City of Masks (21 page)

“Those were from the Fifth Ward,” she said. “Lord Sacourat wished to be seen as helpful and loyal, I would guess.”

“There are only thirty or so Masks, according to Marick. They would never have dared attack a party that large,” Relict added.

“Then what do they want?” Garet said.

“To replace us,” Dorict said. There were shadows under the boy’s eyes, and Garet remembered that none of them had slept that night, and now the dawn was almost upon them.

“That’s what Shirin told you,” Salick said.

Tarix nodded, but Garet shook his head.

“She may have said that, but really, how could they? Thirty Masks and sixteen Wards to patrol? They can’t believe it would work! I think she, and maybe all of them, just want to fight demons.”

“An odd wish,” Dorict said. “Maybe they should talk to Banerict, and he can list all our common injuries for them. It might put them off.”

Relict laughed. “It almost put me off. We’d better ask him to keep quiet, or some Banes will be looking for a less dangerous job.”

“Would they?” Garet asked. “Do you know of any Bane who would stop fighting demons?”

The others looked at him. Salick bit her lip. Tarix shook her head.

Leaning back against the pillows, the Red said, “No Bane I ever met would stop protecting the city. Even Adrix’s threat to do so was a bluff, for the Masters would never have agreed.”

“Why?” Garet asked.

Salick answered, “Because you just can’t stand by if . . . if . . .”

“If you can make a difference,” Dorict said, and the room fell silent for a time.

Relict poured water for his wife, then his guests.

“Maybe every man and woman in Shirath would do the same if they could,” he said. “And maybe I’ve judged these Masks too harshly.”

Salick bristled. “They tried to kill Marick, and that woman threatened Garet. Doesn’t that matter?”

Garet put an arm around her shoulder. She was shaking with fatigue and anger.

“I’m all right, and so is Marick for all his moaning. Something is still hidden from us. I think that the Masks are being used. The big man, the one with the axe we saw, Marick said he tried to order Shirin around, as if he spoke for someone else. He even forced her to hide until things calmed down, so I don’t think she’s really in charge.”

“If only we knew where she was hiding, we could go ask her,” Dorict said. His head drooped, and he jerked it back up again.

“I’m too tired to think now, Masters. I must get some sleep.”

“Go, all of you,” Relict said. “And keep out of trouble.”

Dorict could barely climb the stairs and fell down on his bed still dressed. Garet yawned and pulled off the boy’s boots and then his own. Salick watched him from the doorway, her eyes half-closed.

“Garet, I can’t believe you’re defending Shirin, after all she’s done to the Hall,” she said, and slid away when he tried to embrace her.

“My love, I’m not defending her. I’m trying to understand her! If we want to end this foolishness, we’ll have to do it by talking, like we did last winter. The Palace, the Hall, you and me: we’ve always been stronger when we work together.”

This time she did not evade his arms, nor his mouth as he kissed her goodnight, but there was no smile on her face as she broke away and went off to her own room.

TO SAY THAT
the Banehall was in an uproar when the sun rose would be putting it mildly indeed. A pack of Shrieker Demons skittering through the hallways could not have made more noise and confusion. The Black and Blue Sashes, as well as any Greens that had slept through the events of the evening, now woke and added their shouts to the loud calls for answers, for reassurance, and most of all, for revenge.

Garet had laid down his head for an hour or so in his room. He woke to the sounds of argument and lay for a moment, listening and remembering. His body protested as he got to his feet, but it was light, and there was washing up, breakfast, and training to do before Forlinect would need him to help with the Black Sashes. He yawned his way to the washrooms, trying to ignore the knots of Banes discussing the Masks in very loud voices.

“We should find them and kill them all!” said a Gold, one of Taron’s team, Garet thought. His fellow disagreed.

“Are we no better than them? They should be put on the chain gangs like the other Duelists!”

A third spoke up, “What about the King? Can’t he protect us?”

The first shouted back, “And what if the King is behind it, like last time? What should we do then?”

And so it went down the hallway with variations of this conversation repeated over and over. After scrubbing himself slightly more awake, Garet went back to the room and got dressed. He decided that training would be quieter than breakfast, so he went to the training rooms first, only to find the larger one crowded with Red Sashes, one of whom shooed him away with one hand while shaking a fist in the face of Bandat with the other.

The other room was almost empty. Tarix was there, working with Dalesta, the Green who was so often sick. They were doing the same exercise Dorict practiced, though a longer version and without the weights.

“Breathe in and out with the movements,” Tarix was saying as Garet walked into the room. “This is a good routine for building up your lungs. Big movements now. Breathe in . . . and out! Ah, Garet. Could you help me do my stretches? My leg is playing up today and needs the punishment.”

While Dalesta moved through the sequences of punches and kicks, Garet helped Tarix regain some flexibility in her injured leg. She put the brace back on when they were done and sat with him on a bench watching Dalesta move.

“She’ll breathe more easily if she keeps up the exercises, and Banerict has a salve for her chest that will help as well.”

“She’s not very strong, is she?” Garet said. He did not mean it as an insult. He was thinking of how unprepared most Banes were to take up arms against their enemy. He knew he had been so and still felt overwhelmed at times by the responsibility on his shoulders.

“Yet she still wants to fight,” Tarix said, reminding Garet of their conversation a few hours ago.

“I’ve been thinking of what you said, last night and in Lord Andarack’s house,” she continued. “If you are right about someone controlling demons, and if that player has now changed their tactics in hopes of destroying us—there are many ‘ifs’ in your arguments, aren’t there?—then we must change our tactics too, and quickly. The problem is I don’t see how that can be done.”

