The Mage in the Iron Mask

by Brian Thomsen

  Unbeknownst to him, he had missed the lovely Mischa by mere moments, and would never have the pleasure of seeing her again.

  In the High Blade’s Chambers

  in the Tower of the Wyvern:

  Honor took Mason aside and exchanged furtive whispers with him as the others looked on, assuming that he was trying to calm his old friend down.

  Rickman, who had almost returned to consciousness was encouraged to remain out cold by Passepout, who utilized a firm blow to the captain’s head with a ceramic bust that had been resting on a table near the mantlepiece. The portly thespian, unfortunately misjudged the trajectory of the bust’s blow, and nearly broke his own toe when its deflected path caused it to impact his foot.

  Volo and Rassendyll shared a stifled grin at their friend’s minor misfortune, and then quickly moved to his side to console him and applaud his fast efforts in dealing with the deceitful Rickman. By the time the three had finished ascertaining that Passepout’s foot was not even sprained, nor very badly bruised, McKern and Fullstaff had finished their exchange, and asked for all of their attentions.

  “Our paths herewith must diverge,” the blind swordmaster maintained. “With Selfaril dead, we must quickly move to put Rassendyll in his place as the new High Blade of Mulmaster. What better way to do so than by having him assume Selfaril’s identity?”

  “But …” Rassendyll began to protest, but quickly hushed when Honor’s upraised hand signaled him to wait a minute.

  “Mulmaster without a High Blade in place would be easy prey for all takers in the Moonsea region, let alone the imperialist hungers of Azoun in Cormyr, and the residential threat of the Thayans, who already have exerted undue influence in our fair court.”

  Rassendyll nodded in agreement, realizing that the older swordmaster was indeed correct in his assessment of the situation.

  “Therefore, we must slip you into his identity as quickly as possible,” Mason added. “Honor and I will be right at your side all the time.”

  “What about us?” Passepout interjected with a gesture indicating that he was referring to himself and Volo.

  “Indeed,” Mason acknowledged with a nod.

  “Indeed,” Honor seconded, and began to relate the second part of his plan. “In order for our plan to work, Mason and myself will have to be at Rassendyll’s side at all times, in case anyone should question him on some matter of state or of Selfaril’s own business or history that our dear former mage may not be acquainted with. Unfortunately this leaves us with a task that we will be unable to perform. We beg that you please take care of it for us.”

  “What is it?” Volo inquired, not sure that he could really trust that Honor had not already triaged his and Passepout’s survival as being detrimental to the future greater glory of Mulmaster, as he so eloquently seemed to term it.

  “The body of Selfaril,” Honor instructed, “must be disposed of so that no one ever discovers that the now former High Blade is dead.”

  Passepout began to turn green at the thought of having to carry the body of the man who just earlier that evening had tried to kill him and his friends.

  “What do you propose?” Volo pressed, certain that Honor had already formulated a very specific plan.

  Volo was not disappointed.

  In the Tharchioness’s Boudoir in the Tower of the Wyvern:

  “As you requested, First Princess,” said a minister by the name of Greenstrit, having received the disk from Elijakuk. He handed the remaining part of the enchanted amulet to the Tharchioness.

  “Where is Mischa Tam?” she inquired, as she placed the disk into its proper setting. Separately the parts held little magic beyond the typical glamour spell that was an inherent part of all of the jewelry of Thayan noblewomen. “I thought for sure that she would want to be present for the total conjugation of all our efforts.”

  “Elijakuk said that she awaits your bidding in her chambers,” said the obsequious minister. “After all, we can’t be present for the full implementation of the spell.”

  The Tharchioness cast a stare at him that could only be described as a death look. The minister embraced silence, and quietly prayed that his life would be spared.

  The amulet took on a subtle aura indicating that its empowerment was complete and the Tharchioness smiled, momentarily forgetting the minister’s transgression.

  “The plan really was quite inspired,” the Tharchioness admitted. “The fusing of several spell parts together—a glamour aura, a fertility orb, and a will binder, each developed in isolation so as to not attract the undue attentions of the infernal Cloaks … but not even they can secure Selfaril’s own bedchamber from my magics. Since the will binder, anchored to my dear husband by the flakes of his own skin that were obtained during the height of passion at no undue expense of my own, never left our apartment, in its weakened, solitary form, there was no reason for anyone to be suspicious. I assure you no one will have the opportunity to detect it before I have put it to good use, which should be in a matter of minutes if I know my infernal husband.”

  “Then I will leave, First Princess,” Greenstrit said, turning to exit before another thought had entered her mind. With an obsequious bow, he hastened from the room.

  “Indeed,” the Tharchioness replied absently, then added with a smile, “we can deal with your transgression later.”

  The minister was no longer within earshot of the issuing of his death warrant.

  Selfaril’s Study

  in the Tower of the Wyvern:

  Honor spoke with confidence, assurance, and authority. It was obvious to all present that he had no intention of considering anything less than the complete acceptance of his plan.

  “As Mason and myself must remain with Rassendyll to assure the success of his masquerade, I am afraid that the task of disposing of the body in question must fall to you two non-sons of Mulmaster.”

