The Mage in the Iron Mask

by Brian Thomsen

  The guests all joined in their host’s levity with an unpracticed laugh in unison.

  “Now,” Honor ordered, “back to the matters at hand. Resume eating. Hopefully Mage McKern will not interrupt our gastronomic exercises and enjoyments again.”

  By the third course Volo realized that the only way to survive the opulent meal was to pick and nibble, rather than to fill one’s plate and expect to empty it. Too bad Passepout isn’t here, he thought. I bet he could give old Fullstaff a run for his money in the appetite arena.

  A roar of thunder was heard outside, then a crash of lightning followed by another thunderous roar, and the sound of sheets of water being thrown against the roof high above their heads.

  “I do believe it’s raining,” McKern announced in a manner more akin to a scholar positing a theorem than a dinner guest speculating on the obviously prevailing weather conditions.

  “Mason, I shall not tell you again,” Honor ordered, his clipped tones revealing the slight evidence of his irritation at the continued interruptions to the silent sanctity of supper time.

  Honor had no sooner resumed eating when the sound of a door knocker resonated through the hall.

  McKern was about to speak the obvious, as he was prone to do, when Honor Fullstaff saved him the trouble.

  “Oh, let me guess, dear Mason,” the host said, not even trying to hide the sarcasm from his tone, thus revealing the quick waning of his temper over the interruptions. “I bet you believe that there is someone at the door. Poins, please see who it is, and Hal, please set a place for them.”

  Passepout and Rassendyll had just made it to the edge of the grounds that surrounded the villa of Honor Fullstaff when the storm that had been following them announced its presence overhead, and let go its torrents of rain by the barrelful.

  Passepout had been drenched before, and did not fear getting wet again. The thunder and lightning however spread fear throughout his very essence. At the first crack of lightning and roar of thunder, Rassendyll was quite surprised to see his rotund traveling companion speed forward in search of cover and protection from the louder and more destructive elements of nature. In the seconds it took for his eyes to recover from the lightning’s flash, Rassendyll observed that Passepout had already gained the entrance to the villa.

  “Yo, Rupert!” Passepout hailed. “You’d better get that coal bucket of a head over here. Aren’t you afraid that it might attract a spare lightning bolt or two?”

  Rassendyll hadn’t thought of the danger inherent in his head gear and acquiesced to the suggestion of the rotund thespian, quickly joining him at his side, underneath the overhang that sheltered the entrance to the opulent, yet isolated villa.

  The architecture of the stately villa reminded the masked escapee of the Retreat, and its isolated location, what Rassendyll reckoned to be a quarter day’s journey from Mulmaster, probably lessened the risk of it being held by one of the High Blade’s minions. Still, Rassendyll thought to himself, discretion was probably the safest course to take, as one could never be too careful.

  “Wow! Get a load of this knocker!” Passepout announced, impressed with the door ornament. Before his companion could recommend the modulation of his tones, the stout thespian had already picked up the hanging gargoyle from its perch and mistakenly let it slip between his fingers so that it came crashing back to its place with a reverberating thonk that was doubtlessly resonating throughout the halls of the villa.

  “Oops,” Passepout apologized. “Well, with any luck someone will be home and be able to offer us shelter from the storm, and maybe even something to eat. It is about supper time after all, and I am famished.”

  Rassendyll was at a loss for words. He knew that he lacked the time to adequately convey to his traveling companion the dangers that might lurk within. The stout fellow was obviously ruled by his appetites, and had no idea that a death sentence probably awaited them both if they were to fall back into the clutches of the High Blade and his men.

  Still, the villa was isolated, the masked escapee thought. Maybe it will be safe within. It might at least be safer than it was outside, given the thunder, lightning, and rain. Maybe we can wait out the storm here inconspicuously, and, when it passes, be on our way.

  Rassendyll reached to finger his beard in contemplation when his fingers struck the barrier of the mask. “Damn!” he said out loud, and then thought to himself, well, so much for my hope of just passing for an itinerant traveler.

  “What’s the matter?” Passepout asked. “I think I hear someone coming.”

