The Mage In The Iron Mask

18

Volo rushed to the side of his impaled friend, scrambling past the equally horrified Mason McKern, and around the other two prostrate forms that littered the floor near the hearth. The master traveler unceremoniously cast the groggy form of Captain Rickman off the body of his obese and decidedly prone boon companion.

Rickman began to groan; the concussion of the contact of his head against the hearth only succeeded in knocking him out for a moment, and in no time he would be in a groggy state of consciousness. "Oh, my head!" he mumbled as his hands vainly tried to make their way off the ground and up to his pate. "Ohhhhhh."

Volo ignored the blackguard's cries of pain, and knelt by his boon companion, trying desperately not to look at the hilts of the duelist's two swords that swayed like flagpoles on the mountainous summit that was the body of his beloved Passepout.

"Oh, son of Idle and Catinflas," the master gazetteer cried.

The thespian opened his eyes, and a grimace of pain immediately passed over his face.

"You are alive old friend!" Volo said softly, not yet sure how serious the thespian's wounds were.

"Just barely," the son of Idle and Catinflas replied weakly.

"Is there anything I can do, old friend?" Volo asked.

"No, dear Volo," Passepout said a trifle dramatically. "Just allow me to pass from this life, here and now, in this pool of blood."

Volo felt on the verge of tears, and held the dying thespian's hand up to his face. "Courage, dear friend," he implored. "You are still warm, perhaps McKern can save you."

"No," the master thespian insisted, "I already feel death's cold shadow as my heart pumps its last few ounces of blood into the river that feeds this pool of blood."

Pool of blood, the master traveler thought to himself, it sounds so familiar.

Volo looked down at the area around his bisected friend. The floor was dry, and nary a trace of blood was visible.

Quickly the master traveler cast back the cloak from his prostrate friend's body, and observed the placement of the two blades, one sandwiched between two tree-sized thighs, the other nestled in the right armpit. In both cases, the thespian's skin was barely nicked.

The master traveler laughed.

"It serves me right, you lucky knave," the master gazetteer replied, as his thought-to-be-dying friend sat up with great vigor.

" 'Twasn't luck, 'twas skill," the thespian replied. "It is imperative that a skilled actor know how to avoid an oncoming blade in a dying sequence if one wishes to have much of a career on the stage."

"Pool of Blood was the title of one of the plays in your repertoire, if I recall correctly."

"Indeed, it is," the thespian replied, "Ward's Folly, also known as The Pool of Blood, a real slaughterfest of a show."

Out of the corner of his eye, Volo saw McKern. The old mage was still staring at the slowly recovering form of the captain of the Hawks, muttering under his breath.

"You killed my brother," he murmured. "An honest man, a craftsman, a humanitarian. He served Mulmaster as best he could, trusting his superiors, and now he is dead. He never saw it coming. My name is Mason McKern. You killed my brother; prepare to die!"

As the grief-possessed mage rambled on, his rage increased, his fingers began to flex, and his exclamations of grief dissolved into arcane incantations.

Rassendyll immediately recognized what was happening. "Back off Volo, Passepout!" he ordered.

"Get away from the bodies!"

Volo sprang to the side, while the chubby thespian responded with a quick roll to the right, seeking shelter behind a chair.

The High Blade's twin approached the mage, who was in turn approaching Rickman. "Calm down, McKern," Rassendyll urged gently, trying not to notice the smoke that seemed to be coming from the old wizard's fingertips. "This is neither the time nor the place for a fireball."

"Leave me be," Mason said sternly. "Your father's killer is dead, and my brother's killer should join him."

For the third time in less than half an hour, a person announced their presence to the inhabitants of the room with a loud, prohibitive command.

"No!"

The mage, former mage, gazetteer, and thespian turned toward a sideboard located on the other side of the room which had just started to swing forward to reveal yet another secret passage, out of which stepped the imposing figure of the blind swordmaster, Honor Fullstaff.

"The sentence of death will be carried out, old friend," Honor Fullstaff said with great certainty, "but not just yet. I am afraid that he might still be of use to us for just a little while longer."

McKern was torn between his desire for vengeance and the common sense preached by his old friend. The stern look on his old friend's face cast the deciding vote, as the old mage had no desire to cross Honor Fullstaff when he had already let his position be known.

"Agreed," the old mage assented. "What's our next move?"

In the Apartment of Mischa Tam in the Thayan Embassy in Mulmaster:

Mischa Tam was beginning to get nervous.

