Masks (6 page)

“Aren’t you special,” Sala had whispered to Mara, who had stuck out her tongue at her.

Of course, the ability to read Masks might not require enough Gift to actually
manipulate
magic like that gathered in the basin in her father’s workshop. But even so, there were hundreds of Watchers. They served as police, army, and bodyguards. They could not possibly all have the Gift, even in small amount.

The trouble was, Mara had once overheard one adult mutter to another after a Watcher had passed by, casting the customary chill on conversation, you could never be sure whether the one staring at
your
Mask had it or not.

Still, Gifted or not, the Watchers couldn’t be everywhere, especially at night. And so sneaking out into the night—at least as long as she was still unMasked—held no terror for Mara.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

She rose, turned, and stepped up onto her bed, which sagged alarmingly under her weight in a way it hadn’t just a year previously.
Another peril of growing up,
she thought. Reaching overhead, she took hold of the wooden frame of the skylight window and pushed it sharply to the left.
On the other hand,
that’s
a lot easier than it used to be.
The window shifted, there was a click, and then the heavy wood-framed glass came loose in her hands. Mara tugged it free of the skylight, bent over to set it carefully onto her bed, then straightened again and took a deep breath of the cool evening air flowing down from above. But before she went out . . .

She jumped down off the bed, pulled off her skirt and blouse, tossed them on the floor, rummaged in the trunk at the foot of her bed for a tunic like the one she’d worn that afternoon—only even shorter, she discovered as she pulled it on—then stepped back up onto the mattress. A jump, a wriggle, a scramble, and she was crouched on the rounded green tiles of the roof. Careful not to dislodge them and send them skittering to noisy destruction, she crept down to the eaves. From there it was an easy step to the top of the wall that ran past the house on that side, closed off the backyard, and stretched a full fifty yards farther along the alley past other houses and yards.

Bare feet sure and steady on the familiar stones, she ran the length of the wall, swung into and down from a handy tree at its end, and then paused, barely even breathing hard, in the shadowed alley. She looked both ways for Night Watchers, saw none, and started running.

She didn’t have a destination. She just wanted to run, to be free, to be a child, to take deep breaths of air unblocked by the Mask that would soon cover her face whenever she went out, marking her as a grown-up, marking her as a full-fledged citizen . . .

...marking her, if she did not conform, did not obey, did not do everything a responsible member of the community was expected to do, as someone to be watched, someone not to be trusted . . . someone the Watchers might decide at any moment to remove from the community for good.

All her life she’d looked forward to her Masking. Or
thought
she had. But now that it was so close . . . now, it felt more like an impending prison sentence, as if she were enjoying her final few days of freedom before bars of propriety, harder and colder than any steel, imprisoned her forever.

And so she ran with nowhere to run to, cautious enough to keep an eye out for Watchers, not cautious enough to worry about exactly where she was . . . until she suddenly turned a corner into a dead end, three tall blank walls towering in front of her . . .

...and heard echoing behind her, in the street she had just left, the unmistakable sound of boots on the cobblestones.

Mara swore. Her mother would
never
forgive her if she were dragged home by the Night Watchers
this close to her Masking. Last time she’d had to scrub every floor in the house on her hands and knees . . . twice. This time . . . her imagination failed her, which was probably just as well: whatever her mother came up with was likely to be far worse.

She looked wildly around, and saw a door—a trapdoor, really. Square, about three feet on a side, set waist-high, black as the wall all around it, it obviously opened into someone’s coal chute.

Praying it wasn’t locked, she ran over to it and shoved at it with the palms of her hands. It didn’t move.

The footsteps echoed closer. The Night Watchers would turn the corner any second . . .

She rammed her shoulder into the door. Wood splintered, and it swung inward. She held it open against the force of the spring trying to close it. Staring at the pitch-black square leading who-knew-where, she hesitated; then she heard a man’s voice from the street say, “Did you hear something?” and in sudden terror threw herself headfirst through the opening.

The door banged shut behind her. In absolute darkness she slid down a metal chute, arms outstretched and legs spread to try to slow her descent.

She shot out of the chute and fear wrenched a scream from her as she fell—

—not, fortunately, very far; but all the same, coal really wasn’t the softest thing in the world to land on. She tumbled over and over in a welter of rock and finally came to rest on a hard stone floor, bruised, breathless, no doubt filthy, but not seriously hurt. Making good use of several more interesting words she’d learned on the street, she sat up.

Then she yelped in terror as a voice out of the darkness said, “Who’s there?”

The Boy in the Basement

F
OR A MOMENT
Mara didn’t answer, too shocked to say a word.

“I know you’re there, I heard you,” the voice said: a young voice, a boy’s voice. “I warn you, I’ve got a knife—”

“So do I!” Mara squeaked. A lie, of course, but
he
wouldn’t know that. “What are you doing down here?”

