The Mage In The Iron Mask n-4 Page 10

  "Any other interesting tidbits?"

  "Well," Danovich answered tentatively, "the itinerant named Passepout was actually an actor by trade."

  "What does that have to do with anything?" Rickman demanded.

  "Nothing," Danovich replied sheepishly, "just that I, too, was trained in the theater."

  Rickman rolled his eyes to try to suppress his rage at the incompetence and feeblemindedness that seemed to abound within the ranks of his men.

  "Anything else?" he said, half under his breath.

  "No sir," Danovich reported.

  "Then back to work!"

  "Yes sir," the Hawk replied doing a quick about-face, a smile crossing his lips as he left his superior's office, thankful that he, unlike previous men in his position, had not incurred the captain's wrath.

  Rickman stood up and, hands clasped behind his back, strode to the lone window of his office, stopping only briefly to summon his batsman by means of the signal cord.

  The batsman, Roche, arrived in a flash, finding his captain contemplating the sky over Mulmaster.

  "My instinct tells me that a storm seems to be moving in," Rickman asserted.

  "The weather scryer in the Cloaks has predicted as such, sir," Roche said officiously.

  "Any word on the condition of the sea?"

  "According to the last report from the Lighthouse, high tide is just now coming in. The seas are choppy, and a mariner's advisory has been issued. The Moonsea is quite unforgiving of those who challenge her, even under the best of conditions," Roche responded, confident in the degree of detail expected by his captain. He had been in service to Rickman for close to eight years.

  "What odds for survival would you give someone thrown overboard during such seas?" he asked, still staring out the window.

  "Slim to none, sir," the batsman retorted.

  "Just as I thought," Rickman replied, turning to face Roche. "Nothing is ever certain. You may go, Roche, but please put in a change of orders for the soldier who was just in here."

  "Lieutenant Danovich, sir?" the batsman confirmed.

  "Yes."

  "Where will his new posting be, sir?" Roche inquired, a pad instantly in hand to take notes.

  "Use your own judgment, Roche," Rickman answered, once again taking his place at his desk, and starting once again to go through the surveillance reports. "Just make sure it's an assignment far from Mulmaster, with a very small survival quotient."

  "Yet another one-way assignment, sir," Roche confirmed.

  "You draw up the papers and I'll sign them," Rickman said with a sense of finality. "It is the only way to weed out the incompetents from this man's army."

  Roche returned his note pad to its proper place in his uniform pocket, executed a perfect heel-toe pivot about-face, and silently left the office of the captain of the Hawks to carry out his master's will.

  On the Moonsea Shore:

  For Rassendyll it had all seemed like a dream.

  The viscous membrane that had held out the poisonous onslaught of liquid sewage during his flush-propelled journey under Mulmaster was quickly washed away by the strong Moonsea currents. Once his exodus from the sea-bound burial shroud had been successful, the sack began its weighted, oneway journey downward.

  The cold sea water instantaneously inspired an adrenalin surge in the iron-helmeted prisoner, and his body began to shiver violently.

  Rassendyll realized that he had no leisure moments to allow himself the luxury of the anaesthetic effects of aquatic thermal shock, and with every ounce of strength that existed in his being, he frantically kicked toward the surface. He knew he had to maintain control, for to panic was to die.

  It was just as important for him to maintain a vertical position as it was to continue to scissor-kick his way surfaceward. The least deviation out of a vertical position would result in the sheer weight of the iron mask dragging his body downward head first. With the weight centered on his shoulders, his neck muscles taut to keep his iron-encased head in place and erect, his lungs exploding from lack of air, and his arms and legs valiantly pumping him upward, the young mage concentrated his efforts on maintaining the energy upward.

  The mask prevented him from feeling the air of the surface when he managed to break the Moonsea surf, and his lungs had refilled themselves with air before he consciously realized that he had made it.

  The flash of recognition interrupted his stroke and at the precise moment of victory, he immediately re-submerged, the weight of the mask fighting the natural buoyancy of his body to meet a deadly equilibrium beneath the water's surface.

  Rassendyll remembered the surge of strength, a last jolt of adrenalin fueled by the two lungfuls of oxygen before he re-submerged. He remembered struggling back to the surface, frantically looking for something to hold onto, something to add to his own buoyancy to compensate for the added mass of the mask that, despite his escape from the dungeon, still threatened to be the instrument of his death sentence.

  Vaguely he remembered seeing the shore in the distance, and hearing the faint sound of breakers on the shore. He remembered the despair of thinking that it was too far, his strength quickly waning, his body trembling.

  He felt himself slipping into unconsciousness when a great sea mammal seemed to pass by, riding the surf shoreward.

  With his last focus of energy he reached for a fin, hoping that the whale would drag him to safety like so many other sailors of Faerun's nautical lore.

