The Masque of Vyle Read Free Page B

changed. It altered from the tumbling debris of explosion to the stylised, smiling features most commonly associated with Cegorach, the Laughing God. The Master Mime nodded briefly in greeting.
    ‘I can spare you from the risk of looking,’ a new voice said. ‘You would find nothing.’
    Hradhiri Ra whipped around with his cannon raised to cover the newcomer in the blink of an eye. The slight figure being menaced by the Death Jester raised its hands in mock surrender.
    ‘Psychic screamers were used to obscure the scene,’ the newcomer explained brightly. ‘Whoever did this was careful to leave no such easily accessible evidence of their activities.’
    ‘Motley,’ Hradhiri Ra snorted, and angled his cannon upwards again.
    The newcomer was lithe and compact, dressed in an archaic costume that appeared grey at first glance. Closer examination showed it to be comprised of tiny diamonds of alternating black and white in endless repetition. Unlike the fully masked Harlequins the figure wore a domino, a half-mask that covered the upper half of its face. The lower, uncovered half showed full red lips and an overly-mobile mouth that was currently beaming a welcoming smile.
    ‘It is indeed I, Motley, one and the same my bony friend. I’m very glad to see you all – I thought you’d never get here – although I obviously hoped otherwise, of course.’
    ‘Spare me your protestations of familiarity and goodwill, spawn of Chaos,’ Ashanthourus pronounced coldly. ‘Justify your presence here – by what right do you call for a Masque to attend your vagrant wanderings?’
    Motley bowed deeply, appearing greatly chagrined.
    ‘Forgive your errant servant, my noble king, I intended only to lighten a dark moment with the warming gift of laughter. I call upon the Masque by my right of sacrifice, as one foresworn to the doom of our people and perched upon the razor’s edge between apotheosis and destruction. Would you see my credentials?’
    Motley raised one hand to his domino mask as if to remove it but Ashanthourus shook his head.
    ‘No need, fool, I recognise Cegorach’s touch upon you. Why else would you dare so much if not at the instigation of the Laughing God – unless perhaps now the other entity that you serve drives your desires?’
    Motley shook his head as he lowered his hand. ‘If that were the case it would be readily apparent to all. Your own souls would not be safe around me, for one thing. We are agreed, then, that I am who I say I am and no greater a fool or changeling than is usual?’
    Ashanthourus tilted up his chin imperiously. ‘Indeed,’ the High Avatar said, ‘although you are no servant of mine, errant or otherwise, and should make no such claim even in jest.’
    ‘Duly noted.’ Motley bowed again, almost planting his nose in the crystalline dust and keeping it there. ‘I am less than a worm and servant to none other than my own poor sense of taste – plus our mutual deity, patron and benefactor – and our mutual nemesis, the doom of our people…’
    ‘Enough of this, Ashanthourus!’ Cylia cried. ‘Motley has grave news for us, surely? Bid him to tell it and cease your posturing!’
    It was Ashanthourus’s turn to appear chagrined; he even flinched slightly at the Shadowseer’s hot jab of emotion. Nonetheless he quickly recovered himself and regally gestured for Motley to rise and speak.
    ‘Speak then, knave, tell us what has occurred here,’ Ashanthourus said a little sulkily.
    ‘The anticipation is killing me,’ whispered Hradhiri Ra with heavy irony. Motley flashed him a little smile of appreciation at the jest.
    ‘As you have no doubt surmised the people of this craftworld were attacked and swiftly overwhelmed. I’ve been to many, many craftworlds in my wanderings but this one was new to me when I found it. I discovered it in much the same condition as you see it now.’
    ‘We’d not believed you responsible for the damage, in case you were wondering,’ whispered Hradhiri