  “What about them?” Volo asked seriously, nudging the bodies of the wormlike ambassador and weasel-like captain of the Hawks who were both still enjoying the oblivious state of unconsciousness.

  “They must remain here,” Honor said emphatically. “Mason will temporarily befuddle their brains with a feeblemind spell. They can then both be turned over to the proper authorities and charged with attacking the High Blade. No one will question the veracity of that story, and no one needs to know that they succeeded, since an attempt at the act itself commands the same sentence as its successful completion.”

  Not even Passepout had to question what that sentence would be.

  “Okay,” said Passepout agreeably, “we need to get rid of the body. I’m sure that Volo can manage that with no problem on his own. He is very resourceful after all. He and I can meet up later at some tavern or other. Yes, indeed, that sounds like a good plan, so I guess I can be off and running. This entire ordeal has increased my already ample appetite.”

  Volo chuckled. He knew that Honor had other, more definitive plans in mind.

  “Surely you will not leave your friend on his own to complete this task?” Honor said sternly.

  “He doesn’t mind,” Passepout answered quickly, turning quickly to Volo. “Do you?”

  “Well …” the master traveler began to answer.

  “See,” said the corpulent thespian. “Now if you will excuse me—”

  “Enough!” ordered the blind swordmaster. “Precautions must be taken. Both of you are to ferret the body back through the tunnels from whence we came, to the room in which we removed the iron mask from Rassendyll’s head. You are then to carefully place the halves together around the head of our now deceased High Blade. It will weld itself back together, and this well-known face will be permanently obscured until normal decomposition takes its toll.”

  Passepout began to interrupt. “But …”

  Honor proceeded as if he hadn’t heard the objection.

  “You will then carry the body out the other door of that chamber. Not the door that you entered, mind you, the other door. Follo
w the tunnel ’til you reach what appears to be a sewer hole. Drop the body down there. The current will bear it out to the bottom of the Moonsea in no time, far from prying eyes and dangerous minds.”

  Rassendyll shuddered at the memory of his own journey through Mulmaster’s sewer system.

  “From that point on, you two can find your way to the surface and do as you wish,” Honor concluded. “Your services will no longer be required by that point.”

  Volo fingered his beard for a moment to contemplate the alternatives. There weren’t any. He had no desire to incur the immediate wrath of Mason and Fullstaff who seemed to have taken charge of the matters at hand by protesting the proposed plan of action. In order to prevent total anarchy, or worse yet, the further spread of Thayan tyranny, Rassendyll had to ascend to the throne. Honor’s plan was sound, and no other choice was available for himself or Passepout.

  “The plan sounds fine,” Volo finally concurred, “but how will we find our way? You were our guide on the trip to get here and, though I’m not a bad trailblazer if I do say so myself, I’m afraid that along the way I failed to notice any telltale signposts in the darkness, if you know what I mean.”

  “We’ve already thought of that,” Mason replied, reaching into his tunnel-soiled robe and extracting an orb of luminescence. “This will light your way. As long as it glows gold, you will be on the right track. If it begins to fade, double back until the glow is restored to its previous luminescence, and then choose a different route. I am sure that you will be able to follow its guidance.”

  Passepout snatched the orb from Mason’s hand and volunteered, “I’ll carry the orb, you carry the body.”

  Volo chuckled. He had forgotten how fast the pudgy fellow could move when encouraged by hunger, fear or self-preservation. He concurred, and began to ready the body for transport.

  “Mind if I wrap the corpse in the curtains?” the master traveler asked. “It will make it easier to carry and a lot less messy. Bloodstains are so hard to get out of cloaks these days.”

  “As you will,” Honor replied, his tone dead serious.

  The master traveler began to wrap the corpse, then paused a moment, and turned back to the blind man who had taken charge.

  “Just one question, Honor,” Volo added. “How did you get up here so fast? You didn’t take the ladder we did. I looked back while climbing and you weren’t there.”

  “My good friend Merch had installed a pulley-operated lift on the other side of the chamber that let me off on the other side of the wall of that closet. Unfortunately it can only carry one at a time, and time was of the essence, so rather than fighting over its use, I sent the rest of you up the ladder and employed it myself.”

  “Does that mean we can use it instead of the ladder?” Passepout asked hopefully, remembering his own feelings of vertigo during the ascent.

  “I’m afraid not,” Honor replied with out a trace of regret in his voice. “The pulley automatically resets itself, and dispatches the lift back to the bottom of the shaft.”

  “Wonderful,” the chubby thespian said dolefully. “You’d better be off,” Honor instructed, adding, “good luck.”

  “And to you as well,” Volo returned, tarrying a moment to specifically single out Rassendyll with, “and especially to you.”

  “Thanks,” the former mage-in-training acknowledged, “and thanks for your help.”

  “Don’t mention it,” the master traveler replied, hoisting the curtain-wrapped body of the dead High Blade over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. As he left he couldn’t resist adding, “and give my best to the Tharchioness.”