“What are
you
doing down here?” the boy countered. Mara thought he was about ten feet away. His voice didn’t echo much; the cellar must be small.

“It’s after curfew,” Mara said. “There were Night Watchers coming.”

“You’re not Masked?” The boy sounded relieved.

“No,” Mara said.
Not for another week.
“Are you?”

“No!” The word exploded from him. “No! And I won’t be, either.”

Mara stared at the place where the voice came from. “But—”

“The Masks are evil. The Masks are . . . are wrong. I won’t wear one.”

“But when you turn fifteen—”

“I
am
fifteen,” the boy said. “I turned fifteen a week ago.”

“But then—”

“I ran away. The night before my Masking. I’ve been hiding ever since.”

Mara gasped. “But—but if they catch you—”

“They won’t catch me,” the boy said. “This is my last night here. I have a way out of the city.”

“You have to be Masked in the country, too!”

“Watchers can’t be everywhere,” the boy said. “There are places you can go. People who . . .” He stopped. “Who are you?” Suspicion flooded his voice. “Are you a spy for the Watchers?” She heard a shuffling sound, and then his voice sounded much closer. “What are you doing out after curfew?”

“I’m not a spy!” Mara protested. If this boy had run away from his Masking, he probably really
did
have a knife . . . and if he thought she might turn him over to the Watchers he’d probably
use
it, too. “Honestly! I just sneaked out. For fun.”

“Fun for you,” the boy growled. “Life and death for me if you led the Night Watchers here.”

“If they’d seen me stuff myself into that chute, they’d be down here already!”

Silence for a moment. “I suppose so.” Another pause. “What’s your name?”

Mara hesitated, but saw no reason to lie. “Mara,” she said. “What’s yours?”

“Keltan,” the boy said instantly.

“Keltan?” Mara blinked. “That’s the name of the Autarch’s horse!”

“You don’t think I’m going to tell you my
real
name, do you?” “Keltan” countered. “Besides, it’s a beautiful horse. The only good thing
about
the Autarch is that horse.”

Mara gasped. She’d never heard
anyone
criticize the Autarch before.
But I suppose if you’re already risking your life . . .

“Why wouldn’t you take your Mask?” she said. “Why would you run away? You’ll be a fugitive the rest of your life if you—”

“Because,” the boy said. “The Mask changes you.”

Mara, hearing her own fears coming from someone else’s lips, fell silent.

“Oh, they
tell
you it doesn’t. They say it only shows what’s inside you, that it’s for public safety, so the Watchers know who’s a threat, blah blah blah. ‘You’ll be the same person afterward,’ they tell you. But it’s not true!” The exclamation came out like a curse. “My best friend was Masked two months ago.
And he’s not my friend anymore.
”

Like Sala
, Mara thought, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the dank cellar. “He’ll be a full apprentice now,” she said, echoing her mother’s words. “More responsibility. He’s an adult. That’s all—”

“That’s
not
all,” Keltan snarled. “He’s not acting like an
adult
. He’s acting like
a completely different person
. He acts like we never did all the things we did. Like he doesn’t remember all the fun we had. All the secrets we shared. He . . .” He stopped. “He told me to go away and quit bothering him. He said he didn’t want to see me again. That was the day before I was supposed to be Masked.”

“And that was enough to make you run away?” Mara said. “To risk your
life
?”

“There are other reasons,” Keltan said. “But they’re none of your business.” Suddenly he was right beside her. His hand found her wrist in the dark and squeezed it so hard she gasped in pain. “My knife is right here,” he said. “Now tell me why you’re
really
here, ‘Mara.’ If that’s your real name. And don’t . . .” He jerked her arm, hard. “. . . lie.”

“I told you the truth!” Mara squeaked. “I just came out for fun. We used to do it all the time—”

“We?” Keltan jerked her arm again.

“My friend Sala and me!”

“And where is
she
?”

Gone
, Mara thought, remembering how Sala had cut her dead in the market that morning.
Like your friend
. “Masked,” she said out loud. “Masked.”

Keltan let go of her as suddenly as he had grabbed her. She rubbed her sore wrist. “Then you
know
. They’re lying to us. The Masked ones. The grown-ups. The Maskmakers—”

“No,” Mara said. “My father—” She bit off her defense before it fully emerged, but not soon enough. Suddenly Keltan had her wrist again.

“What about him?”

“Nothing!”

He squeezed so hard she couldn’t stifle another gasp. “
What about him?
”

“He’s a Maskmaker,” she yelped. “I’m going to be his apprentice.”

His hand loosened on her arm. “You’ve got the Gift?”

“Yes! And I
know
the Masks don’t change you. My father told me so.”

“And you believe him?”

“He’s my father!”

