"The mirror," Alias muttered. "I never thought about the mirror. As if the Faceless would need a mirror to check how his hair looked before his meetings. I'm such an idiot."

Mintassan bent over and picked up a larger sliver of the broken, silver-backed glass. "Nice workmanship," the sage commented. He held it out to Durgar. "Late monarchical period. Legend has it that there were several of these magical portal mirrors in Verovan's castle. They disappeared in the looting that followed his death."

"So all the Faceless had to do was pop through the mirror and carry the stuff back to wherever he has another mirror," Alias noted1:

"No," Mintassan corrected, "all he had to do is order the iron golems to carry the stuff through. Much easier." Alias glared for a moment at the sage.

"Then, unable to carry the mirror through itself," the sage continued, "the Faceless had to smash it so no one could walk through it and discover where he'd gone."

"Well," Durgar said, "while I'm willing to concede this might have been a meeting place of Night Masks and even a hoarding place for their ill-gotten goods, I can see no evidence before me of any creature known as the Faceless."

"There is a Faceless," Alias snapped. "Mist confirmed it when we spoke with her."

"Mist? Ah, yes. The dead dragon. She might have been lying to you. Dragons will do that, you know," Durgar pointed out.

"Mist's skull is gone," Dragon bait, noted, peering into the pool, which had lately held the earthly remains of their former foe.

"I think, to be on the safe side," the priest murmured, "we should leave before the tide turns and traps us down here."

Durgar ushered the watch back down the stairs toward the sewer, but Alias remained behind, pacing the cavern floor with a barely concealed fury. There would be no end to the evil the Night Masks brought to Westgate unless she captured the Faceless. She thought of the rag man who had died when the Night Masks burned Jamal's home, and the halfling who'd been killed in the explosion in the warehouse, and all the other people who were dead because of the thieves guild. With his minions and his smoke powder, the Faceless would continue to terrorize the whole city-no doubt he considered himself master of Westgate. Now he was somewhere safe, with all his power still intact, laughing at her failure. Alias let loose with a tremendous shout, a battle-cry from the north, a call for vengeance.

Durgar, who'd just looked back to ask the adventuress if she were leaving with them, took a step back in surprise, nearly tripping down the stairs. Mintassan felt his blood run cold from the emotion he sensed emanating from the swordswoman.

The saurial touched Alias's tattoo, kindling the link they shared, trying to infuse some of his inner calm into her wild spirit.

The warrior woman shook herself out of her rage. "I will find him again!" she declared. "He cannot hide from me much longer."

Seventeen

The Faceless looked over his nine surviving minions, and from behind I his two masks, one of porcelain, the other of coins, he smiled. They had responded well, and promptly, to his summons. Each had received, from a messenger they'd never seen (nor would ever see again), a single scrap of paper with the code word "kudzu." They all knew what this meant. It had happened on rare occasions before, when some local activity near the bridge prevented them from using the entrance to their lair in secret. They were to meet at a different site, but at the same time as usual. So the Night Masters' business continued uninterrupted while Durgar and his watch were occupied examining a lair that had since been pillaged and abandoned. Two Night Masters who lived near the bridge had apparently detected the watch's interest in the sandbank and were now informing the others in hushed whispers. They were like nervous cattle milling in the path of an approaching storm, the Faceless reflected. They needed only that sharp crack of lightning to turn them into a stampede. The Faceless was prepared to be that lightning. The Night Masters' lord sat at the head of a wooden table, in a tavern that had closed for business two hours earlier. Behind him stood two rows of dragon-headed iron golems, arranged like obedient troops, to remind the others of the power he commanded. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the tabletop.

First the stick, the Night Masters' lord thought. He began the meeting by tossing Melman's mask on the table.

The glyph that labeled it as Gateside's had been scratched off the porcelain. "Gateside is dead," he announced. The effect on the assemblage was immediate. To the Faceless, their fear and uneasiness was palpable… and exquisite.

Now the carrot, the Faceless prompted himself. "I have at this time no plans to turn the management of his district over to anyone else. It might be better, I think, to divide his duties and his income among those of you who | remain." A tingle of excitement passed though the Night Masters. It was a great risk, being a Night Master, but the rewards were what made the risk worthwhile.

And finally the challenge: "Before Gateside died," the Faceless declared, "he betrayed us to Alias the Sell-Sword. Before his betrayal, this Alias was nothing more than a mercenary, a trumped-up member of the watch. In • betraying us, though, Gateside made her into exactly what he feared her to be-an enemy capable of destroying our organization."

The Faceless paused, letting his words sink in. It took his minions a few moments to shift their thoughts from their own greed to their own self-preservation. He ignored their impassive masks, but studied instead the pursed lips, the clenched jaws, the trickle of sweat along the cheek of Finance Management. Aside from fearing the loss of their wealth and freedom, some of them, he knew, had a childlike terror of being killed by this red-headed witch.

After a few moments, the Faceless continued. "I had not expected Gateside to betray us." It was an admission that he was, after all, only human, but one that also laid the blame squarely on the deceased. "Once I was made aware of his betrayal, I did everything in my power to keep the damage to a minimum. Our secret identities remain unthreatened." It was important to make them aware that he alone had preserved them from their enemies.

"The loss of a secure meeting place is a minor loss. Our treasury and our armory remain in our possession." Now to give them blood, the Night Masters' lord thought. "This swordswoman has lunged at us with all she had," the Faceless growled, "but we have parried her attack. Now it is time for our riposte."

Around the table, heads bobbed up and down in agreement.

"It is time to show this mercenary witch and all the people of Westgate that we are the true commanders of this city. It is time to let the merchant nobles know they cannot simply hire someone to free them from our rule." Smiles of satisfaction beamed from the Night Masters.

Finally, the Faceless thought, it's time to reveal my plan. "I propose," he declared, "that we use our long-hoarded troop of magical warriors in a single strike that will end the career of Alias the Sell-Sword and at the same time break the power of the merchant nobles once and for all. In light of Melman's betrayal, I will not go into the details of my plan, for security reasons. Are there any questions at this point?"

There should have been questions. Seven years ago, when the current faceless had managed to wrest the title and power from' the doppelganger who'd created this guild, there would have been questions. There had been at least three Night Masters then whose ability to reason, and consequently their power, had been strong enough to argue with him. Over the years, though, the current Faceless had skillfully eliminated these challengers. Melman had been the last. With his demise, there was no one left who would voice what the others hardly dared think, no piece of grit around which a pearl of wisdom might form.