Free Midnights Mask by Kemp Paul S Page B

about.
    Magadon chuckled.
    Cale smiled and said, “Brandobaris seems to be similarly absent, little man.”
    Jak laughed and shook his head. “Ah, but that is where you’re wrong, my friend.”
    With the ease of the practiced expert, Jak casually lifted the coin purse from a passing pilgrim, a thin, middle-aged man with a scar running down one cheek. Jak’s skill impressed even Cale, who had seen seasoned Night Mask lifters operate.
    Jak held up the purse for Cale to see as the pilgrim went on his way.
    Jak said, “The Trickster’s temples are where I find them. Turns out, that’s mostly in the pockets of others.” He grinned at Magadon, who wore an appalled expression. “Never fear, Mags. I’m not in the mood to worship today. And I only take the Trickster’s Tithe from those who deserve their pockets emptied.”
    Jak turned and called to the pilgrim, “Good sir! Good sir! You dropped this.”
    The pilgrim turned, saw his purse in Jak’s hand, and patted at his empty vest pocket. He seemed too shocked to speak.
    Jak jogged up to him and pressed the purse into his hand.
    “My mother always said to keep your coin purse in your underlinens. Along with the rest of your jewels. That’s sound advice.”
    Leaving a speechless pilgrim in his wake, Jak sauntered back to rejoin Cale and Magadon, neither of whom could help but smile.
    “Now that, my friends—”
    Jak looked past them and froze in mid stride.
    Alarmed, Cale whirled, but he saw nothing other than the sea of faces and heads. He started to turn back to Jak, but then saw what Jak had seen.
    “Dark and empty,” he swore. He could not believe his eyes.
    “It cannot be,” Jak said behind him.
    Sephris Dwendon, Chosen of Oghma and likely madman, walked slowly through the crowd toward the low, stalwart walls of the Sanctum of the Scroll, Oghma’s temple. A group of somber priests surrounded him, forming a protective circle and keeping passersby from getting too close. All of the Oghmanyte bodyguards wore white shirts, white trousers, and black vests adorned with embroidered characters from a variety of alphabets-the typical outerwear of priests of Oghma. Each also wore a crimson harlequin mask over their eyes and an iron mace at their belts. They eyed the crowd warily but did not seem to notice Cale’s and Jak’s stares.
    Sephris wore a simple red robe and worn shoes. He carried a book in the crook of his elbow. The loremaster’s distant gaze carried sadness, and he did not seem to see those around him.
    Cale did not remember Sephris being so tall. The loremaster stood half-a-head taller than any of the bodyguards, almost as tall as Cale.
    “What is it?” Magadon asked, stepping beside him. “That man should be dead,” Cale said, and nodded at Sephris.
    “Which? The tall one with the Oghmanytes?” Cale nodded.
    Jak stepped beside them and added, “The slaadi killed him, gutted him. We saw his body.”
    “Then he could be a slaad,” Magadon said, eyeing
    Sephris coldly. “Shapechanged to resemble your man. Remember Nestor?”
    Cale remembered. Nestor had been a comrade of Magadon’s. One of the slaadi had killed him and taken his form.
    “I remember,” Cale said. “But we just saw both slaadi hours ago. You two killed the third. This… this would have required several tendays to put in place.”
    “They can teleport from place to place quickly, Erevis,” Magadon said. “They could have been moving between Skullport, the Sojourner’s lair, and here. Or there could be another slaad that we haven’t yet seen. We should be certain.”
    Cale nodded. Magadon was right.
    “If he is a slaad,” Cale said. “Then we kill him on the street. We’ll deal with the Scepters afterward.”
    To his surprise, Magadon and Jak both nodded, faces grim.
    Cale put his hand to the velvet mask in his pocket and whispered the words to a spell that allowed him to see dweomers.
    Once cast, the spell was indiscriminate in its application. Many trinkets, weapons,