by Gary Gygax
"See for yourself, my Lord Prince," Myffed told him.
Prince Llewyn stared into the mirror which stood beside his chair. A hairless face, head bald, eyes green as spring leaves, confronted him there. He stood up in shock, and the perspective was wrong. He was looking down on the room from a place almost a foot higher than it should have been.
"Magister Setne Inhetep now stands ready to speak with King Glydel," the Behon said smoothly. "Here are your Egyptian garments."
= 15 —=
THE MASK OF DEATH
The two men went by hidden route to an out-of-the-way anteroom. Llewyn felt strange, dispossessed. He was sure it was due in part to the magickal alteration of his size and appearance, but he couldn't keep from wondering what part his own fear and anxiety played. He shook his head to clear it. "Are you feeling all right?" the Behon said with near-hysteria in his voice. "Of course I am!" the prince snarled in a strangely alien voice. "Get this charade moving," he muttered to the worried ovate.
The Behon went to an inner door and opened it wide. "This way, Magister Inhetep. His Majesty King Glydel will see you in his council chamber now," and with those words Myffed turned to a pair of guardsmen. "Escort Magister Inhetep to the king. Bring him back here when he is finished, then find me, for I am to personally take this man out of the citadel when his audience is completed." The senior of the two soldiers saluted, and both men fell into place awaiting their charge.
Llewyn stepped out into the broad corridor. He looked at the guards, but neither man seemed interested in him. To their eyes, Llewyn was nothing more than the bald foreigner. "Which way?" he asked one of the guards. His voice was that of the Egyptian, with a trace of accent, too.
"You just foller' us, Worthy Magister," the man said, and he and his comrade marched off, just to either hand and a little ahead of Crown Prince Llewyn in his masquerade as Inhetep. They went for some distance, for the room was removed from the central part of the palace building. But the tall doors of polished walnut, thick valves carved with the armorial bearings of the king of Lyonnesse, came into view almost too soon. "In 'ere's where you'll be agoin', Sir Magistrate. Them fellas'll announce you, an' there'll be 'is Royal Majesty." He was a trifle condescending, treating the supposed foreigner as he would a stupid child of noble rank.
Llewyn swallowed hard. He was now quite nervous indeed, but that was fine, too. Inhetep might be that way, and as far as his father was concerned, the Egyptian would be jittery. "Then announce me, lout!" The guards would be left with the worst possible impression of the wizard-priest. "Are all the soldiers of Lyonnesse garrulous old women? Or you an exception?" And he laughed softly as the man flushed and his face hardened. With absolute precision, the two guardsmen came to attention before the sentries on duty, stated their mission and charge, and stood rigid. One of the other pair cracked the door, and a subaltern's head appeared immediately. Hushed words were exchanged, and then the guards before the doors of the council room swung open the portal. The interior guard officer announced Llewyn thus:
"Magister Setne Inhetep of Egypt comes before His Stellar Majesty of Lyonnesse, Glydel, craving audience!"
Llewyn bowed as he had seen Inhetep do, standing just inside the chamber by the double doors, as the guard officer peered intently toward the throne-like chair occupied by the king. Llewyn-in-Magister Inhetep form stood thus for what seemed hours, but it was merely a matter of minutes. King Glydel had been discussing something with emissaries from other governments.
The prince couldn't be certain, for he had never seen the three men closeted with his father, but they were certainly from Avillonia, and one was unquestionably a Hybernian. The others might be Cymric of Caledonian origin—not Al-bish. Odd, Llewyn thought, but not of any consequence now. The king was speaking too softly for him to overhear from this distance, but it was evident that his father was dismissing the three, for the men arose, bowed, and after backing the mandatory three steps away from the monarch, turned and strode toward Llewyn-Inhetep.
