City of Masks
a novel by
Mike Reeves-McMillan
Copyright Information
City of Masks copyright © 2006 Mike Reeves-McMillan.
Published by C-Side Media.
Smashwords Edition © 2009. All rights reserved.
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More information at: http://city-of-masks.blogspot.com.
Private journal of Darion, Lord Rivers, Undersecretary to the Foreign Minister of Calaria
The sixth of the first month.
Perhaps I might soon enjoy relations with my wife again.
Sir Willard Chase, that good man, is dead – and I mourn him as is proper. But with his death there comes available a post to which I may appoint Gregorius Bass, so that my honoured spouse may be reconciled to me.
It always astounds me that a woman otherwise astute should so romanticise such a one as Gregorius, half-brother or no. True, he bears a strong physical resemblance to their late father, and has even many of the old man's mannerisms. This circumstance has deceived others, myself included, though never for so long as it has deceived her. Their father was no fool; a badger of a man, black and white, solid and slow-moving, tenacious, fierce when cornered, but no fool.
True, also, that Gregorius is some years older than his sister, and she has often told me stories of how he was her hero and her protector when she was very young, and he not yet away to school. (I sometimes think that if I hear the tale of how he rescued her from the millrace once more, I shall not be responsible for my actions.)
It passes my belief, however, that she thinks him a brilliant prodigy, unfairly held back by his relationship to me; when in fact the exact opposite is the truth.
Many have been our late-night arguments, Katara insisting that he ought to be given a position more suited to his talents; I (having been a diplomat) forbearing to retort that I can hardly demote him, but protesting that I cannot be seen to be nepotistic. She, that surely all know his ability. I, again diplomatic, that no suitable position is available. She, to sulks; and I, alone to a cold bed.
Now, though, with the death of Sir Willard, Bonvidaeo has fallen vacant – a sinecure, made for a plodder, a clod, a filler of forms, a seat-warmer such as Gregorius. Almost a ceremonial post, a hangover from an earlier age, a token to prop the pride of a few Calarian mercers and fullers in that now peaceful city who, since the time of my predecessor's predecessor, have not required the services of an envoy for anything more than permits and official seals – the issuance of which is well within even Gregorius's competence. I believe there is even a book which sets out the procedures, written in a fit of boredom or zeal by some previous incumbent and handed down ever since. He can read, even if slowly, and it is not a long book.
"Envoy" as a title has a good ring. I think Katara may be satisfied with "envoy".
My only concern is that he may offend the odd customs of the Bonvidaeoans, and to that end I asked Tailor, through whose ears all knowledge passes, to search for some native of that city to serve him in the capacity of guide. Gregorius is looking for a new valet (he bored me almost senseless the other night with a long tale about how the present fellow can never heat his shaving water to the right temperature), so I can foist one upon him and not seem a meddler. Indeed, I shall be the solicitous brother-in-law.
Luck was mine again, for Tailor stated immediately that he knew of such a one; a youth, trained to service in one of the great houses of Bonvidaeo, who had sought adventure as a sailor, landed here for a season, and now desired to return to his native country.
(If only I could appoint Tailor to some post fitting to his worth! But were he not a commoner, or were he posted out of kingdom, he could not serve me by the wealth of contacts and the knowledge of the deep currents of the city that he has. I must be content with paying him a clear crown higher than his official post should merit. Had I but more Tailors and fewer Basses…)
The seventh of the first month.
The sun shines upon me, though outdoors it is winter and the trees display no leaves. I enjoy, again, the favour of my wife; and find myself much relaxed, and in good temper with the universe.
Today, also, I have met the Bonvidaeoan youth. He is a slender fellow, quick of movement, speech, and thought, and mature for his years, which number perhaps eighteen or twenty. He has the foibles of the Bonvidaoans: will not look one in the face, and wears the mask all his countrymen affect; yet his tact would not disgrace a man of my own profession. He is educated, he tells me, in the lore of masks of which that City makes so much, and will be able to serve as clerk and secretary in addition to his valet duties.
He strikes me as the ideal guide for Gregorius. I cannot imagine a youth more suited to keeping a fool out of trouble.
Private Journal of Gregorius Bass, Envoy of Calaria to the City-State of Bonvidaeo
The twentieth of the first month
The sailing from Calaria has been good, the weather fine, the salt breezes refreshing and the motion of the ship pleasant. I am in excellent health and spirits.
This day we sighted the low, wooded headland which, when rounded, brings us within sight of Bonvidaeo. Accordingly, we shall be required to don our masks shortly to comply with the Bonvidaeoan law. Although a low fog hovers around the point and we will probably not be literally visible from the city – and certainly our faces will be not – Corius says that this is not what is important.
Corius, whom His Lordship so thoughtfully provided as my valet – after I mentioned in passing that I was dissatisfied with the last man – Corius has been telling me at length of the origin of the Bonvidaeoan customs, and as it is a droll story I shall record it here.
Some three hundred years gone, it seems, Emilion, first of that name, was king in Bonvidaeo. This Emilion was much addicted to the fantasies and foibles which occurred during the season of Carnival, which then was, as in all the countries around, a matter of a week. This decadent obsession, along with the bibbing of much wine, inclined the monarch – whose power at that time was absolute – to extend the period, first by another week; then, when that week was almost ended, by a month; and then, when that month was almost passed – making six weeks in all – did he declare, and have passed into the city-state's ordinances, that Carnival would run year-long.
