The Mage in the Iron Mask

by Brian Thomsen

  Volo, remembering the uncontrollable rage that their host had exhibited on the night previous, moved to intervene, only to be stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder. Quickly turning to see the source of his restraint, he was surprised to see that it was Chesslyn.

  The look in her eyes told him to hold back, Honor Fullstaff knew what he was doing. A scan to his left showed that Mason had further withdrawn to a more advantageous place for observation, and a scan to his right indicated that Passepout had interrupted his meal, and seemed to be frantically looking for a way out that would not put him any closer to the sword fight. Instead of approaching the duelists, Volo instead sidled over to his former traveling companion, and making eye contact, nonverbally advised him to stay in his place.

  Passepout complied, but was so uncomfortable, he did not resume his meal.

  With a series of pokes, prods, and slashes, Honor Fullstaff had maneuvered Rassendyll to a spot in the room from which, unnoticed by the spectators or the other participant, Hal and Poins had cleared away all furniture that might interfere with their movements. Fullstaff obviously had the playing field memorized, and wished nothing to get in the way of the test that he had planned.

  When all had reached a certain point that Fullstaff had set, he lunged forward and with a loud cry, began to attack with full slashing fury.

  Rassendyll, despite his lack of training, parried back as the sightless swordsman rallied a nonstop series of attacks, slashing the foil through the air as if it were a saber.

  Chesslyn joined Volo on the other side of Passepout and whispered over the thespian’s head and into the master traveler’s ear, “He’s just testing him. Had old Blind Honor really meant business, he wouldn’t be treating his foil as if it were a saber, and I assure you he more than knows the difference.”

  “I don’t doubt you,” the master traveler replied, “but testing him for what?”

  “I’m sure we will find out,” the Harper answered.

  “Indeed, all three of you will,” interjected the senior Cloak who had joined the onlooking threesome, “but for now, just enjoy the show.”

  Volo could not help but be impressed by the pure artistry of the blind man’s swordsmanship. Each attack was calculated to make its appearance within the visible sight limits provided by his opponent’s mask, while never appearing to be anything artificial or staged. As Rassendyll parried and launched counterattacks, Honor deftly blocked each thrust, miraculously anticipating the path of his opponent’s foil without the benefit of sight.

  Even Passepout was eventually impressed. “He’s pretty good for a blind man,” the portly thespian commented as he began to sneak bites of hot muffins that had just arrived at the table.

  “There never was any question of that,” Chesslyn countered, “but watch Rassendyll.”

  Volo immediately noticed what Chesslyn was referring to. The iron-masked man was more than rising to the occasion. His awkward blocks and haphazard attacks had been replaced by more organic moves, mirroring the fluidity of his opponent. As Honor upped the degree of difficulty of each attack, Rassendyll countered, reclaiming lost territory, and gradually forcing the swordmaster back to the center of the room from which he had originally started.

  “Enough!” the master swordsman announced, dropping his guard for a moment, and then quickly raising the foil in a salute to his opponent before turning to the left and the waiting hands of Poins who returned the foil to his proper place. “Back to breakfast. My keen sense of smell has determined that the second round of succulent muffins has indeed been delivered.”

  A quick glance to the left by the breathless Rassendyll revealed the presence of Hal who quickly recovered the foil from his hand, and placed it in its matched home next to Honor’s.

  “Come, come!” Honor ordered with nary a shortness of breath. “Breakfast is waiting, and believe me there is nothing that stirs the early morning appetite like a gentle workout with an evenly matched opponent.”

  The exhausted Rassendyll returned to the place at the table that he had occupied the night before, and after wiping the sweat from his brow with a towel provided by the ever-present Hal, he took a long swig of juice and reached for a muffin to sate his recently incited appetite.

  In the High Blade’s Study in

  the Tower of the Wyvern:

  “Ah, Rickman,” Selfaril said as the captain of the Hawks entered the High Blade’s private refuge, “I understand there was a bit of a problem last night.” The High Blade had summoned Rickman at the same time that he had ordered his breakfast and, true to form, the captain of the Hawks had beaten the morning tray by a matter of seconds.

