Mercadian Masques

Soldiers approached from below. Yellow cloaks shouldered up the stairs. They were led by a half-collapsed parasol, a cringing Kyren beneath. A relief contingent? At least somebody was thinking of the soldiers out in this storm. Already, the relief troops were bedraggled. Their hair was plastered to their faces. Some looked dark with bruises, others pale with fear. Three of the guards were so young they seemed mere women within their voluminous riding cloaks. Another had a long scar on his cheek. The goblin ahead of them was the most pathetic of the lot, though. He seemed to have shrunk within his bedraggled robes, and his rain-lashed face looked pugnacious. As he approached, his worthless little parasol was ripped from his hands and carried away to smack a nearby rooftop.

The goblin was in a bad mood. He shouted something to the guard at the door. The guard leaned closer, cupping a hand. Again came the shout. "Aren't you sick of this?"

"Sick to hell, sir!"

"How 'bout if you stand down?"

"Love to, sir."

The guard motioned to his partner and headed down the stairs. Two of the relief soldiers took their posts. Eager to get out from under the hammering heavens, the guards descended to the street.

"Glad somebody thought of us."

"What?"

"It's unusual… somebody thinking of us…"

"What?"

Instead of responding, the guard glanced back up the tower, where the relief soldiers stood their posts. In the dim heart of the storm, a light shone, as though the door had opened to the prison cell. Perhaps the goblin had some word for the prisoners. Or perhaps this was an escape. Ha, that was a fu

"We were the real prisoners," the guard shouted.

"I can't hear you!"

"Never mind." Already, the guard could think only of his warm, dry bed.

"Ain't you ready ta get outta here?" came a shout at the door. It swung open, and in came a drenched Squee.

Gerrard had been leaning next to the window. He came away from the wall and smiled, shaking his head. "You couldn't wait until after the storm?"

"We brought the storm," said a new voice-Orim. She strode into the room, her riding cloak streaming on the floor. At her side came a handsome olive-ski

Gerrard strode toward the pair. He smiled happily, embracing Orim despite her dripping cloak. "I'm so glad you're safe. There were terrible rumors. Takara heard you'd been imprisoned, the Power Matrix stolen."

"All that did happen," Orim said. "I would still be imprisoned if it weren't for Cho-Ma

Reverent eyed, Gerrard regarded the chief of the Cho-Arrim and extended his hand. "So, at last, we meet face-to-face. 1 have much to apologize for."

"The regrets of the past are many-too many. We ca

"How did you get into the city?"

Cho-Ma

"We will join the Ramosans and prepare an uprising."

"Great news!" Gerrard said.

"Not all great," interjected a new voice. "After all, the Mercadians do have the Power Matrix."

"Ha

"And I you." Ha

"I'll help you. It's my ship after all."

"No, you've got to go after the Bones of Ramos," said Sisay, behind. "I'll go along, and Tahngarth, and whatever fighters we can scrounge up from the ship's crew-Chamas, Tallakaster, Fewsteem…"

Ha

Tahngarth rumbled, "I think we'll leave Takara out of this one."

"Hold on, everyone," Gerrard interjected, gripping the sides of his head. "What's all this about the Bones of Ramos?"

Ha

"But, what are these bones, and where are they?" Gerrard asked.

Cho-Ma

Gerrard glanced back at his cellmates.

Tahngarth eagerly pushed his way out the door and stood in the pounding rain. He howled into the heavens.

Karn meanwhile said simply, "Let us go, Gerrard. Weatherlight awaits me, and the Bones of Ramos await you."

From the Magistrate's Tower, Volrath watched the storm. His fingers dug into the stone windowsill where he stood. It was one of the subtler powers of a shapechanger, to make his flesh as thin and sharp and strong as razors, to insinuate his being into whatever fault might present itself and swell in those cracks to split them wider. Solid stones became sifting sand in his grip. His flesh could flow, and freeze, and destroy like water. It was how he ruled the rock of Mercadia. His grip had split the mountain to its core.

These rebels, though, were not rock. Ramosan, Cho-Arrim, Saprazzan, Rishadan-they were all folk with affinity for water. They brought this storm down upon Mercadia. They would grip it in a fist larger and more powerful than Volrath's. They would break the rock of Mercadia to shifting sand.

Why, though, did they bring this storm now? What did they seek?

Volrath saw. Through the shredding curtains of rain, he saw. Dark figures descended amid those cascades. They were human, though they had billowing cloaks above them that seemed the wings of bats. On the warm currents of the storm they rode, dropping where they would, where they could-rooftops, streets, gardens, awnings. Like the water that had borne them hence, they went to ground. Following cha

"Not safe for long," Volrath muttered to himself, flinging limestone sand out into the night. He would send a regiment of the guard around next morning on a house-to-house search. Invaders and anyone harboring them would be summarily executed, their property seized by the state. Whatever uprising they pla

"I shall defend my interests viciously."

Something else moved in the stormy night. Another group of rebels streamed down a stairway and into the winding streets. Gerrard and his crew.

Volrath watched angrily. He had pla

Gerrard was doing just what Volrath had pla

Smiling, Volrath released the crushed windowsill. He turned and took a step. In midstride, he transformed into a lithe, fire-haired woman.