R. A. Salvatore - Cleric Quintet 3 - Night Masks

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To Aunt Terry, who'll never know how much her support has meant to me.

NIGHT MASKS

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons,

fivmg or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America.

Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein

is prohibited without the express written permission of TSR, Inc.

Random House and its affiliate companies have worldwide distribution rights in

the book trade for English language products of TSR, Inc.

Distributed to the book and hobby trade in the United Kingdom by TSR Ltd. Cover

art by Jeff Easley.

FORGOTTEN REALMS is a registered trademark owned by TSR, Inc. The TSR logo is a

trademark owned by TSR, Inc.

First Printing: August 1992 Printed in the United States of America-Library of

Congress Catalog Card Number: 91-66498

987654321 ISBN: 1-56076-328-0

TSR. Inc.

P.O. Box 756

Lake Geneva, WI 53147

U.S.A.

TSR, Ltd.

120 Church End, Cherry Hinton

Cambridge CB1 3LB

United Kingdom

iMpnesk Lake

CanitaoooN isle

(Estates)

_. Soultl , , 8WW*' Gats Soon, Paim ,

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of iixaWK

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250

500

Scale (in feet) * City Militia

O "CRCC

——i— he large fighter shifted uneasily in his seat, look-^M ^ ing all about the

nearly empty tavern.

• "Not so busy this night," the slender, I drowsy-looking man

across the table remarked.

JL He shifted back lazily in his seat, crossed his legs in front of him, and

draped a skinny arm over them.

The larger man regarded him warily as he began to understand. "And you know all

in attendance," he replied.

"Of course."

The burly fighter looked back just in time to see the last of the other patrons

slip out the door. "They have left by your bidding?" he asked,

"Of course."

"Mako sent you."

The weakling man curled his lips in a wicked grin, one that widened as the burly

fighter regarded his skinny arms with obvious disdain.

"To kill me," the large man finished, trying to appear calm. His wringing hands,

fingers moving as if seeking

R. A. Salvatore

something to keep them occupied, revealed his nervousness. He licked his dried

lips and glanced around quickly, not taking his dark eyes from the assassin for

any length of time. He noticed that the man wore gloves, one white and one

black, and silently berated himself for not being more observant.

The thin man replied at length, "You knew Mako would repay you for his cousin's

death."

"His own fault!" the large man retorted. "It was he who struck the first blow. I

had no choi—"

"I am neither judge nor jury," the puny man reminded him.

"Just a killer" the fighter replied, "serving whoever gives you the largest sack

of gold."

The assassin nodded, not the least bit insulted by the description.

The little man noticed his target's hand slipping casually into the hidden

pouch, the fitchet, in the V cut of his tunk, above his right hip.

"Please, do not," the assassin said. He had been monitoring this man for many

weeks, carefully, completely, and he knew of the knife concealed within.

The fighter stopped the movement and eyed him incredulously.

"Of course I know the trick," the assassin explained. "Do you not understand,

dear dead Vaclav? You have no surprises left for me."

The man paused, then protested, "Why now?" The large man's ire rose with his

obvious frustration.

"Now is the time," replied the assassin. "All things have their time. Should a

killing be any different? Besides, I have pressing business in the west and can

play the game no longer."

"You have had ample opportunity to finish this business many times before now"

Vaclav argued. In fact, the little man had been hovering about him for weeks,

had gained his trust somewhat, though he didn't even know the man's name. The

fighter's eyes narrowed with further frustration

Night Masks

when he contemplated that notion and realized that the man's frail frame—too

frail to be viewed as any threat—had precipitated that acceptance. If this man,

now revealed as an enemy, had appeared more threatening, Vaclav never would have

let him get this close.

"More chances than you would believe," the assassin replied with a snicker. The

large man had seen him often, but not nearly as often as the killer, in perfect

and varied disguises, had seen Vaclav.

"I pride myself on my business," the assassin continued, "unlike so many of the

crass killers that walk the Realms. They prefer to keep their distance until the

opportunity to strike presents itself, but I"—his beady eyes flickered with

pride—"prefer to personalize things. I have been all about you. Several of your

friends are dead, and I now know you so well that I can anticipate your every

movement."

Sclav's breathing came in short rasps. Several friends dead? And this weakling

threatening him openly? He had defeated countless monsters ten times this one's

weight, had served honorably in three wars, had even battled a dragon! He was

scared now, however. Vaclav had to admit that. Something was terribly wrong

about this whole setup, terribly out of place.

"I am an artist," the slender, sleepy man rambled. "That is why I will never

err, why I will survive while so many other hired murderers go to ear|y graves."

"You are a simple killer and nothing more!" the large man cried, his frustration

boiling over. He leaped from his seat and drew a huge sword.

A sharp pain slowed him, and he found himself somehow sitting again. He blinked,

trying to make sense of it all, for he saw himself at the empty bar, was, in

fact, staring at his own face! He stood gawking as he—as his own body!—slid the

heavy sword back into its scabbard.