  Then he blacked out.

  His ragged breathing, occasionally interrupted by coughing and the spewing of salt water, awakened him to the knowledge that somehow he had survived the trip to shore. He tried to move, and quickly regretted it, for every muscle in his body was cramped and contorted from its quest for survival, and further agitated by the awkward posture it had wedged itself into once it had reached shore.

  The iron mask had become entangled in seaweed, and had wedged itself into the sea-softened sand of the shore at an extreme angle to the rest of his body.

  His entire being yearned for more time to replenish itself, and Rassendyll would probably have remained unconscious longer, had the surf not returned to reclaim its rightful place at the high tide line.

  Have I been lying here for a full day? he thought, realizing that it must have been the previous day's high tide that had delivered him to safety.

  The high tide and the noble sea mammal, he recalled, trying to get his bearings, working out the kinks in his neck, and clearing away the seaweed and sand from the openings of the second shell of facial skin that the mask had become.

  Rinsing his head in the shallows that would have previously brought his death, he carefully cleaned the mask and bathed as much of his face as he was able to, given the limited access afforded by the mask's apertures.

  Reluctantly his vision began to clear, and he was able to look around. He first looked to the sea, and to his relief saw only the waves, and two seagulls diving for prey.

  Had I not made it, he reflected, they would probably be perched on me, their beaks searching for the tender filling that lies within the iron shell of the mask. It is better that they content themselves with their regular diet.

  His thoughts suddenly turned to images of his savior, the noble whale that must have beached itself to assure him of his salvation.

  If it is still alive, he thought, I must return it to the surf or it will die.

  Energized with what he thought to be his debt-required duty, he looked away from the waves, toward the shore, to find the beached leviathan. Out of the corner of his eye-slit he saw a large white mass that seemed to be smaller than he remembered his albino mammalian savior to be.

  Staggering to his feet, his body protesting every effort, he dragged himself toward the white blob, blinking to clear his vision.

  He looked down and laughed. It was his savior, he realized, but it was no whale.

  It was a man.

  Rassendyll continued to laugh out loud at his own misconception, a laugh
that was uncontrolled and free, the first that he had allowed himself since the moment of his abduction.

  The roar of his humor, coupled with the roar of the surf, and the moist lapping of its eddies, awoke the fainted-unto-sleep Passepout, who opened his eyes and, seeing Rassendyll standing above him, quickly took on a look of abject panic and fear.

  Rassendyll quickly stopped laughing, and, realizing the panic that was evident in his savior's face, quickly said, "I mean you no harm."

  The near valiant thespian swiftly replied, "Well, that's good. What are you doing with a coal bucket on your head?"

  Rassendyll took another step closer to the still prone Passepout to assist the actor in coming to his feet. The thespian immediately misinterpreted this as a threatening act and, perhaps, a response to what the iron masked fellow inferred as an insult.

  Thinking on his feet (or on his back, as it happened), the thespian quickly added, "Not that it's unattractive, I mean to say. Of course, not everyone could carry off this look, but on you it's quite impressive; one might almost say 'singular.' "

  Rassendyll was amused by the verbal antics of the fellow, who undoubtedly had no idea that his natural buoyancy had not only saved his own life but Rassendyll's as well, and he was certain that his face would have conveyed this grateful amusement to the dripping and corpulent gent had it not been obscured by the infernal mask.

  The mask, however, did not muffle the laughter that was once again escaping his lips.

  Passepout smiled, taking the masked fellow's amusement as a good sign, and accepting his proffered hand and assistance at getting to his feet.

  "Oooofff!" he exhaled as he got to his feet. "Why thank you, kind sir, for your gracious assistance!"

  "Think nothing of it, my mutually waterlogged colleague," Rassendyll replied, noticing some threatening clouds that seemed to be approaching from the sea horizon. "It looks like a storm is brewing. We probably should try to find some shelter."

  Passepout remembered the warm and comfortable bed back at the Traveler's Cloak, and the unceremonious exit from the inn at the urging of Dela's boot sole.

  "Good idea," the soggy thespian agreed. "Any ideas where?"

  Rassendyll quickly looked around, noticing a few buildings and ships in the far distance. One of the buildings was a lighthouse, and, if memory served the former Retreat student, nearby was a small barracks housing no less than thirty-six soldiers.

  "That-a-way," the masked mage instructed, pointing in the opposite direction along the shore.

  "Fine," Passepout agreed, following the iron-masked man. "I hope we are not too far from Mulmaster," he added, not realizing that they were headed in the opposite direction from the city.

  Not far enough for my tastes, Rassendyll thought to himself as he set off down the shoreline.

