“Death might be too great a mantle for me to wear,” said the man. “But I can bear no name for the curse given me. All I have is my mask. Perhaps you can call me that.”

The door opened, and she stepped inside. A guard stood at either side, their daggers drawn. The room was well lit with many lanterns. At one end were tables of maps, documents, and a locked chest for guild funds. At the other were blankets, pillows, and illegal measures of comfort. Amid the meager luxury sat Garrick, his eyes glazed from the substance he smoked through a short pipe. Several other men lay scattered about him, their senses just as dull from the smoke and liquor.

“Veliana!” Garrick said, standing. “Did the trade go through as…”

He stopped as Veliana’s guest shoved his way inside, so fast that he was beside her before the guards reacted. He made no threatening motion, only stayed at her side. With an elaborate bow, he greeted the guildmaster.

“Mighty Garrick, how the shadows tremble when I mention your name,” he said, and Veliana felt anger burn inside her at the obvious sarcasm. Garrick, however, seemed oblivious to it. Instead, he appeared worried by the newcomer’s strange attire and sudden entrance. He stepped back and ran a hand through his long brown hair, a sign Veliana knew meant he was nervous.

“And who are you?” he asked. “A friend of Veliana’s?”

“This is…Death’s Mask,” she said. “He helped us tonight, may have saved many lives. We’ve been betrayed, Garrick. When we…”

“Do you still have the powder?” Garrick interrupted.

“I…yes, we do.”

“Good, good,” said Garrick. He sat back down on the cushions, drew his dagger, and held it in hand while he listened. “Now what is this betrayal you speak of? And tell me again…” – he made a sound like a cross of a laugh and a cough – “who this Death…Deathmask is?”