Masks

  Chapter Four

  Mark measured his way down the stairs, and tried to express his pleasure through the formal bow he delivered without giving away his alarm.

  He’s going to notice.

  “Is our lord in and awake?” Gutter’s deep voice made Mark’s toes curl inside his shoes.

  “He’s in, but whether he’s awake, I couldn’t say.” Did I sound nervous?

  Gutter glanced toward Bainswell.

  “I couldn’t say, lord jester.” Bainswell looked like he wanted to crawl away, but he stood there holding the cloak in his arms as if it weighed nothing. After a beat he noticed the heavy satchel Gutter carried. “May I take that for you, lord jester?”

  Gutter’s gloved hand tightened on the strap. “Hang those things and let him know I’m here.” The flat voice Gutter used on Bainswell cut gently and without effort, like a very sharp knife.

  “Yes, lord jester.” Bainswell hurried out of the foyer.

  “You didn’t come through the pass, did you?” It seemed so unlikely as to be impossible, but then, Gutter seemed capable of anything.

  “No. I traveled ‘round Vyenne.” Gutter set a hand on Mark’s shoulder. It seemed to weigh more than usual. “I’m surprised Bainswell is still here,” Gutter said.

  Surprised that he hasn’t been dismissed or that he isn’t dead?

  Mark didn’t want to gamble on the answer to his own question, much less talk about it. “I’m surprised you’re here. I’m glad, but ... I hope everything is all right?” He wondered if Gutter’s arrival had anything to do with Obsidian.

  “If everything were all right, nobles wouldn’t need jesters and commoners wouldn’t need patrons. But I am here on urgent business.” Gutter hugged him briefly and Mark relaxed. He followed the weight of Gutter’s hand toward the stairs. “You seem nervous.”

  Mark tried not to tense up, but he couldn’t help it.

  He hasn’t asked about your studies—the tutor. Vinkin would make a good excuse for Mark’s unease.

  “I—had an argument with Professor Vinkin, and I’m not sure he’s coming back.” He realized a heartbeat later that his ploy might turn the knife’s point toward the professor. “I wasn’t going to mention it because I wanted to try to smooth things over with him on my own.”

  Gutter pursed his lips in a comical, thoughtful expression. “Then I won’t interfere. I think that might teach you something more valuable than history.”

  “I tried when he was leaving but I was clumsy. I think I’ll just have to apologize or something.”

  “You’re quite adept at manipulation, though you may not realize it. Your status may be getting in the way. But that will change, maybe sooner than you expect.” Gutter walked with Mark up the stairs. “How have things been while I’ve been away?”

  He didn’t want to talk about it, especially since his complaints in his letter had gone unanswered, but it was better than leaving an opening for questions that might lead to Obsidian. “The usual. Our lord—”

  “The usual? Really.”

  Mark didn’t want to talk about Bainswell, but apparently Gutter wouldn’t let it go as long as he sensed Mark’s unease. He’d probably noticed the bruises, new and old, and the small split in his lip. “You’re too kind. You’ve only just come home and you’re willing to listen to brandy chatter without even a glass to warm you.”

  Gutter’s eyes sharpened. “You’re learning,” he murmured. The approving tone sent a ripple of pleasure through Mark. “Trust your intelligence, and mine. Tell me. Right here.” He stopped at the top of the stairs.

  “I’ve been practicing my fencing. I’ve developed a technique to react quickly to the slightest sounds and glimpses, but I think I need a new teacher. Doing this on my own isn’t working very well. Have you found a new secontefoil for me?”

  “You’re too much for a secontefoil. I don’t think you need a pointefoil, or any other fencing master. Not anymore. Working on your own seems to be working quite well. I’ll test you before I leave tomorrow.” Gutter’s hand settled back on Mark’s shoulder and urged him toward Mark’s room.

  Not my room.

  It wasn’t just the purse hiding there. The ominous mention of a test involving Bainswell shrank his guts. “Why are you doing this? Why all the effort and expense? In three years—” He shouldn’t have asked, and especially he shouldn’t have pointed out that he was due to leave.

  “But we’ll still be friends long after you have left this house.”

  We’re friends?