  “A problem, sire,” replied Rickman, adding, “I’ll take that,” as the valet entered the study. Slater bowed slightly and handed the tray bearing the High Blade’s breakfast to the captain of the Hawks, then quickly retreated from the study.

  Rickman placed the tray in front of his sovereign, and removed the napkin that covered the tray of tasty early morning delicacies.

  “Care to join me,” the High Blade asked in an uncharacteristically jovial tone. “Slater can easily fetch another tray.”

  “No, thank you, sire,” Rickman replied, “I have already eaten, but thank you for your generous offer, and, if I might say, you are in a fine mood this morning; rested and renewed, if I do say so myself.”

  “Do you really think so?” the High Blade said. “I must say that it was a most satisfying night, if the Tharchioness’s scratches on my back are any evidence. And as they say nothing stirs the appetite like …”

  “… the rest of the virtuous and pure?” Rickman offered.

  Selfaril, his mouth full of pastry and jam smiled, swallowed, and agreed. “But of course. But this is not why I summoned you. Slater informed me that there was a trespasser in High Road Keep last night.”

  “Really nothing to concern yourself with, sire,” the captain of the Hawks assured, making a mental note to be more wary of the High Blade’s valet. “I am afraid that I may have made myself a few too many enemies among the Thayans. One such fellow was lying in wait for me in my office, but I dispatched him easily.”

  “Really?” the High Blade said, “I am impressed.”

  “Nothing, really,” Rickman replied, and began to relate his carefully constructed explanation that interweaved truth with his own clever fabrications.

  “A few weeks ago I ran into this Thayan at the Warrior’s Arena tavern, at least I assume he was Thayan by the tattoos and such. He claimed to be a civil servant of some sort working for the embassy. I didn’t think much of it at the time, though as I recall he did seem to be trying to bait me into an altercation. Mindful of your concerns for the delicacy of diplomatic matters, I let his remarks roll off my back.”

  “Well done,” the High Blade remarked. “All of our opposition to those bald-headed barbarians must be done in secret.”

  “Of course, sire,” Rickman agreed, then continued with his fabrication. “Well, last night, not being able to sleep, I decided to go back to my office and get some work done, when lo and behold I found the Thayan lying in wait for me. With a cry of ‘This will be for the insult of the other night, and for all my people,’ he came at me with a dagger. I reacted quickly and killed him first. The body has been discreetly disposed of to avoid any diplomatic unpleasantries. It was all nothing really, though I do admit that I am more than a little surprised that word of my minor altercation has already been detected by Slater.”

  “Yours are not the only set of ears in service to the High Blade,” Selfaril commented. “So you don’t attach any significance to the event.”

  “None, sire,” Rickman said confidently. “I have in the past, and probably always will, attract my fair share of enemies, in bars as well as on the battlefield. I can take care of myself.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” the High Blade replied. “Many of the Blades and the Cloaks fear for my well-being, particularly due to the presence of so many Thayans in town. Tomorrow night, t
he First Princess and I will be hosting a public reception, for soon she must return to Eltabbar for something to do with that earthquake. I would hate to have to postpone the reception and her departure for security reasons.”

  “I really don’t think that will be necessary,” Rickman replied. “This was only an isolated and personal matter, nothing that should concern a High Blade.”

  “Well then, you may go,” Selfaril said. “It would appear that the unpleasantries and worries of the past few days have fairly faded away, and I can get back to the more personal matters of state.”

  “That is the High Blade’s duty,” Rickman said deferentially, adding silently, and you won’t be troubled by it much longer.

  In the Dining Hall

  of the Villa of Sir Honor Fullstaff,

  Swordsman, retired:

  As Poins and Hal began to clear the table, and Hotspur the dwarf began the neverending task of preparing the next meal, Honor Fullstaff leaned back in his chair and rubbed his stomach vigorously as if to outwardly encourage the inward savoring of the breakfast feast that he had just devoured.

