I have decided to continue writing.
Primarily because I am currently incapable of focusing on anything else.
Several thoughts have refused to leave my head.
Perhaps writing them down will help.
Though recent experience suggests that remembering events in proper sequence often produces the opposite effect.
One detail I neglected to record earlier concerns OrangO himself.
Apparently that is not his real name.
According to him, almost nobody in Deepscar uses their real name.
This information felt reasonable.
Until I looked toward Miss DeLuna and quietly asked:
"Then why does OrangO know your real name?"
Miss DeLuna smiled.
Actually smiled.
Then answered:
"I didn't know there was a rule."
A pause.
"So I already told him."
OrangO nearly choked laughing.
Meanwhile I sat there wondering how someone survives this long while accidentally bypassing social conventions powerful enough to support underground civilizations.
Eventually I asked whether I should adopt a false name as well.
OrangO laughed even harder.
Then informed me that roughly ninety percent of Deepscar already recognized both me and Spathian.
I would like to formally record that I found this information deeply unpleasant.
Unfortunately, later events strongly suggested he was correct.
Eventually OrangO brought us to an event called the Veil of Forgotten Faces.
According to him, it was Miss DeLuna's favorite performance in Deepscar.
Miss DeLuna described it as:
"Interesting."
Then after a moment of thought:
"A little disturbing."
I have since concluded that her standards regarding what qualifies as disturbing differ substantially from those of ordinary people.
The performance took place inside a cavern.
The space felt smaller than it should have been.
The walls pressed inward.
Damp stone.
Cold air.
The faint metallic smell of old blood lingering beneath everything else.
Twenty people sat in a perfect circle.
Completely still.
Not speaking.
Not moving.
Not even shifting position.
They stared toward the center with a level of concentration I normally associate with contract negotiations involving national governments.
In the center stood the performer.
Layers of masks covered his body.
Not theatrical masks.
Death masks.
Faces taken from the dead.
Some peaceful.
Some terrified.
Some cracked with age.
All human.
The performance began.
One mask.
One dead man.
An old porter who died in a cave collapse.
Another mask.
Another dead person.
A hunter.
A merchant.
A traveler.
Each time he changed masks, something happened.
Not imitation.
Transformation.
Posture changed.
Voice changed.
Breathing changed.
Tiny unconscious habits appeared.
The way fingers moved.
The way shoulders carried weight.
The way eyes focused.
As a merchant, I found myself studying the technique instinctively.
This was power.
Not magical power.
Social power.
Narrative power.
The ability to reconstruct a person so completely that strangers recognized them.
At one point I became aware of something uncomfortable.
The performer seemed to be looking toward me.
Not directly.
Not obviously.
Perhaps only coincidence.
Yet several times I felt as though I was being observed.
Evaluated.
Measured.
The sensation persisted long enough for me to notice.
Then vanished.
I told myself I was imagining it.
Several minutes later, I wished I had continued believing that.
The performer reached for the final mask.
A plain white porcelain face.
Featureless.
Empty.
He placed it over the others.
Silence followed.
Then his posture changed.
Immediately.
Shoulders relaxed.
Head tilted slightly left.
A familiar gesture.
One I have repeated thousands of times.
The fingers followed next.
Small movements.
Subtle.
Controlled.
Calculating.
Then he spoke.
Using my voice.
Not perfectly.
But close enough.
The cadence.
The pauses.
The rhythm.
The way I carefully weigh sentences before speaking.
The small habit of touching my sleeve while thinking.
The slight arrogance hidden beneath politeness.
The merchant heir.
The negotiator.
The version of myself I deliberately show the world.
He became her.
He became me.
Not a caricature.
Not a joke.
Not an insult.
The accurate version.
That somehow made it worse.
My stomach turned.
Not from fear.
Not even from disgust.
From recognition.
Years of training.
Years of etiquette.
Years spent constructing a version of myself suitable for negotiation rooms and noble courts.
And some stranger wore it more naturally than I did.
For one brief moment, the blank mask turned slightly.
Toward me.
I cannot prove it happened.
But I remember feeling seen.
Not physically.
Professionally.
As though the performer had looked directly through the role I spent years building and simply decided to borrow it.
That was the moment I understood the performance.
The horror was never that he could imitate the dead.
The horror was that identity itself appeared frighteningly portable.
A face.
A voice.
A posture.
A role.
Something another person could wear.
Then remove.
As casually as changing coats.
The performance ended.
Nobody moved.
Nobody applauded.
Nobody spoke.
The silence felt ceremonial somehow.
Then Miss DeLuna enthusiastically began clapping.
OrangO immediately started laughing.
The two of them spent much of the performance casually discussing various details while I experienced what I can only describe as a minor existential crisis.
Afterward, OrangO brought us elsewhere.
A small information shop.
According to him, the finest information broker in Deepscar.
I expected professionals.
Spies.
Criminals.
Former intelligence officers.
Instead I found gardeners.
Food vendors.
Flower sellers.
Milk delivery children.
Newspaper carriers.
People so ordinary they became suspicious.
At the center sat an elderly woman smoking a cigar.
The moment she saw us she smiled warmly.
Then said:
"Lady Aeryn Valeria Roderick."
A pause.
"Master Spathian Carver Roderick."
My heart stopped.
Temporarily.
Only temporarily.
I think.
After recovering, I decided to test the service.
Miss DeLuna provided the teeth.
I purchased the cheapest category of information available.
A simple test.
Nothing more.
The information I received exceeded expectations so dramatically that I immediately abandoned several assumptions regarding the limits of Deepscar's information network.
I will not record the contents.
Not because I wish to be mysterious.
Because if this journal falls into the wrong hands, the information could damage several people.
Including myself.
Afterward the elderly woman smiled politely.
Then informed me I was welcome to return anytime.
The offer sounded sincere.
Which somehow made it worse.
At this point I believe OrangO was correct.
Most of Deepscar probably does know who we are.
The realization remains uncomfortable.
Writing this has not improved my mood.
If anything, it has merely organized the discomfort into a more efficient format.
I think this will be my final journal entry concerning Deepscar.
There are things I learned today that I would prefer not to remember.
Unfortunately, I strongly suspect I will remember them for the rest of my life.
So I will stop writing here.
And attempt to forget.
Even though I already know I won't.
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