  Questioning it aloud would sound too ungrateful, though the suggestion of friendship made his heart race. “Of course we’ll be friends. I’m honored. I just—I’m not worthy of all this. And the training—”

  Gutter’s hand slipped from Mark’s shoulder. “The world is very dangerous, especially now. I want you to live a long and happy life. Part of that happiness will arise from knowledge of history, art, music ... how is your music coming along?”

  He always asked, and Mark at least could be honest about that. “I still haven’t found my voice. My instructor says I’m his best student, but I don’t feel the music like I used to. I wonder if he’s just flattering me to please Lord Argenwain.”

  “That’s my fault,” he said softly.

  “That he flatters me?”

  Gutter smiled and a little more tension eased. Mark felt his shoulders glide down.

  “I think I’m just overly aware of what I’m doing. Before my parents died, I didn’t really pay attention,” Mark admitted.

  “I don’t think it’s just your parents. We both know what our lord is, Mark.”

  Mark wanted to get through this as quickly and shallowly as possible. “He didn’t force me to do anything. It’s all been willing. Truly.” The forcing part was absolutely true, and the willingness had to be true because otherwise life in the manor would be unbearable. “I do remember being able to sing with heart after I came here, but ... anyway, I think it will change in time.” He almost said, when my indenture has paid out, but he caught himself before the words escaped.

  “I’ll miss you terribly when you do leave us.” Gutter spoke softly, with a hint of sadness that made Mark believe he really might let him go. He took a few steps toward Mark’s room. “Come. I have something I’d like to give you. A present. I’ve been looking for a long time, and I’ve finally found one that I think will work.” Something like a boyish nervousness made Gutter’s voice sound breathy.

  I just have to remember not to look toward the bed too much, or avoid looking at it. I’ll just sit on it, and it’ll be all right. He’d hesitated too long as it was. “Is it a puppy?”

  Gutter chuckled and waited for Mark to let him into the room. He’d always been kind that way, treating Mark’s room as his private space, and thankfully Lord Argenwain followed his jester’s lead. “Guess again.”

  “A peacock?”

  “That’s closer.”

  Mark’s curiosity burned hot. “Really?”

  “One more guess. A real one this time.”

  Mark considered the size of the satchel and measured it against Gutter’s eagerness. “I’m afraid of making you feel like you’ve fallen short somehow. You know, you’ve always been very good to me.” His frustrations and fears fell away and he wished he could express his real gratitude. Maybe it was inspired by Gutter calling him a friend. He’d never done that before.

  Gutter’s smile warmed. “If you guess it’s a crown I won’t care. Make a guess.”

  Mark took a deep breath. “I think it’s a jeweled collar.” Gutter had just come from Saphir, famous not only for its many unusual religious sects, masked theaters, bathhouses, and the Eshku Fasemasq—Mark had heard it translated variously but thought of it as the Masked University—but for the oft-copied Hemirzi collars.

  “A reasonable guess, but this is a little more exotic.” Gutter set his satchel on the bed and slowly opened it. The hairs stood up at the nape of Mark’s neck. Gutter reached in like someo
ne trying to pick up a living thing without waking it up. As he drew out a bundle of glittering silk, Gutter let out something between a sigh and a coo. He offered it to Mark.

  Mark’s skin crawled.

  This is the second time today I’m being offered something I won’t want to bear.

  He didn’t know where the thought had come from. He didn’t even know what this thing was.

  Perfect, the voice-thought murmured in sweet, low notes.

  His skin prickled into gooseflesh and his breath ran short.

  Gutter had a strange look in his eyes that his mask only emphasized. He waited eagerly but with a terrible patience, while his hands held the silk package with a kind of yielding possessiveness.

  The daylight outside had begun to fail, and with a start Mark remembered Obsidian’s peril. He stopped himself from glancing toward his bed’s feet.

  He’s not leaving until I take it.

  Mark didn’t want Gutter to leave any more than he wanted to take that thing inside the silk. But if he refused to even touch it—what would that do to the friendship Gutter had only just admitted today?

  Mark settled his hands and his heart sank as he felt the edges of the mask through the silk. It felt lighter than he’d expected. Gutter let it go as if it weighed like gold.

  Mark’s hands started to shake, and that shaking went into his belly.

