The Mage in the Iron Mask

by Brian Thomsen

  The First Princess did not respond, maintaining an icy stare that seemed to lower the temperature of the room well below the freezing mark.

  Mischa quickly changed her tact.

  “Of course I don’t believe such stories, but I fear that they may reach the ears of Szass Tam himself.”

  “I have never given Szass Tam any reason to doubt my loyalty!”

  “Of course you haven’t, dear sister,” Mischa said, her tone becoming disarmingly comforting, “but you have been married for quite a while now, and still you have not yet become with child, thus securing Thay’s stake in the throne of Mulmaster. I am not saying that I believe this, but some of your ministers have speculated that perhaps you are artificially postponing such a conception, as you are enjoying the prerequisite maneuvers too much.”

  “Who dares to sully my name and honor?” the First Princess demanded.

  “Who is not important, dear sister,” Mischa insisted. “What is important is how things might look to those back east. Though I admire your ingenuity in this plan involving the High Blade’s twin—”

  “It was not my plan!”

  “Sorry, First Princess,” Mischa apologized in a conciliatory tone. “I did not wish to imply that it was. After all, if it had been, it would surely have succeeded; still, your endorsement of it might still look like an unnecessary detour from the original plan, without the necessary approval of back east. Once again, I must point out that your actions might be construed as an unnecessary and dangerous dalliance for your own amusement.”

  The Tharchioness stood up, and turned her back on her sister to contemplate her wardrobe for her evening meal with her husband, and the festivities that would surely follow.

  “The game of diplomacy is dangerous in both the throne room and the bedroom,” the First Princess said, her back still to her sister. “One must always wear the proper armor.”

  “Yes, dear sister.”

  “The High Blade is also prone to wearing armor. For some reason, even after our exchange of vows he does not trust me. Can you imagine that?”

  The First Princess unhooked a gown of the sheerest Thayan silk Mischa had ever seen.

  “We were supposed to be dining in private tonight,” the Tharchioness instructed, “but matters of state have interfered. I guess I will have to find something more appropriate to whet my spouse’s appetite, lower his guard, and raise his ardor.”

  “No one has ever questioned your ability to do that, dear sister,” Mischa confirmed. “Yet, you still have not been able to complete the mission that you have been sent on, and I have been thinking.…”

  “About what?” the First Princess demanded.

  “If, indeed, even in times of great ardor the High Blade is on his guard.…”

  “Yes?”

  “Perhaps he needs to have that guard lowered.”

  “By what means?”

  “An enchanted charm perhaps.”

  The First Princess threw her head back and gave forth a derisive laugh, the likes of which she usually reserved for the mentally defective, freaks, and idiots who were brought forth for her amusement (or for particularly wormlike ministers).

  “Of course,” the Tharchioness said in mock-naive revelation. “Oh, wait a minute, maybe I did. That’s right, I did, and then I dismissed it because it wouldn’t work, but thanks anyway dear sister. I’ll remember to summon you if I have a need for someone with an acute grasp of the extremely obvious.”

  “But, dear sister, why do you dismiss my suggestion so lightly?”

  “Because it is doomed to failure.”

  “How so?” Mischa asked in a sincere tone that masked the contempt that she felt for her half sister’s deprecating manner.

  “Because of the damned Cloaks who have sworn their allegiances to protecting the High Blade, that’s why. They would detect such a charm the minute it was brought into the city. Even though our people are exempt from searches, we are nonetheless closely watched, and even our most sophisticated mages would be noticed bearing the necessary amulets when they entered the city gate.”

  Mischa tapped her bald temple with the lacquered fingernail of her index finger, as if pausing to think deeply. After a practiced pause, she feigned revelation, and said, “That is true, but what if nothing was brought into the city? What if the charmed object was constructed here, married with a personal piece of the High Blade himself within these walls, and cast in the privacy of your own bedroom. Surely the Cloaks are not watching you there too, and the High Blade does not exactly strike me as the type who has spent a great deal of time being schooled in the matters of high magic.”

