Masks Page 15

  Mara sat up, the pounding in her head instantly switching from blacksmith’s-hammer intensity to something closer to a pile driver. Prella sat on the edge of her bed, pulling on a pair of soft leather boots she certainly had not had the night before, any more than she had had that pair of brown trousers or that long-sleeved white blouse. Mara looked at the foot of her bed, where she had tossed the travel-stained clothes she’d been given after they were rescued by the unMasked: they had vanished, to be replaced by a clean blouse and trousers much like Prella’s, though the trousers were dark blue and the blouse a light green. Even better: clean underwear. Particularly since at the moment she was wearing nothing at all. Who undressed me? she wondered. She decided she didn’t want to know. Also lying with the clothes was a brown towel and, in place of the heavy travel cloak she’d worn the night before, a light leather jacket.

  Mara massaged her pounding temples. “You shouldn’t have drunk so much wine,” Prella said with a bright smile that for a moment made Mara hate her. “I didn’t have any. I didn’t like the taste.”

  “I didn’t either . . . at first,” Mara muttered. She swallowed. “And I don’t much like it now, either.”

  A clay pitcher full of water, a wooden basin and a wooden cup rested on a low table beside each bed. Mara got up, pulled on the underwear—drawers and an undershirt—then poured water into the basin and splashed some of it on her face: its icy bite revived her a little. She took a few big gulps to wash the awful taste out of her mouth, ran her fingers through her tangled hair, wished desperately she had a comb, sniffed, and wished even more desperately she could take a bath.

  But there was something else she needed to do even more desperately, and so she finished dressing in her new clothes, then pulled on the boots she found at the foot of her bed—made of black, well-worn leather, they fit far better than the ill-fitting goose-greased ones she’d worn on the journey from the wagon—and made her way to the little room at the end of the corridor Hyram had shown them yesterday. Hearing the rush of water far below her, she tried hard not to think about falling in.

  Finally she descended to the Broad Way, where Edrik indeed awaited her, not very patiently. The moment she appeared, he took her arm and steered her to another tunnel and up a long staircase to yet another chamber that, if she were any judge, had to be directly above the girls’ bedroom, close to the top of the cliff. As they approached its open door, she heard voices, though she couldn’t make out what they were saying: they cut off as Edrik entered with her.

  Daylight streamed in through three windows, wider and taller than the slit in the girls’ room—albeit gray, not-very-bright daylight, since thick fog filled the stone horseshoe of the Secret City. Wisps of mist even drifted into the room from time to time, vanishing at once in the warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth at the far end, behind Catilla, who sat at the head of a long table of the same polished yellow wood as the one in her bedchamber.

  Half a dozen others sat along either side of the table, three men on one side, a man and two women on the other. Pitchers of water, drinking cups, and scattered bits of paper gave the scene the general air of an interrupted discussion . . . or possibly argument; some of those at the table did not look happy.

  Catilla didn’t look happy, either, but Mara suspected she never did. As Edrik left Mara’s side and took the seat at the end of the table nearest the door and farthest from his grandmother, Catilla’s sharp blue eyes locked on Mara’s face with the same disconcerting intensity as the night before, as though she were peering inside Mara’s head, and not much liking what she saw. “I trust you slept well,” she said.

  The politeness of the query was so at odds with her predator-like gaze that it caught Mara off guard. “Yes, thank you for asking,” she replied, the manners her mother had drilled into her for fifteen years providing the answer without her having to think about it. Feeling off-balance, both metaphorically and, thanks to the previous night’s wine, literally, she looked around for someplace to sit, but all the seats were taken.

  “I have just been telling the captains,” Catilla’s eyes flicked briefly around the room, “about our conversation last night.”

  “Which part?” Mara said. Her head still hurt, no one had offered her a chair, and she didn’t really feel like being cooperative. Mother’s not here to tell me to be polite, she thought bitterly, and she never will be again. So why bother? “The part where you made excuses for not doing anything for decades to rescue children from failed Maskings?”