  “It might not fit,” Gutter said. His deep voice soothed Mark, but the trembling only spread into Mark’s spine. Gutter seemed to fade back, though he didn’t move. “And you may not suit each other. But I have a feeling this one ... I think it will work for you. If not, well, it’s very fine, very valuable, and might prove to be a useful gift someday.” Gutter’s breath caught. “Never sell.” The words fell hard though the tone was soft. “You’ll know which ones aren’t to be sold. They aren’t slaves. They have to come and go willingly.”

  Please don’t be a death mask please don’t be a death mask

  I can’t accept this.

  He tried to say the words again, but they didn’t come out.

  He couldn’t help but glance toward the window. It had started to snow. Maybe that accounted for the lowering light—but he knew it was getting late.

  Mark pulled the silk free of its tucked edges and wadded it in one hand.

  Tear tracks. Slate gray but opalescent, perhaps made of black pearls somehow, pooled under the eye holes and trickled down to points where the jaws would be. The right side—he realized that he was already thinking in terms of left and right as if he wore it instead of relative to looking at it—had fewer trails than the left. The eyes smiled, complete with crow’s feet wrinkles fashioned from a delicate material that looked like human skin, except that it was an inhuman, eerie metallic bronze with the creases stained for emphasis. The lower points of the mask that covered the cheeks weren’t symmetrical. The left was more substantial than the right side. It blushed around the cheeks.

  But it had no mouth. It was just a demi-mask. Not all full masks were death masks, but no death mask exposed the mouth. At least, none he’d been taught about.

  He had to remind himself that Gutter was still there, but the knowledge didn’t hold. The mask had absorbed all of his attention. Mark turned it over to see the inside, and started to put it on. He barely managed to stop himself. His heart started to pound and his breath came in short, uneven gasps. He looked to Gutter, but it was as if Gutter wasn’t there.

  Gutter had taken off his own mask. Underneath he had another mask painted on his warm-toned skin in pastels brushed over red and black and silver and green. It was one of the most famous patterns in the world, that mask Gutter painted on his face and revealed to so few. They called it the Gutter Rose, but it only could be called a rose in the most abstract way. His humanity gave way to that pattern of petal, leaf and thorn around his eyes. Gutter looked far more like a human being when he wore his porcelain mask than he did when he revealed that painted skin.

  Gutter stood there, watching.

  “I’m not a jester. This belongs to a jester.” Mark started to set the mask aside, but his hands refused the work.

  “Jesters aren’t the only ones who wear masks.” The Gutter Rose sounded reasonable, calm, instructive. “Nobles wear them sometimes, when they go out in disguise. Criminals wear them. Commoners wear them for festivals. Even priests wear them.”

  That last revelation shocked him, though not enough to distract him from his own fears. “But those masks aren’t like this one. This one—” He couldn’t put words to the feeling.

  “It’s alive. I know. You know too. You can tell the difference between a young lady wearing makeup for the first time, and a woman who becomes a lady of quality by the care and polish of her visage. And you also know when a mask is inhabiting the wearer.” He made a bridging gesture. “—but this mask isn’t one of those that takes you completely over. You’ll remember everything you do and say. Perfectly. At least, that’s the way it’s worked before. You two might not get along.” He lifted his chin and his weight sank back like a king settling into his throne. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  “Maybe later?” He wanted to provide an excuse, but nothing came to mind.

  Mark expected the Gutter Rose to express disappointment. Instead, Gutter put his porcelain mask back on and his left shoulder twitched up briefly before he quickly fastened the silk ties. Those ties were the only threadbare thing on him. Even the gray in his dark hair seemed a sign of strength rather than age. “You and I are going on a journey.”

  “We are?” He’d dreamed of it as a child, going off with Gutter to see the world, but dread squirmed in his belly.

  “I’ll be gone only three days. Then I’ll be back and you and I are going ... somewhere. Together. To meet someone.” He said it as if he’d invited Mark to a casual game of cards without bothering to conceal the daunting stakes. “I have a bag packed for you. You’ll want to pack a few of your own things. Favorite clothes, perfume, makeup—but nothing boyish. On this journey you’ll be a man. You are a man, but no one in this house has treated you like one, not really. It’s time for that. Past time.” He turned to pick up his satchel and murmured, “but we mustn’t rush things.” He went to the door empty-handed and opened it. “You’ll be gone at least a month. I’ll leave it to you to inform all of your tutors. It should add new weight to your negotiations with your Professor Vinkin.” Gutter left the door open and strode down the hall, past the stairs, toward Lord Argenwain’s suite.

