"Yes, mask. Black, made of that hard… mm…" he stumbled trying to find the right word, "stuff. I don"t know how it"s called in your language."

"Who took off his mask? Tol, you did! Where is it?"

"Arel, I… I tossed it to the chimney," Tol said somewhat guiltily. "I was so pissed off!"

"Shi-i-it!" Nikto squeezed his temples with his palms. "Cloak is torn. Mask is burnt! Any patrol will stop me when I look like that!"

"All right, I"ll give you my cloak and my mask," Orel tried to settle it. "And you"ll walk out of the Upper City without a problem."

"Without a problem! I don"t have the right to be in the Upper City at all!"

"I know," Orel smiled.

"See ya," Nikto walked to the door.

"Wait," Orel reached for him. "I"ll see you off to the door and give you your weapon. It"s upstairs."

His friends exchanged glances but didn"t say anything.

"As you wish," Nikto muttered.

In the dim light of the dungeon his face crossed with a scar looked frightening. Half-paralyzed, it seemed lifeless, more fitting for a dead man than a living being able to bitch about ruined things.

They walked up from the dungeon to the ground floor.

"Here is your sword," Orel lowered his eyes avoiding Nikto"s gaze. The servant brought a cloak and a mask.

"My slave will bring them back," Nikto said.

"Never mind, they are yours."

"Fine," Nikto wrapped the cloak around himself. A moment before pulling up the hood he stopped and looked at Orel. Nikto"s eyes were grey and cold. "Something else?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"Nik was never your name, was it?"