  The group had been strangely quiet since the unannounced exhibition of Rassendyll’s swordsmanship. Even Passepout seemed cowed into silence, managing to avoid any embarrassing remarks that might get him in trouble, or, even worse, make him the object of some other previously unannounced test from the swordmaster. Once, during the end of the meal, he stole an encouraging look at his former companion Rassendyll, but gave up trying to make contact as the presence of the mask seemed to make such contact impossible.

  Volo continued to take in the entire scene. Throughout the meal Honor and Mason occasionally exchanged some meaningless banter on the good old days, and the good lives that they had led up to this point. The master traveler looked at Chesslyn as if to ask, what are we waiting for, which was only met with a shrug by the secret Harper. He was about to ask that same question of their host when the awkwardness was interrupted by the arrival of a fourth heretofore unseen servant who arrived in the dining hall out of breath, and hastened to deliver a folded piece of parchment to the master swordsman.

  “Thank you, Bardolph,” the blind host said as he accepted the message. “You may rest now. You’ve had a busy night.”

  “Thank you, milord,” Bardolph said, bowing slightly and hastening out of the hall to his quarters for a well-deserved slumber.

  Honor Fullstaff unfolded the note, and gently passed his fingers over its surface as if trying to detect any imperfections in the grain with his fingertips. “Yes, yes,” he said aloud as his fingertips did their slow-paced dance on the parchment’s surface. “It is as we discussed, Mason. Though Bardolph was unable to locate your brother, my friends in the Company of the Blind have indeed confirmed the matters at hand.”

  Volo looked to Chesslyn as if ready to ask a question.

  The secret Harper beat him to it.

  “Who are the Company of the Blind, Honor?” Chesslyn asked her former teacher.

  “Surely you don’t wish to know all of my secrets, young lady?” the host answered coyly. “They’re just a useless bunch of sightless men who provide the ears for certain concerns in Faerûn who are willing to pay for their services. Occasionally I broker some information through them, for them, or from them. Those who are deprived of sight must stick together.”

  Volo was impressed. An entire network of sightless spies and informants that was previously unknown to him, the greatest gazetteer in all Faerûn. He could already see his publisher, Justin Tyme, salivating at the exclusive news that would be trumpeted in his next guide book.

  Rassendyll stood up and reached across the table to pick up the recently delivered note to scan its contents for himself. Honor offered no objection as the iron-masked man took it from his hand.

  “It’s blank!” exclaimed the surprised Rassendyll.

  “Not really,” Honor explained. “The message is imprinted for unseeing eyes alone. Feel the little bumps on the parchment. There is the blind man’s message.”

  Rassendyll ran his fingers over the parchment, his fingertips sensing the irregularities in its surface, yet unable to decipher the subtleties of its message.

  “What does it say?” Rassendyll demanded.

  “I think that we have kept these youngsters waiting long enough,” Mason pointed out.

  Passepout, Chesslyn, and Volo all looked at each other, the same thought emblazoned on their minds. Indeed, it had been quite a long time since any of them had considered themselves to be youngsters.

  “In a moment,” Honor said, delaying just a while longer.

  Honor stood up from his place at the table and approached Chesslyn, his hand affectionately seeking out her cheek.

  “Chesslyn, my favorite student, I have no desire to set you at risk,” the swordmaster stated.

  “What do you mean, Honor?” she asked sweetly.

  “Unlike the other youngsters here, you are a citizen of Mulmaster.”

  “So?”

  “The penalty for treason, or even conspiracy to commit treason, is death by torture. I will understand it if you feel that your obligations to the state prevent you from taking part in what I am about to propose.”

  “Treason?” she repeated incredulously.

