The Mage in the Iron Mask

by Brian Thomsen

  “I bet the Red Plumes were none too happy.”

  “Not at all,” she conceded, “but the powers that be realized that a band of gladiators who could engineer their own escape from the arena were probably of more value to Hillsfar as allies than as outlaws. They offered Honor and his comrades a contract as a mercenary force, and they accepted.”

  “Not a bad move for the former lead act for the afternoon bloodbath,” Volo conceded, making a mental note to have someone check on the gladiatorial victory records for the pertinent years for the book currently underway.

  “As with most mercenary bands, attrition, opportunism, and disparate goals eventually caused them to break up, and Honor accepted a position in Mulmaster, with the Hawks, where he quickly rose through the ranks, and became the right-hand man of the High Blade himself.”

  “Selfaril?”

  “No,” Chesslyn corrected, “his father.”

  “Whom Selfaril killed to take the throne himself,” Volo interrupted, trying to show that he wasn’t a complete dullard about all things Mulman.

  “Right,” the Harper conceded, “but you’re getting ahead of the story.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Legend has it that Merch, that’s what Selfaril’s father’s name was …”

  “I’m aware of that,” Volo replied in slight indignation.

  “Sorry. As I was saying, Merch and Honor were said to be closer than brothers. In addition to handling the day-to-day operations of the Hawks, he also supervised the City Watch, and was responsible for the security of both the City and the High Blade himself, a turn of events that did not necessarily please the then-head of the Cloaks, an aristocratic mage by the name of Rathbone who saw the safety and security of the High Blade to be his sole responsibility. Honor’s low-born background didn’t help matters in the eyes of the egotistical wizard, who set about to remove the master swordsman from his position.”

  “You don’t want to tick off a jealous wizard who feels his position is in jeopardy,” the master traveler agreed.

  “So Honor found out,” Chesslyn confirmed, as she continued the tale. “Honor used to always supervise the forging and tempering of his own weapons, and it was on one such occasion that there was a terrible explosion. Miraculously no one was killed, but Honor was blinded beyond the limits from which any available cleric could cure.”

  “Thus, his new moniker: Blind Honor.”

  Chesslyn continued: “Rumors ran rampant through the Mulmaster court of Rathbone’s complicity in the explosion, but nothing was ever proven. The Cloaks once again became responsible for the security of the High Blade, and when Honor had recovered sufficiently to get by on his own, he resigned his commission and left the city, reportedly to spend the rest of his years in retirement.”

  “Whatever happened to Rathbone?” the master traveler inquired, recalling that his name was not among those listed in the current Cloak registry in Mulmaster.

  “He committed suicide,” Chesslyn explained. “He held himself responsible for Merch’s assassination. His main motive for replacing Honor, at least in his own self-justifying mind, was the overall safety of the High Blade, and when he failed to prevent the High Blade’s death, I suppose he asked himself the question of whether or not it could have been avoided.”

  “And the answer was ‘yes,’ ” Volo offered, “if only Honor had still been by his side.”

  “Rathbone was found dead in the Tower of Arcane Might. He had hung himself. Soon thereafter Thurndan Tallwand was appointed Senior Cloak, and he immediately pledged his support to the new High Blade Selfaril, and thus the transition of power was complete, at least as far as the citizens of Mulmaster were concerned.”

  “They didn’t mind that there was a murderer on the throne?” Volo asked incredulously.

  “Well,” Chesslyn explained, “Merch himself was far from an angel, and the fact that Selfaril was his son was looked upon as just a slight deviation from the normal rules of ascendancy.”

  “That slight deviation being patricide,” the master traveler commented.

  “Wasn’t the first time, and probably won’t be the last,” the Harper agent conceded.

  “So the old swordsman, now blind, went into retirement, living out the rest of his days in peaceful isolation and seclusion?” Volo ventured.

  “Not bloody likely,” Chesslyn corrected. “One might say that he set himself up as a martial alternative to the Retreat.”

