The Mage in the Iron Mask

by Brian Thomsen

  “Allow me to continue before I entertain questions,” the swordmaster instructed, pausing just a moment to clear his throat with a sip of juice from a mug borne by the ever-attentive Poins who appeared out of nowhere to heed his master’s wishes.

  “My good friend Mason will cast a disguise spell on the iron mask worn by Rassendyll so to all outward appearances it will look like a dress helmet for an obscure order of knights in whose employ I have occasionally served, as a teacher to their squires. I have the rest of the dress uniform available here so that the disguise will be complete.”

  Fullstaff paused for another drink, and then shifted slightly in his chair so that he was more or less facing Passepout, Volo, and Chesslyn.

  “You, Mister Geddarm and Mister Passepout, will be turned in to the city watch as there is a warrant out for your arrest. Miss Onaubra will do the honors, in disguise of course. I have no desire to put her at risk.”

  I wish you could say the same for the rest of us, Volo thought, deciding to hold his tongue.

  “You will undoubtedly be incarcerated in Southroad Keep, probably on the same level that previously housed Rassendyll.”

  “Wonderful,” Passepout replied sarcastically, “I was wondering when I could go back. The Mulmaster jail has so much to offer.”

  Volo jabbed his traveling companion in the ribs with his elbow. The chubby thespian got the message, and kept his comments to himself.

  “Given all of the affairs of state that have to take place at the reception tonight, I am sure that Selfaril will not be able to get around to tortur—I mean, interrogating you until tomorrow, by which time Mason here will have already rescued you with the help of his brother, whose apartment is within the dungeon of the keep itself … so that he can be available for any smith work that might require a resident wizard.”

  Volo couldn’t help noticing that the blind swordmaster had once again made dismissive allusions to the possibility of torture for himself and his companions.

  “Mason will then lead you two to a subterranean chamber where Rassendyll and myself will rendezvous with you. There are secret tunnels and passages throughout the city, several of which lead directly to the High Blade’s private study. We will proceed to that location, where we will await the arrival of the High Blade and force him to turn over the throne to Rassendyll.”

  The man in the iron mask glanced at Volo, Passepout, and Chesslyn. Though his face was obscured, they surmised that his expression mirrored theirs—being one of astonishment.

  Mason interjected himself into the presentation at this point.

  “You have to understand,” the senior Cloak began, “we only have the best interests of Mulmaster at hand. Patricide is not a legitimate means of ascension to the throne, and it has succeeded in tainting the current High Blade’s entire reign. This absurd matrimonial union with that beastess of Thay, his wanton and ill-advised offensives that have destroyed our navy, and this reign of fear that has pervaded the inner circles of the court, Hawks, Cloaks, and Blades alike, all have weakened Mulmaster’s defenses so that it is now both vulnerable and detested.

  “It is not too late to change this course,” he continued, “and with Rassendyll on the throne, most of the harm can be undone.” Mason then turned and directed his comments directly to Volo and Passepout. “Should Mulmaster fall to that she-witch, the Tharchioness, there will be nothing to stop her and her infernal Red Wizards from laying siege to all Faerûn, at which point Mulmaster’s problem becomes shared by all of Toril.”

  Volo listened earnestly to the old mage, and realized, despite his melodramatic presentation, that he had a point.

  Passepout was about to once again declare a stance of passive and uninvolved neutrality when the master traveler stifled him with a hand across his mouth. The hand contained a hard roll which, under the circumstances, the corpulent thespian began to devour as he was now unable to speak.

  “All Chesslyn has to do is turn us in to the city watch, and you’ll do the rest?” the master traveler asked.

  “Now, Volo,” Chesslyn began, “you know I can take care of—”

  “That is all,” Honor assured. “If there was a way that we could engineer this coup without your assistance we would, but unfortunately we are a bit shorthanded at the moment, and a blind old man and a decrepitly ancient wizard can’t do it all themselves. You and Passepout are our inside reinforcements. Unless we are able to remove the mask from Rassendyll here, all will be lost. No one will learn that he is the High Blade’s brother, and he will die a miserable death, choking on his own beard.”