"So crude," \feclav heard his own body say. He looked down to the figure he now

wore, the killer's weak form.

"And so messy," the assassin continued.

"How .. . ?"

R. A. Salvatore

"I do not have the time to explain, I fear," the assassin replied.

"What is your name?" Vaclav cried, desperate for any diversion.

"Ghost," answered the assassin. He lurched over, confident that the seemingly

androgynous form, one he knew so well, could not muster the speed to escape him

or the strength to fend him off.

\fcclav felt himself being lifted from the floor, felt the huge hands slipping

about his neck. "The ghost of who?" managed the out-of-control, desperate man.

He kicked as hard as his new body would allow, so pitiful an attempt against the

burly, powerful form his enemy now possessed. Then his breath would not come.

Vaclav heard the snap of bone, and it was the last sound he would ever hear.

"Not 'the ghost,' " the victorious assassin replied to the dead form, "just

'Ghost.' " He sat then to finish his drink. How perfect this job had been; how

easily \fcclav had been coaxed into so vulnerable a position.

"An artist," Ghost said, lifting his cup in a toast to himself. His more

familiar body would be magically repaired before the dawn, and he could then

take it back, leaving the empty shell of Sclav's corpse behind.

Ghost had not lied when he had mentioned pressing business in the west. A wizard

had contacted the assassin's guild, promising exorbitant payments for a minor

execution.

The price must have been high indeed, Ghost knew, for his superiors had

requested that he take on the task. The wizard apparently wanted the best.

The wizard wanted an artist.

Placid Fields

adderly walked slowly from the single stone tower, across the fields, toward the

lakeside town of Carradoon. Autumn had come to the region; the few trees along

Cadderly's path, red maples mostly, shone brilliantly in their fall wardrobe.

The sun was bright this day and warm, in contrast with the chilly breezes

blowing down from the nearby Snowflake Mountains, gusting strong enough to float

Cadderly's silken blue cape out behind him as he walked, and strong enough to

bend the wide brim of his similarly blue hat.

The troubled young scholar noticed nothing. Cadderly absently pushed his sand-

brown locks from his gray eyes, then grew frustrated as the unkempt hair, much

longer than he had ever worn it, defiantly dropped back down. He pushed it away

again, and then again, and finally tucked it tightly under the brim of his hat.

Carradoon came within sight a short while later, on the banks of wide Impresk

Lake and surrounded by hedge-

6 R. A. Salvatore

lined fields of sheep and cattle and crops. The city proper was walled, as were

most cities of the Realms, with many multistory structures huddled inside

against ever present perils. A long bridge connected Carradoon to a nearby

island, the section of the town reserved for the more well-to-do merchants and

governing officials.

As always when he came by this route, Cadderly looked at the town with mixed and

uncertain feelings. He had been born in Carradoon, but did not remember that

early part of his life. Cadderly's gaze drifted past the walled city, to the

west and to the towering Snowflakes, to the passes that led high into the

mountains, where lay the Edificant Library, a sheltered and secure bastion of

learning.

That had been Cadderly's home, though he realized that now it was not, and thus

he felt he could not return there. He was not a poor man—the wizard in the tower

he had recently left had once paid him a huge sum for transcribing a lost spell

book—and he had the means to support himself in relative comfort.

But all the gold in the world could not have produced a home for Cadderly, nor

could it have released his troubled spirit from its turmoil.

Cadderly had grown up, had learned the truth of his violent, imperfect world,

too suddenly. The young scholar had been thrust into situations beyond his

experience, forced into the role of hero-warrior when all he really wanted was

to read of adventures in books of legend. Cadderly had recently killed a man,

and had fought in a war that had blasted, torn, and ultimately tainted a once-

pristine sylvan forest.

Now he had no answers, only questions.

Cadderly thought of his room at the Dragon's Codpiece, where the Tome of

Universal Harmony, the most prized book of the god named Deneir, sat open on his

small table. It had been given to Cadderly by Pertelope, a high-ranking

priestess of his order, with the promise that within its thick bindings Cadderly

would find his answers.

Cadderly wasn't sure he believed that.

Night Masks 7

The young scholar sat on a grassy rise overlooking the town, scratched at his

stubbly beard, and wondered again about his purpose and calling in this

confusing life. He removed his wide-brimmed hat and stared at the porcelain

insignia attached to its red band: an eye and a single candle, the holy symbol

of Deneir, the deity dedicated to literature and the arts.

Cadderly had served Deneir since his earliest recollections, though he had never

really been certain of what that service entailed, or of the real purpose in

dedicating his life to any god. He was a scholar and an inventor and believed

wholeheartedly in the powers of knowledge and creation, two very important

tenets for the Deneirian sect.

Only recently had Cadderly begun to feel that the god was something more than a

symbol, more than a fabricated ideal for the scholars to emulate. In the elven

forest Cad-deriy had felt the birth of powers he could not begin to understand.

He had magically healed a friend's wound that otherwise would have proved fatal.

