“Just a felon named James who thought me an easy mark,” the master traveler replied.
“Well, we can’t be too careful,” the Harper agent instructed. “We’d better not retrace your steps. Let’s take the long way back. I know a place just outside the city where we can hole up for the night.”
“Sounds good to me,” the wily gazetteer agreed, relishing the continued company of the attractive woman.
“I’m due back at the temple by tomorrow midday,” Chesslyn continued as they rode out of the Retreat’s gate, “so it would probably be better if we left separately tomorrow.”
“Why?” Volo asked, trying not to sound too disappointed.
“It wouldn’t look right for a guard at the Gate of Good Fortune, in service of Tymora, to be seen traveling in close company with an outsider, particularly given the circumstances at hand.”
The master traveler, realizing that she was right, nevertheless countered with an argument.
“But surely being seen with the legendary travel writer Volothamp Geddarm is not that out of character for one of Tymora’s minions.”
Chesslyn abruptly stopped her steed, and turned to face Volo, her look and bearing betraying her seriousness.
“I have survived as a Harper agent in Mulmaster for quite a while, and I have no desire to risk betraying my true identity. To do so would invite the placing of a price on my head. My presence in Mulmaster as a set of ears, and an occasional helping hand, is invaluable to many, and not just the Harpers, given the current political situation.”
“But surely …” Volo started to argue, then abruptly changed gears. “How have you managed to escape detection? I mean, if things are that dicey, why haven’t the Cloaks picked up on your presence before now?”
Chesslyn reached inside her blouse, and removed an amulet that was nestled inconspicuously between her breasts and held it out for him to see.
“Because of this,” she explained, continuing in her tone of grave seriousness, “my amulet of non-detection. It’s probably my most important possession. If Storm hadn’t mentioned you to me the last time we met, I probably wouldn’t have acknowledged you at all. I don’t make friends easily, and am exceedingly careful about who knows I’m a Harper and who doesn’t.”
The master traveler fingered his beard for a moment. He realized that it was futile to argue, particularly since she was entirely right, and he was just being lasciviously selfish.
“An amulet of non-detection, eh?” he asked. She replaced it back into its safe hiding place, as the master traveler followed its journey with his eyes. “Always wanted to get my hands on one,” the master traveler continued, adding, “the amulet, I mean. That accounts for why you were able to get the drop on me so easily back at the Retreat yesterday.”
Chesslyn chuckled.
“And I thought it was because of my superior skills as a ranger,” she countered with a smile.
He replied only with a grin, glad that there were no hard feelings.
They once again continued on their way, Volo urging his steed forward so that they could ride side by side for as long as the narrow road would allow it. After all, they didn’t have to part until the next sunrise, and much mutual enjoyment of each other’s company could take place until then.
Volo struck up a new topic for discussion.
“So,” he asked, “what do you think those two buffoons were looking for yesterday?”
“Probably the crystal wand,” she replied. “Rickman is Selfaril’s right-hand man, and the head of the Hawks. He probably sent them to investigate the slaughter. Kind of funny, though. My confidential sources are the best in Mulmaster, and I didn’t know that anything had happened there. I was there just on the merest of coincidences. I had promised one of the elders that I would deliver his winnings to him, once they exceeded a certain amount.”
“Come again?”
“Only the elders of the Retreat were allowed to come to Mulmaster, and then only on a rotating basis as the need arose. One of the elders, Damon of Runyon, would stop by the temple on his visit and leave a series of bets with very specific instructions. When his winnings reached a certain point, it was my place to bring a portion of the kitty to him, and, for a tidy fee, to bring out new betting instructions. He was pretty lucky, at least up until now.”
“Obviously.”
“So, anyway. He must have been surprised at the attack.”
“At least.”
“As surprised as we were to discover it.”
“Right.”
“So how did Rickman know to send some men to investigate it?”
“And how,” Volo added, “would they know to look for something as specific as the bloodstained Thayan crystal wand?”
“Unless,” Chesslyn continued, “he knew what they would find, and how would he know …”
“… unless he himself was involved.”
“Agreed,” the Harper agent concurred. “Curiouser and curiouser. The sole piece of evidence, the bloodstained wand, may not point to Thayan perpetrators since it might have been placed there by allies of Rickman.”
“Which still doesn’t explain the reason for the attack on the Retreat and merciless slaughter within,” Volo added.
“Or why, beyond the obvious, Rickman would want to pin it on the Thayans.”
Volo fingered his beard once again, this time in confusion. “What’s the obvious?” he asked, unashamed of his ignorance.
“Rickman is Selfaril’s right-hand man, and Selfaril hates Thayans,” Chesslyn answered.
“But he’s married to one,” Volo countered.
“That’s right,” she replied with a grin. “Sometimes life’s a bitch, ain’t it?”
Past Tenses
In the Office
of the Captain of the Hawks
in Southroad Keep:
“Captain Rickman?” inquired an out-of-breath Hawk by the name of Danovich who hoped that the news he bore was sufficiently urgent to warrant disturbing the second most feared man in all of Mulmaster.