His high ministers threw their full support behind this novel law. Corius would have it that they looked for His Majesty's distraction with the entertainments of the Carnival, not for a week, but perpetually, to allow power to descend to their own shoulders; but Corius is something of a cynic. The merchants, who made their best money during Carnival, were also disinclined to oppose its extension, though in fact their annual income rose but little – for it was the special nature of the time, and not the festivities alone, which encouraged free spending.
From the religious arm, there was at first opposition, for Carnival fosters that wildness which in Tolland they call "maskfreedom". Revelers, their identities concealed, play their tricks and japes with impunity, and license prevails, against the teachings of religion. But it happened (perhaps by coincidence, though Corius hinted not) that the then Archpriest died shortly after the edict, and his successor convened a Council of theological reasoners and logic-choppers to study the matter. After being closeted for almost two months, they emerged with the basis of a new doctrine which has prevailed, except for certain heretics, since that day.
Worship in Bonvidaeo, and indeed surrounding nations, has always involved the use of masks to depict the presence of the gods among men; and Carnival, too, involved the secular use of masks to represent famous characters, mythological and historical.
What the assembled theologians birthed, influenced (says Corius) by certain cunning factions among the King's ministers, was the doctrine of Characterism, which was always (they claimed) inherent in their belief and practice. This doctrine holds that the mask is the thing. That is to say, a priest in the mask of the god is the god, standing among his worshippers, a legitimate focus of awe and adoration. Likewise – and here is where the ministers benefited – a man in a mask of a mythical hero is that hero.
Thus the ministers, small men in truth, could glorify themselves by adopting the masks of famous wise men, statesmen and saviours of their nations; and the Bonvidaeoan religion now required the orthodox to treat these men as those men.
Heaven be thanked, we have no such custom or belief. But the Bonvidaeoans, who have maintained and sophisticated this doctrine over time, make it the basis of their very society, and so I must go masked to move among them or be guilty at once of a sin and a crime.
Though the other aspects of Carnival are no longer practiced in Bonvidaeo to any greater degree than in other nations, this masking continues in all places even theoretically within sight of the City, as I have alluded to already. Corius, good servant that he is, has prepared for me several masks – for the making of masks is a skill prized by Bonvidaeoans, and he has made a special study thereof with an elderly savant of his acquaintance.
When I am in my official capacity, I must mask as an Envoy, while at other times Corius thinks it safest, until I learn the customs, that I be Uncast. This means a simple black robe and domino, and so long as I do nothing to draw attention to myself nor do not seem to be in any character, I am effectively invisible, protected from harassment by any passer-by. (For some of the masks are malign, and some have complex traditions attached to them; and if I gave the wrong response to one such while in a character, I would be denounced as Unmasked and vilified at once as a criminal, a blasphemer and a transgressor of etiquette. For religion, law and social mores all agree in Bonvidaeo – at least touching the matter of masks, though perhaps less so on other matters.)
When we reach the city, Corius says, he will take me to consult his former mentor, the elderly and respected Felkior, who keeps the Book of Masks. This important ceremonial post is given to one wise in history, myth and the lore of the mask, and on his advice many trials, civil and ecclesiastical, are settled. For it is he who records, and recalls, the meaning, form, and legends of the various masks, and how the characters depicted by them should act, and who is licensed to wear which; so Corius hopes that this sage (of whom he speaks as fondly as of a father) will be able to find for me some inoffensive persona in which I can safely move about in Bonvidaeoan society.
Far from feeling threatened by the risk, my blood is thrilled. It is an adventure that My Lord has given me; and I feel at once like a discoverer of strange lands, and like a maiden at – as it were – her first masked ball.
We are about to round the headland, and I must mask.
The twenty-first of the first month
I write this in our inn, a fair enough hostelry in the clothmakers' quarter (and thus in proximity to our office), whitewashed within and without and furnished with the angular, solid furniture of the last century. It was as well I had Corius with me, for when we entered the inn, the innkeeper no more took notice of me than I had been the air itself. Corius, good fellow, was masked as a Servant, and as such negotiated our rooms. But I was Uncast, and according to the very law of the city, invisible.
I asked my servant as we ascended if any ever make use of the mask of the Uncast in order to commit crimes. Certainly, he said. But if they are caught, then they are charged not only with one crime – whether it be theft, murder, assault – but with the far more serious crime of being Unmasked.
You could, he said (addressing me) have sat upon any of the chairs or at any of the tables; placed a coin upon the bar, and received ale in exchange (for to exchange ale for coin is proper to a Barman, and no matter that no man is seen to give the coin or take the ale); taken a coin to the servery and received food in exchange, for the same is proper to a Cook as is proper to a Barman; warmed yourself at the fire, if you obstructed no man else; and none would have spoken to you, or of you. If the City Watch came and inquired of you when you were gone, the Lord Justice himself, if he were present, would swear there had been no man seen, and not account himself a perjurer. But if you so much as took a mouthful of another man's soup, or tripped him as he walked to the door, every man in the room would seize you, and hale you to the officers for Unmasked.
It seems, then, that I am safe enough, and can carry on my life in peace, if I trouble no man and take pains to behave as if I am invisible. The disadvantage is that they will all treat me as invisible also. I will have no impact, no significance. To a nature such as mine, this is abhorrent, but it must be bourne with until we can find me a mask that will enable me to walk abroad without imperiling the grave mission entrusted to me, that of representing my homeland in this foreign place.
