“Where did you meet him? I thought you were going to wait for me back at the Traveler’s Cloak Inn.”
“Dela and I had a lover’s quarrel,” the thespian extemporized, “so I temporarily became a dislocated person. I ran into Rupert on the Moonsea shore. I thought we were heading back to Mulmaster, but I guess Rupert had other ideas.”
Chesslyn, feeling a little guilty for bludgeoning her former teacher, had joined Poins and Hal at Honor’s side as the retired swordmaster gradually came around.
“What happened?” Honor asked groggily.
Poins looked at Chesslyn, then answered, “You hit your head, sir.”
“On what?” he inquired, still not thinking quite clearly.
“On … something,” Hal answered carefully.
“Oh,” the swordmaster said, as if the question had been answered to his satisfaction.
Rassendyll had finished unwrapping one layer of cloth, and had begun to undo the second, under the watchful eyes of Mage McKern. As he unwrapped, the shape of the iron mask became more and more defined, until, fully unsheathed, the metal head cover was fully revealed.
“That’s all I can do,” Rassendyll stated. “I wish I could do more.”
Mason carefully examined the metal handiwork that adorned the man’s head.
“Why does he have that on?” Volo asked Passepout.
“I asked him the same question,” Passepout answered. “And?”
“He ran afoul of a wizard,” the thespian explained, “and now he can’t take it off. Something about it being bound to his skull.”
The master traveler, in his research for Volo’s Guide to All Things Magical, recalled reading about such masks. If memory served him, he seemed to remember that they usually did more than just hide one’s face, but also dampened one’s ability to perform magic. Legend had it that in olden days such masks had been used on imprisoned wizards to render them vulnerable to torture and interrogation.
Honor had just fully regained his senses after the final covering had been removed from the mask. He sat quietly surveying the situation, the watchful and restraining presence of Hal and Poins supporting him on either side.
“Do you remember what happened?” Chesslyn asked her burly mentor.
“I remember being hit on the back of the head,” he said with a twinkle, then added, “You’re still pretty handy with a sword hilt, aren’t you, dear?”
“I was taught by the best,” she cooed.
“Indeed you were,” he conceded.
“Stay right there or risk my wrath,” McKern instructed Rassendyll, and then headed over to his old friend.
Honor saw him coming, and quickly put up his hand.
“I know, I know,” the retired swordmaster said. “As senior Cloak you are bound by your office to protect the High Blade, but I really thought you would be allied with me on this matter. Selfaril killed our best friend, and the murder of a High Blade must be punished.”
“Be quiet, you old fool,” the mage said in a derogatory tone that was obviously saved for only the best of friends. “What makes you think that this fellow is Selfaril?”
“I’d recognize that voice anywhere,” Honor countered. “He sounds just like his father.”
McKern scratched his head for a moment.
“Now that you mention it, his voice is awfully familiar,” the mage agreed.
“It’s Selfaril, I tell you!” Honor insisted, restraining himself from flying into the uncontrollable rage that he had previously allowed to overtake him.
“There is another possibility,” Mason said turning to Passepout and Volo. “So, you two know each other?”
Volo answered, “You could say that.”
“I remember clearly now,” Mason stated. “The Hawks are looking for both of you. You are Volothamp Geddarm, a writer of some kind, right?”
“And if I am?”
McKern just shook his head, saying, “Let us not waste time with such foolishness. Neither of you has anything to worry about from me. Though I am sworn to protect the High Blade, I have no desire to do his dirty work. If he has dispatched the Hawks to find you, you can be guaranteed that it is dirty work indeed.”
“Why are they looking for us?” Volo asked, his eyes surreptitiously darting across the room to make contact with Chesslyn. She was equally attentive for the answer.
“I’m not quite sure,” McKern replied judiciously. “Something about an escaped prisoner.”
“That would be me,” Rassendyll confessed, seeing no reason to continue the charade. “My name is Rassendyll, formerly a student at the Retreat.”