He had gained supernatural insight into the history of the elves—not just their

recorded events, but the feelings, the eldritch aura, that had given the ancient

race its identity. He had watched in amazement as the spirit of a noble horse

rose from its broken body and walked solemnly away. He had seen a dryad

disappear into a tree and had commanded the tree to push the elusive creature

back out—and the tree had heeded his command!

There could be no doubt for young Cadderly; mighty magic was with him, granting

him these terrifying powers. His peers called that magic Deneir and called it a

good thing, but in light of what he had done, of what he had become, and the

horrors he had witnessed, Cadderly was not certain that he wanted Deneir with

him.

He got up from the grassy rise and continued his journey to the walled town, to

the Dragon's Codpiece, and to the Sane of Universal Harmony, where he could only

pray that be would find some answers and some peace.

R. A. Salvatore

Night Masks

He flipped the page, his eyes desperately trying to scan the newest material in

the split second it took him to turn the page again. It was impossible; Cadderly

simply could not keep up with his desire, his insatiable hunger, to turn the

pages.

He was finished with the Tome of Universal Harmony, a work of nearly two

thousand pages, in mere minutes. Cadderly slammed the book shut, frustrated and

fearful, and tried to rise from his small desk, thinking that perhaps he should

go for a walk, or go to find Brennan, the innkeeper's teenage son who had become

a close friend.

The tome grabbed at him before he could get out of his seat. With a defiant but

impotent snarl, the young scholar flipped the book back over and began his

frantic scan once more. The pages flipped at a wild pace; Cadderly couldn't

begin to read more than a single word or two on any one page, and yet, the song

of the book, the special meanings behind the simple words, rang clearly in his

mind. It seemed as though all the mysteries of the universe were embedded in the

sweet and melancholy melody, a song of living and dying, of salvation and

damnation, of eternal energy and finite matter.

He heard voices as well—ancient accents and reverent tones—singing in the

deepest corners of his mind, but he could not make out any of the words, like

the written words on the pages of the book. Cadderly could see them as a whole,

could see their connotations, if not the actual lettering.

Cadderly felt his strength quickly draining as he continued to press on. His

eyes ached, but he could not close them; his mind raced in too many directions,

unlocking secrets, then storing them back into his subconscious in a more

organized fashion. In those brief transitions from one page to another, Cadderly

managed to wonder if he would go insane, or if the work would consume him

emotionally.

He understood something else, then, and the thought fi-

nally gave to him the strength to slam the book shut. Several of the higher

ranking Deneirian priests at the Edificant Library had been found dead, lying

across this very book. Always the deaths had been seen as by natural causes—all

of those priests had been much older than Cadderly—but Cadderly's insight told

him differently.

They had tried to hear the song of Deneir, the song of universal mysteries, but

they had not been strong enough to control the effects of that strange and

beautiful music. They had been consumed.

Cadderly frowned at the black cover of the closed tome as though it were a

demonic thing. It was not, he reminded himself, and, before his fears could

argue back, he opened the book once more, from the beginning, and began his

frantic scan.

Melancholy assaulted him; the doors blocking revelations swung wide, their

contents finding a place in the receptacle of young Cadderly's mind.

Gradually the young scholar's eyes drooped from sheer exhaustion, but still the

song played on, the music of the heavenly spheres, of sunrise and sunset and all

the details that played eternally in between.

It played on and on, a song without end, and Cadderly felt himself foiling

toward it, becoming no more than a passing note among an infinite number of

passing notes.

On and on...

"Cadderly?" The call came from far away, as if from another world perhaps.

Cadderly felt a hand grasp his shoulder, tangible and chill, and felt himself

turned gently about. He opened a sleepy eye and saw young Brennan's curly black

mop and beaming face.

"Are you all right?"

Cadderly managed a weak nod and rubbed his bleary eyes. He sat up in his chair,

felt a dozen aches in various parts of his stiff body. How long had he been

asleep?

It was not sleep, the young scholar realized then, to his mounting horror. The

weariness that had taken him from consciousness was too profound to be cured by

simple

R. A. Salvatore

sleep. What, then?

It was a journey, he sensed. He felt as though he had been on a journey. But to

where?

"What were you reading?" Brennan asked, leaning past him to regard the open

book. The words shook Cadderfy from his reflections. Suddenly terrified, he

shoved Brennan aside and slammed the book.

"Do not look at it!" he answered harshly.

Brennan seemed at a loss. "I... I am sorry," he apologized, obviously confused,

his green eyes downcast. "I did not mean—"

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ToAuntTerry,who'llneverknowhowmuchhersupporthasmeanttome.NIGHTMASKSCopyright1992TSR.Inc.AHRightsReserved.Allcharactersinthisbookarefictitious.Anyresemblancetoactualpersons,fivmgordead,ispurelycoincidental.ThisbookisprotectedunderthecopyrightlawsoftheUnitedStatesofAmerica.Anyreproductionorunauthorize...

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R. A. Salvatore - Cleric Quintet 3 - Night Masks

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