Today we went in search of a house to rent during my tenure here. As Corius explained, it must appear suitable to my station; and so we searched in the great streets and the wide.
Houses here are not as houses at home. At home, any apartment which the inhabitants are wont to use must be comfortable and reflect such style and status as the owner has. Here, this is true only of the rooms seen by visitors; and these are furnished lavishly, at the expense of the rest of the house. I have strayed sometimes into servants' quarters and onto servants' stairs in the houses of the wealthy, through having missed my way, and have known it immediately by the poverty of the decoration compared with the pomp of the other rooms. Well, here the contrast is much greater, and only a couple of rooms are decorated up; the rest are bare and chill, that more may be spent on those which guests shall see.
The fronts of the houses, too, are most lavish. The streets they give upon are broad, as I have said, and used only for carriages and sedan chairs. Carts and the like use the back streets; and they are truly back streets, for they run behind the houses, and are mean and narrow in the extreme, and often set lower than the main streets. Many of the greater thoroughfares have tunnels plunging beneath them to carry the common traffic, so that not even the exit of what is called a "street of the second city" is seen to open upon them. Like the Uncast, they are conventionally invisible. A third network rises above, the High Paths – bridges and walkways strung from roof to roof, upon which only the upper classes may walk. The wealthiest and most powerful live in the upper stories, above the residences of their dependents and supporters; they are the upper classes in literal truth.
The houses of the poor in our city are clustered meanly together in one quarter; in Bonvidaeo, the poor are one's neighbors, but neighbors one never sees. They live off the alleys which run behind the houses of the rich. Nobody has back windows here, or back doors either, except what let onto loading docks for supplies. A few of the greater houses relegate even these to their cellars; the palace, for example, is surrounded on all sides by broad ways, down which carts are forbidden from moving, and is provisioned from a network of tunnels below ground, suitably defended.
All this Corius told me; I did not see the mean streets for myself, as he thought it inadvisable. We have found one or two fine dwellings – fine in outward appearance, that is, and Corius says that this is all that matters – and we will look again tomorrow.
Tomorrow, also, or the day after, Corius hopes to take me to Felkior, an introduction to which I look forward with eager anticipation.
The twenty-third of the first month
I must, before my memory of the day's events fades, commit them to paper, for they are curious in the extreme.
Yesterday we spent as the previous day, searching for a house; we settled at last on one, on the corner of Weaver-Street and the Ribbonway, and we will be removing there before many more days, after which I will present my credentials at Court. Corius has commissioned from a tailor whom he knows a suitable costume for an Envoy, and has himself made a mask for me.
This mask he showed, as if for approval, to Felkior at our interview today – for today, at last, I met that remarkable and most redoubtable old man. The sage inspected it carefully with his long, slender fingers, not once glancing at it, and for the first time – we had been there some quarter of an hour – I realised that he was blind.
"Yes, young man," his amanuensis, one Tamas, whispered to me; "had you not known?"
I am scarcely now a young man, for I am four-and-thirty; but Tamas is older by twenty years, and I forgave him it.
"Known what?" put in the sage, sharply; and I swear his eyes were focussed on me. I could tell the direction of his eyes better than with most Bonvidaeoans, for he wears a peculiar mask, granted to him... but I am not telling my story in order.
We arrived at the house – which is not ostentatious, a pleasant stone house with bright rugs, which it now occurs to me must be for Tamas's pleasure, as his master cannot perceive them – we arrived, I say, in the mid-morning, and grey-haired, grey-robed Tamas opened to us. Corius knows the secretary well, and introduced us, and we ascended to the old man's study. This is a chaos of volumes, crammed on shelves, scattered on tables, all centering about the great Book which is Felkior's charge, the Book of Masks. Masks, too, there are in great profusion, many of them attached to the bookshelves or suspended from the ceiling, others forming place-markers in books or intermingled with them on the tables and desks, cloth masks, papier-mâché masks, leather masks, feather masks, a carnival in miniature around the cluttered workroom of the scribe.
The old philosopher himself wears a singular mask which covers only half his face. It is, moreover, a mask of his face, which is a thin, intelligent physiognomy with a hook of a nose above a white goat's beard. However, it represents this face when it was somewhat younger and less wrinkled; and in the course of the conversation he indicated that this was an honour awarded him first in his youth, when he gained distinction as a living Character.
"For all our masks," he said, in a voice surprising deep for one of his age and thin frame, "are based on some Character or another, whether of myth, or legend, or common tales, or a stereotype of one's occupation such as the Secretary portrayed by my friend or the Servant portrayed by your young fellow here, or the Envoy which he has rendered with some skill. (A lighter hand with the sequins might perhaps have been in better taste, but no matter. Provided they are silver and not gold...? Even so. I should have trusted you to remember.)
"Sometimes, you see, a person becomes a legend – or a myth, or a common tale – in their own lifetime, and then they are themselves classed as a Character. See here," he rose smoothly, smoother than I would have predicted from his lined face, and striding to the table of the great book, located one bookmark of many by the feel of the ribbon, and opening the volume indicated an entry high on the right-hand folio.
"Here is the description of my first Character, which I won in my misspent youth." I bent beside him to read it, and could make little sense of the glyphs and abbreviations in a kinked and crabbed hand.