  A flash of inspiration struck Rassendyll, and out of desperation he decided to try his idea.

  “Quickly!” he ordered. “Give me your blanket!”

  “Okay,” the thespian complied, a look of confusion on his face, “But I am sure that it will be warmer inside.”

  Rassendyll began to wrap the blanket around his head as if it was a combination turban, kerchief, and veil. He continued to wrap until only two slits for the eye holes of the mask, and one for the mouth managed to poke through. As he finished his wrapping he noticed the look of confusion on his companion’s face.

  “It’s an old custom,” he explained, making it up as he went along.

  “From Zenda?” Passepout asked.

  “I guess so,” Rassendyll replied, frantically tucking the edges of the cloth into his shirt, around his neck, and down his back. “Uh, where I come from it is considered impolite to enter a stranger’s house unless one has one’s head covered with a veil.”

  “Oh, sure,” Passepout said unsurely. “I’ve heard of that. By the way, where is Zenda?”

  “Hush!” Rassendyll urged. “Someone is opening the door.”

  Honor’s dinner guests could hear the voice of one of the new arrivals the minute the door was opened. The echoes of the halls and the noise of the storm outside, however, muffled and distorted the sounds before they reached the main hall.

  As the new arrivals approached, the sounds of their steps became clearer and the voice of one became more recognizable. When the two drenched traveling companions entered the dining hall, Volo immediately recognized his old friend Passepout who he thought he had left back at the Traveler’s Cloak Inn under the watchful eyes of Dela in Mulmaster. A flash of recognition was likewise immediately noticeable on the thespian’s face.

  A panicked revelation crossed the master traveler’s mind. What if my simple friend announces my presence in the company of McKern? Will this reveal more than Chesslyn desires and increase the risk of her exposure by the Cloaks?

  His fear turned out to be unwarranted.

  Volo tried a preemptive strike.

  “Passepout!” he hailed. “Have you eaten yet?”

  “Vo—” the thespian began to answer, but quickly changed his priorities. “Food! And I am so hungry!”

  Honor immediately interceded.

  “You are both obviously hungry from your travels. We are eating, and meals are not meant to be interrupted, no matter what some of my house guests seem to think. Sit down and dig in. Poins and Hal will fetch you plates. I am sure Hotspur has prepared enough for all. Eat. We can get to know each other later.”

  Passepout and his facially turbaned companion dug into the meal.

  Volo was relieved, having survived yet another hurdle in the challenge of maintaining his inconspicuousness. He marveled at Honor’s immediate offer of hospitality to anyone who happened to drop by. Seeing that his old friend was enjoying the meal, he allowed himself another look at the old swordmaster, and noticed something.

  While Poins and Hal had attended to the new arrivals, Hotspur had inconspicuously placed a sword and dagger well within the reach of their host. Even the gracious Blind Honor obviously didn’t believe in taking too many chances.

  Before returning to the gastronomical matters at hand, the master traveler also took a moment to visually examine Passepout’s newly acquired traveling companion. The blanket veil gave the fellow—at least he appeared to be a fello
w—a rather curious appearance.

  I wonder who he is? the master traveler thought, and then resumed eating.

  Honor ruled the dinner table like the family of Azoun ruled Cormyr: with great vigor, long reigns, and acquisitive tendencies. When his own plate was clean, and Hotspur’s bottomless serving dishes empty, the otherwise gracious yet dictatorial host felt free to sample off the leavings of his guests’ plates, much to the great relief of Chesslyn and Volo who found themselves full before the midpoint of the meal, and Rassendyll, whose progress was greatly inhibited by his turban-bound visage and the size of the mouth hole in the mask. Passepout and the mage Mason McKern gave the host a run for his money however, cleaning their plates with a gusto almost the equivalent of that displayed by their host.

  When all the plates were empty, and Hotspur now occupied with the cleaning of the kitchen and the plates, Honor Fullstaff stood up and patted his firm yet expansive abdomen vigorously.