Chesslyn jumped into the conversation. “The Retreat,” she offered. “That’s where I met Mr. Geddarm here. We decided to travel together back to Mulmaster out of concern for our own safety.”
“Why?” the senior Cloak asked with all the delicacy and demanding nature of a grand inquisitor.
“Because of what we found there,” Volo answered.
“What did you find there?” Rassendyll interjected, more scared than he had been since he left the Retreat.
“Everyone was slaughtered,” the master traveler explained. “Not a single person was left alive. We found a blood-encrusted crystal wand that was left behind.”
“Thayan raiders, no doubt,” McKern observed. “No doubt the High Blade’s men will deal with them.”
“That’s what we thought,” Chesslyn inserted, “but while we were there, we observed two of the Hawks apparently looking for the wand as if they knew what to look for. Neither of them seemed even remotely concerned about the dead bodies or what had taken place there. It was as if they already knew that it had happened.”
“Indeed, that is odd,” McKern agreed. “As of this morning, there was no word about an attack on the Retreat, and, given the concerns of the Cloaks, that is extremely odd indeed. No doubt if it had been an attack by Thayan raiders certain political concerns would have brought it to our attention.”
“Maybe the Tharchioness had arranged a cover-up, or perhaps the High Blade was withholding the information from the public until his bride had once again returned to the east,” Chesslyn posited.
“Or maybe the High Blade himself was involved,” Honor added with a sense of knowing finality. The blind swordmaster then turned his attention back to Rassendyll. “You there,” he said. “If you are a student mage of the Retreat, why were you spared, and imprisoned?”
“I have no idea,” Rassendyll replied. “The best that I can remember is falling asleep on watch, and then waking up bound and blindfolded in transit. My abductors were then attacked on the road by those who I initially thought to be my rescuers. As it turned out, they were the High Blade’s men, and bore me away to prison where a blind mage put this accursed mask of iron on me.”
McKern interrupted, his eyebrow arching in interest, “Did you say a blind mage?”
“Yes,” Rassendyll replied. “He did as he was told, under the watchful eyes of the High Blade. When he was done, I could no longer remember a single spell, let alone wield my magic.”
McKern approached Rassendyll and examined the collar piece of the mask carefully.
“I thought it looked familiar,” the mage replied. “It is my brother’s handiwork. What else do you recall?”
“Only that the High Blade seems to be my twin.”
Honor stood up, pushed McKern out of the way, and confronted the seated Rassendyll directly. A quick scan by Chesslyn revealed that he had left the numerous bladed weapons out of hand, and therefore probably did not intend a repeat performance of his prior attack.
The blind swordmaster stared with unseeing eyes into the iron-masked face of Rassendyll, and said, “What do you mean ‘twin?’ ”
“We look exactly alike, save for his trimmed hair and beard. We are dead ringers.”
Honor chuckled. “Indeed,” he said, “this resemblance would have undoubtedly led to your death.”
“He said that I would eventually choke on my own beard,” Ras
sendyll recalled.
“No doubt an appealing thought to our esteemed High Blade.” Honor turned toward the direction from whence he had last heard Chesslyn’s voice, and said, “Chesslyn dearest, would you please bare our masked man’s shoulder please.”
Chesslyn complied without asking why. The sane and knowing Honor Fullstaff who had been her teacher had returned, replacing the rage-driven mad swordsman who had made an appearance earlier that evening. She knew that he had a reason.
When Honor heard her completion of the deed, he turned toward Mage McKern and said, “Do you recognize that birthmark in his armpit?”
“But I thought he was …” Passepout said, none too discreetly.
“I am, my fine epicure,” Honor retorted. “I have no need for the use of my eyes to validate that which I now know to exist.”
McKern raised the masked man’s left arm, and gasped.
“It is the birthmark,” the mage confirmed.
“I thought so,” Honor said, and extended his hand to the masked man. “You have my sincerest apologies. I could have borne you no greater insult than to mistake you for your brother.”
