a barca with slanted eyes painted on each of its interchangeable ends and a square little cabin, where the skipper no doubt slept in foul weather, set in the center of the deck.

  “Ahoy,” called Thamalon, indicating that he wished to speak to someone onboard. He would have shouted “walking” had he merely wished to move across the barca on his way to some other craft, and then, their notions of courtesy satisfied, none of the watermen would have paid him or Shamur any mind, or at least, not if the nobles could pass for watermen themselves.

  But they couldn’t, for the society of the waves and currents was an insular one with its own patois, mores, and traditions, interdependent with the world ashore, yet separate in many respects. People claimed that some watermen lived and died without ever setting foot on solid ground, and although Shamur suspected that was an exaggeration, she was certain no landsman could prowl the floating city without attracting many a speculative eye.

  A husky woman wrapped in an oilcloth mantle emerged from the barca’s cabin. “Good evening,” said Thamalon.

  “Evening,” she replied. “What do you want?”

  “We’re looking for someone,” Shamur said. “We don’t know his name, but he’s thin, has a black beard, and is about as tall as my friend here. Wears a gold ring in his lower lip, has fish scales tattooed on his hands and throat, and carries a brace of short swords. Do you know him?”