Seeing my puzzlement, the secretary stepped to my aid, and recited in an even tone something like the following:
"FELKIOR. Accepted as a Character on [the exact date escapes me, but it was some years before my own birth]. Age 19. Of the class Lover, the subclass Philanderer, the type Successful, the subtype Unrepentant. Characteristics: athletic, daring, wild, contemptuous, amoral, flippant. Approach: dazzlement. Secondarily of the class Swordsman, the subclass Rapier, the type Excellent, the subtype Flashy. Characteristics: wounds, does not kill unless hard-pressed. Approach: out of the sight of women, strikes quickly and accurately, does not fence; in the sight of women, will fence impressively unless in danger of capture. Thirdly of the class Dandy, the subclass Fashion Leader, the type Daring, the subtype Tasteful. Characteristics: bright, but not gaudy, primary colours, subtly combined, innovatively cut. Approach: innovates at each social event. Mask: black silk half-vizard, deep red silken band with many golden broken hearts across the forehead; four crossed rapier symbols spaced evenly across the centre of the mask, made of steel, painted in red, blue, green and yellow; a fifth, steel, unpainted and unpaired rapier offset out of pattern on the left; along the bottom of the mask, stitching of ribbons of the same colours, inclined to the right, not in a regular pattern of colour or any two of the same width."
I cannot say my puzzlement decreased; rather, it grew greater as I looked at the elderly, scholarly gentleman before me, whose white mask was of cloth, but not silk, and covered half his face, but not the upper half (it was the right). It was not that of a youth, but a man in middle age, and the silken band across the forehead might once have been pale pink but now looked almost white. The symbols he bore were six, and were tiny scrolls – actual scrolls, they were three-dimensional, not painted, but tied on with little cords – and the bottom of the mask had regular stitching of sober grey ribbon, inclined to neither left nor right. The only colour was a small feather, like a peacock feather, hanging by each ear.
"My second character," said Felkior, "was much different." Without having to be prompted, the secretary flipped to a later page in the huge volume, and read another description. This one matched the man and the mask I saw before me, and other than that I cannot recall it accurately – I was still somewhat struggling with the previous characterisation.
"You see," the scholar said when his assistant finished, "there have been two characters called Felkior."
"That is one way to put it," said the secretary.
"Well, how would you put it?" his employer demanded.
"That you, Felkior, have lived two different kinds of life in one lifetime."
"Twisting, twisting, always twisting!" cried the old man – though he did not appear angry; indeed, he was grinning even as he remonstrated with his amanuensis, gesturing with a wrinkled finger.
"I could say the same," retorted Tamas.
"Not so; it is a valid viewpoint. You said as much yourself."
"And you believe that because it is a valid viewpoint it is true."
"And you believe that because another viewpoint is true, this one cannot be true also."
"And you..."
"Gentles, gentles!" put in my servant hastily. Both men looked a little shamefaced; their debate had rapidly grown loud.
"My apologies, Mysir Bass," said the scholar. "Tamas and I are old friends, and old debating partners with it; we hold differing views on some points of philosophy with which you should not be wearied."
The secretary made his apologies also, and I accepted both, of course. Then we proceeded to the main purpose of my visit: to identify a character I could safely assume within Bonvidaeoan society.
"Tell us of yourself, then, Mysir Bass," invited Tamas.
"Tell us," said the scholar, "of who you would wish to be." I thought another debate was about to break out, but the blind man glared – precisely at his secretary, too – and the man subsided. I thought myself that Secretary Tamas took too much upon himself.
"Well," said I, "I have always been a physically strong man, though I am not quick. I am, I hope, a man of honour; I am industrious, and I think reliable. I am not cunning, and dislike cunning men. Apart from that I know of no virtues I possess, save loyalty."
"My master is too modest," said Corius; "he is also a courageous and courteous man, gentle to his friends, fierce to his foes, and generous to those less fortunate."
I stared in some surprise at my servant, for I had not expected his tribute, especially on such short acquaintance.
"And how," I asked, "did you reach these great conclusions?" I may have spoken a little sharply, for I was unused to such forwardness in a servant; yet I was complimented.
"Mysir," he said, "tell me if it is not so."
"It is true," I said, "that I have no fear of man, beast, or natural force, beyond what is prudent and necessary; that I keep the ways of my gentle ancestors in these decayed times; that I am not a man to frustrate; and that I sometimes give trifles to those in need. But how had you concluded this on such a short acquaintance?"
"I must confess," he said, "to having spoken somewhat with Tailor, Milord Rivers' assistant, and he gave me some such a word-picture of you. Also, I am an observer of mankind, and of human nature, and having watched you, I know his words are true."
"But how, when you have not seen me at any risk, nor speaking to a friend, nor confronting a foe, nor – as far as I recall – giving alms?"
"As to giving alms, there was a beggar this morning," he said; "we were talking at the time, and you did not seem to remark him, but you gave to him – a silver coin, I saw it flash – without pausing in your speech."
"You are right," said I; "I had forgotten it."
"As for the rest," said Corius, "a man is all of a piece; to see one thing in him is to see all. And many small words and actions of yours point to the truth of Tailor's saying."
Now truly, I had never thought Tailor a particular friend of mine, or an admirer; almost the opposite at times, I had reckoned; but I can admit when I am wrong, and I owe the good fellow an apology, I see now. I shall do somewhat for him when I am next at home.