  “Well done, Hotspur,” Honor bellowed the compliment. “Well served, Poins and Hal. Well eaten, my esteemed guests.”

  Honor approached Passepout, and coming up behind him, gave him a firm, bearlike swat on the back.

  “You have already earned my respect, good sir,” the host complimented. “It takes quite a voracious eater to keep up with the likes of McKern and myself.”

  “Thank you, good sir,” Passepout countered, “and thank you for your hospitality, but … when did you say that dessert would be served?”

  Honor barked out another jovial laugh.

  “Soon,” the host replied, “soon. As I recall, your name is Passepout.”

  “Correct sir,” the thespian replied, “Passepout, son of Idle and Catinflas, at your service. Perhaps you have seen me on the stage.”

  Volo inwardly groaned at his friend’s faux pas.

  “Afraid not,” the jovial host replied. “I’m afraid that seeing anyone on the stage is one activity that is greatly hampered in its enjoyment by those with the misfortune of being blind, such as myself.”

  “You’re blind?” the thespian said in astonishment.

  “Afraid so, not that it seems to get in the way much,” the host replied, not conveying any sense of embarrassment over his handicap.

  McKern appeared on the other side of the still-amazed thespian.

  “Tut, tut, my fine fellow,” the Cloak said to the thespian. “No reason to be amazed. My friend Fullstaff here is an accomplished fellow, no getting around it, but he is not that much an anomaly. My own brother is also blind as a bat, and is quite the master of magic metallurgy back in Mulmaster.”

  Rassendyll quickly drew in his breath in surprise. Could this be the brother of the one responsible for this infernal mask? he thought, bracing himself for further pertinent revelations in the evening ahead.

  McKern scratched his head for a moment as if engaged in thought. “Passepout,” he said out loud, repeating the thespian’s name, “for some reason that name seems to ring a bell.”

  “Perhaps you have seen me on stage,” the thespian asserted.

  “No,” the mage said, “seems to me I just recently heard your name around Mulmaster. Oh well, it couldn’t have been important.”

  Passepout, slightly disheartened at the quick dismissal of his possible fame as a thespian, quickly reasserted his main concern. “You were saying about dessert, good host?”

  “Oh, yes,” Fullstaff replied. “It will be served in my study, a place of peace and quiet and contemplation where old soldiers and old mages such as myself and McKern can regale you younger folk with tales of past heroics and derring-do. The boys are fetching our puddings now. Shall we go?”

  “I’m still waiting for my wine,” a slightly cranky McKern reminded, adding, “It’s time.”

  “Indeed it is,” Fullstaff agreed. “To the study we go.”

  Passepout followed McKern as he hastened to the study to get a seat in one of the more comfortable chairs. Fullstaff followed, then turned back when he realized that the others were still rooted in their places at the table.

  “Chesslyn, you know the way,” the host called back. “Please show your friend, and Mr. Passepout’s friend, the way.”

  “Sure, Honor,” the Harper agent replied.

  “Thank you for the splendid meal,” Volo called after the host.

  “Nothing of it, nothing of it,” Honor called, already on his way.

  “My thanks too, your lordship,” Rassendyll chorused.

  Fullstaff stopped in his tracks for a moment as if he had just thought of something, but then shook his head, and called back, “As I said before,” and continued along the hallway.

  “Shall we?” Chesslyn said, standing up.

  “We shall,” Volo agreed, taking her arm. “Care to join us, stranger?” the master traveler asked good-naturedly.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Rassendyll answered. “And the name is Rupert, Rupert of Zenda.”

  “Well met then, Rupert. I knew you weren’t from around here,” Volo replied.

  “The face cover is a giveaway,” Chesslyn offered.

  Volo began to finger his beard, and said, “I’ve traveled a lot, and I can’t say that I recall a place by the name of Zenda.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Rassendyll answered, quickly changing the subject by saying, “I hear dessert calling. Shall we?”

  “We shall,” Chesslyn and Volo said simultaneously, then looked at each other and began to laugh.

  The three set off after their dining companions.