  The Tharchioness braced again, followed by a slow, ecstatic chill that went through her body as if the recognition and anticipation of the action to come was as good as the experience itself. The pink serpent of her tongue moistened her dewy lips in anticipation.

  “Once charmed, he would disregard his armor,” the First Princess said softly, almost as if she were voicing her thoughts to herself.

  “Possibly, dear sister,” Mischa said in encouragement.

  “And then he will be mine!”

  At the Villa of Honor Fullstaff,

  Somewhere between the Retreat and Mulmaster:

  Fullstaff was enjoying the pale warmth of the day’s last rays of the sun. McKern, his guest for the evening, had arrived at the expected hour, and was now busily cleaning away the road dust in preparation for the sumptuous meal that he knew would be ready at sunset. As this was not the first time that he had joined the old swordmaster for dinner, he was more than aware that Fullstaff was a creature of habit who expected his meals on the same schedule each day. A late arrival might be welcomed to join in the feast, but usually Fullstaff would extend the invitation with a full mouth and gesture to enjoy that which remained of the leavings. Time, tide, and dinner at Fullstaff’s waited for no man.

  The blind swordsman stood up from his chair and approached the veranda’s edge. As always, he wished to absorb every sensation possible as the day drew to a close. Behind him wafted the sweet aroma of the meal to come, and in front of him the clean scent of the deserted countryside. Behind him was the cacophony of pots and pans as Hotspur, Poins, and Hal prepared the table, and in front of him the gentle sweeping brush of the wind relocating granules of the road outside of his home.

  Honor took a step farther out. An unaccustomed observer might have feared that the blind man might fall off the veranda’s edge, but those who knew “old blind Honor” would entertain no such worry. Honor had long ago memorized the number of steps between his chair and the edge, and his exacting remaining senses could feel the textural difference that indicated the edge was there. As always, Honor merely wished to feel the breeze that was obscured and deflected by the villa’s wall.

  He felt the cool caress of the wind on his left cheek, and turned his head to face it.

  “A storm’s coming,” he said out loud to no one in particular. “It will probably reach us by the second course.”

  An almost nonexistent noise was picked up by his right ear when he turned his head to catch the wind.

  “Two horses are approaching,” he reported, “both bearing riders. I guess that guests are like the storm. It never rains but often pours.”

  “Chesslyn, what a wonderful surprise!” Fullstaff hailed from the villa’s gate. “And just in time for dinner, too!”

  “Of course,” Chesslyn replied good-naturedly as her steed approached the blind swordmaster. “Why else do you think I’m stopping by now? Surely it’s not to renew acquaintances with an old friend.”

  “Of course not,” Fullstaff replied. “And who’s your young friend? By the click of his heels against his stirrups and the unusual flapping of his cape, I would say that he’s not from around here.”

  Volo reined his steed closer to Chesslyn and whispered, “I thought you said he was blind.”

  Chesslyn went to hush her traveling companion as the blind swordmaster boomed, “Blind I am, th
ough not deaf!”

  Volo immediately went on the defensive and tried to apologize for his thoughtlessness.

  “I’m sorry sir, I—”

  “Didn’t realize that a living legend such as yourself would have such acute senses to compensate for your blindness, nor that you would look so young and virile. That’s what you were going to say, right?” Fullstaff said, finishing the gazetteer’s sentence with words of his own choosing.

  “Of course, sir,” Volo said with a smile, now set at ease in the presence of the blind swordmaster.

  “Thought so,” Fullstaff replied, “and it’s not ‘sir’, it’s Honor. Now, Chesslyn, come and give a dirty old man a hug.”

  The Harper agent quickly dismounted with a facility that belied the fatigues of a long day in the saddle, and ran up to the broad old swordmaster, giving him a kiss full upon the lips, which he returned with great zeal and an accompanying bear hug. Their lips unlocked, she slid against him and turning around so that she comfortably rested her back against his chest, the hilt of her long sword barely missing the chin of her former teacher.

