Victor climbed into his carriage and set off for the Tower. He didn't know how much longer he could tolerate the interminable paperwork and meetings. He spotted Jamal's street troupe giving a performance, and, overcome by an urge to procrastinate, ordered the driver to stop.
The Faceless lived, at least on stage, though Jamal had replaced her stolen prop mask of coins with a veil of golden fabric. She was ordering her Night Masks about with a large wooden spoon, ordering them to "be still." The Night Masks would freeze in impossibly ridiculous positions under the Faceless's merciless eye. Jamal's Faceless would smack an offender for twitching or swaying, and he would go catapulting forward. One Night Mask tried to surreptitiously pick a fellow thief's pocket, but was spotted and received a smack for his action.
The audience, and it was a small one, appeared unimpressed as the Faceless put the collected Night Masks through a precision drill. They dropped to the floor as one and jumped around like frogs while Jamal sounded the beat with the pounding stick. Victor noted that the various puppets representing the noble families were not in use, and that there was nothing mentioning the new croamarkh, either good or ill. He wasn't sure whether to be pleased by that or not. Jamal might have complained about her eviction from Mintassan's, but she might also have at least given the new croamarkh credit for the relative peace in the city, even if she didn't seem to believe the Faceless was deceased.
Then up popped a figure wrapped completely in black bandages, save for its right arm, which was bare. The arm was marked with Alias's tattoo and wielded a wooden sword. Jamal's Faceless quailed in the presence of Alias's disembodied spirit and sent the Night Masks out to stop it. The thieves were quickly bested, one after another. Then the spirit chased the Faceless himself around the small stage until he tripped. As the villain lay on the ground, the arm pressed the sword into his breast. The shrouded figure cried out, "Heroes never truly die!" and lunged forward. The Faceless shuddered and expired.
Scattered, bored clapping broke out in the crowd, but that did not prevent Jamal and her troupe from bouncing nimbly to their feet and bowing to the applause.
Victor grinned with delight. Most of the populace was sick of the Night Masks, bored with dead heroes, tired of Jamal's proselytizing theater. If something happened to Jamal, there would be fewer questions.
Of course, destroying potential threats took a low priority with all the other work to be done. With a sigh, Victor, signaled his driver to continue on to the Tower.
There, annoyed at being kept waiting by the croamarkh, a Thayan representative awaited, a female Red Wizard who really only wanted to be reassured that trade would continue as it had under Luer's administration. The Thayan was followed by a Sembian, various Dalesmen, and representatives of King Azoun's court. Each, in turn, was similarly reassured. One of the surviving old nobles, Maergyrm Thorsar, had scheduled an appointment to lecture the croamarkh on Waterdhavian moneylenders. Victor was afraid he'd fall asleep before he was able to show the old bore the door. After Thorsar came the widow of Ssentar Urdo, who was protesting a rumor she had heard that Alias would get a statue when none was being erected for the widow's dear, departed husband and sons. Then, when Victor thought his schedule was finally cleared, Durgar arrived with the arrest reports, which required the croamarkh's attention due to the delicate nature of some of the arrested persons.
As it was, Victor was drained, both mentally and physically, when he finally escaped back to his castle. Yet not even then could he rest. He stood wearily as Kimbel bedecked him in his heavy, dark robes, tied on the porcelain mask that protected him from magical discovery, and finally covered him with the coin mask, which transformed him into the Faceless.
With a sigh, Victor stepped up to and then through the mirror in his chambers. The reflective surface parted for him like a pool of still water and deposited him in his latest secret lair. This one lay in a rough-hewn sub-basement beneath the currently empty Vhammos Castle.
The Night Masters were as restless as halflings waiting for dinner. The irregularities of the days since the ball had strained their self-discipline to the limits. They spoke out of turn, often all at once, questioned his every command, and made demands of their own. They made the nobles in the surface world seem like reasonable, rational beings. For a moment, Victor considered turning his remaining golems loose among them, but only for a moment, for he still needed the Night Masters to keep the peace among the Night Masks. Later, he thought, when they've outlived their usefulness.
"When can we get back to business?" Harborside asked..
"Do you realize how much money I'm losing?" Thunn- side whined. ft
"People are saying'that witch Alias killed you. Why aren't you doing something about it?" Noble Relations clamored.
"How do we know you really are the Faceless? Can you give us proof?" Enforcement demanded.
Victor let his frustrations drain away as he embraced his Faceless persona. Once again he was demanding, powerful, and sure of himself. He turned his face toward Enforcement.
"Would you like the same demonstration I gave to Gateside?" the Faceless queried, a certain amount of amusement creeping into his magically disguised voice.
All voices were silenced immediately. The Faceless motioned for all to be seated.
"Alias is dead. Of that you had proof. Perhaps you would like me to leave her arm on this table as a centerpiece for a few weeks. Alias's allies and the croamarkh who hired her are also dead. It is hardly my fault that people are fools enough to believe she succeeded in destroying me. Nonetheless, for the moment it suits my plans for people to believe in my demise. The new croamarkh is far more pliable than his father was, and he will serve us well, but it is important that his power be more firmly established. Therefore we will let him take credit for my destruction, for the time being.
"As for how much money you are losing, Thunnside, I really don't care. You've earned more wealth in this position than a dragon could hoard in its lifetime. If you could contain your urge to gamble, you would still have all that wealth. And, last, but not least, Harborside. Your business at the moment is to contain your forces. This is essential to your continuing in your current position. I guarantee it will be worth your while."
Having poured oil on their turbulent waters, the Faceless pressed on. "As a direct result of our success against Alias and her allies, information has come into my hands regarding the treasure hoard of King Verovan."
There was a collective gasp, just barely audible, but unmistakable. The Faceless smiled. Now he had them by their pocketbooks. Verovan's legendary hoard was the secret fantasy of every thief in Westgate.
"The young fool Mintassan discovered the secret," the Night Masters' lord explained, "though the sage never investigated it. Just as legend has it, there is a magical gate from the battlements above. Unlike all who have tried before me to locate this gate, I have discovered the location of the key. Once I have that key, Verovan's hoard will he ours to pillage."
A murmur of approval rose from the nine surviving Night Masters, but the Faceless was not finished. He silenced them with a stroke of his hand. When they grew silent, their master continued. "I want you to call together your lieutenants, their assistants, and their assistants' minions, along with whatever fighters, priests, and wizards you trust and choose to reward. We will gather in the main hall of Castle Vhammos in three nights' time to loot Verovan's hoard. Then there will be no doubt that it is the Night Masks who truly rule Westgate!"