  Volo looked at Rassendyll, then at Chesslyn, and then at Passepout, before saying, “All right, we’re in.”

  Passepout looked at Rassendyll anxiously, but didn’t protest, though Chesslyn did here him mutter a sarcastic, “wonderful” under his breath.

  Mason then went over a preliminary map of the keep to acquaint Volo and Passepout with the intricacies of the architecture. The two were then washed and bathed by the able-handed Poins and Hal, fed, and dispatched to Mulmaster in the custody of an old crone with a crossbow who sounded, to the very discerning ear, suspiciously like Chesslyn Onaubra.

  On the Road Back to Mulmaster:

  “Why do you and I have to be the reinforcements?” Passepout asked his boon companion. “Why couldn’t Fullstaff have sent Poins, Hal, Hotspur, or any of his other lackeys?”

  “Probably,” the master traveler of all Toril answered, “because he didn’t want to risk anything happening to them.”

  Volo and Passepout’s hands were tied to the saddles of their horses in such a way that unless they sat perfectly upright and still, they would fall off and be dragged under the hooves of the surefooted stallions of the stable of Honor Fullstaff, whose servants did the binding, in Honor’s words, to make their captivity convincing.

  Chesslyn’s long sword was hidden on a pack mule that followed closely behind so as not to arouse the suspicions of the guards at the gate, and in its place was a modified crossbow.

  Along the way, Volo passed the time with stories of exploits similar to his own that he had picked up in various taverns around Toril. Chesslyn’s weapon at hand reminded him of one that he had heard recently.

  “I remember an article a while back that I read about a man with a crossbow who searched all Faerûn in hopes of finding the meaning of life, but instead found love, laughs, and friendship,” he began.

  “What was it’s title?” Chesslyn asked.

  “On the Road with Crossbow, Hope, and Lamour.”

  “Lamour?” she queried.

  “It means female love interest in some foreign tongue.”

  “Oh,” she replied wistfully.

  Volo could almost make out the towers of Mulmaster peeking up in the distance, and rashly chose this moment to make his move.

  “Speaking of love, laughs, and friendship,” he said quickly, slurring over the first “1” word, “when this is all over I was wondering if maybe you and I could spend a little more time getting to know each other.”

  “What do you have in mind?” she asked coyly.

  “Maybe dinner?” he asked carefully.

  “I have an even better idea,” she countered, “how about …”

  The tête-á-tête of the two travelers was interrupted by a loud snore issuing forth from the unconscious Passepout, who, despite the bumpy road had somehow managed to fall asleep in the saddle. Chesslyn and Volo turned in his direction, and in doing so noticed an advance squad of Hawks approaching, no doubt a patrol for the city watch.

  Chesslyn put a finger to her lips, indicating discretion, and whispered, “Later.”

  It was the last word to pass between them, as the oncoming Hawks took possession of the two prisoners, promising their old crone captor that she would be notified when the reward for their capture could be picked up.

  The two Hawks talked about how they planned to split the reward between themselves as they rode into Mulmaster with the bound Passepout and Vol
o.

  In less than an hour the two travelers were sharing a dark and damp cell in the bowels of the dungeon of Southroad Keep.

  In the Villa of Sir Honor Fullstaff,

  Swordmaster, retired:

  Mason worked his magics on the iron mask that encased Rassendyll’s head. When the spellcasting was complete, a mirror was brought out of storage so that the masked man could admire the handiwork that had been performed.

  Gazing into the mirror, Rassendyll couldn’t believe his eyes. He immediately raised his hand to the mask, to feel whether it had tactually changed as well.

  It hadn’t, but to all outward appearances the flat, stark, blank face of the mask’s surface had been transformed into an ornately engraved faceplate on an even more elaborately emblazoned helmet.