  An angry murmur ran around the table, but nobody spoke except Catilla. “No,” she said without changing the inflection of her voice one bit. “The part where you told me what you need to create counterfeit Masks for us.”

  Mara stared into Catilla’s icy eyes, trying for defiance, but she couldn’t hold it. She blinked and looked away and said in a much smaller voice than she had imagined herself using, “I told you. I don’t even know if I can make a fake Mask that will fool anyone—much less a Watcher—even at a distance. But to even make the attempt . . . I’ll need a few things.”

  “Go on,” Catilla said.

  Mara repeated the list she had given Catilla the night before. “Maker’s clay. A set of shaping tools. A kiln. Pigments. A mortar and pestle. Silver or gold or copper for decoration. A crucible. Maskmakers’ wax, to make the mold of the face. A . . .” She went on, listing everything she could think of, hoping they would see how impossible the whole thing was.

  And at first she thought they had. “We have none of these,” pointed out one of the captains, a big, burly man with a thick black beard.

  “No,” Catilla said. “But we know where to get them. Edrik?” She nodded at her grandson.

  “Stony Beach,” he said at once. “The Maskmakers’ workshop is set apart from the main part of the village.”

  “It’s too close,” objected the black-bearded man. “They could track us back to the Secret City—”

  “Why should they?” Edrik countered. “Maskmakers, as Mara has just pointed out, use kilns. Very hot. Prone to causing fires. More than one Maskmakers’ workshop has burned. An unfortunate accident, one that destroys the workshop and all the Maskmakers’ tools . . . very sad. But not particularly suspicious.” He snorted. “After all, who would want a Maskmakers’ tools? No one knows how to use them except for,” he nodded at Mara, “another Maskmaker.”

  I’m not a Maskmaker! Mara wanted to shout. I’m not even a full apprentice! I’m just a girl who learned a few things from her father. He’s the Maskmaker!

  Her father’s face came to memory so forcefully it closed her throat in a sudden, painful spasm. And if I help these people, aren’t I betraying him?

  Yet what choice did she have? She was at their mercy. And she wanted the Autarch overthrown, too. Of course she did . . .

  But if that happened, what would become of her parents? The question had not occurred to her until now. Her father made Masks. If there were no more Masks, what would he do? And how much of the anger of the people rising up against the Autarch, if it ever came to that, would be directed at him and the others who had served the Autarch, willingly or unwillingly?

  Her head throbbed, and again she wondered if she wouldn’t have been better off in the labor camp, forgotten by everyone, instead of caught up in plots and rebellions.

  The assembled captains had been arguing while she stood lost in her own miserable thoughts, but she looked up as the arguing abruptly ceased. Catilla had stood, and that simple act had instantly silenced the captains, twice the size and half the age of their diminutive Commander though some of them were. “It is settled,” she said. “Edrik will lead a raid on the Maskmakers’ workshop in Stony Beach to retrieve the tools and materials Mara needs to make counterfeit Masks for our use. Escha,” she looked at the black-bearded man, “your company will assist.” She turned her attention back to the others at the table. “Stamas, Misk, and Anna, condu
ct your usual patrols. Pentra, take your company up the gully. A scout returned this morning and reports that the overturned wagon has been found, but the Watchers lost the raiding party’s trail at the river. Nevertheless, I want extra eyes looking in that direction for the next little while. Jarl, your company will garrison the Secret City. Dismissed.”

  The captains departed, talking in low voices, until only Edrik remained. Catilla nodded from Mara to her grandson. “You will tell Edrik precisely what you need, describing it in detail so there can be no mistake. We must not overlook anything. One raid like this we can—barely—risk. Two would be far too dangerous.”

  “It would be easier if I went with him, to show him,” Mara said, thinking, Maybe if I got out of here, I could slip away, get word to my father somehow . . .

  The half-formed and, if she were honest, suicidal plan evaporated as Catilla said flatly, “No. You are too valuable. You will remain here.” And with that she swept out.

  Edrik gestured Mara to the table. “Sit,” he said. “Tell me again everything you need. Slowly.”

