Gatecrash

There was a thud as someone clubbed her across the head from behind. As she collapsed, Jace saw it was Captain Calomir.

“Greetings, Beleren,” he said.

Mages in midnight blue emerged out of nowhere, appearing behind the Rakdos ruffians and efficiently inserting long daggers into the base of the ruffians’ necks. The Rakdos cultists fell dead, and the newly-appearing mages took hold of Jace’s bound arms in turn. A blindfold came down over his face and was fastened behind his head.

“Calomir, wait,” he said.

“Let’s go somewhere where we can talk privately, shall we?” said Calomir, close to Jace’s ear. “Move.”

There was a shove at his back, and he walked. Somehow they walked down stairs that had not been there before, and somehow, within moments, he was being led through the cool, echoing dank of the undercity.

“Jace?”

“I’m here,” he thought to Emmara. “Don’t worry. I’m coming for you.”

UNMASKING

They walked Jace for what must have been several city blocks, down sloping tunnels and over creaking wooden footbridges. He could see nothing through the blackness of the blindfold, but he tried to keep his wits about him. For a while he tried to memorize the route they took, so if he escaped he could retrace his steps. But his Dimir captors led him in spirals, pushing him through shifting walls and over echoing watercourses, over unidentifiable surfaces designed to confuse the senses.

Finally they sat him on a wooden stool. When the blindfold was removed, Calomir stood before him in a misty undercity chamber, incongruous in the bright green and white of his Selesnya soldier’s dress.

Jace checked that the mage-assassins were still behind him. They were, no doubt with a bevy of spells ready to destroy Jace if he made a move. He looked back at Calomir. “What are you?”

“It is time we met formally,” said the elf. “I am Lazav.”

What had been the figure of Calomir melted, dripping away like a sped-up wax candle, and then reformed again into a new shape. This new man wore a hooded cloak, like Jace’s, except it was worn and threadbare with age. Jace could only see the bottom half of the man’s face. His skin was as worn as his cloak, wrinkled and thin.

Jace didn’t know if he should know the name Lazav. He had the feeling few did.

“The dragon’s little announcement is unfortunate,” said the man Lazav. “We’ll have a bit more competition now. But we’ll have to adapt, won’t we?” The man’s voice was hollow, and yet full of menace. It was too close, too knowing, too possessed of a stillness that signified confidence in his own power. “But the fact that they’ve opened up the maze to all the guilds also means that the Izzet haven’t been able to solve it by themselves yet.”

Jace’s brain flew, putting together the pieces. “You’re Dimir,” he said. “A shapeshifter of some kind, with enough mind magic to keep me from spying.”

“Correct.”

“You sent the vampire.”

“And I had to put him away for a long time, because he failed to take from you what I wanted. But you’ve done well, haven’t you? You’ve recovered that which you lost.”

Lazav took a half-step toward Jace. His presence was stifling. Though the man was no larger than Jace, Jace felt a wall of pressure emanating from him, pushing into him, tipping him back on the stool.

Jace wasted no more time. He threw his psychic senses at Lazav’s mind. But Jace found no ingress. Lazav’s mind remained unreachable as when he had been Calomir, locked away from him, impenetrable.

“You’re Calomir,” said Jace.

“Oh, you’re just putting that together?” A grin spread across Lazav’s cracked lips. “To be entirely precise, poor Calomir’s been dead for some months now. He was a good soldier to the Conclave, and a wise advisor. I am merely his replacement.” He bowed theatrically. “Not a worthy one, I’m afraid. But the Selesnya, especially the lovely Emmara, seem to have accepted the performance.”

“You’ve been advising Trostani. Goading the Conclave into attacking the Rakdos. You had them declare war on another guild as retribution—for a kidnapping you engineered.”

Lazav shrugged. “I appreciate the recognition of my work, but of course that’s only part of it. To the Orzhov I’m a wealthy pontiff with the ear of the Grand Envoy of the Syndicate. To the Golgari, an advisor in Jarad’s inner circle. The Boros know me as a scout on a griffin, who always happens to deliver alarming news of the other guilds. And her irascible commanding officers always listen.”

“So you spread misinformation to the guilds.”

“The districts run on information. Secrets are the lifeblood of the world. I provide a valuable service to those in need.”

“You traffic in lies.”