They passed without so much as a sidelong glance at him. Excellent. The dweomer was perfect in its transformative effect, and Llewyn was now fully confident that he could face his father without fear of recognition. "Please approach His Majesty now," the officer whispered. The prince went forward in his best imitation of the Egyptian's long-legged stride. The sounds from behind indicated that the subaltern was again taking his attentive station just before the doors, too distant to overhear the words spoken at the table, near enough to spring into action. Not quite, Llewyn thought to himself with a broad inner smile of triumph. I can strike and be done easily before either fool can move! There was an arras to the right of the king's throne. Behind it were two doors. One led to the library, the other gave onto a hallway leading to the private apartments of the royal family. The prince knew this well, but the red-skinned assassin, a stranger from the land ruled by Pharaoh, could not, so it would be an even chance he would take the first door, the one leading to the library. Then he would be trapped in a cul-de-sac by that choice, and slain thereafter due to the error. Who would think of the secret passage? Certainly not the Egyptian, for the vile killer had turned at bay and died—would die soon now. First he must do his work. . . .
A voice like his conscience spoke in Llewyn's mind. "Do you really wish to slay your father?" The prince stilled the thought. Yes! he shouted back to himself as he neared the seated figure. "Can you slay your own sire? He has been generous, understanding, good to you. . . ." Llewyn-Inhetep paused and bowed to King Glydel, and as he did so his thoughts raced. I am ready to kill him, I am able. He felt the cold hardness of the hidden knife at his side, a sharp-edged blade laden with the most potent of venoms. And I will not falter in this, for he is not fit to rule, he has loved me not, and I hate him!
"Please be seated, Magister Inhetep," his father said in even tones. The king was turned slightly away from his visitor, so that Llewyn clearly saw his profile. Straight nose, heavy eyebrows bushed out to match the long moustache and jutting beard. The king was just completing his reading of some document or another, for even as he spoke Glydel folded the parchment rectangle in half and thrust it into his robe, placing it just over his heart.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," the false Setne Inhetep responded. Llewyn thought that the document would soon be cut through and washed clean by the blood of his father. A victim? To all others, yes. To the prince, only a stupid brute about to be slaughtered as an unwanted dog.
"I have heard of your presence here in my Kingdom, and there are rumors of some dark business involving my son, Atheling Prince Llewyn. You will tell me all that you know," his father said, turning to stare directly into his eyes.
Llewyn fought for control of himself. He felt sweat beading on his forehead, and his limbs were shaken by tremblings. How fortunate he was here now, ready to strike, for the king was onto the game! "I had come to speak of other matters," Llewyn-Inhetep said slowly, fighting still to regain composure. "I . . ."
"You will obey the command of a king, sir," his father said sternly. "This is a command."
"Of course, Royal Majesty," the false Inhetep said, inclining his head so as to shield his eyes from King Glydel's all-too-penetrating stare. Impersonation or not, the eyes could give the game away. The prince thought fast, mind racing. He would begin to relate the whole business, voice low, and as the dark truths came out his father would draw closer in order to clearly hear all of this terrible conspiracy, and so as to be sure none other did likewise, the king would order his foreign informant to speak even more softly. "How much detail do you desire? For there is much, and the whole awful business will be lengthy in recounting fully, your Stellar Majesty."
"I am prepared to spend as long as needed, Sir Egyptian, if what you say is accurate and meaningful," the king said as he straightened his spine.
That was no good at all. Llewyn thought quickly—and acted cleverly. "King Glydel, there is treason in your realm," he said boldly, voice ringing. "The Crown Prince is implicate
d!"
"What? What is that you say?!" His father straightened even more, eyes blazing. Then he seemed to realize that the guards could hear the exchange, for he slumped a little, leaning toward the false Inhetep. "You had better have incontrovertible evidence of such charges," he snarled softly.
Llewyn knew that treason and royal misbehavior shamed the whole kingdom, but especially its ruler. "I would not speak were it otherwise," he assured the hard-faced monarch. This would be enjoyable work, for his father would suffer with the knowledge of the whole business before Llewyn put him out of his misery with one fell stroke of the poisoned blade he had ready. "Your eldest son heads up a network of nobles, court officials, soldiers, and others less important. He has stolen from your treasury, subverted your men, and plots your death."
King Glydel paled. Then he fell back in his chair, staring with disbelief at the man he thought an Egyptian ur-kheri-heb, a wizard-priest of the ibis-headed god, Thoth. "Impossible ..." he muttered, shaking his graying head of dark gold hair. "Yet . . ." he murmured on, "yet Llewyn has always been . . . weak, weak and selfish, and full of hubris, too! You might speak true."