  “Is that a long sword,” Fullstaff asked, “or are you just happy to see me?”

  “Both,” Chesslyn purred.

  How original, Volo thought to himself sarcastically as he dismounted, then strode over to the embracing couple.

  Chesslyn disentangled herself from the arms of her former teacher.

  “Honor,” she said, “I’d like you to meet a new acquaintance of mine, Volothamp Geddarm.”

  “I knew you weren’t from around here,” Fullstaff asserted, vigorously clasping the master gazetteer’s hand in his muscular paw and pumping it vigorously. “It’s not often that we host a famous author in these parts.”

  “Oh, you’ve heard of me,” Volo said in mock modesty.

  “Who hasn’t heard of the master traveler of all Toril, and author of Faerûn’s best selling travel guide series,” said the master swordsman releasing the author’s hand before his writer’s arm had been overtaxed too much.

  “Have you read …” Volo started to ask, then thought better of it given the blindness of his host, and tried to change the subject, “… I mean …”

  “Read any of your books?” Fullstaff jumped right in. “Afraid not. I prefer potboilers and cookbooks.”

  “Oh,” the master traveler answered, not quite sure as to whether to take the bear that walked like a man seriously.

  “You don’t do yourself justice, Honor,” Chesslyn corrected, then turned to Volo and explained. “Honor has one of his aides read to him every night. He’s read all of the major authors of the Realms.”

  Except me, Volo thought to himself.

  “Well, time’s a’wastin’, and dinner should be on the table right about now. Hotspur has prepared something from this new Underdark cookbook that everyone is talking about,” Fullstaff announced. His arm once again around the lovely Harper agent, they headed off toward the villa’s entrance.

  The blind swordmaster stopped for a moment, then turned back to face the quite confused master traveler.

  “You’re more than welcome to join us,” Fullstaff offered. “And to answer the pertinent questions that are on your mind, so as not to delay dinner any longer: I recognized the gait of Chesslyn’s mount and the scent of the soap that she uses on her saddle. As to knowing that you were not from these parts, I failed to recognize your cologne, and I am fairly familiar with the likes of such things that are available in these parts. Finally, no you don’t have to worry about me. Chesslyn is one of my favorite former students, and she is like a daughter to me, and I am more than aware of her discreet assignations. The fact that this is an unplanned visit leads me to believe that she was purposely taking the back roads back to Mulmaster so as not to run into anyone. Ergo, discretion is required, so discretion will be maintained. So without further ado, let’s eat.”

  With that, the master swordsman resumed his beeline to the dining room, Chesslyn still on his arm, and the master traveler following close behind.

  The table was set for a feast, which had he not known better, Volo would have taken for a banquet party for ten.

  Fullstaff took his place at the head of the table, with Chesslyn at his right hand. The master of the villa motioned that Volo should take the seat on his left. They had no sooner sat down than places were set for them by the omnipresent Poins and Hal, who were well accustomed to accommodating new arrivals at their master’s table with little or no notice.

  “Poins and Hal will prepare rooms for you after we dine,” Fullstaff explained. “Make any wishes known to then and they will do their best to accommodate you.”

  The master swordsman was about to say something else when he cocked his head to the side as if listening for something. This was followed by the now audible sound of footsteps entering the room.

  “How rude of me!” the gregarious host said in a self-deprecating tone. “In my enthusiasm for Chesslyn’s unexpected visit, I have neglected my other guest for the evening. What a terrible host I am! Please forgive me.”

  Fullstaff stood up, and gestured to the other end of the table where a new visitor was approaching the table.

  “Chesslyn, Volo, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine, Mason McKern of Mulmaster,” the gracious host boomed.

  Volo and Chesslyn turned in the direction their host indicated. Both of the discreet travelers held their breath in sudden shock and surprise as the illumination from the table’s candelabra revealed the face of their fellow guest at their host’s evening meal.

  Volo recognized him as the sour old geezer whose appointment he had usurped on his way to checking in with Thurndan Tallwand.