“What is it?” the captain of the Hawks demanded without looking up from the surveillance reports that seemed to form a blotter of paperwork upon his desk.
“You requested updates on the searches for the escaped prisoner, the released prisoner known as Passepout, and the travel writer Volothamp Geddarm?” Danovich asked tentatively.
Rickman looked up, his stern visage betraying the throbbing that resounded within his tortured brow.
“So I did,” he said in a sarcastic tone. “Let me guess, they are all now in custody, along with Elminster, King Azoun, and the Simbul.”
“Uh, no sir,” Danovich answered, not comprehending Rickman’s sarcasm, “and I only have updates on the three I mentioned. Should I add Elminster, King Azoun, and the Simbul to the list?”
“Just give me the report,” Rickman demanded, a touch of weakness and exasperation in his voice. He couldn’t help but be reminded of the inferior quality of men under his command since the Year of the Bow, when their fleet was destroyed by forces from Zhentil Keep. Back then men didn’t just obey orders, they understood them as well.
“On the status of the escaped prisoner and the travel writer,” Danovich reported officially, his mustached upper lip trembling, “there is no change. The escaped prisoner is still presumed dead, and the travel writer has not returned to Mulmaster since his observed exodus early yesterday morn.”
“As I expected,” Rickman observed, “but what of the itinerant?”
“According to one of our spies upon a Sembian merchant vessel of the name Tanyaherst, the former prisoner Passepout was shanghaied by a press gang, pressed into service, and subsequently thrown overboard when it was determined that he would be more of a hinderance than an asset on their journey eastward.”
“Go on,” Rickman urged in stern seriousness.
“He was thrown overboard, evidently still groggy from the physical persuasion that was inflicted on his cranium during his recruitment. Given h
is condition, and the deadly Moonsea tides, he is presumed dead. Officially, unless we want to challenge it upon the ship’s return to Mulmaster, he will be listed as missing after an unfortunate shipboard accident.”
“Any other interesting tidbits?”
“Well,” Danovich answered tentatively, “the itinerant named Passepout was actually an actor by trade.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Rickman demanded.
“Nothing,” Danovich replied sheepishly, “just that I, too, was trained in the theater.”
Rickman rolled his eyes to try to suppress his rage at the incompetence and feeblemindedness that seemed to abound within the ranks of his men.
“Anything else?” he said, half under his breath.
“No sir,” Danovich reported.
“Then back to work!”
“Yes sir,” the Hawk replied doing a quick about-face, a smile crossing his lips as he left his superior’s office, thankful that he, unlike previous men in his position, had not incurred the captain’s wrath.
Rickman stood up and, hands clasped behind his back, strode to the lone window of his office, stopping only briefly to summon his batsman by means of the signal cord.
The batsman, Roché, arrived in a flash, finding his captain contemplating the sky over Mulmaster.
“My instinct tells me that a storm seems to be moving in,” Rickman asserted.
“The weather scryer in the Cloaks has predicted as such, sir,” Roché said officiously.
“Any word on the condition of the sea?”
“According to the last report from the Lighthouse, high tide is just now coming in. The seas are choppy, and a mariner’s advisory has been issued. The Moonsea is quite unforgiving of those who challenge her, even under the best of conditions,” Roché responded, confident in the degree of detail expected by his captain. He had been in service to Rickman for close to eight years.
“What odds for survival would you give someone thrown overboard during such seas?” he asked, still staring out the window.
“Slim to none, sir,” the batsman retorted.
“Just as I thought,” Rickman replied, turning to face Roché. “Nothing is ever certain. You may go, Roché, but please put in a change of orders for the soldier who was just in here.”
“Lieutenant Danovich, sir?” the batsman confirmed.
“Yes.”
“Where will his new posting be, sir?” Roché inquired, a pad instantly in hand to take notes.
“Use your own judgment, Roché,” Rickman answered, once again taking his place at his desk, and starting once again to go through the surveillance reports. “Just make sure it’s an assignment far from Mulmaster, with a very small survival quotient.”
“Yet another one-way assignment, sir,” Roché confirmed.
“You draw up the papers and I’ll sign them,” Rickman said with a sense of finality. “It is the only way to weed out the incompetents from this man’s army.”
Roché returned his note pad to its proper place in his uniform pocket, executed a perfect heel-toe pivot about-face, and silently left the office of the captain of the Hawks to carry out his master’s will.
On the Moonsea Shore:
For Rassendyll it had all seemed like a dream.
The viscous membrane that had held out the poisonous onslaught of liquid sewage during his flush-propelled journey under Mulmaster was quickly washed away by the strong Moonsea currents. Once his exodus from the sea-bound burial shroud had been successful, the sack began its weighted, one-way journey downward.
The cold sea water instantaneously inspired an adrenalin surge in the iron-helmeted prisoner, and his body began to shiver violently.
Rassendyll realized that he had no leisure moments to allow himself the luxury of the anaesthetic effects of aquatic thermal shock, and with every ounce of strength that existed in his being, he frantically kicked toward the surface. He knew he had to maintain control, for to panic was to die.
