It was too late to say anything more, the paladin realized, picking up his own feathery mask. The timing was all wrong. She would not hear it anyway. Although she had made no admission, it was clear to him that she loved Victor Dhostar.

"Come on," Alias chided from the hallway. "I don't want to keep him waiting." Dragonbait followed bis companion from the room.

Victor stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at Alias with delight written all over his face. Was it possible, the saurial wondered, that the merchant's pleasure could be a ruse? With his shen sight, the paladin studied the man as he bowed low before Alias. Once more he saw nothing but the cool blue flame that symbolized virtue. Dragonbait shook himself. It was entirely possible that Olive was wrong and that Victor was everything he appeared. The paladin descended the stairs, determined to make no more judgments until he'd heard what the merchant noble had to say about the key and his father.

Victor made a polite, although less dramatic, bow to greet Dragonbait. From the corner of his eye the paladin caught sight of Jamal in the shadow of a pillar. She winked conspiratorially at the paladin as Victor ushered his guests out of the hotel.

From the anteroom behind the actress, a small voice noted, They've dressed alike."

Jamal turned to face the little half-elven servant girl, Mercy. "Pardon?" the woman asked.

"Lord Victor and Mistress Alias," the girl explained. The fabric of the sash about his waist is the same as her baldric-the same diamond design. And his tunic is dark red velvet, too. A darker shade than Mistress Alias's gown, but close. He has her favor on his tunic, too." "Her favor?"

"She gave him a lock of her hair the other night. I saw her cut it off. I was watching from my window," Mercy admitted. "It was so romantic."

Jamal frowned. "It looked romantic. That's not always the same as being romantic," she muttered.

"No, Ma'am," the girl replied, too well trained to argue. She scurried off to avoid any further disagreeable comments. The aging actress leaned back against the pillar, realizing she must sound like an ill-tempered old maid. It was a curse, knowing so much. It made it impossible for her to suspend her disbelief and accept a fairy-tale romance as fact. Westgate nobles did not court for love, and they certainly did not court commoners. What was Victor Dhostar up to? she wondered.

The ride to the Tower, where the ball was to be held, was brief but lively. Victor steered the carriage skillfully through streets full of people apparently gathered to watch the pageantry of the nobles in their splendor. The crowds recognized not only Lord Victor but Alias as well, and cheers and shouts greeted them all the way to the market. Still, Alias felt compelled by Dragonbait's dour look to lean over and ask the merchant noble, "Have you spoken with your father?"

Victor nodded and returned a wave to a gathering in an outdoor cafe. "I'll tell you about it later, in private."

The watch was posted around the perimeter of the market, allowing only those who had an invitation to the ball to approach. Victor pulled his carriage up to the edge of the green. A member of the watch in buffed leather armor and a white capelet with a white plume jutting from his helmet helped Alias down from the carriage. Victor's elderly driver stepped up from the green to take the horses' reins from his master and move the carriage out of the way of newer arrivals.

Lord Victor donned his mask, a mere strip of red velvet with eyeholes bordered with gold stitching. Alias and Dragonbait did likewise, then their host led them up a path covered with ornate carpets. The market had been cleared of its mercantile trappings, leaving the crowds about the green a clear view of the nobles as they climbed the path to the Tower.

The Tower was alight with magical faerie fire, which formed the symbols of all the noble houses of Westgate, from Athagdal to Vhammos. Alias shuddered to think about all the nobles' homes guarded only by sleepy servants. The Night Masks must make quite a haul on nights like these, she realized.

There was a small queue of glittering nobles inside the Tower's entrance. "What are we waiting for?" Alias whispered.

This is a formal ball," he explained. "We must be announced, so the others present know we are here." "And can give us the once-over," Alias mused. "Don't worry," Victor said. "You look radiant."

When they reached the front of the queue, Victor leaned over to give their names to the acting seneschal,another member of the watch with a white capelet and white plume.

"Lord Victor of House Dhostar," the seneschal announced. "Alias, Foe of the Faceless, and Dragonbait, Companion of Alias."

"Foe of the Faceless?" Alias repeated with disbelief, her laughter muffled behind her mask.

"It's the thought on everyone's mind, here," said Victor. "You might as well admit it."

Dragonbait pushed on his mask, which kept slipping up on his reptilian muzzle. He wished irritably that the Foe of the Faceless had not chosen him a mask with feathers. They kept tickling his eyes.

The interior of the Tower was awash with light. Hundreds of candles bufned from a large central chandelier of cast iron, and all about the perimeter hung magical globes of light enchanted to appear as if salamanders and efreeti were dancing inside the orbs. Two great mirrors hung opposite one another, reflecting back into the room all the light they caught and creating the illusion of two infinite corridors filled with revelers.

The watch officers' desks had become buffet tables, and a ten-piece orchestra was playing a rondo. A dozen couples occupied the center of the floor, spinning in their own little orbits around an imaginary central point. The stairs to the upper levels were blocked by more of the watch, decked in white plumage.

The guests' clothing was rich and varied, but it was the masks that impressed Alias the most. They ranged from simple domino masks and silk veils to full face sculptures of papier macho and enamel. There were silvered globes of the sort worn by priests of Leira, the goddess of illusion, and more than a few veils of strung coins or beads. Most amusing were the masks that were common to street theaters everywhere: the Merchant, the Gossip, the Red Wizard, the Cat Burglar, the Twins.

Alias spotted Durgar dressed in his silvered armor but wearing the mask of the Doctor, a pompous character in street plays who always offered bad advice. With its high forehead, bulbous nose, and thick handlebar mustache,the mask looked like a parody of Durgar's own face. The swordswoman would never have credited the priest with such a sense of humor.

Catching sight of Haztor Urdo's black, puffed out hair, Alias paused to watch him. The Night Mask noble was wearing the mask of another theater staple-Captain Crocodile, the foolish, brash young warrior who blusters, but at heart seeks only love. Haztor was flirting with a woman dressed in an extremely low-cut gown made of fabric covered in mirrored facets and a silvered globe mask. Alias watched them just long enough to see the woman slap the young man and stalk off.

Alias chuckled. "Their battles are fought at the ball," she quoted. "Pardon?" Victor asked.

"A song that my-* She hesitated a moment. "That Finder Wyvernspur wrote about nobility in general," she explained. In a low voice audible only to Victor and Dragonbait, adjusting to the rhythm of the orchestra, Alias sang softly: "For all of their dancing, Posturing, prancing, They'll fight with their backs to the wall. Till then they are eating And drinking and meeting; Their battles are fought at the ball."

Victor smiled. "That sounds like Westgate," he agreed. "Good evening, Lady Nettel," he said.

Alias turned to greet the elderly Thalavar matriarch. The noblewoman was dressed as before, in a black velvet gown and her verdigris feather brooch, her only concession to the masquerade a bit of white silk tied about her eyes, with eyeholes cut into it. In her wake she pulled her niece, Thistle, and Olive Ruskettle.