  Honor Fullstaff’s study was far from what you would expect from a retired recluse’s place of contemplation, but was in keeping with the remarkable abilities of their host, at least in the minds of Rassendyll and Volo. It was a veritable arsenal of bladed weapons, decorated with all sorts of military memorabilia and commendations tastefully arrayed in various display cases, mountings, and stands, complimented by several overstuffed chairs and numerous end tables that seemed to have been tailor-made for holding after dinner treats and cordials.

  When the threesome arrived, the others had already settled into their chosen post-dinner modes. In the few minutes that had elapsed since the group had split in half, Passepout had already polished off two puddings, and had safely ensconced himself in an overstuffed settee that Volo assumed had been imported from far-off Kara Tur or possibly Zakhara to the south. The cushions reallocated themselves to support the thespian’s bulk in such a way that no doubt provided the heavyset actor with luxurious comfort, but would also hinder him from being able to right himself later on. The master traveler anticipated more than a bit of huffing and puffing on his own part when Passepout called upon him for assistance. Mage McKern was sitting in a slightly more austere throne that might have at one time functioned as a sedan chair, and was sipping a glass of dessert wine, smacking his lips in zealous appreciation after each swallow.

  Honor Fullstaff was not seated, and was instead pacing around the room juggling four daggers in the air while carrying on a conversation with McKern. Volo thought he noticed their jovial host cock his head to the side slightly when they entered the room as if to signal that he had indeed sensed their presence.

  “Have a seat, have a seat,” Honor heralded while not interrupting his juggling exhibition. “Anywhere will do. There’s even a double, Chesslyn, for you and your friend, though I will not tolerate it if you two ignore the rest of us for the simple pleasures of each other’s company.”

  Chesslyn looked at Volo and rolled her eyes at her teacher’s misconception of their relationship, but nonetheless ushered the master traveler over to the double-seated couch.

  “Pish tosh, Honor,” McKern interjected, “leave them be. And besides, all eyes in the room are on you and your magnificent manipulation of the blades.”

  “Are they really?” Honor asked coyly, with a trace of a chuckle in his tone.

  “Mmmmphyph,” Passepout offered, his mouth full with the start of his third pudding.

  “Agreed,” said Honor, who shift
ed the orbit of the blades from in front of him to behind him and then back again without so much as a hesitation in his breathing.

  “I am quite impressed,” Volo said to the host, “and I’ve seen quite a bit in my travels.”

  “Oh, have you now,” Honor responded. “Did you hear that Mason? The young whippersnapper claims to have been around. Maybe he’s not necessarily the type of fellow who should be hanging around our Chesslyn.”

  Our Chesslyn, the Harper agent thought.

  “Could be,” McKern replied, and turned to face Volo. “You seem to be a bit familiar. Perhaps we have met before?”

  “Perhaps,” Volo replied carefully, adding, “after all I do get around.”

  McKern gave a hearty laugh at the witty rejoinder, and then turned his attention to Rassendyll. “I was just filling Honor in on the latest goings on in Mulmaster. Evidently a prisoner has escaped, two vagabonds are being sought, and there is rumor that there is unrest in the High Blade’s marital chambers.”

  Honor quickly joined in.

  “McKern here is one of Mulmaster’s older Cloaks,” Fullstaff explained, surreptitiously adding yet another blade to his juggling assortment. “We’ve known each other for years, and, in fact, both served under the previous High Blade.”

  “Selfaril’s father,” Chesslyn interrupted to annotate for Volo.

  “Now there was a High Blade,” McKern reminisced. “He wasn’t the type to go off and marry some bald-headed sorceress from the east, of that I am certain.”

  “Indeed,” Fullstaff concurred. “I miss the old devil.”

  The gracious and jovial host interrupted his juggling for a moment to quaff an entire goblet of the dessert wine that McKern had been slowly savoring. When the cup was empty, he removed two sabers from their stanchions and began to twirl them in close quarters.

  “And you sir,” Honor said to the seated Rassendyll as he resumed the show of his expertise, “by your tone, you are either quite congested or your head is bound in blankets. Which is it?”