  “Gutter!” Mark took a few steps into the hall. He’d meant to demand an answer, but he didn’t have the right question yet, and it occurred to him that he’d forgotten two important words. “Thank you.”

  Gutter stopped and stepped back to expose his profile. “You have my thanks as well.”

  Mark knew better than to ask why without thinking for himself first. His emotions stretched between the sailor he wanted to be and the future Gutter seemed to offer.

  That’s the question.

  “Could I become a jester?” Mark halted within easy reach.

  Gutter’s eyes smiled, but his mouth remained soft and neutral. “Do you want to?”

  The mask, still in his hand, felt warm and light. It was not him. That life ... he didn’t want it. “No.”

  Gutter’s eyes flinched down.

  Mark wished he had another answer, but any other would have been a dangerous lie. “I want to travel with you. I want to see all the cities around Hullundy Bay and the Royal Court and Hasla, especially Saphir, and perhaps even tour Vyenne and the islands. Most of the time I love this life with the clothes and the rich food and the music. Especially the music. But I can’t.” Right then he knew exactly what it was he couldn’t do, one thing among many things that jesters did for their lords so that their noble souls remained unstained by evil. “I can’t kill him.” He couldn’t speak those words above a whisper, much less kill Bainswell.

  Gutter walked back to him. He slipped off his gloves and took Mar
k’s hand, hot, bare skin on bare skin. “I’d hoped you wouldn’t.”

  “Then why the fuck—”

  “Shhh.” Gutter led him back a few steps to the sitting room. The door opened to blinding light. Even as dusk approached, the huge wall of tall windows exposed them to the crystalline whiteness of winter reflected and brightened by the white and silver décor in the room. Gutter released Mark’s hand and shut the door. “Have a seat.”

  “No.” He tried to set the mask aside, but that felt like too much rejection when all he wanted was that friendship between them to become something real. Betrayal twisted his gut again though he tried to ignore it. “Gutter—”

  “Don’t bow your head. Look at me.”

  Mark took in a tattered breath and forced himself to look up. His height matched that of many of the city’s mid-to-short adult men, but he still felt like a child. Gutter’s broad chest, full belly and masterful height made Mark feel even more slender and short.

  “Do you know what the difference is between a jester and every other man that kills?”

  Mark shook his head.

  “A jester must do it for good. Not his own good, often not even for his lord’s good, but for a higher good. He must decide for himself what is right and do it, no matter how unpleasant the task, and he can’t pretend he’s following orders given by men who will bear the true responsibility. A lord would endanger his soul if he even hinted that a sinful act might prevent disaster.”

  The words sounded like they came from a deeper place than the university Gutter studied at so long ago.

  “I had to know that you would learn to defend yourself. I also needed to know what you would do on your own. I especially needed to know what you might think I’d want you to do, and whether you would do it. Now I know. You feared that I wanted you to kill him, and you followed your own heart. Mark, you have no idea how important that is to me.”

  All those months of suffering—and Mark didn’t even care what had happened to him, only that Gutter could do such a thing to anyone.

  “I know it was cruel. I’m sorry. But I’m also so proud of you. I’d always believed, from the first day I saw you, that you are one of the kindest, sweetest, good people I’ve ever met. Now it is proved, a thing far more valuable than belief, no matter how strong that belief might be.”

  The praise didn’t soften Mark’s unbearable confusion.

  “I rarely dare to speak of the sacred. It’s time now, just a little. A small sacrifice, though it may be that we’re safe here.” Gutter slowly measured his way to Mark’s side and touched the mask. Mark tried to give it to him, but Gutter only guided it toward Mark’s face.

  Mark pulled it back down to his side. “I want to be a sailor. Please.”

  Gutter let out a sigh. His hand cupped Mark’s face, and he kissed Mark’s forehead. “Keep the mask. We’ll talk more about this on our journey. I promise I won’t spend the entire way trying to convince you of anything. We’ll just talk, as friends. Because I do count you as a friend. One of my few, true ones. I’m just afraid that once I start telling you all I want to tell you, you won’t want to be my friend anymore.”

