Maskbound: The Ultimate Hunter

Squad Nine’s new office on floor twelve offered windows, a working printer, plus a smell of fresh paint that stung. Gerald’s bowl sat on the sill, the fish regarding the skyline with the deep suspicion of a lifelong basement dweller.

Ganzo hammered a sign over the door, “SQUAD NINE, NOW WITH WINDOWS, the lettering took me three hours and a minor burn.”

“Captain, the sign is crooked,” Zinnia said, tilting her head to check the angle.

“It is not crooked, it is leaning toward success,” he rumbled.

Kevin the old printer sat in the corner beside his shiny replacement, wheezing with the dignity of a retired veteran. Bruno checked his desk with a ruler three times, found it two inches short of his bloodline, then complained twice.

“Kevin Two doesn’t have a personality yet, give him a week of jams,” Nilo said, patting the new printer.

Pipa swiveled in a chair that spun, “Chat, I have a chair that spins, I am never leaving this building.”

Late sun poured through the new windows, gilding the paint fumes, the desks, the nine crooked chairs. Zinnia stood at the glass, notebook closed, watching the Crown District light up one lamp after another.

“The tally stands at fifteen,” she said without turning, “and the other column has acquired a sidewalk.”

“What else is in the other column now?”

“The door, a sidewalk, a tram seat, plus a hall of captains who never guessed you were frightened.”

“I wasn’t frightened… I was thoughtful.”

“That would be sixteen, but I am feeling generous,” she said, finally looking at him.

The door banged open and Tilly marched in with her cast held high, an invoice flapping in her good hand. She skipped the greetings, the hugs, the sentimental part, heading straight for Nilo with the stern look of a bailiff.

“Three hundred forty neighbors paid two marks each to watch you on my projector, my cut is ninety percent.”

“Ninety percent of a viewing fee for my own near arrest, that’s generous,” he said.

“The other ten covers the bun you forgot to deliver at the Velvet Hour, with interest.”

He dug a squashed bun from his coat, still wrapped in a napkin folded into a tiny smile.

“This bun is older than my cast,” she said, sniffing it, “and the napkin is smiling at me.”

“It’s a complicated bun, I can explain.”

“Page one is still blank… so do not make me add a line,” Tilly said, tucking it away.

Examiner Brickle appeared in the doorway pushing a mailroom cart, a gift box balanced on his clipboard. He squinted at the room full of faces, found none he recognized, and addressed the nearest plant.

“Package for Squad Nine, without a postmark or a courier, the camera shows it appearing on the shelf at three this morning,” he read.

“It’s addressed to me, Examiner, I’m over here, the one not being a plant.”

“So it is, so it is, whoever you are,” Brickle said, already forgetting.

The box was plain cardboard tied with a pink ribbon, the knot folded into a perfect small smile. A card under the bow read, in silver ink, To Nil, the Thirteenth Key, care of Squad Nine.

‘Nil. The clerk’s old joke from thirteen years ago, written in silver on a box on my new desk.’

“Do not open it,” Zilch said.

Clangor cleared his throat, “Young man, a gentleman declines gifts from strangers who know his name.”

Zinnia slid a letter opener under the ribbon, “We unwrap it by the window with the door ajar, the Captain between us and the stairs.”

The lid lifted without a sound, releasing a smell of sugar and cold stone into the bright new office. Inside, nested in black velvet, lay a plain pale mask with no face at all, only a thin crack.

“Invitation,” the mask murmured in a thousand small voices, every one of them smiling.

“It is saying my name, I swear it is saying my name in the gaps between the words,” Jingles whispered.

Pipa whispered from behind the printer, “Chat, please note that I am standing very far away.”

Zinnia lifted the silver card by its edges as if it were hot, tilting it toward the window light. Lines of fine script glittered across it, and at the corner a thin ring was pressed into the metal.

“The Masquerade Court requests the pleasure of your faces at the Gala of Mirrors, Thursday at midnight, the old Hall of Mirrors, Crown District,” she read.

“Anything else?”

“There is one more line under the ring,” she said, “faces optional, bring the thirteenth key.”

“I vote we burn it,” Ganzo rumbled, “then drown the ashes, then salt the river.”

“Darling, a gala at midnight in a hall of mirrors, I shall need a gown that photographs from every angle,” Cadenza purred.

“A Steelhorn is never underdressed for a trap, I shall wear the red coat,” Bruno said gravely.