  Chesslyn recognized him as one of the senior Cloaks.

  The two travelers looked at each other in silent, controlled panic.

  “Introductions accomplished,” Fullstaff announced retaking his seat, “Let’s dig in. Plenty of time to talk and get to know each other later.”

  Dinner & Denouement

  In the Dining Room of the Villa

  of Honor Fullstaff, Master Swordsman, retired:

  The tension in the air was palpable.

  The stern man named Mage Mason McKern gazed ominously at the two travelers in shock.

  Volo and Chesslyn exchanged looks, each indicating an instinctive combination of fear and readiness. They were both survivors and ready for any turn of events.

  “Now, now, there is no reason for tension here,” Honor instructed. “So, I committed a social gaffe. Wasn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last. Besides, it’s my house and this is my table, and McKern, you know very well that dining at my table requires promptness. So eat.”

  “No,” McKern answered, “please forgive me. I should have been on time. I had no idea that there would be other guests. Ms. Chesslyn Onaubra, I believe, of the Temple of Good Fortune.”

  The mage turned slightly to face Volo, and said, “And you are?”

  Honor interrupted. “Eating!” he bellowed in a tone that could not be mistaken for anything but an order. “As you should be. There is plenty of time to exchange pleasantries with Chesslyn’s young companion later. Besides that, it is impolite to talk with one’s mouth full.”

  The blind swordmaster resumed the filling of his cheeks with delicacies from the table.

  “Sor—” McKern began to say, but thought better of it when he felt Honor’s sightless stare drilling an accusatory hole through him. Quickly, the mage began to partake of the feast.

  Chesslyn and Volo exchanged glances again. Volo mouthed the words “Chesslyn’s young companion?” to which the Harper agent replied with a suppressed giggle. Their silent exchange completed, both began to fill their plates, and, immediately afterwards, their mouths and stomachs.

  The table was set with every manner of delicacy imaginable. Volo found it hard to believe that this was just an average meal at the table of Honor Fullstaff. In all his travels throughout Toril, he had never partaken of such a feast,
and prior to this he had fancied himself an expert epicure. The plates were passed back and forth like cards at a gaming table, and Poins and Hal deftly retrieved, replaced, and refilled them with new contents as dispensed by the able hands of the dwarven cook Hotspur. Only once did a dish rest on the table for longer than a minute after it had been emptied of its contents while Hal and Poins fumbled with a particularly slippery soup tureen.

  The host said, “Turnips,” which were the contents of the empty bowl, and it was immediately refilled by the ever-ready Hotspur.

  Volo was amazed at the sensory superiority of his host. Without the aid of sight he could still identify the contents of an empty bowl, perhaps by scent or by the sound it made when it hit the table or by the placement of the sound in relation to the other bowls on the table. The master traveler was awed, and now realized his folly in expecting that a swordsman such as Honor would have been forced into the atrophy of sedentary retirement by a mere inconvenience such as blindness.

  The mage named McKern interrupted his masticating for a moment and asked, “Might I have a spot of wine, please?”

  Honor stopped eating and cast his knife to the table, making a clang as it bounced off the side of the plate.

  “I am appalled Mason! I will serve no wine before its time!” the host bellowed.

  The servants and guests stiffened in silence. The host seemed honestly indignant and offended. Volo hoped that the swordmaster was not prone to violent outbursts over trivial matters such as this, as he had seen many age-demented warriors fall prey to in their declining years.

  The master traveler’s fears were unnecessary.

  With all eyes upon him, Honor’s stern visage stretched into the smile of a trickster, and a bold and boisterous laugh escaped from the venue that had formerly served as a way station for the delicacies of the table, on their way to the host’s stomach.

  “Ha, ha, ha,” he roared, “but seriously Mason—only I get to call the great Mage McKern, revered senior Cloak of Mulmaster, by his first name—as I was saying, I have saved a marvelous after-dinner wine for dessert, and I have no desire to waste it on a palate that has already been plied by the pleasures of the fermented fluids of the grape.”