  “Come again?” Volo queried.

  “He bought himself a villa, and set himself up clandestinely as a master teacher of the bladed arts. Usually no more than one student at a time, tenure of stay to be determined solely at Honor’s discretion. His students have included kings and thieves, and their tuition has varied from debts of gratitude to villas in Cormyr.”

  “Not bad,” Volo said. “Those who can no longer do, can at least teach. Not bad for a former master swordsman.”

  “I never said former,” Chesslyn corrected. “He still is more than a match for anyone, with choice of bladed weapons, and as a teacher he is the best.”

  “That’s a rousing endorsement from a master of the long sword such as yourself.”

  “Honor taught me everything I know,” Chesslyn said reverentially, “and I’m sure he will have no problem with us stopping by for the night. He has plenty of spare rooms, and is always amenable to offer hospitality to friends of friends who can be trusted.”

  Chesslyn delivered her last remark with such a withering degree of seriousness that the master traveler began to think better of featuring the legendary swordsman in his upcoming guide book. Perhaps confidentiality should be preserved in some cases.

  Chesslyn reined in her horse, shaded her eyes from the midafternoon glare, and scanned the horizon.

  “We should be there right about sundown,” she said. “Knowing Honor, he’ll be out front catching the last few rays of the setting sun before sitting down to a sumptuous dinner feast. We’ll be just in time to join him.”

  “Can’t wait,” the master traveler said, eager to meet the teacher who had instilled such admiration in one of his students.

  Mates, Masks, Musk, & Meals

  In the High Blade’s Study

  in the Tower of the Wyvern:

  The conspiracy of the moment over, both threat and advantage now neutralized, Selfaril felt a palatable taste of normalcy as things returned to the status quo.

  He still hated his wife, and she him.

  Eltabbar and Thay were still distant opportunities and menaces for the glory of Mulmaster and the High Blade himself.

  He had grown used to the game of cat and mouse that he and his bride played. It excited him more than he liked to admit, and he was sure that she felt the same way. Why else did he always feel an adrenal rush whenever she was around? What else could account for the mixed feelings of excitement and revulsion he experienced whenever she entered the room?

  For him, love was an abstract concept, not at all alien, just different from that normally felt by others. It required respect; yet did not the best of enemies command respect? It caused a physical attraction, yet did not the flame attract the moth to its death?

  Love and death: they were intricately tied in his mind.

  Looking back he remembered wanting to be like his father, the great leader who taught him by example and was revered by all his subjects; Selfaril had accomplished this goal by killing his father and taking his place.

  Family was the greatest threat of all, yet he felt a certain emptiness within, almost as if something was missing. Perhaps it was the fate of his brother; could this be what had left him feeling incomplete? Though he had been assured that his twin must have drowned during his futile escape attempt, how could he be sure?

  There was an emptiness inside Selfaril, an incompleteness. Less than a month ago he had not even known that his twin existed, and now the stranger was forever on his mind, and all because the sheer incompetence of his men had cost him the ecstatic pleasure of se
eing his brother die.

  Selfaril shook his head in remorse over the experience he had been denied. Oh well, he thought, I still have my wife.…

  On the Back Roads

  Outside of Mulmaster:

  As the clouds began to move in on them, and the sun inched closer to the horizon, Rassendyll and Passepout pressed onward.

  The iron-masked escapee realized that he and his overweight traveling companion would have to avoid any of the numerous Mulmaster outposts, or he would soon find himself back in the dungeons of Southroad Keep. The combination of the sand, salt, and seaweed that had taken to roost in the collarlike ring of the mask’s neck piece was rubbing raw his skin adjacent to it, causing an extremely uncomfortable mixed sensation of burning and itching. As he reached the rise of the next hill, having first scanned the area to assure it was deserted, he paused once again to rub at the chafed area.

