The Mage In The Iron Mask

8

The conspiracy of the moment over, both threat and advantage now neutralized, Selfaril felt a palatable taste of normalcy as things returned to the status quo.

He still hated his wife, and she him.

Eltabbar and Thay were still distant opportunities and menaces for the glory of Mulmaster and the High Blade himself.

He had grown used to the game of cat and mouse that he and his bride played. It excited him more than he liked to admit, and he was sure that she felt the same way. Why else did he always feel an adrenal rush whenever she was around? What else could account for the mixed feelings of excitement and revulsion he experienced whenever she entered the room?

For him, love was an abstract concept, not at all alien, just different from that normally felt by others. It required respect; yet did not the best of enemies command respect? It caused a physical attraction, yet did not the flame attract the moth to its death?

Love and death: they were intricately tied in his mind.

Looking back he remembered wanting to be like his father, the great leader who taught him by example and was revered by all his subjects; Selfaril had accomplished this goal by killing his father and taking his place.

Family was the greatest threat of all, yet he felt a certain emptiness within, almost as if something was missing. Perhaps it was the fate of his brother; could this be what had left him feeling incomplete? Though he had been assured that his twin must have drowned during his futile escape attempt, how could he be sure?

There was an emptiness inside Selfaril, an incompleteness. Less than a month ago he had not even known that his twin existed, and now the stranger was forever on his mind, and all because the sheer incompetence of his men had cost him the ecstatic pleasure of seeing his brother die.

Selfaril shook his head in remorse over the experience he had been denied. Oh well, he thought, I still have my wife…

On the Back Roads Outside of Mulmaster:

As the clouds began to move in on them, and the sun inched closer to the horizon, Rassendyll and Passepout pressed onward.

The iron-masked escapee realized that he and his overweight traveling companion would have to avoid any of the numerous Mulmaster outposts, or he would soon find himself back in the dungeons of Southroad Keep. The combination of the sand, salt, and seaweed that had taken to roost in the collarlike ring of the mask's neck piece was rubbing raw his skin adjacent to it, causing an extremely uncomfortable mixed sensation of burning and itching. As he reached the rise of the next hill, having first scanned the area to assure it was deserted, he paused once again to rub at the chafed area.

"Is your neck bothering you?" the out-of-breath thespian asked, as he too reached the rise, adding tentatively, "Why don't you just take the helmet off? I'm sure you can't be that ugly. If you don't want to be recognized, well, don't worry about me. A famous actor such as myself knows all about traveling incognito to avoid overzealous fans. I'll keep your secret, whatever it is."

Rassendyll looked at the amusing fellow, and said, "You're a famous actor?"

"That's right," Passepout replied, with an out-of-place flourish and semi-bow. "Passepout, only son of the legendary thespians Idle and Catinflas, at your service."

"Never heard of you," Rassendyll replied, still distracted as he rubbed the raw spot in search of relief.

"You know," the thespian ventured, "if we were back in Cormyr, I'd know the perfect thing to rid you of that dry, flaking, skin problem you have. It's heartbreaking watching you suffer. A friend of mine by the name of Seau Raisis had that problem."

"What did he use?"

"Well," Passepout answered, scratching his head as if to stimulate a memory, "as I recall there was a cleric, named Oleigh if I remember correctly, who would treat Seau's problem by rubbing it with oil that he made specially for such ailments."

"Did it work?"

"I think so," Passepout replied, "but I can't really be sure. After the oil of Oleigh was applied he never complained about the problem again, but…"

"So it must have worked."

"Not necessarily; that is, I mean to say the problem was taken care of, but it might not have been cured by the oil."

"What then? I mean, if the problem with his neck abrasion went away and he never complained about it again, why do you doubt the effectiveness of the cleric's treatment?"

"He was beheaded."

"The cleric?"

"No," Passepout explained. "Seau. At least his neck rash problem was taken care of."

Rassendyll looked at the pudgy thespian and laughed once again.

Passepout smiled back, almost at ease in the company of the masked stranger.

"Well I for one would rather avoid such treatments and cure-alls as the one that worked on your friend Seau."

"Indeed," the pudgy thespian agreed. "By the way, what is your name, or at least what should I call you?"