We talked for some time longer, and then Corius fell to suggesting with the old man and his secretary masks that might fit me; as, "Gentle Knight", and they murmured, "No, for we want no provocation"; and "Honest Courtier", and they said, "No, too rare, too obscure; and there are risks attached to that one, which you may not be aware of"; and some more I have forgotten. Often, Felkior and his secretary fell to arguing some point of philosophy, and Corius had to return them to the topic. Their talk was filled with many terms and references which I knew not, being foreign, and I was soon lost. I had ceased to attend, and was watching the passing traffic from the window (for none of the sage's many books looked light or amusing), when one of them – Tamas, I think – cried, "Of course. The Innocent Man."
I turned around – for his voice had been loud – and surprised an odd expression on the face of Corius, which changed, however, in an instant; it had looked like amusement, but what with the mask it is always hard to tell expressions, and it may well have been rejoicing only.
"Aye," said my servant, "the Innocent Man. Ideal in every way."
"It is true," I said, "that I am guilty of no wrongdoing; but what is this 'innocent man'?"
"The Innocent Man," explained the sage, "is a mask worn rarely, for it is rare, as you know, to find a man without any guile at all. Its significance is this: that any question asked by the character is to be taken, not as a veiled insult or intended blasphemy, even if such is the plain meaning of it, but as the question of an uninformed innocent who means no harm thereby.
"The Innocent Man has no enemies, for he offends nobody. He is openhearted and generous. It is always wrong, and always an offence, to challenge him, or to attack him; he should be protected, rather. The only thing is this, that he is not known for courage (though he is not known for cowardice; the Innocent Man is simply not placed in situations which require courage), and he is not unusually courteous – not so as to be remarkable for it."
"We always thought," said Corius, "that three or even four masks might be needed. How is this: The Innocent Man for daily wear or when in social situations; the Envoy for official occasions and for courtesy; and perhaps the Gentle Knight for courage, if it is required?"
"You have your heart set on the Gentle Knight, do you not?" asked Tamas, smiling.
"Well, and why not?" asked the sage his master. "It is a good mask. Scriven out the descriptions, then, Tamas, in plain language so that our client can read them, and Corius will be a good fellow and prepare the masks. The Innocent Man is simple – a white sheep's wool domino with wide eyes and raised eyebrows; and the Gentle Knight – ah, I grow old, Tamas, and there has not been a Gentle Knight in some time; copy it out, man, and read it to me as you do so."
The secretary did so, but he had gone no more than four words into the description when his master's voice joined him, and completed it without his help, needing only the jog to his memory. The Gentle Knight is portrayed with a half-vizard mask of soft sky-blue-dyed leather, and a sheathed sword at either side is bound to a peacock-feather; the other details I cannot now call to mind.
"It is a feather-mask, being a mask of war," said Corius; "that is good."
"What is a feather-mask?" I asked.
"You must have seen the feathers in the masks of the city watch, between the eyes?" he replied. "They were once real peacock feathers – am I not correct, Master?" (addressing Felkior, who nodded as one pleased with an apt pupil), "but an enterprising rogue held all the peacocks in the city to ransom, and it was declared that any feather dyed with the eye pattern of the peacock would suffice. They symbolise the all-seeing eye, you see, and anyone who wears one can perceive even the invisible characters, like the Uncast."
"But surely anyone can perceive them," I said.
"Now that," said Tamas when they had all finished laughing, "is a remark of the Innocent Man."
"But I am Uncast here, and you can see me," I protested; "I am not really invisible."
"No, but you are conventionally invisible, which is just as good, or better, because if you bump into a table nobody will pay any mind, unless you spill or break something. And as for being visible here – my Master is the Keeper of the Book, and all characters are an open book to him, even the Uncast, and he wears peacock feathers by his ears to symbolise this – that he can see them, as it were, with his ears. And I am his Secretary, and it is proper to a Secretary to perceive what his master knows."
I was silent at this, astounded at their convoluted logic. It is true that in this city I am an innocent, and could wish for no better mask than the Innocent Man.
We had risen to depart when came a pounding on the outer door, which gave out on the street a floor below. Corius, to spare the Secretary, descended the stairs in his headlong manner, and opened to a winded messenger. Descending more slowly after the youth, Felkior demanded what the matter was, and I heard the gasped words clearly from the stairwell.
"My master – sent me to say – the Keeper should know – the Butcher's mask has – been stolen from his rooms."
I saw the secretary, who was standing in the doorway, clutch at the doorframe in an access of emotion.
"What is it?" I asked him in a low voice.
"The Butcher," he said, "was a notorious murderer who was executed some years ago. He is a Character who is never portrayed and there is no official mask, but a death mask was taken. The messenger is a servant of a noted collector of masks, in whose collection the death mask – reposed."
"But reposes no longer?"
"It would seem not. And I fear there could only be one reason to take the mask. Some person wishes to portray this murderer, and his bloody crimes will come among us once again."
The twenty-sixth of the first month
I have spent the last two days in great busyness at our small office, ordering all to my satisfaction and catching up upon the applications which have languished in the absence of an envoy. Two weeks' worth of applications, however, is not seemingly a great many, for with Corius's able help I finished the last this morning and we had little to do this afternoon.
I have come to regard him greatly and rely upon him, for he is a youth of great capacity, helpfulness and resource. He has also a pleasant personality, though he takes morose moods from time to time; yet he is always polite and deferential to me and to those who visit the office, and takes pains to help them beyond what most clerks would trouble themselves to. His advice is always good, and I have cured him at last of diffidence in offering it.
