“The latter, your honor,” Rassendyll replied, “or at least something like that. It is the custom of my people.”
Midway through Rassendyll’s second sentence, a shocking thing occurred. There was the clang of steel on stone. Honor Fullstaff had dropped one of the blades, and was bracing the other, hilt in hand as if he was ready to deal some sort of mortal blow.
“What are you doing here?” Honor demanded of the masked and disguised escapee, the tip of his blade poised bare inches from his blanket-swathed head.
The others were speechless.
“I will not repeat the question,” Honor said drawing back the blade as if readying a slash.
“Honor,” the shocked Chesslyn asked, “what is it?”
“Yes, old boy,” McKern added, standing up and hastening to his old friend’s side. “What is the matter?”
Honor remained braced, and ready to strike. “I thought I was the only one blind here,” the swordmaster declared. “Are you all deaf as well?”
“Again, I ask you,” McKern repeated, concerned more for the agitation of his old friend than for the danger that loomed over the head of the turbaned guest, “what is the matter?”
Honor Fullstaff laughed out loud. This time however the tone was no longer jovial, and was, in fact, quite sinister.
“Why don’t you tell them, Selfaril?” Honor said to the masked man.
“What?” the shocked escapee asked, as the onlookers stood by, puzzled at their host’s actions and allegations.
“Surely I am not the only one here to recognize the High Blade through his tawdry disguise,” Honor said firmly. “The custom of my people indeed. I’d recognize your voice anywhere. Prepare to die for the murder of your father.”
To the shock of the others, Honor drew back the saber once more, and launched into a killing blow.
Reports, Instructions, & Revelations
In the High Blade’s Study
in the Tower of the Wyvern:
“Permission to speak frankly, your highness,” Rickman requested.
“What is it now?” the High Blade demanded.
“My men apprehended a felon by the name of James just before nightfall,” the captain of the Hawks explained. “In addition to having claimed to have seen the travel writer named Geddarm when he left the city, he also claimed to have spotted two men who resembled drowned rats walking away from Mulmaster along the Moonsea shoreline. The description of one of them matches that of the itinerant thespian by the name of Passepout.”
“Go on.”
“At first we suspected that the other drowned rat was Geddarm, but James firmly denied this, saying that it was not the same person he had earlier encountered.”
“Did he talk to the two, as you call them, drowned rats?”
“No, sire,” Rickman explained. “He was hiding in wait for easier prey. He didn’t like the odds of two against one.”
“Indeed,” Selfaril commented. “Maybe he was mistaken the first time. Perhaps the fellow that he previously encountered was not Geddarm. Maybe he was mistaken then.”
“I don’t believe so, sire,” Rickman replied, reaching into his tunic and withdrawing a throwing dagger. “He claimed to have taken this off the first fellow.”
The captain of the Hawks handed the dagger to the High Blade who drew it closer to examine it. Clearly etched into the hilt of the bladed weapon was the monogram VG.
“Two questions,” Selfaril petitioned.
“Yes, sire.”
“Where do you suppose this Geddarm fellow was heading after he left the city, and where do you suppose he is now?”
The captain was prepared with an answer.
“The felon pinpointed his encounter with the alleged Geddarm as taking place on a remote road that I am not unfamiliar with.”
“Oh?” the High Blade said, an eyebrow raised in evidence of peaked interest.
“It’s the road to the Retreat,” Rickman explained, “and as much as I was able to extract through our various means of persuasion, it was roughly within a few hours of when Wattrous and Jembahb were supposed to be there. I fear that this Geddarm fellow is the reason for their inability to find the bloodstained wand that would have implicated our friends from the east.”
“The fools,” Selfaril hissed. “The bleeding incompetents.”
“Before he died, Jembahb mentioned that he thought the Retreat was haunted. Something about strange noises and such. Obviously this Geddarm fellow was in hiding and managed to trick the two half-wits. I fear that we have underestimated this clever travel writer.”
“Do you believe him to be a Harper agent?”
“Perhaps, sire,” Rickman answered. “Cyric knows they would love to have an agent in your city.”
“You have already mentioned that Jembahb is no longer a risk, due to his incompetence. What about Wattrous?”
“An assassin has been dispatched,” Rickman replied. “A reliable one, one of my best. Stiles should have Wattrous … removed by the end of the week. Our spies have already tracked him to Hillsfar where he is seeking an appointment. The only one he will receive is with our discreet executioner.”
“Good,” Selfaril said with a tone of demanding finality. The High Blade stroked his neatly-trimmed goatee in deep thought, then continued his inquisition.
“Were you able to get anything else out of James the felon?” he demanded.
“No sire,” Rickman apologized. “I’m afraid that he lacked the constitution to survive our thorough cross-examination. Ironically, his body was disposed of at the same time as the late Jembahb.”
“So we still don’t know who the third conspirator is?”
“No, sire,” Rickman replied. “I concur that Geddarm and Passepout are obviously in league with each other. The third fellow’s identity is still a mystery.”
“It would be just my luck for it to turn out to be my brother, back from the grave.” The High Blade allowed himself a cruel laugh at his own absurd conjecture.