Rassendyll thought for a moment, glad that the mask obscured the thespian from seeing the wary change of expression on his face. He himself was no actor, and he was sure that his face would have conveyed the indecisiveness he felt about whether he could trust this funny fellow or not.

"You can call me Rupert," Rassendyll answered, "Rupert of Zenda."

"Well met, Rupert of Zenda," Passepout returned. "Can't say I recognize the name."

"Hope not," the masked escapee replied inadvertently.

"What was that?" Passepout inquired. "That coal bucket you're wearing gives you a bad case of the mumbles, if you know what I mean. By the way, why don't you take it off?"

"I wish I could," Rassendyll retorted, "but I'm afraid that it's stuck."

"Too bad," the thespian replied.

Rassendyll scanned the area once again. He didn't like the looks of the storm clouds that seemed to be rapidly bearing down on them. We should be on our way and looking for shelter, he thought.

Passepout in the meantime had concentrated his visual faculties on the ground around where they sat. Seeing exactly what he was looking for, he struggled to his feet and walked back over the ridge, picking up a sturdy branch. Rassendyll noticed his efforts once he returned. Good thinking, the masked escapee thought, he found a walking stick.

Rassendyll was about to stand up when he felt Passepout trying to wedge one of the ends of the branch under the metal collar.

"Hey! Cut that out!" Rassendyll exclaimed, not wishing to add the discomfort of splinters to his long list of woes.

"Just hold still," Passepout assured, continuing to try and wedge the branch between the masked man's collar and his clavicle. "Once I have it wedged in place, I'm going to put my weight on the other end of the stick, using your shoulder as a fulcrum. It should force it off in no time."

"Which? The mask or my head?"

"The mask, of course. Now just sit still."

Rassendyll quickly wiggled out from under the awkward hands of the pudgy thespian, and got to his feet.

Passepout appeared bewildered at his sudden retreat. "What's the matter?" the thespian implored. "I just wanted to help."

Rassendyll shook his head, and said, "Thanks anyway, but it wouldn't have worked."

"How can you be sure?" Passepout asked.

"It's been magically bound to my skull. I fear it won't come off without separating my head from my shoulders as well."

"I'm sorry," Passepout apologized. "I didn't know."

"No reason you should have."

"I bet you got on the wrong side of a powerful wizard of some sort."

In return Rassendyll murmured something indecipherable, as he began to remove splinters from his shoulders.

"Me too," Passepout replied as if he understood what the masked man had said. "I've run afoul of a few myself. Now, of course, the likes of Elminster and Khelben are indebted to me, but even so, you can't trust a wizard."

"Oh, no?" Rassendyll responded, cocking his head at an awkward angle so that he could look the thespian straight in the eye.

Passepout paled.

"You're not one of them are you?" he asked in a panic.

Rassendyll thought for a split second about his current condition, and laughed. "I guess not," he replied with a chuckle. "At least not for the time being." He then quickly added, with a mischievous, almost conspiratorial tone, "I used to be, though."

Passepout joined in his chuckle, and said, "That's all right. I used to be a thief."

Thunder began to rumble in the distance.

"Then let us steal away," Rassendyll replied, "and find shelter."

"Good idea, Rupert," Passepout concurred, then asked, "I can call you Rupert, can't I?"

"But of course," Rassendyll answered after a moment's hesitation. He then thought, I'll have to remember that that's my new name.

The thunder rumbled again, as the two continued their trek in search of shelter.

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

The Tharchioness was primping for dinner when her half sister Mischa Tam entered.

The First Princess finished buffing her scalp, and began to touch up the exotic eye liner that framed the seductive windows of her soul.

"Dear sister," Mischa said tentatively, hoping that the First Princess was not in one of her many moods that would have made this sudden, unannounced intrusion a gross act of insubordination.

"What is it, Mischa?" the First Princess asked impatiently, yet not necessarily hostilely.

"I have been giving your-I mean our-situation a great deal of thought."

"Which of our situations?"

"The existence of stumbling blocks that are succeeding in preventing the Thayan annexation of Mulmaster."

"You mean the High Blade."

"Yes," Mischa agreed, then added quickly, "your husband."

Mischa felt her half sister brace, her back growing erect like a viper about to strike. She realized that she would have to tread lightly if she wished to succeed in the deadly cat-and-mouse game of family and politics.