Pipa ducked lower behind the desk, “Chat, if the Court calls, I am not—”

“The Court has not called, it has mailed,” Zinnia said.

“We go as a squad, we leave as a squad, anyone who tries to be clever alone will answer to my notebook.”

“Thursday is three days away, Tink knows what everything is, I’m taking the card to him.”

“Take Zilch with you, anyone with a spine will do,” she said, “and come back with the whole of your face.”

“I’ll bring a receipt, stamped by somebody very official.”

[ WARDROBE ]

[Tab: THE THIRTEENTH]

[Status: locked, a hairline of light under the door]

The Market Ring looked ordinary at dusk, lanterns swaying over pawnshops, noodle carts, fight posters flapping. Nobody on the street knew a silver card was burning a hole in his coat pocket.

“On the house, Hunter, you saved my cousin’s block,” a fruit seller said, pressing an apple into his hand, “I’d know that coat anywhere, but I can’t remember your face.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said about my face.”

Strangers waved at the bandolier as he passed, calling thanks to the jester, the knight, the diva, never to him. Children chalked masks on the pavement in rows of seven, one little girl drawing a smudge where a face belongs.

“Hon, I checked the card for fingerprints with my best fingers, it has none,” Magpie chirped.

Rattle’s cheerful voice rolled through his skull, “Sweet thing, the silver is real but the ring is pressed from something that is not metal.”

“Got a drink, kid… any drink at all?” Drifter drawled.

Old Tink’s shop smelled of oil and cold brass, every shelf crowded with masks sleeping in their cases. He sat behind the counter with his cane across his knees, his clear eye fixed on the door.

“You are carrying something that smells of sugar,” he said, not looking up.

Nilo laid the card on the counter between them, and neither of them touched it.

Tink looked at the card for a long time without touching it, the lens whirring as it focused. When he finally spoke, his gruff voice sounded smaller than Nilo ever heard it, almost like a child’s.

“I have seen this card once, twenty years ago, on a table in the Seventh Lantern’s barracks the night before the sky opened.”

“Who sent it?” Nilo asked.

“Nobody sent it,” he said, “it was simply on the table when seven of us came in for supper.”

He leaned on the counter, “What did it say?”

“What does yours say, kid?”

“The pleasure of our faces, Thursday at midnight, plus a line about a thirteenth key,” he said.

“Ours said the pleasure of seven faces, a Friday, and nothing about any key.”

“Did you go?” he asked.

“Six of us threw it in the stove,” he said, “the seventh answered it before supper was finished.”

“What happened to the seventh?”

His cane tapped once, “She went to the ball… and she came back wearing a smile I did not know, I will not say the rest tonight.”

A tiny voice cracked in the rack, “That is the saddest story I have ever heard, I know a great many.”

“Young man, I wish it recorded that I salute this old soldier,” Clangor murmured.

“Good man, quiet grief,” Zilch said.

“What was her name?”

“Maren, she carried our lantern, she laughed at everything right up until that supper.”

‘Twenty years, seven faces, one stove, plus a man who still keeps a scratched badge in his apron.’

“What does a party need besides guests, kid?” he asked.

“Food, music, somebody to laugh at the jokes, a very good coat check.”

“A host, and what does a host need before he can throw a proper party?”

“A door.”

“Somebody has added a door to this card,” he said, “and you are the only one carrying it.”

He raised one finger, “Never be the first to take off your mask, the Court collects whatever you set down first.”

A second finger rose, “Never dance twice with the same partner, a second dance is an agreement.”

A third finger rose, “Never eat the sugar, no matter how kindly it is offered.”

“I’m going on Thursday, you know that.”

“I know, that is why I am telling you the rules.”

“Bring one partner who will remember your face, the Court takes the forgotten ones first,” Tink added.

“I have a short list, it has exactly three names on it.”

“Then you are richer than most men in this city,” he said gruffly.

‘Tilly draws it every night, Crown writes it down, and Zinnia kept a notebook before I ever asked.’

The cane tapped the floor once, and on the back shelf the gray mask began to hum. One by one every mask in the shop joined it, a hundred cases rattling together in unison.

“Twenty years ago this card came the day before the sky opened, kid, and tonight I think they are done waiting.”

Outside, the lanterns of the Market Ring went dark one after another, a wave of shadow rolling down the street. In the gloom, boxes tied with pink ribbons sat on every doorstep that stood empty a moment ago, waiting politely.

The Masquerade Court was moving at last, the whole Market Ring already on its guest list.