“My brother?”
“Yes,” Honor said, “you are the other son of Merch, my dearest dead friend, the former High Blade. You are, therefore, the heretofore unknown twin brother of the ruthless murderer Selfaril.”
Honor took a step back and called to his men. “Hal and Poins, get Hotspur and fetch us a keg of my best Halruaan ale. We have much to discuss this night!”
Tankards of Memories
At the Villa of Honor Fullstaff,
Swordmaster, retired:
As they waited for the ale to arrive, they splintered off into separate groups. Volo introduced the very confused Passepout to Chesslyn. The master traveler was careful to conceal the young lady’s Harper affiliation as he was more than acquainted with the chubby thespian’s pronounced lack of discretion. Poins and Hal had set off to help Hotspur with the monstrous keg of Halruaan ale that their master saved for occasions of exceptional note, while the blind swordmaster and the senior cloak argued in hushed tones.
Through all of this the iron-masked man remained silent, pondering his fate, his identity, and the recent turn of events. He was conscious of the discreet glances thrown his way by Volo, Chesslyn, and Passepout. He was forced to acknowledge that these strangers might be his only chance for reaching safety and freedom.
Hal and Poins reentered the room, helping to balance the monstrous keg that the dwarf cook bore on his back. The threesome maneuvered it over to a place next to the trophy wall, and inserted it into a sort of harness that seemed to exist specifically for this purpose. As Hotspur fiddled with the recently attached spigot, Hal and Poins distributed mugs to the rest of the group and each became filled with the delicious libation from the Shining South. By the time everyone had been served, Honor and Mason had reached some sort of agreement, and had taken their places in the impromptu circle of chairs that had formed around Rassendyll.
Accepting his tankard from Poins, Honor downed it in a single quaff and wiped away the foam from his bearded jowls.
“Ahhh!” the blind swordmaster said in appreciation as he handed the empty tankard back to his servant who immediately set off to refill it. “You can’t beat the Halruaans when it comes to ale, a fact that I am sure you are more than aware of, Mr. Volo’s-Guide-to-Wherever.”
The master traveler was slightly startled, then amused at the sudden reference to his reputation and repertoire made by their host. Indeed, he thought, our host is quite cagey and knows much more than he lets on—about a lot of things.
“I agree,” the master traveler concurred aloud, “though I personally prefer the brew from a different part of the south, Luiren.”
“Ah, but too many halflings can spoil the brew,” Honor replied, accepting his second brimming helping.
The masked man’s fear and uncertainty gave way to his own impatience.
“All this talk of halflings and brew is well and good,” Rassendyll said with impertinence, “but I really do wish you would get on with whatever you plan to get on with.”
Honor stiffened, and Passepout feared that the swordsman was about to enter into another rage. His fears were quickly allayed when he saw the wide grin spread across their blind host’s face.
“Told you,” Honor said to McKern. “Even has his father’s lack of patience.”
“Indeed,” the senior Cloak concurred. “More and more, I am inclined to agree with you, and set aside my own misgivings.”
“I knew you would, old friend,” the blind host said, then turned his attention to the rest of the group. “I’m sorry. Please forgive us. Old men are prone to share old times and memories, both the good ones, and the bad, whenever the opportunity arises, no matter how discourteous it happens to be. Still, that is no excuse, and I beg that all of you will accept my apologies on behalf of Mason and myself.”
Honor downed his second tankard of ale, once again emptying it in a single quaff, whispering instructions to send his appreciation to Hotspur for a job well done, as he went about deftly refilling his own mug. Refilling it faster than a Baldur’s Gate bartender, he strode over to the seated mage in the iron mask who was the focus of all their attentions, and said, “Most of all I beg your forgiveness, and request your indulgence for just a little while longer. You are among friends now. Mason and I will protect you, as we should have protected your father.”
Rassendyll felt the gentle bear paw of the blind swordsman on his shoulder, and looked up into his unseeing eyes. For some reason, he felt a profound sense of security. He believed the words that the generous host spoke.