"What about him?" the First Princess demanded, turning around to face her half sister, her eyes fixed like a jungle cat contemplating its prey.

"Well," Mischa started, averting her eyes from her sister's predatory stare, "as I recall, your mission was to seduce the High Blade, and gain control of the throne of Mulmaster."

"Yes," the First Princess replied, clipped and clear.

"It was at your own suggestion that the seduction was metamorphosed into a diplomatic liaison cum marriage that would form an alliance between Eltabbar and Mulmaster."

"Correct," the First Princess acknowledged. "This is what Szass Tam and I agreed upon. It was our mutual feeling that such an official alliance would be more advantageous. I do hope you are not wasting my time with a simple regurgitation of the plans to date. My memory is quite acute and needs no prodding."

"I would never presume to doubt your cognitive processes or powers of retention, First Princess, but I am curious about one thing…"

"And what is that?" the Tharchioness demanded, all matters of primping temporarily set aside.

"Why is it taking so long? It is almost as if you are enjoying this game of prey and predator at the expense of the ultimate objective. Rumor has it, I fear, that you have become fond of the High Blade, and that perhaps your focus has become distracted or, how shall I say… channeled into other pursuits."

The First Princess did not respond, maintaining an icy stare that seemed to lower the temperature of the room well below the freezing mark.

Mischa quickly changed her tact.

"Of course I don't believe such stories, but I fear that they may reach the ears of Szass Tam himself."

"I have never given Szass Tam any reason to doubt my loyalty!"

"Of course you haven't, dear sister," Mischa said, her tone becoming disarmingly comforting, "but you have been married for quite a while now, and still you have not yet become with child, thus securing Thay's stake in the throne of Mulmaster. I am not saying that I believe this, but some of your ministers have speculated that perhaps you are artificially postponing such a conception, as you are enjoying the prerequisite maneuvers too much."

"Who dares to sully my name and honor?" the First Princess demanded.

"Who is not important, dear sister," Mischa insisted. "What is important is how things might look to those back east. Though I admire your ingenuity in this plan involving the High Blade's twin-"

"It was not my plan!"

"Sorry, First Princess," Mischa apologized in a conciliatory tone. "I did not wish to imply that it was. After all, if it had been, it would surely have succeeded; still, your endorsement of it might still look like an unnecessary detour from the original plan, without the necessary approval of back east. Once again, I must point out that your actions might be construed as an unnecessary and dangerous dalliance for your own amusement."

The Tharchioness stood up, and turned her back on her sister to contemplate her wardrobe for her evening meal with her husband, and the festivities that would surely follow.

"The game of diplomacy is dangerous in both the throne room and the bedroom," the First Princess said, her back still to her sister. "One must always wear the proper armor."

"Yes, dear sister."

"The High Blade is also prone to wearing armor. For some reason, even after our exchange of vows he does not trust me. Can you imagine that?"

The First Princess unhooked a gown of the sheerest Thayan silk Mischa had ever seen.

"We were supposed to be dining in private tonight," the Tharchioness instructed, "but matters of state have interfered. I guess I will have to find something more appropriate to whet my spouse's appetite, lower his guard, and raise his ardor."

"No one has ever questioned your ability to do that, dear sister," Mischa confirmed. "Yet, you still have not been able to complete the mission that you have been sent on, and I have been thinking…"

"About what?" the First Princess demanded.

"If, indeed, even in times of great ardor the High Blade is on his guard…"

"Yes?"

"Perhaps he needs to have that guard lowered."

"By what means?"

"An enchanted charm perhaps."

The First Princess threw her head back and gave forth a derisive laugh, the likes of which she usually reserved for the mentally defective, freaks, and idiots who were brought forth for her amusement (or for particularly wormlike ministers).

"Of course," the Tharchioness said in mock-naive revelation. "Oh, wait a minute, maybe I did. That's right, I did, and then I dismissed it because it wouldn't work, but thanks anyway dear sister. I'll remember to summon you if I have a need for someone with an acute grasp of the extremely obvious."

"But, dear sister, why do you dismiss my suggestion so lightly?"

"Because it is doomed to failure."

"How so?" Mischa asked in a sincere tone that masked the contempt that she felt for her half sister's deprecating manner.