  “Is your neck bothering you?” the out-of-breath thespian asked, as he too reached the rise, adding tentatively, “Why don’t you just take the helmet off? I’m sure you can’t be that ugly. If you don’t want to be recognized, well, don’t worry about me. A famous actor such as myself knows all about traveling incognito to avoid overzealous fans. I’ll keep your secret, whatever it is.”

  Rassendyll looked at the amusing fellow, and said, “You’re a famous actor?”

  “That’s right,” Passepout replied, with an out-of-place flourish and semi-bow. “Passepout, only son of the legendary thespians Idle and Catinflas, at your service.”

  “Never heard of you,” Rassendyll replied, still distracted as he rubbed the raw spot in search of relief.

  “You know,” the thespian ventured, “if we were back in Cormyr, I’d know the perfect thing to rid you of that dry, flaking, skin problem you have. It’s heartbreaking watching you suffer. A friend of mine by the name of Seau Raisis had that problem.”

  “What did he use?”

  “Well,” Passepout answered, scratching his head as if to stimulate a memory, “as I recall there was a cleric, named Oleigh if I remember correctly, who would treat Seau’s problem by rubbing it with oil that he made specially for such ailments.”

  “Did it work?”

  “I think so,” Passepout replied, “but I can’t really be sure. After the oil of Oleigh was applied he never complained about the problem again, but.…”

  “So it must have worked.”

  “Not necessarily; that is, I mean to say the problem was taken care of, but it might not have been cured by the oil.”

  “What then? I mean, if the problem with his neck abrasion went away and he never complained about it again, why do you doubt the effectiveness of the cleric’s treatment?”

  “He was beheaded.”

  “The cleric?”

  “No,” Passepout explained. “Seau. At least his neck rash problem was taken care of.”

  Rassendyll looked at the pudgy thespian and laughed once again.

  Passepout smiled back, almost at ease in the company of the masked stranger.

  “Well I for one would rather avoid such treatments and cure-alls as the one that worked on your friend Seau.”

  “Indeed,” the pudgy thespian agreed. “By the way, what is your name, or at least what should I call you?”

  Rassendyll thought for a moment, glad that the mask obscured the thespian from seeing the wary change of expression on his face. He himself was no actor, and he was sure that his face would have conveyed the indecisiveness he felt about whether he could trust this funny fellow or not.

  “You can call me Rupert,” Rassendyll answered, “Rupert of Zenda.”

  “Well met, Rupert of Zenda,” Passepout returned. “Can’t say I recognize the name.”

  “Hope not,” the masked escapee replied inadvertently.

  “What was that?” Passepout inquired. “That coal bucket you’re wearing gives you a bad case of the mumbles, if you know what I mean. By the way, why don’t you take it off?”

  “I wish I could,” Rassendyll retorted, “but I’m afraid that it’s stuck.”

  “Too bad,” the thespian replied.

  Rassendyll scanned the area once again. He didn’t like the looks of the storm clouds that seemed to be rapidly bearing down on them. We should be on our way and looking for shelter, he thought.

  Passepout in the meantime had concentrated his visual faculties on the ground around where they sat. Seeing exactly what he was looking for, he struggled to his feet and walked back over the ridge, picking up a sturdy branch. Rassendyll noticed his efforts once he returned. Good thinking, the masked escapee thought, he found a walking stick.

  Rassendyll was about to stand up when he felt Passepout trying to wedge one of the ends of the branch under the metal collar.

  “Hey! Cut that out!” Rassendyll exclaimed, not wishing to add the discomfort of splinters to his long list of woes.

  “Just hold still,” Passepout assured, continuing to try and wedge the branch between the masked man’s collar and his clavicle. “Once I have it wedged in place, I’m going to put my weight on the other end of the stick, using your shoulder as a fulcrum. It should force it off in no time.”

  “Which? The mask or my head?”

  “The mask, of course. Now just sit still.”

  Rassendyll quickly wiggled out from under the awkward hands of the pudgy thespian, and got to his feet.