  Honor approached the still bewildered former mage, ran his fingers over the mask’s surface, and turned toward the direction of Mason McKern.

  “You’re slipping,” the blind swordmaster commented, “it feels the same.”

  “True,” the senior Cloak replied, “but to the naked eye, it is now a work of art. The glamour surrounds the surface of the metal, without ever making contact with it.”

  “Then it will do,” Honor acknowledged, and called to Poins. “Are his tabard and leggings ready?”

  “Indeed, milord,” Poins replied, and began assisting Rassendyll in the donning of the uniform of a Knight of the Order of the Hard Day.

  Moments later, Rassendyll was completely masked in his knightly disguise.

  “Only one last touch remains,” Honor said aloud, turning slowly to accept a locked case from the arms of Mason.

  Honor held the case out flat, and placed it into the outstretched arms of Hal who acted as a podium stand for the heavy box, his hands and arms stiff and unwavering under its oaken weight.

  Carefully and gently, Honor opened the case and withdrew a samite-draped object which, with the gentle assistance of Mason, he began to unwrap.

  “This was your father’s sword,” the blind swordmaster explained. “No one else has used it since the day he died. It has been waiting for you. Hold it, use it, and it will remember.”

  Rassendyll gripped the sword, gently swinging it through the air in a wide arc as the memories, abilities and skills of its former owner coursed through his body.

  Rassendyll was still absorbed in his gentle practice when Mason turned to Honor and whispered, “We should be getting changed for the reception. Let’s leave them alone to get acquainted.”

  Guards, Guards, & Custodians

  In the Dungeon of

  Southroad Keep:

  “So these are the two aliens that we have been looking for,” stated Rickman as he looked into the dark and dank cell that housed Volo and Passepout.

  “Yes, Captain,” the guard replied. “The fat one has been here before.”

  “Then he must be the vagrant Passepout,” Rickman said. “Are they alone in there?”

  “I believe so, captain,” the guard answered.

  “You believe so?” Rickman replied, on the verge of rage. “What do you mean ‘you believe so?’ ”

  “Well you see, captain,” the guard explained, “the cell has been vacant for a few weeks, but the last prisoner we left in it was never found.”

  “Did he escape?”

  “No, captain, we believe an unusual fungus ate him. There is something growing in the back darkness and, as best we can determine, it is carnivorous. The last we heard from the previous inhabitant was a scream in the darkness. By the time we got some torches to investigate, all that was left in the cell were his boots … and that fungus.”

  “How amusing,” Rickman commented.

  “Captain,” the guard inquired as the captain of the Hawks turned to leave, “should I warn them to stay away from the dark parts of the cell?”

  “Don’t bother,” Rickman instructed, not even bothering to turn around. “It will just mean less work for the torturer tomorrow, that’s all.”

  “Did you hear that?” Passepout whispered frantically to his friend.

  “Indeed I did,” Volo replied, apparently unperturbed by the fungoid threat that lurked in the darkness.

  “I thought I noticed some mushrooms back there, and was just about to treat myself to some for dinner.”

  “Well, then,” the master traveler offered cheerily, “it’s a good thing you didn’t. A mushroom meal is what you wanted, not to be a meal for a mushroom.”

  Volo heard a nervous titter of laughter from the unamused thespian, who moved as close as possible to the door, as both prisoners sat and waited for their rescue.

  The Reception Hall

  in the Tower of the Wyvern:

  Fullstaff and Rassendyll had just reached the end of the receiving line to greet the High Blade and First Princess when a herald announced that the affair was coming to an abrupt end.

  Honor tapped the shoulder of one of the guards in attendance, and asked him what was going on.

  “Golly, I’m really not sure, sir,” the guard replied, recognizing the decorations on Honor’s tabard as belonging to a veteran of the Hawks. “Both the High Blade and the First Princess seemed rather preoccupied to begin with. You know, as if they would rather be doing something else.”

  “Imagine that,” Honor muttered, trying to mask his concern over the change in plans.