We spoke at some length this afternoon, and told each other of our histories as friends newly acquainted might do, rather than as master and man. He has two sisters, he tells me, Juliana who is his twin, and Sallia who is the same age but a foster-sister. His mother Mende raised them all without a husband, as a servant in one of the great houses here. No wonder that he is so fine a servant, for he has been trained to it from birth. His loyalty, too, is bred in, for he said his mother is a cripple, injured in an attack on her employer. He himself grew restless in the great house, and sought a different scene to play out his life in – as they say here; taking service as a sailmaker, he sailed upon a merchant out of Tolland, first to that nearby land and then to my own Calaria. He missed his home, however, and found the nautical life less congenial than the service he had been raised in. Inquiring for passage back to his own city, he encountered Tailor, who referred him to My Lord and he to me.
I, in turn, told him of my late parents, my older brother who has now the estate, and my younger half-sister, who is married to My Lord. It was a pleasant time; I warm to him, and he I think to me.
We went tonight to see the old men, for Corius resorts to their company frequently and they welcome him more as a favourite son than as a student. They welcomed me also, and I was led to reflect that in my own country, where men show their faces, I am "that plump fool Bass" and no man's friend, but here in the City of Masks I have three friends and am just myself. Despite the strangeness of this place, I think I can be happy here.
To Court tomorrow, so I must to sleep now.
The twenty-seventh of the first month
Today I was received at Court, with all honour due to a representative of our great nation. My impressions of the event are vivid and I hasten to set them down.
The Palace is surrounded by wide avenues, almost like squares in their extent, and here are many heroic statues, fountains and the like, and lantern-posts which are lit at night. They shine upon stone walls of impressive height and in good repair, behind which the Palace presents a spectacle of elaborate carving and decoration such as is usually confined to temples in our more restrained northern lands.
We arrived in a hired carriage (for I could not afford to own one of such magnificence, and Corius advised me that magnificence was required), drawn by three matched pairs of greys; I, costumed lavishly in scarlet and gold as an Envoy, and with my Envoy's mask in place. The tailor, by the way, had taken a leaf from his neighbor the carpenter's book, and placed a fine veneer over lesser stuff, to reduce the cost; the outer layers were silk, but the lining such coarse, unbleached linen as a carter would disdain. This, I am told, is the common fashion of the place, and only Lovers, who look to have others see beneath their garments, wear silk and the like next to the skin.
Corius attended me, in the sober costume of a Secretary which he had borrowed of old Tamas. I had desired that he might accompany me to instruct me on points of etiquette, for truly they were too many for my poor memory.
The Palace is of considerable size, and of as great magnificence within as without, with marble and gold leaf displayed everywhere (though Corius, always wishing, it seems, to reduce my wonder, whispered that the marble was as thin as they might make it, and covered common brick). Rich carpets of the South are on the floors of the grand corridors, and a multitude of lamps burn in crystal shades, illuminating the way we trod to the hall of estate.
To cover my nervousness and make conversation, I asked my good attendant, "Tell me, this King Emilion; he must be the ninth or tenth of that name?"
"Nay," he whispered, as one shocked; "this is Emilion the First."
"But how can..." I began, for I knew that Emilion the First flourished three centuries ago.
"Shhh," he said, "you are not presently the Innocent Man. He wears the mask of Emilion; therefore, he is Emilion, and all Emilions are one Emilion, the first of that name."
I was silent, and risked no more questions, lest the guards hear and hale me to justice as Unmasked.
The court was of great splendour, as I was by now expecting. Every conceivable surface shone with gold, or rather, with gilding, and the nobility in attendance on the king were a very flowerbed. High windows let in the sunlight, and at every turn it sparked off jewels – on hands, on clothing, and above all on masks. The courtiers' masks were fully elaborate, encrusted with gold and silver and gems, thick with symbols, bedecked with sigils and signs. An ornate and byzantine courtesy rules their every interaction, says Corius, and it is a game that admits no new players, for the rules are not written as are the rules of masks. They are passed verbally from father to child, from mother to daughter. "Like a guild," I said to him, and I thought he would injure his stomach. He is often morose, my Corius, but when he laughs he laughs heartily (though with a voice something high); and when he recovered his breath, he bade me not make that comparison in the hearing of the nobility. (As if I would! Condemn me if he do not at times take on more the character of a nursemaid than a valet.)
But I wander. All that was later. At the court, I received, and returned, bows from many courtiers, friendly enough in intent, I thought, though Corius says all part of the game.
At last, after walking what seemed an avenue of flowering trees to one with my slight affliction of the sight, but was merely a congeries of courtiers either side a Southron carpet, I bowed before the king, Emilion the First as I must style him.
It was here I perceived the spring and origin of the ornamental dress affected by all at court. I do not wish to speak disrespectfully of the king of a country where I have the honour to be an emissary, but His Grace is of middle height and something thickset, and wears a robe of such gorgeousness and size that I can resemble him to nothing so much as those flamboyant birds which one sometimes sees brought from the jungles of far lands. His mask is a miracle of gilded intricacy, more architecture or sculpture than clothing. It seems that it attempts to represent the feats of both the king himself and his distinguished ancestors, but at a length and in a style and a symbolic language that conveys nothing to me, a foreigner.