Keltan snorted. “All the more reason not to trust him. He
wants
you to change. He wants you to be a good little drone in the Autarch’s hive like him, like all the rest of them.
Especially
if you have the Gift. You
have
to be obedient, and the Mask will make sure you are.”

“But my father is making my Mask himself.”

“So? Doesn’t he wear a Mask?”

Mara said nothing.

“You see? It’s a perfect scheme. The Masked creating more Masked, while the Autarch rules with an iron fist and nobody is ever able to challenge him, or even
think
about challenging him. Except for the . . .”

He stopped again.

“The–the what?” Mara asked in a small voice.

“The unMasked Army,” the boy said, barely whispering.

If he’d shouted obscenities Mara would have been less shocked. “They’re a myth! A tale from a storybook!”

“No,” Keltan insisted. “They’re real. And I know how to find them.”

“How would—”

“I’m not telling you anything else.” He moved away from her. “Get out of here. Go.”

“Love to,” Mara said fervently. “But how, exactly?”

His voice came from even farther away. “You might try the door.” A click, and for the first time, light entered the cellar: faint, flickering, but bright as a torch to her eyes after so long in the dark. “I can get you back on the street. After that, you’re on your own.”

“I can find my way home,” Mara said. She scrambled to her feet, stray bits of coal clattering to the floor.

But Keltan still blocked her way, a black silhouette in the doorway. Something in his hand glinted as he pointed it at her. He hadn’t been bluffing about the knife. “Don’t tell anyone you met me. I’m warning you—”

“I won’t tell,” Mara said. “Who would believe me? I don’t even know your real name.”

She squinted at him, but with the light behind him, she still couldn’t see his features. He was a good head taller than she was and his hair stuck out in all directions, shining blond in the illumination behind him.

“You’d better not,” he said. He pointed the knife at her. “And don’t think you can send anyone back here to find me. I won’t be staying. I’ve got other hiding places.”

“I already said I won’t tell anyone,” Mara snapped. “For one thing, I’d have to admit I was out after curfew!”

Keltan turned abruptly. “This way.”

The light came from a barely alight gas lamp at the end of a short corridor and the bottom of a flight of stairs. Keltan led her up the steps to a landing. The stairs turned and continued up, but he stopped there, by a bolted wooden door. He put a finger to his lips. She could see his face a little better now. Thin and freckled, it was punctuated by a sharp nose. He wore a short black jacket over a nondescript white shirt above equally ordinary trousers and plain brown boots. Coal dust smudged his face.

She looked down at herself. Her tunic, arms, legs, and feet were every bit as black.
How am I going to hide all
this
from Mother?
she thought in a bit of a panic, then pushed the thought away. She’d worry about her mother once she’d gotten past the Night Watchers.

Keltan eased the bolt back and opened the door a crack. He peered out. “All clear.” He pulled the door further ajar. “Go,” he said. “Get home.” He paused, looking at her, his gaze traveling from her face down the length of her skinny body to her dirty bare legs and feet and back up again. She felt herself blushing and wished she’d worn a longer tunic. “You’re older than I thought,” he said, looking into her face once more. She found herself wondering what color his eyes were; she couldn’t tell in the dim light. “Your Masking must be soon.”

“Pretty soon,” Mara said.

“Think about what I’ve said,” Keltan said. “You won’t be the same person after you’re Masked. You could run, too. The unMasked Army would—”

“The only place I’m running is home,” Mara said. “Good-bye.” She slipped out into the street, looked up and down its length to make sure it was deserted, then turned and said, impulsively, “Good luck.” Then she darted away.

She had no more encounters with Night Watchers, and now that she was paying attention, quickly found her way back to familiar streets. Soon she was clambering up through the tree onto the wall behind her house; a moment after that she was on the roof and letting herself down onto her bed. She lifted the skylight window back into place, then stepped quietly down onto the floorboards to avoid any thump, stripped off her soot-stained clothes, and stuffed them under her bed to dispose of later. Then she washed herself as best she could with the cold water from her basin, pulled on a clean nightgown, and climbed beneath the covers. Her stuffed cat Stoofy, who had shared her bed since she was a baby, lay by her pillow; she pulled him to her chest and held him tightly, staring up at the square of stars she could see through the skylight’s glass.

Keltan’s warnings about the Mask uncomfortably echoed her own doubts. But . . .
run away?
If she missed her Masking, she’d be sentenced to death. Whatever life was like behind the Mask, it had to be better than no life at all!

She hoped Keltan was right, and an unMasked Army was waiting to take him in. Because otherwise . . .

...otherwise, his naked body might soon be hanging from the gallows by the Traitors’ Gate.

She shuddered. No.
She
would not run. She would take the Mask, just as she was supposed to, join her father as his apprentice, and put away her childhood. There really was no other choice.

Besides
, she thought muzzily as sleep at last claimed her,
Father has been working so hard on my Mask . . . I can’t let him down.

And I can’t wait to see it.