  For the next half hour, she listed everything she could think of, describing the various materials and how they would be stored so he could recognize them. When she came to the tools, she pictured her father’s finishing sculptor’s tools, nestled in the black velvet lining of his redwood tool case. Silvered and gilded, they shone like jewels in the glow of his workshop lamps. A village Maskmaker’s tools would surely not be so grand, but they would just as surely have the same shapes and functions.

  “There will be a series of scrapers,” she said. “Some curved, some straight. The largest blade will be the size of my thumbnail, the smallest little larger than a hair. I would expect them to be together . . .” She went on. Edrik took no notes, but she could see him tucking away everything she told him behind his blue eyes, so reminiscent of his grandmother’s, though not—quite—as cold.

  When she had gone over the list three times, and answered all his questions, he stood and said, “Thank you. I think that will be all for now.”

  “Good,” Mara said. As she got to her feet the room swayed around her and her head pounded anew. She grabbed the table’s edge for support. “I . . . I think I need breakfast,” she added weakly.

  Edrik, to her surprise, actually looked guilty. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My grandmother likes early-morning meetings.” He made a wry face. “And late-night ones, too. I should have awakened you earlier so you could eat before you faced all this.” His gesture took in the long table.

  Mara felt a touch—just a touch—friendlier toward him. “I’m glad you didn’t,” she said. “I needed the sleep. But now, I really need food.”

  “I’ll escort you,” Edrik said. He offered his arm, and she took it. She only came up to his shoulder, but he walked as gravely with her back down the corridor and across the Broad Way as if he were escorting a noble Masked lady, and she felt more of her antagonism toward him fading as she made a grand entrance into the Great Chamber.

  Of course, it was a shame there wasn’t really anyone there to see that entrance except for Hyram, who turned from a sideboard, holding a steaming bowl of pink mush. “Good morning, Mara,” he said, flashing his infectious grin. “I see I’m not the only one late for breakfast.”

  “And it is my fault in both cases,” Edrik said. “In your case,” he looked down at Mara, “because of Grandmother’s summons, and in your case,” he looked at his son, “because I told you to bring my company’s horses down from the east pasture. Which I presume you did?”

  “They’re in the back-door stable,” Hyram said. “Ready for saddling.”

  Edrik nodded. “Good. We ride out within the hour.” He released Mara’s arm. “I’ll leave you in my son’s capable hands,” he said, and turned away.

  Hyram’s grin widened, and he leaned toward Mara. “Don’t worry, he didn’t mean that literally,” he murmured, too low for his departing father to hear.

  Mara blushed, which embarrassed her, which made her blush harder. To cover it up, she brushed past Hyram to the sideboard. She lifted the lid on the pot there and looked at the heaped pink mass inside. “What is that?”

  “Mush,” Hyram said. “Pink mush.”

  Mara laughed. “I can see that. But what kind of pink mush?”

  “The pink mushy kind.” Hyram grinned. “Sorry, I really haven’t a clue. But it’s not bad. Well,” he said, taking a seat at the nearest table, “not really bad.”

  Mara looked around. Empty pots and dirty dishes stacked on the table at the far end of the chamber, nearest the kitchen, indicated there must have been more food earlier, but nothing remained except the cauldron of mush, some small loaves of bread, a couple of clay pitchers—filled with water, not wine, she saw with relief—and a few wooden cups. She ladled the mush into a bowl, stuck a spoon in it, poured herself a cup of water, and joined Hyram at the table.

  “So how was your first night in the Secret City?” Hyram asked.

  “Interesting,” Mara said. She took a bite of the mush. It was warm, and filling, and had a slightly nutty taste that was all that kept it from being horribly bland, but she had a feeling she’d get tired of it quickly if it were all she had to eat. Resolving to be earlier to breakfast from then on, she took a bite of bread, washing it down with a swallow of water.

  “I heard,” Hyram said, “that you’re going to make counterfeit Masks for us.”

  “It’s not a secret?” she asked.

