City of Masks Read Free Page A

swishing back and forth, and laughed. Marick blushed and smiled when she sat down beside him.
    “So Garet, what did you do to anger our stormy Hallmaster?”
    Garet shrugged. “Nothing that I know of, but I’m sure to find out. Master Branet isn’t one to let a fault lie forgotten.”
    “Those are the truest words ever spoken,” Vinir said. “Yesterday he yelled at me in front of the other Golds for laughing at something Bandat said.”
    “If you want, I could . . . ,” Marick said, leaving open the suggestion of whatever devious prank he had in mind for the Hallmaster.
    Vinir rubbed his hair, and Marick wiggled like a puppy.
    “Don’t you dare, you imp. We’ve enough trouble with all these attacks without you causing an uproar.”
    “Is it that bad?” Dorict asked. He had returned with a wedge of cheese in each hand.
    “It’s not the number so much as that they happen so close together,” Vinir said. “It doesn’t feel normal, and if it weren’t for the fact that we can still feel the fear they cast, I’d think, you know, the Caller Demon had returned.”
    Garet shivered. The Caller was a unique breed of demon, one who could hide its own and other demons’ fear so they could attack without warning. It even had some control over other demons, or so many thought. Such a creature had not been seen in six-hundred years, and its return had almost destroyed the city. Master Mandarack had killed it at the cost of his own life. The thought that another might attack kept Garet from sleep many nights.
    After their meal, Garet walked the reluctant Marick right to the door of the largest training room and made sure the slippery Bane joined the others before leaving. Walking back, he shook his head. There was no guarantee Marick wouldn’t slip off again, but he had done his duty and now had others to complete. As he arrived at the door to the smaller training room, Garet heard the dull slap of wooden poles on sandbags. Looking in, he saw a line of young Banes, children really, striking the bags with long poles while a Master supervised.
    “Turn those hips, Corfin! Snap your shoulders into the strike, Sala! On the count: one, two, three . . .”
    The count went on while Garet hung his sash and vest on a hook. He took up a pole from where it stood in the rack and joined Master Forlinect in watching the young Black Sashes hit the bags with less and less force.
    “Do what you can with them, Garet,” the Red said when most had collapsed onto the floor, breathing in great gulps of air. “This lot is claw bait or I’m a trader!”
    He turned and walked to the small office and equipment room to fuss with the paperwork or perhaps just fuss.
    Garet watched him go. He had some sympathy for the Red. He knew Forlinect wanted Tarix’s approval. His devotion to the former Training Master was strong, proven by the fact that he had changed sides in the bitter civil war within the Banehall last year just to protect her, and Tarix had pushed Hallmaster Branet to name Forlinect Training Master while her leg healed. Garet knew the newly-made Master was grateful, and truly wanted him to succeed, but still, working these children to exhaustion would not make them Banes any faster.
    He looked them over, trying to think of a better method. What could eight to twelve year-olds do that was useful? His own experience was not helpful. He had been older, sixteen, when he first wore the Black Sash. At that time, they didn’t use weapons at all. They just ran around the Banehall every morning and did exercises with weighted clubs and such until they passed the physical and knowledge tests and became Blues. Then the training changed and the poles and hooked ropes came out. After the Banehall’s conflicts had ended, Tarix altered the training routines. Garet thought this new way was much better. It might make Black Sashes feel more like proper Banes if they started off using weapons in training.
    “All right, get up now. On your feet. Slow