It was just as important for him to maintain a vertical position as it was to continue to scissor-kick his way surfaceward. The least deviation out of a vertical position would result in the sheer weight of the iron mask dragging his body downward head first. With the weight centered on his shoulders, his neck muscles taut to keep his iron-encased head in place and erect, his lungs exploding from lack of air, and his arms and legs valiantly pumping him upward, the young mage concentrated his efforts on maintaining the energy upward.
The mask prevented him from feeling the air of the surface when he managed to break the Moonsea surf, and his lungs had refilled themselves with air before he consciously realized that he had made it.
The flash of recognition interrupted his stroke and at the precise moment of victory, he immediately re-submerged, the weight of the mask fighting the natural buoyancy of his body to meet a deadly equilibrium beneath the water’s surface.
Rassendyll remembered the surge of strength, a last jolt of adrenalin fueled by the two lungfuls of oxygen before he re-submerged. He remembered struggling back to the surface, frantically looking for something to hold onto, something to add to his own buoyancy to compensate for the added mass of the mask that, despite his escape from the dungeon, still threatened to be the instrument of his death sentence.
Vaguely he remembered seeing the shore in the distance, and hearing the faint sound of breakers on the shore. He remembered the despair of thinking that it was too far, his strength quickly waning, his body trembling.
He felt himself slipping into unconsciousness when a great sea mammal seemed to pass by, riding the surf shoreward.
With his last focus of energy he reached for a fin, hoping that the whale would drag him to safety like so many other sailors of Faerûn’s nautical lore.
Then he blacked out.
His ragged breathing, occasionally interrupted by coughing and the spewing of salt water, awakened him to the knowledge that somehow he had survived the trip to shore. He tried to move, and quickly regretted it, for every muscle in his body was cramped and contorted from its quest for survival, and further agitated by the awkward posture it had wedged itself into once it had reached shore.
The iron mask had become entangled in seaweed, and had wedged itself into the sea-softened sand of the shore at an extreme angle to the rest of his body.
His entire being yearned for more time to replenish itself, and Rassendyll would probably have remained unconscious longer, had the surf not returned to reclaim its rightful place at the high tide line.
Have I been lying here for a full day? he thought, realizing that it must have been the previous day’s high tide that had delivered him to safety.
The high tide and the noble sea mammal, he recalled, trying to get his bearings, working out the kinks in his neck, and clearing away the seaweed and sand from the openings of the second shell of facial skin that the mask had become.
Rinsing his head in the shallows that would have previously brought his death, he carefully cleaned the mask and bathed as much of his face as he was able to, given the limited access afforded by the mask’s apertures.
Reluctantly his vision began to clear, and he was able to look around. He first looked to the sea, and to his relief saw only the waves, and two seagulls diving for prey.
Had I not made it, he reflected, they would probably be perched on me, their beaks searching for the tender filling that lies within the iron shell of the mask. It is better that they content themselves with their regular diet.
His thoughts suddenly turned to images of his savior, the noble whale that must have beached itself to assure him of his salvation.
If it is still alive, he thought, I must return it to the surf or it will die.
Energized with what he thought to be his debt-required duty, he looked away from the waves, toward the shore, to find the beached leviathan. Out of the corner of his eye-slit he saw a large white mass that seemed to be smaller than he remembered his albino mammalian savior to be.
; Staggering to his feet, his body protesting every effort, he dragged himself toward the white blob, blinking to clear his vision.
He looked down and laughed. It was his savior, he realized, but it was no whale.
It was a man.
Rassendyll continued to laugh out loud at his own misconception, a laugh that was uncontrolled and free, the first that he had allowed himself since the moment of his abduction.
The roar of his humor, coupled with the roar of the surf, and the moist lapping of its eddies, awoke the fainted-unto-sleep Passepout, who opened his eyes and, seeing Rassendyll standing above him, quickly took on a look of abject panic and fear.
Rassendyll quickly stopped laughing, and, realizing the panic that was evident in his savior’s face, quickly said, “I mean you no harm.”
The near valiant thespian swiftly replied, “Well, that’s good. What are you doing with a coal bucket on your head?”
Rassendyll took another step closer to the still prone Passepout to assist the actor in coming to his feet. The thespian immediately misinterpreted this as a threatening act and, perhaps, a response to what the iron masked fellow inferred as an insult.
Thinking on his feet (or on his back, as it happened), the thespian quickly added, “Not that it’s unattractive, I mean to say. Of course, not everyone could carry off this look, but on you it’s quite impressive; one might almost say ‘singular.’ ”
Rassendyll was amused by the verbal antics of the fellow, who undoubtedly had no idea that his natural buoyancy had not only saved his own life but Rassendyll’s as well, and he was certain that his face would have conveyed this grateful amusement to the dripping and corpulent gent had it not been obscured by the infernal mask.
The mask, however, did not muffle the laughter that was once again escaping his lips.
Passepout smiled, taking the masked fellow’s amusement as a good sign, and accepting his proffered hand and assistance at getting to his feet.
The Mage in the Iron Mask Page 10