  Hyram shrugged. “You can’t keep secrets in the Secret City. Ironically enough. We’re all stuck here with each other and there’s not much else to do but talk. And chores, of course. Always lots and lots of chores.” He sighed and shoveled another spoonful of mush into his mouth. “We call ourselves an army,” he mumbled around it, “but we don’t do much armying.”

  “Until now,” Mara said.

  “Exactly.” Hyram swallowed and said, much more clearly, “The raid to rescue you is the most exciting thing that’s happened in months. And now there’s going to be another raid, to steal a Maskmakers’ tools. And it’s all because of you.” He grinned at her. “I think I’m in love.”

  That was pretty much the most embarrassing thing anyone had ever said to her, and Mara didn’t have a clue how to respond to it. So she didn’t. “I don’t even know if I can make believable Masks,” she said. “What if I can’t? All this risk and danger . . . it could be for nothing.”

  Hyram shrugged. “Then we’ll try something else. At least we’re trying something, at long last.”

  Mara sighed, and finished her bowl of mush. She pushed it away, and stood up. “There’s still a lot of the Secret City I haven’t seen,” she said. “And it looks like I’m stuck here a while. Want to show me?”

  Hyram shoved aside his own half-empty bowl. “Love to.”

  Over the next couple of hours he took her into every nook and cranny of the Secret City. She kept expecting to run into Keltan or the other rescued girls somewhere along the way, but they never did. It wasn’t until she’d been in Hyram’s company for an hour that she began to suspect Hyram knew exactly where the others were and was deliberately not taking her there, because he wanted her to himself.

  Boys had never paid much attention to her, and she hadn’t paid much attention to them, either. But Keltan had stuck to her like glue after the rescue, and now here was Hyram. He’d even said he was in love with her. Of course, he’d been joking.

  Hadn’t he?

  We only met yesterday, she told herself firmly. Of course he was joking.

  Still, she enjoyed his attention, and as a tour guide he was first-rate: not surprising, since he’d been born and raised in the Secret City.

  “Only about two dozen people arrived here with Great-Grandmother,” Hyram explained as he led her to the storerooms that opened off of the Broad Way. “Now there are more than three hundred men, women, and chi
ldren. Around a hundred fighters.”

  Some of the storerooms were full of grain the unMasked Army grew itself, “in a secluded little valley above the sea cliff,” others held racks of dried fish (“The boats go out every day, weather permitting,”) beef and mutton (“There’s a small herd and flock up on top,”) but one was stacked with barrels of wine, oil, olives, and honey—things the unMasked Army had certainly not produced itself.

  “Where did all this come from?” Mara asked. She pointed at the hook-beaked profile of a bird on the side of a barrel of wine. “That’s from Eagle Ridge Winery. It’s fifty miles east of Tamita, up in the foothills. You’re unMasked. You can’t exactly go shopping.”

  “The Masks don’t reveal everything to the Watch,” Hyram said. “They don’t reveal under-the-table deals made by certain businessmen, who receive gold by mysterious means in exchange for misplacing the occasional wagonload full of goods.”

  “But how do you contact them?” Mara said. “Isn’t the whole reason I’m supposed to make counterfeit Masks the fact that it’s impossible for the unMasked Army to enter Tamita?”

  “We don’t go to Tamita,” Hyram said. “But the larger towns and villages we can risk. Occasionally we send in someone who has just joined us and whose Mask is still intact, but that’s rare and it’s very dangerous for them to go anywhere near a Watcher. Mostly, we use children.”

  Mara gave him a startled look. He grinned. “Don’t look so shocked! They don’t do anything dangerous. But the Watchers pretty much ignore them, and an unMasked twelve-year-old is perfectly capable of delivering a message . . . or dropping off a bag of gold. Even a teenager can get away with it if he’s small and skinny enough. I did it myself until I, um . . .” He gestured at his rangy frame, “sprouted.”

  “But where do you get the gold?” Mara said.

  “Ah, that’s later on the tour,” Hyram said, and he wouldn’t explain any more until they’d seen the armory, and the blacksmith’s forge, and the stables.