"Because of the damned Cloaks who have sworn their allegiances to protecting the High Blade, that's why. They would detect such a charm the minute it was brought into the city. Even though our people are exempt from searches, we are nonetheless closely watched, and even our most sophisticated mages would be noticed bearing the necessary amulets when they entered the city gate."

Mischa tapped her bald temple with the lacquered fingernail of her index finger, as if pausing to think deeply. After a practiced pause, she feigned revelation, and said, "That is true, but what if nothing was brought into the city? What if the charmed object was constructed here, married with a personal piece of the High Blade himself within these walls, and cast in the privacy of your own bedroom. Surely the Cloaks are not watching you there too, and the High Blade does not exactly strike me as the type who has spent a great deal of time being schooled in the matters of high magic."

The Tharchioness braced again, followed by a slow, ecstatic chill that went through her body as if the recognition and anticipation of the action to come was as good as the experience itself. The pink serpent of her tongue moistened her dewy lips in anticipation.

"Once charmed, he would disregard his armor," the First Princess said softly, almost as if she were voicing her thoughts to herself.

"Possibly, dear sister," Mischa said in encouragement.

"And then he will be mine!"

At the Villa of Honor Fullstaff, Somewhere between the Retreat and Mulmaster:

Fullstaff was enjoying the pale warmth of the day's last rays of the sun. McKern, his guest for the evening, had arrived at the expected hour, and was now busily cleaning away the road dust in preparation for the sumptuous meal that he knew would be ready at sunset. As this was not the first time that he had joined the old swordmaster for dinner, he was more than aware that Fullstaff was a creature of habit who expected his meals on the same schedule each day. A late arrival might be welcomed to join in the feast, but usually Fullstaff would extend the invitation with a full mouth and gesture to enjoy that which remained of the leavings. Time, tide, and dinner at Fullstaff's waited for no man.

The blind swordsman stood up from his chair and approached the veranda's edge. As always, he wished to absorb every sensation possible as the day drew to a close. Behind him wafted the sweet aroma of the meal to come, and in front of him the clean scent of the deserted countryside. Behind him was the cacophony of pots and pans as Hotspur, Poins, and Hal prepared the table, and in front of him the gentle sweeping brush of the wind relocating granules of the road outside of his home.

Honor took a step farther out. An unaccustomed observer might have feared that the blind man might fall off the veranda's edge, but those who knew "old blind Honor" would entertain no such worry. Honor had long ago memorized the number of steps between his chair and the edge, and his exacting remaining senses could feel the textural difference that indicated the edge was there. As always, Honor merely wished to feel the breeze that was obscured and deflected by the villa's wall.

He felt the cool caress of the wind on his left cheek, and turned his head to face it.

"A storm's coming," he said out loud to no one in particular. "It will probably reach us by the second course."

An almost nonexistent noise was picked up by his right ear when he turned his head to catch the wind.

"Two horses are approaching," he reported, "both bearing riders. I guess that guests are like the storm. It never rains but often pours."

"Chesslyn, what a wonderful surprise!" Fullstaff hailed from the villa's gate. "And just in time for dinner, too!"

"Of course," Chesslyn replied good-naturedly as her steed approached the blind swordmaster. "Why else do you think I'm stopping by now? Surely it's not to renew acquaintances with an old friend."

"Of course not," Fullstaff replied. "And who's your young friend? By the click of his heels against his stirrups and the unusual flapping of his cape, I would say that he's not from around here."

Volo reined his steed closer to Chesslyn and whispered, "I thought you said he was blind."

Chesslyn went to hush her traveling companion as the blind swordmaster boomed, "Blind I am, though not deaf!"

Volo immediately went on the defensive and tried to apologize for his thoughtlessness.

"I'm sorry sir, I-"

"Didn't realize that a living legend such as yourself would have such acute senses to compensate for your blindness, nor that you would look so young and virile. That's what you were going to say, right?" Fullstaff said, finishing the gazetteer's sentence with words of his own choosing.

"Of course, sir," Volo said with a smile, now set at ease in the presence of the blind swordmaster.

"Thought so," Fullstaff replied, "and it's not 'sir', it's Honor. Now, Chesslyn, come and give a dirty old man a hug."