“Would you like to suggest a course of action, sire?” Rickman inquired.
“I want this Geddarm and Passepout brought into custody, but I don’t want them killed until I know their whole plan. Understood?”
“Of course, sire.”
“I need to know what they know about your men’s visit to the Retreat, my brother, my wife, and anything else that might endanger the security of Mulmaster.”
“Of course, sire.”
The High Blade shifted in his throne and readjusted the sash of the silken robe that covered his dressing gown and protected him from the draughts of the Tower of the Wyvern. It was getting late and his bride awaited. As with all of the nights they shared together, it was an occasion that he looked upon in mixed proportions comprised of lust, self-loathing, fiendish delight, and suicidal bedevilment.
Readjusting his sash one more time, and without looking up at the captain of the Hawks, whom he regarded as the only person in the entire city that he fully trusted, he said, “You may go. The she-devil awaits.”
“Permission to speak frankly, once again, sire,” Rickman asked, adding, “just for a moment?”
The High Blade answered without looking up.
“Yes?”
“I sincerely wish that I could remove the threat that exists for as long as you are married to that witch.”
Selfaril looked up at his right-hand man, and said, “I appreciate your concern. She will no doubt try another ploy to subjugate me, but it will take time. At the present time we have the theoretical upper hand. In spite of the bungling of those below you, we are no worse off than we were before. At the very least we have foiled their plan, and removed a rival to my throne. For the present time, they are forced to accept the failure of their plans. Our stalemate is their defeat, at least temporarily. I intend to enjoy the respite that exists between plots in hopes of formulating one of my own that will give me Eltabbar, and from there, all Toril.”
“Agreed, sire,” the captain of the Hawk
s conceded, “it’s just that I fear the danger that you place yourself in whenever you lay with her.”
“I know, Rickman,” the High Blade agreed, “but it excites me, and there is very little else that does anymore.”
In the Apartment in the Tower of the Wyvern
that the High Blade shared with his Wife:
In the spare hours since dinner, the First Princess once again sought the counsel of her half sister and Mischa was more than willing to lend her assistance and advice.
“Dear sister,” Mischa cooed, the formality of titles ignored in favor of disarming familiarity, “what can I do for you?”
“It’s not for me, Mischa,” the First Princess corrected, “it is for our cause, and the will of Szass Tam.”
“Of course, First Princess,” the half sister replied.
“I will need your help in procuring the necessary means to enchant my husband. As always we must be discreet. He is very suspicious and not easily distracted.”
“I will enlist the greatest of our wizards to the cause,” Mischa replied, adding “Discreetly, of course.”
“Everything must be prepared so that the spell may be consummated within these walls or else the Cloaks will surely detect it, and we will be doomed to failure.”
“Might I recommend a distraction,” Mischa suggested, “to occupy them elsewhere?”
“Fabulous idea,” the Tharchioness replied, licking her lips and stroking her forehead tattoos with her exotically lacquered nails. “I know the perfect dupe. How about my roly-poly ambassador.”
“A marvelous idea, sister.”
“Once my husband’s guard has been lowered, I will be able to conceive his child. If the High Blade is still willing to do my bidding afterward, so much the better. If not, he can be disposed of.”
“And like his father before him, he can be replaced on the throne of Mulmaster by his own son,” Mischa extrapolated.
“My son,” the Tharchioness repeated, “the first of a long line of Thayan High Blades.”
“Long may Szass Tam rule.”
“Yes,” the Tharchioness agreed, adding silently, “and myself as well.”
In the office of the Thayan ambassador to Mulmaster:
The Thayan Ambassador wept at his desk.
“Why me?” he cried out loud. “I entered the foreign service to stay out of danger. I even picked Mulmaster because, through the First Princess’s marriage, I was sure we would never be at war.”
The note from the First Princess had been vague:
Worm,
The inefficiencies of yourself and your predecessor have caused us great discomfort.
Fear not. I have a plan by which you may redeem yourself either through its success, or your martyrdom.
Long may Szass Tam rule.
This is your last chance.
—The Tharchioness
The wormlike civil servant picked up the official note from the Tharchioness and read it one more time. As he did, it burst into flames, singing his fingers.
The worm licked his burnt fingertips like a monkey who had tried to catch a flame.
Whatever the Tharchioness wanted him to do, he knew it wouldn’t be easy, and he didn’t like the mention of martyrdom. The sinking pit in his stomach soon sent chills throughout his body. Save for the trembling, he stayed petrified in place, waiting for further instructions from his princess.
In the Bed Chamber of the High Blade
and First Princess of Mulmaster and Thay, respectively:
The High Blade had begun to snore, signaling that he had entered a deep sleep.
Quietly and carefully, so as not to disturb her heinous husband, the Tharchioness stole from their luxurious bed, pausing only momentarily to wrap herself in a silken quilted robe to protect her body, still moist with perspiration, from the late night Mulmaster chill.