"Weak?" Llewyn felt rage surging through his veins once again. The old bastard dared to call him weak! Now his true feelings were surfacing, and the prince was filled with relish as he thought of the deed he was soon to perform. How joyful and fulfilling to plunge the steel into the hated breast! "He is not weak but strong!" Llewyn contradicted the king's words, not caring of consequences. A dead man's ire was nothing at all. "To devise and execute a successful murder demands strength far above the normal— heroic strength and resolve."
"Successful? I am still alive and ruling this kingdom," Glydel spat back.
"But for me here now speaking," Llewyn said with absolute veracity, "you would be dead. The royal prince is prepared to do the fell deed from selflessness, too, for he is determined to rule Lyonnesse and bring her to greater glory than ever known! Is that selfish? Nay! The sacrifice of personal pursuits, devotion of all energy to the glory of the kingdom bespeaks the greatest of spirits."
"Does it now, Egyptian? . . ."
"Yes. And who could say that pride in the accomplishment of such a scheme, the years of dreaming, the months of planning in fear of discovery and execution, and the final fulfillment of the whole betokens overweaning pride? Crown Prince Llewyn is filled with the grand and glorious sense of accomplishment, not hubris. It is the pride of nation, kingship, and what will be wrought by an imperial Lyonnesse."
"Then my son is a fool," King Glydel sneered. "He builds mist castles and dwells in the realm of the demented, for no such things as you speak of have or will come to pass."
"Were Crown Prince Llewyn here now before you, king, he would be prepared to say you were a fool and addlepated."
"But he is not!"
"Come near to me, so that I may tell you where the prince is even now," Llewyn whispered softly.
"Eh, what's that you say?" King Glydel asked, bending towards the impersonator.
Llewyn-Inhetep grasped the hilt of the envenomed knife inside his garment as he and his father leaned toward one another. "Your own son, your firstborn but least-loved, the one you have so often belittled, despised, and denigrated, Crown Prince Llewyn himself, is most near to you now," he hissed, staring into the king's blue-gray eyes. The blade came free, and he seized his father by the folds of his robe.
"Wha—" was all the man was able to get out before Llewyn drove the bright steel into his chest. The force of that blow sent the poison in the hilt jetting through the narrow tube in the weapon's spine and into the body of the Lyon-nessian monarch. There were strangled sounds from the king's throat as the venom coursed through his body, and Llewyn relished those noises. Then King Glydel's head wobbled and fell forward. The prince released his hold on the royal robe, and his father's head thumped loudly on the table. King Glydel was dead. Long live the king, King Llewyn!
This final interplay had taken only seconds. Llewyn hoped that his father had realized who had slain him thus before he died. "May your spirit wail in the deepest nether-realms!" he shouted, springing up and upsetting the chair in which he had been seated.
"GUARDS! MURDER! TO ... THE ... KII-ING!" The shouting of the subaltern of guards there in the chamber with Llewyn-Inhetep came as if from a slow, basso voice, so stunned were the prince's senses. The whole room seemed to whirl as he turned his head sharply to see the man calling for the armed soldiers just outside. "Plenty of time," flashed across his mind, but to be safe, Llewyn began edging towards the arras as he watched. The guardsman tugged upon the door nearest to him, so panicked that he forgot that it opened outwards. Just the thing to make the young fool seem as if he were assisting the assassin, for he was suddenly jerked off his feet and asprawl. Four of the men outside, two guards on each door, had yanked the heavy wood panel open. Sir Murdough was there as he should be. Llewyn began moving more rapidly now, even though his soon-to-be-slayers seemed to be responding in ultra-slow motion; the prince knew that it was only a few seconds' time since he had murdered his own father in cold blood. In truth, the guards were seeming to speed up as the rush of adrenaline began to trickle away from Llewyn's body. The captain actually trod upon the prone subaltern in his feigned eagerness to come to the king's aid. Seeing that, Llewyn turned away from the scene and made for the arras with all speed.