  Mark’s throat tightened. He wanted to say I love you, but it was too confusing. Gutter had been a father, a divine spirit, and a mystery, and too often while he was away, the subject of endless daydreamt adventures that sometimes verged into intimate fantasy. The word love came too close to admitting how much Mark’s life relied on Gutter’s existence, and how thin and dark the rest of the world felt. “You’re the one who always leaves me. I’ve always waited faithfully for you. And you know, all you ever have to do is send for me and I’ll speed away to find you. No matter what I become or where I go, I’m yours.” Whether I want to be or not.

  Gutter’s hand tightened on Mark’s face and the jester kissed Mark’s forehead again. This time Mark wanted to flinch back, but he held his ground.

  Whatever darkness had passed through Gutter didn’t show when he stepped back. “When I return, we’ll discuss what to do with the situation here. I’ll let you decide, once you hear the entirety. All right?” Gutter opened the door.

  Mark nodded, and the jester slipped away.

  The sitting room’s silver and porcelain clock tick, tick, ticked. Mark had little more than an hour to decide what to do.

  He took the mask back to his room and set it on the bed. Gutter had left his satchel behind.

  Look inside.

  No.

  He didn’t want to find out what else was in there. It would only draw him in deeper. He went to his window but he didn’t look out. He closed his eyes and let the snowy light soften the darkness through his eyelids. He imagined himself in an oilskin coat and heavy boots and rough trousers. He imagined the sea spray, and a floppy hat on his head, and the rush of water all around, and the wind and the gulls and the men singing. Excitement and joy shuddered through him and he sang roughly, stumbling over the long-forgotten words. “Owah may, long away, ‘cross the gray sea ....” His father was there. Time had blurred the memory of his face, but the long, blond ponytail, lean body, short beard and thick arms remained. He had his black captain’s coat and the black tricorn captain’s hat, all faded at the shoulders and peaks by sun and salt.

  The first dinner bell rang. Mark had to help serve, which meant he had to check his appearance before he went down. Maybe Gutter would invite him to sit with them. He sometimes did that, but this time Mark didn’t want to. Mark hurried to his room, checked his appearance in his mirror—

  His hand traced along his hair. Blond his like father’s, with darker hair underneath and behind his ears like his mother’s.

  The last time he’d seen her, her hair was muddy with blood.

  He pulled his hair back from his face, tied it quickly with a ribbon, and went toward the stairs.

  Gutter emerged from Lord Argenwain’s bedroom. He couldn’t have had time to share more than a few words with their lord. “Mark.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  Gutter tossed him a small pouch. “If you hurry, you’ll make it back in time to sit with our lord at dinner.”

  It took Mark a moment to realize what he had. It weighed far more than usual. “I’m paying in advance?”

  “Two months.”

  That made the journey feel too real. He doubted it would be a grand adventure. If anything, he feared Gutter was right. He wouldn’t want to be friends when he heard the truth. “Thank you.” But Gutter had said ‘sit with our lord’, not ‘sit with us.’ “You aren’t leaving tonight, are you?”

  “No, but I have to visit someone in town. I’ll have dinner there.” Gutter hesitated. “Out of curiosity, what gave me away?”

  “What do you mean?” Maybe Gutter wondered why Mark thought something was wrong. Was some of the rose smudged? It was hard to tell. Perhaps the mask had rubbed it off a little.

  “I just came out to give you that, but you had the impression I was leaving.”

  “Oh. I just—you said I’d have a chance to sit at dinner with Lord Argenwain, and usually when you’re with him, you say we and us and our.” He realized that Gutter had always included Mark in ‘our’ when he said ‘our lord.’ He included Mark in service to Lord Argenwain with him, as if they worked at the same level. Did he do that with the other servants? Mark didn’t think so, but eight years was a long time to go over, and his memory wasn’t perfect, just trained well.

  Gutter stood a little taller. “I hadn’t realized I’d been doing that. Interesting.” He let out a short laugh. “Very interesting, that it’s so reliable. So little else about me is.” For a moment Mark felt as if he could see through all the masks and glimpse the person underneath, the person he really loved. Self-deprecating, gentle, kind, and generous not just with his wealth but with his acceptance of who people were, no matter how repulsive others might find them.

  “Thank you, many times again.” Mark bowed in the friendliest way he could, hurried downstairs, grabbed his thickest greatcoa
t and cloak, shoved on his best pair of winter boots and let himself out into the snow.