  Passepout appeared bewildered at his sudden retreat. “What’s the matter?” the thespian implored. “I just wanted to help.”

  Rassendyll shook his head, and said, “Thanks anyway, but it wouldn’t have worked.”

  “How can you be sure?” Passepout asked.

  “It’s been magically bound to my skull. I fear it won’t come off without separating my head from my shoulders as well.”

  “I’m sorry,” Passepout apologized. “I didn’t know.”

  “No reason you should have.”

  “I bet you got on the wrong side of a powerful wizard of some sort.”

  In return Rassendyll murmured something indecipherable, as he began to remove splinters from his shoulders.

  “Me too,” Passepout replied as if he understood what the masked man had said. “I’ve run afoul of a few myself. Now, of course, the likes of Elminster and Khelben are indebted to me, but even so, you can’t trust a wizard.”

  “Oh, no?” Rassendyll responded, cocking his head at an awkward angle so that he could look the thespian straight in the eye.

  Passepout paled.

  “You’re not one of them are you?” he asked in a panic.

  Rassendyll thought for a split second about his current condition, and laughed. “I guess not,” he replied with a chuckle. “At least not for the time being.” He then quickly added, with a mischievous, almost conspiratorial tone, “I used to be, though.”

  Passepout joined in his chuckle, and said, “That’s all right. I used to be a thief.”

  Thunder began to rumble in the distance.

  “Then let us steal away,” Rassendyll replied, “and find shelter.”

  “Good idea, Rupert,” Passepout concurred, then asked, “I can call you Rupert, can’t I?”

  “But of course,” Rassendyll answered after a moment’s hesitation. He then thought, I’ll have to remember that that’s my new name.

  The thunder rumbled again, as the two continued their trek in search of shelter.

  In the Tharchioness’s Boudoir

  in the Tower of the Wyvern:

  The Tharchioness was primping for dinner when her half sister Mischa Tam entered.

  The First Princess finished buffing her scalp, and began to touch up the exotic eye liner that framed the seductive windows of her soul.

  “Dear sister,” Mischa said tentatively, hoping that the First Princess was not in one of her many moods that would have made this sudden, unannounced intrusion a gross act of insubordination.

  “What is it, Mischa?” the First Princess asked impatiently, yet not necessarily hostilely.
>
  “I have been giving your—I mean our—situation a great deal of thought.”

  “Which of our situations?”

  “The existence of stumbling blocks that are succeeding in preventing the Thayan annexation of Mulmaster.”

  “You mean the High Blade.”

  “Yes,” Mischa agreed, then added quickly, “your husband.”

  Mischa felt her half sister brace, her back growing erect like a viper about to strike. She realized that she would have to tread lightly if she wished to succeed in the deadly cat-and-mouse game of family and politics.

  “What about him?” the First Princess demanded, turning around to face her half sister, her eyes fixed like a jungle cat contemplating its prey.

  “Well,” Mischa started, averting her eyes from her sister’s predatory stare, “as I recall, your mission was to seduce the High Blade, and gain control of the throne of Mulmaster.”

  “Yes,” the First Princess replied, clipped and clear.

  “It was at your own suggestion that the seduction was metamorphosed into a diplomatic liaison cum marriage that would form an alliance between Eltabbar and Mulmaster.”

  “Correct,” the First Princess acknowledged. “This is what Szass Tam and I agreed upon. It was our mutual feeling that such an official alliance would be more advantageous. I do hope you are not wasting my time with a simple regurgitation of the plans to date. My memory is quite acute and needs no prodding.”

  “I would never presume to doubt your cognitive processes or powers of retention, First Princess, but I am curious about one thing.…”

  “And what is that?” the Tharchioness demanded, all matters of primping temporarily set aside.

  “Why is it taking so long? It is almost as if you are enjoying this game of prey and predator at the expense of the ultimate objective. Rumor has it, I fear, that you have become fond of the High Blade, and that perhaps your focus has become distracted or, how shall I say … channeled into other pursuits.”