Cries and shouts full of alarm and hatred filled the chamber behind him as the prince disappeared behind the arras. He heard the thunking sound of quarrels impacting on the thick cloth. Murdough had been wise in having the arbalesters ready and then blocking their arm for the time needed by Prince Llewyn to get safely behind the hanging. He jerked open the door to the private library, slammed it, and shot home the heavy brass bolt. It would keep the guardsmen out just long enough. Dodging the long reading table in his path, Llewyn made for one long section of inset bookshelves. For the past month he had studied the room so frequently that he could have run through it in the pitch dark, though soft, golden witchlight now illuminated it perfectly. The shelves masked the secret passage to the private subterranean cavern belonging solely to the king. Of course, most of the royal family and its trusted counselors knew about it. No matter.
"Open, damn you!" Llewyn hissed, as he triggered the catch with one hand and shoved with the other. The heavy unit swung inwards soundlessly. He nearly leaped back at that moment, for there stood Inhetep! It was as if he were looking in a mirror, save that the Egyptian's face was blank, eyes staring vacantly into space. "Well met, Magister," the prince said with mock sincerity and warmth. "I jape," he added, "though my heart is truly glad at the sight of you, ungainly and copper-skinned as you—we are! You see, my dear fellow," Llewyn continued as he entered the little passageway at the top of the stone stairs leading down, "you are now to play the part of a prince—or is it playing the part of a prince playing the part of a wizard-priest? Now .. ."
There were heavy blows raining upon the locked door. Swords and glaives would soon have it a splintered ruin, and the guards would come pouring through seeking vengeance upon the one who had murdered their sovereign. "Now, Setne Inhetep, go out and play your role in this masque." The witticism made Llewyn laugh. It would be a brief dance, while he escaped to regain his own form. He had been masked by magick to perfectly resemble the bald foreigner, and soon no one would ever be able to unmask the ruse. Inhetep was a mere automaton, standing still until led, moving woodenly when so guided. Llewyn hastened the Egyptian along so that he faced the assailed door. The tip of a sword showed that it was about to be sundered. "Out you go," he grunted, shoving the obedient form just far enough into the library so that Llewyn could close the secret panel behind the drugged man. It closed with a reassuring click. The prince stood in darkness.
It was easy for Llewyn to get to the stairway nonetheless. Three long strides, then a cautious probing with his left foot. "Ah," he breathed aloud. Once he felt the hard stone edge of the flight, he went swiftly down the steps. Te
n stairs, turn left, eight more, turn left again, and the last ten stone steps to the hidden rooms below the palace. He groped along the right-hand wall and found the little leather bag he had placed there. Inside was a crystal bearing a spell of witchlight: a soft, pink radiance further reduced by the cylinder containing the stone, so that only a small ray of the reddish illumination went forth. The light enabled Prince Llewyn to pass through the several rooms and halls he needed to traverse so as to get to another secret stairway, the one leading to his own suite.
"Behon!" he cried as soon as he had dashed up the long flight and passed through the door concealed in the side wall of a storage closet.
"I am here my king," the mage responded. "Hurry, for I must remove the dweomers which give you the Egyptian's form. They are crying alarm nearby even now!"
"Stop yammering and do it!"
Myffed began muttering hastily, making passes with his hands as he spoke, and then tapped the prince three times with his forefinger, once on the head, once again on the head, and then on the chest. "The dweomer is broken," he said.
"I feel no different," Llewyn said, but then he was struck by a wave of dizzying energy, and blackness closed his vision. It passed swiftly, perhaps four or five heartbeats, and Llewyn felt perfectly normal. "Is it now done?"
"You are your true self," the Behon said with conviction.
Just then there was a heavy hammering on the door to the outer hall. Duml Dum! DUMM! Weapon metal being beaten on wood regardless of dents ruining the precious panels of exotic timbers. "Prince Llewyn! Are you there?! Come quickly—your father, the king! He has been attacked!"
"Open yon portal, dear Myffed, and let in those noisy guards so they can observe Atheling and Ovate in this far corner of the palace, see our shock at the news they bear, our worry and our grief. Hurry, man!" The regicide actually laughed with joy as he spoke, and he had to work very hard to compose himself as the justiciar jumped to the door and opened it.
