He started to say more, but the Lady Mayor withdrew her hand and nodded graciously. "I suppose I must abide here as well, for how could I deny you the opportunity to weave words such as those? I hope you enjoy your stay, Lord Wildhame. I bid you goodnight." Then she was gone, sweeping past Jack while the Lord Chancellor and Lord Swylythe briefly introduced themselves and followed behind. Jack scarcely noticed, his eyes still on the Lady Mayor as she left.

"'Your loveliness defies comparison?"' Illyth snorted and caught Jack's arm. "It might be nice if you could spare a compliment or two for me, Jack!"

"I have long since given up hope of discovering a compliment that could do you credit, fair Illyth," Jack replied. He caught her hand and kissed it as well. "If I were to call the sun a candle flame, I should shame both myself and the object of my praise. When I find the words to suit you, I shall never cease to give them voice!"

Illyth laughed and blushed. "That's better, I suppose. Come on-we must get our masks for the Game!" She led him into the robing room, where a handful of attendants in blue and silver awaited. "Lady Illyth Fleetwood and Lord Jaer Kell Wildhame," she told them.

"Lady Illyth," the chief attendant said with a bow. He was a large man, with broad shoulders and a bearlike beard tempered by the twinkle of humor in his eyes. "Lord Jaer. We're so very glad you could attend. I am the Master Crafter Randall Morran, and I will serve as the chief storyteller, moderator, judge, master of ceremonies, and facilitator of entertainment for this challenge of the Game of Masks." He turned his attention to a large wardrobe nearby and searched it thoughtfully before handing two simple masks to them. "Please, try them on. If they are uncomfortable, we shall adjust them."

Rolling his eyes, Jack doffed his splendid feathered cap and handed it to the footman. He pulled on the mask and turned to look at Illyth. A ghostly white crane with striking black plumage seemed to stand in her place, although he could vaguely glimpse the suggestion of a beautiful woman in an elegant gown through the illusion.

"Quite effective," he admitted. "How do I seem to you, Illyth?"

The crane laughed softly. "I find myself addressing a rather sly-looking fox in a gentleman's coat," she said. "It's curiously appropriate. And I?"

"A stately crane, very wise and beautiful," Jack said, "also appropriate. So, what now? How is the game to be played?"

"Listen now to the tale of the Seven Faceless Lords," intoned the Master Crafter. "A long time ago in a distant land, seven wise monarches named Alcantar, Buriz, Carad, Dubhil, Erizum, Fatim, and Geciras ruled well and faithfully seven rich and prosperous kingdoms: Unen, Dues, Trile, Quarra, Pentar, Hexan, and Septun. In their wisdom, the seven monarchs placed the defense of their land in the hands of a great and powerful enchantment. The spell was bound to the monarchs' lives, so that as long as one did live, the land would be unassailable.

"Then, to ensure that no foe undid the enchantment by striking down the monarchs, each of the seven kings went secretly to dwell in the lands held by another monarch, living humbly among the people. When they must perforce appear in public, the monarchs hid their faces and names behind hoods: Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Purple, and Black. Thus no one knew where each king dwelt or even what each king looked like, and the land was ruled well for many years.

"Alas, an enemy arose whom even the wise monarchs did not anticipate. One by one the descendants of the original Seven Lords turned to evil. Their peculiar arrangement made it impossible for the champions of the people to unseat the fallen lords, since even if one were exposed and defeated, any of the other six might loose the great enchantment upon the land to exact a terrible vengeance. And now, the only way in which the land may be freed of the rule of the Seven Faceless Lords is if each monarch's identity and the kingdom in which he dwells is learned by a true and faithful hero, so that all may be exposed and defeated in the very same stroke.

"So, my Lady Crane and my Lord Fox, you have begun the quest secretly to determine the identity of each of the Seven Faceless Lords. Over the next seven weeks, each lord will host a revel celebrating the seventh century of their houses' joint rule. Tonight you are guests at the Red Lord's Revel. May your search be fruitful, for all the land demands justice!"

Jack nodded. Seven lords, seven names, seven kingdoms. All one had to do was to hit upon the correct alignment out of the, just a moment, three hundred and forty-three possible combinations. Simple persistence should win the day.

"That doesn't seem too hard," he said aloud.

"Oh, and you should know," Randall Morran added, "that you are entitled to make only one guess. Should you guess wrong, the Faceless Lords will destroy you at once, thus removing your characters from the game."

"Is that all?" Illyth asked.

"No, my lady," said a second attendant. "Each pair of participants begins with a clue as to the identity of one of the Faceless Lords. By carefully conversing with the other guests and exchanging clues, you should eventually identify each lord's name and dwelling place."

"And our clue is?" Jack asked.

Master Crafter Randall Morran consulted a large leather-bound tome. Then he opened a small locked chest sitting on the credenza and rifled through its contents, producing a small ivory token stamped with gold filigree and printed with small lettering. "Here it is, my lord."

Jack took the token and glanced at it. Dubhil is not the Orange Lord, it read.

"If you are wise, you'll ask to see the another player's clue token when you exchange information," the second attendant said. "Some unsportsmanlike players might deliberately mislead you otherwise."

"Perish the thought," Jack muttered.

There was one strategy out the window. He passed the token to Illyth, thinking hard. It would be very difficult to get information out of another player without providing information of presumably equal value; that meant that any clever and thorough player would make progress at about the same speed as any other clever and thorough player. Of course, the tokens might be faked or stolen. Or, for that matter, that big leather book where the Game judges apparently kept a roster of players and clues might be borrowed for a time and then carefully replaced.

An unsportsmanlike player had a few options open to him, at least. Jack nodded to himself. It might not be so bad, after all.

"One more question," Illyth asked. "What happens if a participant guesses wrong and removes himself-and therefore his clue as well-from the Game?"

"Good question," Jack said.

Illyth was somewhat gullible and given to romantic nonsense, but there was nothing wrong with her reasoning. When she put her mind to it, there were few puzzles she couldn't figure out. If he could possibly accept the notion of losing fairly, he might have even considered tackling the riddle without deceit, relying on nothing more than her logical powers and his own guile.

"Oh, we've already thought of that," the Master Grafter said. "There are a handful of vital clues that we are watching out for. If a player with one of those clues faults out of the Game, we will reintroduce his clue by secretly reassigning it to a randomly determined player who is still in the Game. Never fear, my lady Crane; we'll make sure that a solution is possible for any who still choose to play." He guided them over to the elegant doors leading into the ballroom and bowed. "The Red Lord's Revel awaits, my lady!"

"Thank you," Illyth murmured. She took Jack's arm, and together they descended the small flight of steps leading down and into the grand room. Figures merry and fierce thronged the floor, bears and leopards, dragons and serpents, falcons and sparrows and gulls. Some danced, while others conversed gaily, and still more sampled the various hors d'oeuvres spread out along the shining side table. Striding through the center of the throng, the Red Lord moved with grace, confidence, and an air of subtle cruelty, a tall man (or woman?) in a scarlet robe and a seamless, eyeless hood of the same color.