The cat's-paw who had been dispatched to attempt the assassination of Selfaril should have botched the job by now, she thought. Even if he had somehow managed to surprise the High Blade, surely he would not have been able to overpower him. And what about the Hawks? She had made darn sure that Rickman was aware of the plot as well and would be able to intervene and arrest the quivering maggot.

A heinous thought crossed her mind.

What if, somehow, the incompetent had succeeded?

The First Princess would surely have her head, that is, if any of the Thayans managed to make it out of Mulmaster alive.

Though the death of Selfaril was undoubtedly the eventual goal, timing was of the essence, and at the present, the time was not right.

Mischa removed a talisman from inside her robe, and stared into its multi-faceted surface.

"Do I dare to see through the eyes of the worm?" she whispered.

She had to know.

Mischa took out a piece of skin that had formerly belonged to the ambassador and placed it on the talisman. She paused for a moment, reliving the disgust she felt at the measures that she had to take to obtain this living souvenir of the maggot, shuddered, and placed it onto the orb.

The skin immediately melted into the talisman's surface.

Wasting no time she held the orb up to her eye, and looked into its opaque surface as if it were a magnifying crystal.

All she saw was darkness.

Mischa considered the possibilities. Perhaps he is already dead, or unconscious… but unfortunately that still doesn't solve the problem.

Concentrating with all her scrying powers, she once again looked into the orb, trying to backtrack through the images that had been recorded by the maggot before he had been enveloped by the darkness.

The shadows gradually cleared. First she saw a dishevelled and unkempt High Blade… a hearth… the High Blade better groomed, but obviously fatigued… a crystal wand striking home into the heart of the mortally wounded Selfaril!

Mischa dropped the orb in a panic.

The fool actually succeeded in killing my sister's husband!

A knock on her chamber door interrupted her panic.

"Who is it?" she said with mock calm.

"It is I, Mischa," announced the messenger, "Elijakuk."

Mischa opened the door to allow in the Tharchioness's chancellor.

"What is it?" she demanded, still trying to hide her own uneasiness.

"The First Princess sent me for your part of the project," he said gravely. "I believe she desires to use it tonight. She fears that our window of opportunity is rapidly diminishing."

Mischa stifled a laugh at the inadvertent irony of the chancellor's last statement, and thanked Szass Tam for the news.

My sister does not yet know of the fate of her husband! she thought in exultation. There may be a chance for me yet.

Maintaining her composure, the Tharchioness's half sister went to her vanity table, reached into a secret compartment, and extracted the disk that she had treated with the appropriate oils and herbs to accomplish her part of the spell. She wrapped it in a silk scarf and handed it to the chancellor.

"Her desire is my command," she said reverently. "My part is now complete."

"The First Princess will be pleased," Elijakuk acknowledged her with a bow that included a pause to appreciate the Tharchioness's sister's ample cleavage. "Szass Tam be with you."

Mischa cracked her best seductively serpentine smile.

"And with you," she said sweetly, "but tarry no longer. We mustn't keep the First Princess waiting. She knows best. If she believes that time is of the essence, then who are we to dispute it?"

"Indeed!" the chancellor agreed, a satyrlike smile on his lips. "Shall we go?"

"No," she countered with a touch of mock regret. "You will travel faster and more discreetly, on your own. I will wait here to carry out any further orders from the First Princess should she desire me to do so."

"I will return with further instructions," the chancellor said, giving Mischa's hand a quick kiss accented with a touch of the tip of his tongue, adding, "with great haste."

"I will await," she responded with mock eagerness, as she closed the door behind him and let out a sigh of relief.

Collecting her thoughts, her composure regained, the Thayan sorceress set about gathering her things, for she had no intention of being around when the detritus flew from the waterwheel.

"My sister will need a scapegoat and I have no intention of being available for that honor," she said aloud.

In a matter of moments she had packed all she needed, and within the hour she had already stolen herself from the city of Mulmaster like a thief in the night, hoping to make the court of Szass Tam in enough time to state her case before the Tharchioness had issued her death warrant.

The chancellor was quite disappointed later in the evening when he returned to her chamber having completed his appointed mission. When she failed to respond to his gentle taps on her door, he increased the force of each of the blows until he became afraid that he would wake up a neighboring minister before arousing the lovely Mischa. He quickly concluded that she must have already fallen into a sound sleep, and that a good night's rest would do him good as well, so that he would be amply refreshed when they resumed their tete-a-tete on the following day.

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. Follow 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.