Masquerades - Kate Novak [152]
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 be 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!"
Harborside led a round of applause, which silenced any other questions or doubts. The Night Masters filed out, congratulating themselves on their good fortune.
Seated on his stone throne, Victor, the Faceless, cradled a heavy head in his hand. It was exhausting managing a city, a family business, a criminal cartel, and a seduction all at once. When he finally had Verovan's treasure, he would turn loose his golems on this nest of thieves. Then there would be nothing standing between him and his eventual empire.
Twenty-Two
The Gathering Storm
Olive's attempts to steer Thistle away from Victor were thwarted by the hard-line attitude of her supposed ally, Miss Winterhart. The halfling newcomer, while capable, intelligent, and alert, had to be the most tactless halfling in Faerun. Unfortunately, Olive did not discover this flaw until the morning after Thistle's dinner date with Victor Dhostar, and by then it was too late.
That morning Olive was headed toward the dining hall, her mind on mushroom-and-chicken omelets, when she heard Thistle, angry and strident, shout, "It is none of your business what Victor and I did last night."
All thoughts of breakfast took a back seat to whatever potential disaster was brewing with the mistress of the house. Olive veered in the direction of the shout. She spied Thistle seated on the veranda, cornered by an irate Winterhart.
"It is very much my business if it threatens you or your household," Miss Winterhart snapped back just as Olive stepped outside to join them.
"Something amiss?" Olive asked helpfully, hoping to instill some calm in the air before the other halflings in the household heard the argument and began gossiping about it.
"This new halfling of yours," said Thistle, her eyes squinting with annoyance, "is prying into my private affairs. Her manner has gone beyond mere halfling cheek, and verges on full-fledged impertinence." If Thistle had been standing, Olive was sure she would have stamped
her dainty little foot, but she was not, and so Olive was spared that bit of theatrics.
"She sneaked out to dine with Victor Dhostar last night without a chaperon or a bodyguard," Winterhart explained to Olive, "and she did not return until well after the midnight bell.
"I am mistress of this house," Thistle retorted shrilly. "I will not be given a curfew."
"Of course not, Lady Thistle," Olive agreed. "Yet midnight is a little late for a dinner engagement to run, even in Westgate. Surely you can understand how Miss Winterhart must have worried for your safety."
"There was nothing to worry about," Thistle replied, her voice