Honor gave Rassendyll’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, much as a teacher would give a star pupil to signal some private affection, and took what would have been considered a sip in comparison to his earlier draughts from the brimming tankard, only draining it of half its contents. He then returned to the tap to top it off, and took his place back in the circle.
“Mason,” Honor said, “why don’t you fill everyone in on our friend’s background? I’m sure they will find it quite interesting.”
“Agreed,” the old mage replied, then added, to the masked man, “I am sure that you would like to know a little about your parentage, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course,” Rassendyll replied. “Of the many things I learned at the Retreat, that was not one of them.”
“Well, old friend,” Honor encouraged Mason McKern, “get on with it.”
In the Thayan Embassy in Mulmaster:
The worm of an ambassador had not expected to be summoned so soon after receiving the note from the First Princess. He was even more surprised to be approached in his chamber by the Tharchioness’s sister.
“The Tharchioness instructed me to come to you immediately, as you are her only hope,” Mischa Tam explained in tones of hushed urgency.
“Of course,” the ambassador said, beaming with pride, relieved at Mischa’s message, eyes glued to the curves of her body, which were subtly visible against the silken robe that barely concealed her nakedness. “The First Princess knows that she can call on me at any time, day or night … as I invite you to do also, my dear Mischa.”
Mischa Tam maintained her composure while burying a shudder of revulsion that ran through her inner core at the advances of the wormlike ambassador. She was sure that until her arrival, he had been dreading the next contact with the Tharchioness, anticipating a suicide mission of some type.
Even though he did not realize it, his initial anticipations were more than accurate.
“My dear ambassador,” she cooed, “I wish I could take you up on your generous offer, but my pragmatic nature, I’m afraid, gets the best of me. You know how jealous the First Princess gets. She would have my head or worse if she caught me giving undue attention to one of her favorites.”
One of her favorites, the ambassador thought, I should have known. I never dreamed that she felt that way about me. Obviousl
y she is a woman prone to sadistic affections toward those who strike her fancy. If necessary, he mused, I could get used to that.
“Time is fleeting, and I owe it to the Tharchioness not to dally unnecessarily, even if it does prolong my time with you,” the First Princess’s half sister whispered, her ironic tone lost on the corpulent and soft civil envoy. “Here is the packet of information that I promised to deliver for her. She so wants you to clear your name, and the successful completion of your mission will do more than that. After all, a Thayan hero would make a perfect First Princess’s consort. Don’t you think?”
The slow-witted ambassador became confused.
“What hero?” he asked. “And what about the High Blade?”
“Why you will be the hero, of course,” she cooed, kissing him gently on his doughy, bald pate, and then, with a sigh, adding, “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t control myself.”
“Quite all right,” the blushing, lusting ambassador sputtered.
“And the High Blade,” she concluded. “Well, that is what is probably in the message. I must go now.”
“No,” the ambassador urged, “surely you can stay awhile. The Tharchioness need not know.”
“As much as I would love to,” she countered, “I really can’t. Nothing must deter you from the planning of your mission.”
The ambassador looked at the unopened message that had been handed to him, and said resignedly, “Oh, yes, my mission.”
“And when it is over, no one will deny you anything, not even the Tharchioness.”
“Indeed,” he replied, his greed overcoming any fear about the prospective contents of the packet.
“It is the will of Szass Tam,” she said, as she slinked out the door of the ambassador’s suite.
“Indeed,” he repeated to himself, trying to savor the image of Mischa and combining it with that of a similarly compliant First Princess. “Indeed.”
Had the ambassador escorted the Tharchioness’s half sister to the door, he might have been able to hear her derisive laughter once she turned the corner down the hall.
Looking down at the packet in his hand, and with a gradual return of the anxiety that churned in the bottom of his stomach, he began to open the seal so that he could learn of the fate that awaited him.
The Mage in the Iron Mask Page 16