  “Yes,” Honor said. “I realize that you are apolitical, and though skilled with the sword, you have chosen to make your way in as quiet a manner as one who lives by the sword can. If you wish to excuse yourself before I bring the conversation at hand to the forbidden subject of treason, I will understand. You have chosen to live in Mulmaster after all.”

  Chesslyn looked at Volo as if to send a silent message, as if to say, see, he doesn’t know everything about me, and then said to her former teacher. “You have taught me well in the past. If the lesson in now treason, then let’s make the most of it.”

  “Good!” Honor exclaimed. “Then treason it is, and as for the rest of you, have no worry. The penalty for conspiring to overthrow the High Blade is merely death, minus the torture. In that regard it is sometimes better not to be a citizen.”

  Rassendyll, Volo, and Passepout all had one question on their minds, a mixture of disbelief, confusion, and terror (in the case of Passepout) more than evident in their thoughts.

  What have we gotten ourselves into?

  Treason, and Making

  the Most of It

  In the Private Quarters of

  the First Princess of Thay

  in the Tower of the Wyvern:

  The Tharchioness had just begun her day-long preparations for the reception that was being held that evening, and for the very important night that would follow thereafter. The charm with which she intended to enslave her husband and his kingdom was to be assembled in three parts which could then be fused together within the privacy of their bedchamber. She had already obtained the necessary bits of skin and hair that would be used to bind the spell to Selfaril, making it harder for anyone else to detect.

  If all went well, after tonight the High Blade himself would be an unnecessary part of the equation as she would already have custody of his heir deep within her own womb.

  The Tharchioness heard the door to her boudoir open. From the scent of the perfume that wafted in from the hall, she knew that the visitor was her half sister.

  Without turning away from her vanity mirror, the Tharchioness inquired, “Is all in order?”

  “Yes, dear sister,” Mischa Tam replied. “That worm of an ambassador is ready to carry out your will. My spies within his retinue have told me that he has managed to obtain access to a secret passage to your husband’s private study where he will be able to lie in wait for him after tonight’s reception. I have also taken the liberty of ascertaining that the captain of the Hawks has the same information, so if by chance the worm should actually pose a threat to dear Selfaril, his right-hand man will be able to intervene. The captain—”

  “His name is Rickman,” the Tharchioness interrupted.

  “Uh, yes,
First Princess,” Mischa acknowledged, “was attacked himself last night, and will obviously be on the lookout for further attempts.”

  The Tharchioness turned to face her sister. “I don’t recall ordering an attack on him,” she said severely.

  “We didn’t,” Mischa explained, “though rumor has it that it was indeed a lower-ranking member of our embassy staff. It would appear that it was merely a personal matter between the two men.”

  “I see,” the Tharchioness replied. “It is nice to see that other members of my retinue share my feelings for my husband’s lackeys.”

  The Tharchioness returned to her cosmetic concerns. “Will all be ready with your part of the piece?” she inquired.

  “Of course, First Princess,” Mischa replied, the hatred of her sister growing even stronger due to the dismissive manner of her half sister.

  “I will send Elijakuk to fetch it after the reception. I will then be ready to help my dear husband relax after his narrow brush with death.”

  “I await, and serve,” Mischa answered.

  “You may go.”

  “Thank you, First Princess,” she acknowledged, bowing as she backed out of the apartment, thinking silent curses condemning her half sister to neverending torture.

  At the Villa of Sir Honor Fullstaff,

  Swordmaster, retired:

  Honor looked at the expressions of disbelief on the faces of his guests, with the exception of Mason McKern, with whom he had drawn up the plan of action.

  “There is to be a reception tonight honoring the High Blade and his bride, and as a distinguished veteran of past defenses of Mulmaster, I have once again been invited to attend, and as has been the case with all previous receptions, so has my dear friend senior Cloak Mason McKern. Unlike those previous occasions, however, this time we will actually attend, and in my company will be my latest star pupil in the ways of the sword,” explained Honor, with a tip of the hand to Rassendyll who started to protest only to be silenced by a gesture from the swordmaster.