Listening for any change in the rhythmic rumbles of her husband’s exhalations that would signal his awakening, she quietly tiptoed to her boudoir vanity and softly sat on its stool, careful to keep all noise to a minimum. Silently she picked up a silver cuticle file from its hiding place, and began to carefully remove the small flakes of her husband’s skin from under her fingernails. With the precision of a surgeon or a gemstone craftsman, she placed the flakes in a small ivory pin box whose appearance innocently blended with the other decorative containers that lined the base of the mirror.
The snores of the High Blade grew louder as he sunk into an even deeper sleep.
Shall I chance it? she thought. Why not?
The Tharchioness reached under the vanity table and carefully extracted a crystal dagger from its hiding place. Running her finger gently and gingerly across the blade to ascertain that it was razor sharp, she crept back to the bed where her husband soundly slept, blissfully unaware of his helplessness, and the danger that hovered over him.
I never thought it would be this easy, she said almost silently under her breath as she raised the blade in preparation for its intended mission.
The High Blade’s eyes fluttered for a moment and his lips curved into a sly smile.
He’s dreaming, she thought, probably of the subjugation of myself and all of Eltabbar.
With all in readiness, she maneuvered the blade down, slicing at her spouse with care and accuracy.
The High Blade snored again, and turned over in his slumbers.
How fortunate, she thought. You’ve never been this accommodating before.
With two fingers of the hand that did not hold the crystal dagger, she carefully picked up the lock of her husband’s hair that she had just snipped off with the blade.
Sure that she had not left any telltale hairs behind, she stole back to her vanity table, placed the hairs in the small box with the flakes of skin, then returned the box to its hiding place among the other knickknacks.
Her mission for the evening successfully completed, she returned to her place in the marriage bed, and gleefully went to sleep, dreaming of the successful fruition of her plans.
In the Villa of Sir Honor Fullstaff,
Swordmaster, retired:
The blind swordmaster was in the midst of his lethal swing when an invisible force came between him and the masked Rassendyll.
“Honor,” the senior Cloak cautioned, “this is your home, and in it we must follow your rules, but I will not stand idly by while you behead this fellow until you explain to us what is going on.”
The enraged Honor tried to swing and strike again only to find the same invisible barrier. This only added further to his rage. Quickly he turned around to face Passepout.
“And you must be one of his Hawks, ready to watch his back, and follow his murderous orders. Well, at least I can rid the world of you!” the swordmaster yelled as he took a running start to strike and cleave the petrified and portly thespian in two. When he was a half-step’s distance from the thespian, his blade was at the top of its arc and just about to start its deadly descent, when the dull thud of metal hitting skull was heard, followed by the thump and thud of Honor Fullstaff hitting the ground.
Volo thought he saw an oblong blur pass through the air as the long sword flew hilt over blade through the air on its intended course.
The swordmaster’s former student replaced the long sword in its appointed spot on the mantle. Her expert aim, incredible ability, and indelible accuracy had guided the long sword as if it were a simple dagger as she threw it through the air. Her split second calculations had also enabled her to judge its path and orbit so that its heavy hilt would make contact with the blind man’s head, knocking him out but leaving him relatively unharmed by the deadly blade.
Volo turned to the female Harper and whispered, “I heard you were an expert at heaving long swords but I never dreamed that you could pull off an incredible maneuver like that.”
“Remember,” she answered in an equivalent and hasty whisper, “don’t believe everything you read. From what I understand, most writers are born liars.”
; By this time Poins and Hal had arrived, and, after assessing the situation, began to help their master into an upright position, and then onto one of the sturdy couches that was available. Slowly, the old swordmaster began to come around.
Passepout nudged Rassendyll, motioned toward the hall signaling that he was about to make a hasty escape, and turned to go, only to take a hastened step forward and immediately run into an invisible wall not unlike the one that had stopped the swordmaster’s first blow.
McKern looked at Passepout and Rassendyll sternly and said, “Neither of you are going anywhere until I find out what is going on here, even if I have to call to Mulmaster for reinforcements, and something tells me that more than one person in this room would not be in favor of that.”
“I don’t know what got into him,” Chesslyn told McKern. “Sure, I’ve seen him angry before …”
“Anybody who has known him has,” the mage acceded.
“… but such a rage,” she continued. “Only once have I witnessed such animated anger from him, and that was after a night of too many libations and reminiscences of his days in service to Selfaril’s father … but this time he hasn’t had hardly anything to drink.”
“It would appear that the reason lies beneath the turban,” McKern observed. Turning his attention to Rassendyll, he instructed, “I have been forced to cast a spell against a dear friend in defense of your life. If you wish to keep that which I have protected, remove your mask.”
Rassendyll realized that he had no choice. The old senior Cloak was a formidable opponent for the best of the wizards back at the Retreat, and without the use of his own powers, Rassendyll had very little recourse. Shaking his head in resignation, he warned, “I will remove what I can,” and began to undo the turban.
Volo inched over to Passepout, and whispered, “Who is this guy?”
“Rupert of Zenda,” the thespian replied, then added, “and I thought that you were a barrel of laughs to travel with.”
The Mage in the Iron Mask Page 15