The herald who had accompanied us announced my name and station, I bowed deeply, the king nodded to me very slightly, and the audience was over. I was led off again to a side room where a small collation was laid, and Corius whispered, "That was the show – now for the real thing."
Before I could ask him what he meant, the first of a long train of courtiers seemingly happened to appear at my elbow and spoke to me of matters that for the most part I knew not of. I answered him politely, and at length he disappeared with a small bow and an excuse, at which juncture another replaced him.
And so it went. I never saw a man of them hover (or a woman, for some were women – I will tell of one momentarily). Never did they seem to be waiting to see me. And yet, the moment one left, another came, as if at an unseen signal. According to Corius, this was exactly what was exchanged, but they are so subtle that he cannot read them and can detect them only rarely. "Then how know you that the signal exists?" "By logic, sir, for they could not do it without a signal."
Corius is a great devotee of logic, having been trained in it by two philosophers, old Felkior and his secretary. Sometimes I think he makes a god of it – and like any man with his god, invokes it whenever he is confused or frightened.
There is one woman I specially marked, out of all that river of faces (or rather masks), each different and yet with such a sameness that none other of them was memorable. She wore a mask of masks – covering half her face (the left), though seemingly shaped to it, but made up of tiny masks carved in many materials, laid on so thickly that she had semblance to a victim of the plague whose face had broken out in boils. Yet her figure, as could be told by the elaborate gown she wore as much to show it as to hide it, was slender and youthful, and her voice was low, rich and thrilling. I took note of her at once and started from my stupor of ennui and confusion.
We talked for several minutes, then she, too, departed, and was not replaced – she was the last, seemingly, though I would have remembered her had she come in the midst. "Who was that last woman?" I asked my servant as the herald led us back to the conveyance.
"That," he said, something tightly, "was the Countess."
"Just 'the Countess'?" I queried him.
"That is identification enough for any in the City," he replied; "though others here hold that rank, she is the Countess. She is one of the Commissioners of Masks, as her mask of masks portrays."
I started to ask another question about her, but he hushed me, saying that it was not thought proper to discuss a lady where one could be overheard.
As the carriage was hired, he kept this silence all the way back to the residence. There he unburdened himself of what seemed a long bitterness.
"I did not dare to say this in the Palace, or in the carriage," he said – his voice hushed even in our own rented house, but forceful as I had not heard him – "but the Countess is the most dangerous and vicious woman in this dangerous, vicious city, even among the nobility, who make the starving rats in the sewers look like models of ethics, compassion and gentle dealing."
I began to protest, but he would not be silenced. "She is a snake, Mysir, a scorpion, and if I could be sure to grind her underfoot I would take her sting in a moment – and there are many would take my body up and bury me in a hero's grave for the service done the City. Stay clear of her, for your life and sanity. She holds more power than any man in Bonvidaeo, the king not excepted, and she uses it with a cold ruthlessness that would blench you to behold."
"More powerful than the king? Is she his – his leman, then, the power behind the throne?"
"If the king has not had her it is a mark of distinction in him, for she has the morals of a cat as well as the claws and the compassion. But nay, she is not his leman or any man's. She is the unofficial but acknowledged chief of the Commissioners of Masks, and they hold the true power in the city. They control the King, the Council and the priests, who all are puppets which mouth their sayings; and as the City is to the Commission, the Commission is to the Countess. You have met the ruler of the City this day, Mysir; and what is less, you also have met the King."
The twenty-eighth of the first month
Corius has his holiday this afternoon, so I am here in the office alone. He goes to see his family in the City, as a good son and brother. I gave him leave if he wished to have his family come to our house, for which he thanked me courteously.
He is a great assistance to me in the work of the office here also, and in teaching me of the practices and ways of the City. Our small office has little business, on some days none at all, and we have determined to use the time in study. He has been well educated, if informally, by the two old men, and he is teaching me to read the Book of Masks – the lesser edition, based on the great tome in Felkior's study – for, he says, I must know at least the common masks if I am to get along here. I cannot hide always behind the ignorance of the Innocent Man.
It is difficult study; I have always found bookwork uncongenial, as I am more a man of action than of scholarship, and I said to him today that it seemed the book was written so as to make it harder to understand than it needed. He said, yes, it was. I often do not know whether he jests, or what his jests mean if he does so. But he must often recall my attention to the book; any drifting speck of dust draws my eye away, or some person passing in the street. He uses these latter to drill me, asking me to identify each occupation or place in life. Because of our location, I now can tell a milliner from a mercer from a dyer from a weaver with some facility, though many others pass whom I cannot yet identify. Corius sketches well, and besides the masks that pass the windows he has shown me some of the more important or dangerous masks with a few strokes of a quill upon the back of an old piece of paper. I begin to feel that had I lived my entire life to date in the City, still I would not have mastered the lore of masks. Corius, however, says that all learners feel so at first and I will soon know the symbols like a native. He is a good and patient teacher, and appears to enjoy spending time even with such a dull and inattentive pupil as myself.
I am writing this to distract myself from studying in the Book, so I ought to stop. But I must first record my thoughts about the Court yesterday and our conversation this morning.
"Surely," I said, "you exaggerated the power of the Countess to me yesterday. One woman, of such relatively low rank, cannot be the effective ruler of the City as you suggest."