  “Then Captain Rickman arrived and told the High Blade that two wanted criminals had been captured, and that they were scheduled to be tortured tomorrow.”

  Honor heard Rassendyll draw in his breath.

  “And then the High Blade seized the opportunity to leave, and announced that he would take care of all of the arrangements himself.”

  “Did the High Blade, perchance, mention when he planned on doing this?” Honor asked.

  “I think he is on his way over there now,” the loquacious guard added. “Captain Rickman said that he was otherwise engaged, but the High Blade didn’t seem to be concerned, and left muttering something about if you want something done right, you might as well do it yourself.”

  “I see,” Honor replied, keeping a firm grip on Rassendyll’s arm to keep the disguised twin from panicking. “Thank you for all of your assistance. What is your name so that I can put in a good word for you with the High Blade.”

  “Well, golly,” the guard drawled. “That would be mighty nice of you.”

  “Not at all,” Honor replied quickly, getting ready to turn and leave.

  “The name is Nabors,” the guard answered, “but my friends call me by first name which is GoMar.”

  “Indeed,” Honor replied, shaking the young man’s hand, and then quickly turning to usher himself and Rassendyll out of the Reception Hall.

  “We will have to move fast,” the blind swordmaster instructed, as they hastened down the corridor. “We’re just lucky that I know a shortcut.”

  In the Staffs Quarters

  of Southroad Keep:

  Mason McKern knocked on the door to his brother’s apartment and was instantly alarmed as the door swung open, apparently unlatched.

  How odd, the senior Cloak thought. Normally my brother is a stickler for security.

  The appearance of the room was even more unsettling. Even to the least observant visitor, it was obvious that the room had not been occupied for at least a day. The pallet had not been slept on, the hearth was left untended, and a half-eaten meal that looked as if its diner had been disturbed in midbreakfast had crusted over. Next to the meal’s bowls and plates was a book of some kind which Mason assumed was his brother’s spellbook or personal journal. In reality it was both.

  Mason was about to open it when a voice from behind him called.

  “You there! What do you think you’re doing?”

  Mason turned around to confront the interloper who immediately recognized him.

  It was Dwight Wrenfield, Southroad Keep’s custodian.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, sir,” Dwight apologized. “I didn’t know it was you.�
�

  “My apologies,” Mason said calmly, “I should have stopped by your cell to let you know that I was here.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” Dwight replied, “I was just collecting spiders before dinner, and saw that the door was ajar, so I decided to check things out. I assume you are here to pick up your brother’s personal effects.”

  “Uh, yes,” Mason answered guardedly, picking up the volume that lay open on the table.

  “It was a shame about his accident and all,” the wide-eyed and slow-witted caretaker consoled.

  Mason’s heart sank. Something must have happened to his brother, but since time was of the essence he would have to wait to find out what happened.

  “Uh, yes,” Mason said softly, as he hurried to his prearranged meeting place. “I will have to return later to attend to the other matters at hand.”

  “No problem, sir,” Dwight replied. “You and your brother always treated me like gentlemen. I will …

  Mason McKern chose not to hear the last words of the custodian as they formed a cacophony with the pit-pat of his own steps on the stone floor.

  Fungus, Fugitives, & Fencing

  In the Dungeon of

  Southroad Keep:

  Volo heard the approach of guards, their boots making a distinctive military sound on the stone floor. He nudged Passepout into consciousness.

  “What?” the groggy thespian inquired.

  “Either our rescuers are coming in disguise,” Volo whispered, “or something has gone very wrong.”

  The master traveler and his longtime companion heard the bolt and locks being undone on the door. Quickly Volo took to his feet and, grabbing Passepout by the scruff of the collar, retreated into the darkness of the unlit part of the cell.

  “What about the fungus?” the thespian desperately implored, only to be shushed by the gazetteer.

  The door to the cell opened, and Volo recognized the backlit silhouette of the guard that he had heard talking earlier in the day.