  A look of panic crossed Rassendyll’s face at the thought of what he was about to do, but neither Volo or Passepout saw it, as they had already begun their descent back down the ladder to the bowels of Mulmaster.

  Changing Blades

  In the Study of the High Blade

  in the Tower of the Wyvern:

  “Now get a hold of yourself,” Honor told Rassendyll. “Mulmaster needs you.”

  “But I am not High Blade material,” the former mage-in-training insisted. “A week ago I was just another scholastic at the Retreat, learning the wizardly craft.”

  Mason approached the surviving twin from the other side, and put his arm around him. “Those days are gone. You have taken up your father’s sword, and must live up to his legacy, rather than stain it like your brother.”

  “But all of my studies,” Rassendyll insisted. “I was to be a mage just like you.”

  “Is that what you chose?” Honor inquired. “As I recall, that was a fate that was thrust upon you. Now, as fate would have it, a different future awaits you.”

  “You have already proven yourself as heir to the sword mastery of your father, with a little help from the weapon’s own memory of course. Soon that training will become as much a second nature to you as the wizardly arts once were,” Mason assured. “It was due to the treachery of others that your own father was killed, let alone your brethren at the Retreat, and my own brother. Their deaths must be avenged, against all who dare to defile our beloved Mulmaster.”

  Rassendyll looked at the two old men in whom he now had to place his trust. Both had been friends of his father, and both put Mulmaster and its glory above all else. He had to admit that neither quality was anything less than admirable, and that their sole objective was just.

  Mulmaster needed a High Blade, and he was the only one who would be capable of pulling off the masquerade.

  “I know what you are thinking,” Mason said, “and you are right except in one respect. This will no longer be a masquerade. You are the High Blade, the son of Merch Voumdolphin, and Lord Protector of Mulmaster. The masquerade took place while your brother held the throne. Your father would have wanted you to succeed him; why else were you sent to be schooled in secrecy if not to one day return and succeed him?”

  “What about the Tharchioness?” Rassendyll asked, absently cooperating with Mason as he began to undress the surviving twin. One of the High Blade’s robes and a basin of water had been readied while they were talking.

  “She is to all outward appearances your wife,” Honor admitted, “but such matters of diplomacy as your marriage must be dealt with gently.”

  “I hate her, and all that her Red Wizards stand for!”

  Honor and Mason looked at each other and smiled. “That is good,” Honor admitted, “and it will be my job, with Mason’s help, of course, to make sure that you continue to think so clearly, for the good and solidarity of Mulmaster, let alone the entire Moonsea.”

  Rassendyll nodded in agreement, but repeated his question. “But what about the Tharchioness?”

  “I am sure you will be able to deal with her,” Honor assured. “After all you are the High Blade, aren’t you?”

  “Indeed, it appears so.”

  Honor smiled. “Let us call your valet,” Honor instructed. “You should be well cleaned up by the time he arrives. The two assailants can be turned over to him, and you can launch your new life.”

  Mason put his hand up to the surviving twin’s head, and muttered a few words. Instantaneously, Rassendyll felt the onrush of a cacophony of unrelated messages.

  “There,” Mason said, “just a little background to help you along. I’m sure you can pick up the rest in medias res.”

  Rassendyll reached across the desk, and felt for a stud that was hidden between the drawers. He pressed it to summon his valet.

  “And so it begins,” the High Blade said, already beginning to feel the weight and responsibilities of office that had not been shouldered for a very long time.

  Then a new thought crossed his mind. “What about Volo and Passepout?” he asked evenly.

  “They will not be a threat, I assure you,” Honor replied.

  “I don’t want them harmed,” Rassendyll ordered, “unless it can’t possibly be avoided, and then only if the security of Mulmaster is in jeopardy.”

  “Agreed,” the two elder men said i
n unison, neither wishing to clarify their answer.

  Beneath the city of Mulmaster:

  The normally indefatigable Volo began to tire of carrying Selfaril’s corpse and opted to drag it after several wrong choices in the darkness had caused them to backtrack several times.

  “Maybe I should be the navigator,” Volo offered to Passepout. “I am the master traveler after all.”

  Passepout considered the offer for a moment. The slight bit of appetite that he felt back in the High Blade’s study had metamorphosed into a ravenous hunger, and he had no desire to delay its satiation any longer than he had to, nor did he want to carry the body either.

  “Why don’t we just leave it here?” the pudgy thespian suggested. “No one will find it. We don’t even know where we are.”

  “That’s the exact reason why we can’t leave it here,” Volo answered. “That light in your hand is programmed to lead us on a certain path. Do you want to risk running afoul of a powerful mage’s magics?”

  Passepout didn’t have to answer and returned his focus to choosing yet another underground corridor, hoping desperately that the orb would not begin to dim once again.

  The two travelers and their deceased burden finally found their way back to the room in which Mason had removed the iron mask from Rassendyll’s head. The two halves of the magically insulating/leeching metal were still right where they left them.

  “Well, we certainly took a roundabout way to get here this time,” Volo concluded. “That which took us bare minutes before, seems to have taken hours now.”