“The Masters are meeting now,” Garet said. He wondered why Tarix was here instead of with the others. “Aren’t you . . . ?”

“Thirty people won’t make any more sense than twenty-nine,” she said, and fiddled with the brace for a moment, tightening one of the straps. “One thing I’ve found is that most people have to shout before they’re ready to talk. Don’t expect that talking to happen for a while, not while the Masks are attacking Banes.”

Dalesta stopped, wheezing heavily, and Tarix told her to walk once around the Banehall and then go to get her breakfast. The Green smiled at them and shuffled out, one hand on her side.

“Not very strong, but not very weak either,” Tarix said, and Garet nodded.

“Master, you said to tell you before I did anything. I’d like to tell you now.”

Tarix raised an eyebrow. “It’s nothing as reckless as what Marick did, is it?”

Garet grimaced and shook his head. “It’s probably worse, but I don’t see how it can be avoided.”

Tarix raised her eyes, ran a hand through her short, sweaty hair, and sent up a silent prayer for patience.

“
WAKE UP! WE
have somewhere to go.”

Dorict opened one eye, and that only a crack. Garet stood over him, holding out a set of very non-Bane clothes. The Blue’s vision widened, focused, and the other eye appeared.

“What are those?” he mumbled. Dorict reached for the covers because he was cold and found none. They lay in a heap on the floor, and he soon joined them when Garet rolled him over and over until he fell.

“Ow! Garet, what are you doing?”

He sat up and rubbed a smarting elbow. He opened his mouth to complain, and Garet stuffed a fruit-filled bun in it.

“That’s compliments of Torfor in the Palace market. He also got us these clothes while you’ve been abed. Come on, we’ll change in one of the first floor washrooms and sneak out through the kitchen yard gate.”

Dorict was dragged down the stairs, his tunic and vest askew and his sash wrapped around his neck. Every time he tried to demand an explanation, Garet stuffed another bun in his mouth.

“Here, put these on. Take off your boots too. They’re too shiny for where we are going. Here are some shoes; I had to guess your size.”

Dorict chewed and put on the shoes. Garet had guessed a little too small, but he could still walk in them due to the sprung stitching. They stashed their uniforms and boots in a cupboard behind a stack of towels and slipped out of the Banehall. They were halfway across the cropped gardens of the Plaza when Dorict pulled on Garet’s arm, stopping him short.

“No! No more buns, at least not now. Garet, will you please tell me what is going on. Where are we going, and why are we dressed like this?”

He planted his feet on the paving stones and refused to move. The crowds of midday swirled around them in currents of colour, ignoring this temporary obstacle on the garden path. Garet relented and smiled at his friend.

“Dorict, I need your help. We are going to try to track down Shirin and talk some sense into her,” Garet said, leaning in so his words would go unheard by any other.

Dorict stared at him, mouth open. He looked back towards the Banehall as if it were the last refuge of sanity in the world.

“First we have to get someone to talk sense into you!” he said, not lowering his voice at all. “Do you remember that she wants to kill you? And have you forgotten what happened when Marick found them?”

“Marick was spying on them, and I’m not entirely sure she would have attacked me that night. Let me finish! Someone has to open negotiations with the Masks. We can’t stumble into another civil war, can we? They need to see that they’d be better off under the Hall’s command, or the King’s, rather than whoever is controlling them now.”

Dorict scratched his head, but stopped when he found a shapeless hat in the way of his fingernails. He took it off and looked at it in some confusion.

“I know you think there is some dark force behind the Masks, Garet, but maybe Marick got it wrong, or added that part just to make his story more fanciful. How can we tell?”

“By going to the source. That’s why we have to find her, and Tarix agreed with me . . . reluctantly. She also made me promise to run like the north wind if Shirin still wants to kill me. Now put that hat back on. If I have to wear one, so do you!” And with that he pulled the edges of his wool cap farther down so the last strand of his black hair was hidden.

“All right, all right, but how do we find her?” Dorict asked. He set the hat back on his head and pulled the brim low.

They started walking towards the bridges again, and Garet told him, “We are going to talk to one of the King’s agents. He’ll meet us in a tea shop just inside the Fifth Ward.”

“You want me to hang my life on the words of a spy?” Dorict asked. He began to lag, but Garet pulled him along.

“Please don’t call him a spy. He prefers the term ‘Historian’.”

When they got to the tea shop, Barick was in the back, occupying most of a corner table. He ignored them even when they sat in the little room left over.

“Barick . . . Historian?” Garet asked.

Their informant replied in a whisper out of one side of his mouth. “Should we be speaking? I thought we might pass notes under the table.”

Garet stared at Dorict, and the Blue shook his head.

“Ahh, that is a very clever idea,” Garet said, “but we are short on time, and neither Dorict nor I have pen and paper with us.”

“Unfortunate,” Baric whispered then resumed in a normal voice, “I received your note this morning and began my research at once. You were right to enlist my help, Garet, for I dare say no one else could have managed this. Now, I asked to meet you here because this Ward is where the only living relative of . . . you-know-who lives. Her family was mostly claw-killed when she was a child. An uncle, then married, took her in, but his wife died, again from the beasts, just before she joined the Duelists. This was an unlucky Ward in those days! Perhaps the Duelists became a new family for her, for she was high in their ranks, and so was high on His Majesty’s list to capture.”

Dorict started to scratch his head again but stopped.

“Do you know how she evaded the King’s Guard?” he asked the Historian.

Barick shrugged, an impressive trembling of the flesh. “We believe that a certain Ward Lord hid many, perhaps in league with rogue traders from the Twelfth Ward.”