"Indeed she is," he said, "by cunning and manipulation and setting one group against another. You will not find her name among the high officers of state; but when she appeared one day at the meeting of the Royal Council, which feigns to govern in the King's name, none dared exclude her – or so it is rumoured. Nor is she the nominal head of that Council, but I have heard that he who is the head looks for her nod from the corner of his eye before he rules on any action. He fears to do otherwise, for accidents happen to those by whom the Countess is annoyed, while those who do her bidding find themselves advanced in the world."
"But surely this is all rumour and hearsay," I cried.
"Mysir, it is breathless whispers in the dark inside thick walls," he replied – and indeed he had kept to a low voice for his accusations. "To say a word against the Countess is not considered – healthful."
It all seems very exaggerated to me.
Ah, well, I should I suppose to study, lest I treat a Minister of State as an idle fop or the other way about.
(Later) It is dull here without Corius, and I can study no more; my head is on the point of aching. I wish something would happen in this wretched city in which I could take an interest.
Private Journal of Sallia
Not dated
Today Corius came to see us and Juliana of course and it was very merry for a time but then Mama and him got in an argument because he said the Countess had tried her wiles on the Envoy the man he works for and mama said what wiles do not speak of the countess that way and he just sighed and said nothing. I think mamas leg is hurting her it is always worse when it is damp and then she gets angry and Corius has no patience. Then they started back through all their old arguments and he drew me in and tried to make me take his side and I would not. Just as well Bardo came and we all pretended to be not arguing. Bardo has not met Corius before and I do not think they trust each other they are like a pair of cockrels walking around each other deciding if they will jump and start fighting. Mama likes him though you can tell but she took some of her medicine and it makes her go odd and I had to put her to bed. I told Bardo when Corius had gone that he could trust him he has odd ideas but he is all right really. He said what sort of ideas. I said he does not like the aristocrats and the government and the temple or any of that. Bardo laughed and said it sounded like they had things in common and I said I do not like you to talk that way because it scares me. But then he become lovy as I had hoped and we did not talk about Corius or politics any more it was good.
Private Journal of Gregorius Bass
The first of the second month
My hand shakes and my pen scratches and blots – I can hardly write, for there has been a tragedy. Today early at our office Corius was just opening the book to drill me at masks when a weeping woman of Calaria, masked and costumed as a Mercer, burst through the portal with her hair and clothing in disarray. Corius, good fellow, seated her and went to get drink while I attempted to calm her sufficiently to ascertain her need. "Good woman," I said, "you are with friends. Now, has someone of this city attacked you? Should I send my man in pursuit?"
She wept and gasped, but could not speak. Then came a grim man, a Mercer also but of Bonvidaeo, and at first I feared that this was her assailant, but he crouched beside her and spoke to her gently, then looked at me with eyes of pain. "My partner," he said, "her husband – he has been horribly murdered in the night. They are of your country so she ran here for help. The guards are not interested in the death of a foreigner."
Corius returned just at this juncture and inquired urgently, "Murdered? Murdered how?"
The man glanced at the weeping woman and forebore to answer in words, lest he distress her further perhaps. His eyes were cast down and seemed to look on a distant – and horrible – scene.
"It is near our shop," he said, "and we all reside above. I must take her home – her daughter can take care of her. Can you accompany us?"
We shut up the office and hurried to the mercers' district – nearby, for our office is located in the same section of the city as those I serve. The woman was handed off to her red-eyed daughter and the partner took us through the shop to the sunken alley at the back.
This was my first sight of the Back Ways, as they are known, at least among the polite (there are other, more opprobrious terms, I am given to understand). Being below the level of the main streets, so that they can pass thereunder without intruding upon the promenade of the gentle, they are drains for all manner of filth and offal – though better so than as it is in our own country where this same office is served by the gutters of the main streets themselves. The stench was indescribable, but was made far worse than usual by the corpse of the unfortunate mercer, a plump man of middle age – at least, by his clothing he had been plump, and by his wife middle-aged, for he was in such a condition…
It is difficult to write of this. The murderer had opened him in the manner of eviscerating a beast for eating, and blood was thick upon the…
His inward parts had been removed, and…
The murderer had made a mask for him of his own intestines.
I am not ashamed to say that I did not long retain my breakfast. My good servant was as white as a girl who sees a serpent. The partner bowed his head in sorrow.
At length Corius spoke. "We must move the poor fellow. We cannot leave him – like this."
"Yes," I said, "we must. Good mercer, we must bespeak a bolt of your cloth – thick canvas, if you have it. We will wrap him."
"We should first return his… we should restore him to…" said Corius, and broke off, retching.
"I will do that," said I, "for I have been a huntsman, and with such scenes – though not involving persons – I do not completely lack acquaintance. If you would be so good as to procure me gloves," I added, looking at the state of the mercer's sadly defiled corpus.
During the grim operation I noted that the head was loose upon its neck, as if it had been broken. I drew this to Corius's attention and asked him what he concluded.
"That the man was killed first," he said, "and… the other treatment given him afterwards."
"Yes, and that explains why, although there is much blood, it is all close to the body, for dead bodies bleed more sluggishly than live ones," said I. "I wonder why he was murdered in such a manner?"
"The proximate reason," said Corius, "would seem to be that the murderer could therefore be less besmeared with blood, and so escape notice more readily. At least, that would be the likely reason except for one thing."
"What is that thing?" I asked him.
"That the murderer would have been in the costume of a butcher, and so to be besmeared with blood would be proper to that costume."