The Harper agent quickly dismounted with a facility that belied the fatigues of a long day in the saddle, and ran up to the broad old swordmaster, giving him a kiss full upon the lips, which he returned with great zeal and an accompanying bear hug. Their lips unlocked, she slid against him and turning around so that she comfortably rested her back against his chest, the hilt of her long sword barely missing the chin of her former teacher.

"Is that a long sword," Fullstaff asked, "or are you just happy to see me?"

"Both," Chesslyn purred.

How original, Volo thought to himself sarcastically as he dismounted, then strode over to the embracing couple.

Chesslyn disentangled herself from the arms of her former teacher.

"Honor," she said, "I'd like you to meet a new acquaintance of mine, Volothamp Geddarm."

"I knew you weren't from around here," Fullstaff asserted, vigorously clasping the master gazetteer's hand in his muscular paw and pumping it vigorously. "It's not often that we host a famous author in these parts."

"Oh, you've heard of me," Volo said in mock modesty.

"Who hasn't heard of the master traveler of all Toril, and author of Faerun's best selling travel guide series," said the master swordsman releasing the author's hand before his writer's arm had been overtaxed too much.

"Have you read…" Volo started to ask, then thought better of it given the blindness of his host, and tried to change the subject, "… I mean…"

"Read any of your books?" Fullstaff jumped right in. "Afraid not. I prefer potboilers and cookbooks."

"Oh," the master traveler answered, not quite sure as to whether to take the bear that walked like a man seriously.

"You don't do yourself justice, Honor," Chesslyn corrected, then turned to Volo and explained. "Honor has one of his aides read to him every night. He's read all of the major authors of the Realms."

Except me, Volo thought to himself.

"Well, time's a'wastin', and dinner should be on the table right about now. Hotspur has prepared something from this new Underdark cookbook that everyone is talking about," Fullstaff announced. His arm once again around the lovely Harper agent, they headed off toward the villa's entrance.

The blind swordmaster stopped for a moment, then turned back to face the quite confused master traveler.

"You're more than welcome to join us," Fullstaff offered. "And to answer the pertinent questions that are on your mind, so as not to delay dinner any longer: I recognized the gait of Chesslyn's mount and the scent of the soap that she uses on her saddle. As to knowing that you were not from these parts, I failed to recognize your cologne, and I am fairly familiar with the likes of such things that are available in these parts. Finally, no you don't have to worry about me. Chesslyn is one of my favorite former students, and she is like a daughter to me, and I am more than aware of her discreet assignations. The fact that this is an unplanned visit leads me to believe that she was purposely taking the back roads back to Mulmaster so as not to run into anyone. Ergo, discretion is required, so discretion will be maintained. So without further ado, let's eat."

With that, the master swordsman resumed his beeline to the dining room, Chesslyn still on his arm, and the master traveler following close behind.

The table was set for a feast, which had he not known better, Volo would have taken for a banquet party for ten.

Fullstaff took his place at the head of the table, with Chesslyn at his right hand. The master of the villa motioned that Volo should take the seat on his left. They had no sooner sat down than places were set for them by the omnipresent Poins and Hal, who were well accustomed to accommodating new arrivals at their master's table with little or no notice.

"Poins and Hal will prepare rooms for you after we dine," Fullstaff explained. "Make any wishes known to then and they will do their best to accommodate you."

The master swordsman was about to say something else when he cocked his head to the side as if listening for something. This was followed by the now audible sound of footsteps entering the room.

"How rude of me!" the gregarious host said in a self-deprecating tone. "In my enthusiasm for Chesslyn's unexpected visit, I have neglected my other guest for the evening. What a terrible host I am! Please forgive me."

Fullstaff stood up, and gestured to the other end of the table where a new visitor was approaching the table.

"Chesslyn, Volo, I'd like you to meet an old friend of mine, Mason McKern of Mulmaster," the gracious host boomed.

Volo and Chesslyn turned in the direction their host indicated. Both of the discreet travelers held their breath in sudden shock and surprise as the illumination from the table's candelabra revealed the face of their fellow guest at their host's evening meal.

Volo recognized him as the sour old geezer whose appointment he had usurped on his way to checking in with Thurndan Tallwand.

Chesslyn recognized him as one of the senior Cloaks.

The two travelers looked at each other in silent, controlled panic.

"Introductions accomplished," Fullstaff announced retaking his seat, "Let's dig in. Plenty of time to talk and get to know each other later."