  The Tharchioness's Apartment in the Tower of the Wyvern:

  Once Ministers Konoch and Molloch had finished their reports, the Tharchioness dismissed them so that they could attend to the inane duties of state that passed as the excuse for their presence in Mulmaster. The First Princess was always concerned with the pretense of diplomacy which had succeeded in obscuring the presence of her spies and conspirators in the court despite the equally thorough spy network of Hawks and Cloaks that was available to the High Blade.

  Mischa Tam remained behind to assist the First Princess in the preparation of her appearance for her obligatory court appearances, aiding in the application of cosmetics, and the choosing of the proper gown for the ceremonies of the day.

  "What to wear, what to wear," the First Princess murmured absently, as Mischa held one gown after another up against herself, thus serving as a live mannequin. "The citizens of this abysmal hamlet have certain expectations that I must live up to. I am the great beauty who seduced their High Blade, the eastern, exotic witch whose mystical powers hold him in her thrall. I am both their queen and their enemy. Their nationalism demands that they both love me and hate me."

  "So many demands on a single woman," Mischa commented in a neutral tone that succeeded in masking any implication of either sarcasm or sympathy.

  "On a married woman, sister," the Tharchioness corrected. "Remember it was the will of Szass Tam that bound me to the infernal bonds of matrimony."

  "Of course, dear sister," Mischa acquiesced. "The battles for the expansion of Thayan interests are sometimes fought in the bedroom, as well as on the battlefield."

  "With the High Blade, there is very little difference."

  Both sisters laughed at the Tharchioness's humorously apt remark. Settling on a quilted silken gown of green, blue, and turquoise, the First Princess sat at her vanity seat so that Mischa could paint her face in the appropriate cosmetic color scheme.

  The First Princess closed her eyes, and pursed her lips. Mischa knew what to do, and was not to be distracted by idle conversation until she was done.

  Mischa began to apply the base to the Tharchioness's cheeks and forehead. The First Princess's silence came more from a desire to enforce a certain class formality in their relationship rather than from any honest concern about Mischa's need to concentrate on her task. As the Tharchioness's half sister through an unidentified assignation on their mother's part, Mischa Tam realized that she had very little claim to actual nobility, and even less to the authority of a tharch such as her sister. She was neither as potent a magic-wielder or as popular a politician as the First Princess, and she was reminded of it every day of her life, and accepted her fate of never being more than the one who was referred to behind her back as the Second Half-Princess, and the sister of the Tharchioness.

  She sighed and accepted the limitations of her station, at least for the present time.

  It was fortunate that the First Princess didn't know that her half sister secretly hated her, and was patiently awaiting the day when she would replace her in the favor of the illustrious Szass Tam.

  Well, Mischa thought, at least I don't have to be an enforced concubine and brood mare for some smelly infidel like Selfaril.

  The last eye line in place, Mischa announced, "Done." The Tharchioness opened her eyes, to assess her own appearance in an ornate mirror.

  "So, sister," the First Princess said, "am I beautiful enough to distract my wretch of a husband?"

  "Of course, sister," she answered.

  "Will I bring a stirring to his loins?"

  "Don't you always?" she replied.

  "Not that it has done me any good," the Tharchioness observed. "Once I am with child, the High Blade will cease to be a necessary participant in my marriage bed. I will train his heir to take his place on the throne, the same way Selfaril succeeded his father."

  "Only this time, the new High Blade will be Thayan," Mischa pointed out.

  "In all eyes but those of the wretched citizens of Mulmaster. He will be one of them by birth."

  "A brilliantly conceived plan," Mischa said, secretly knowing that the High Blade's heir could just as easily be raised by his beloved aunt as by his vain and pompous mother.

  When the time comes, she thought to herself, Szass Tam himself will choose.

  The Tharchioness rose to her feet, and once again admired her appearance in the mirror.

  "You have done me well, sister," she complimented. "Now all we have to do is wait for the charms that we have ordered."

  I am very good at waiting, the half sister observed silently, and my time will come.

  At the Private and Secluded Residence of Sir Honor Fullstaff, somewhere between Mulmaster and the Retreat:

  Fullstaff walked into the kitchen where the dwarven cook named Hotspur was busy in preparation for the evening meal.

  "Something smells splendid," the blind swordsman exclaimed, as he used his keen senses of perception to home in on an open pot that had a ladle in it, and was thus easy access for sampling. Hotspur was a creature of habit, and Fullstaff knew that he always kept the ladle resting in the first pot on the left.

  "I wouldn't be sampling anything in that pot,
master," the dwarf replied.

  "And why not Hotspur?" the master replied with a certain degree of mock haughtiness. "Is this not my kitchen?"

  "Indeed it is, milord," Hotspur replied, his back to the master, his concentration focused on the chopping at hand.

  "And are these not my pots?" the master inquired, slowly lifting the ladle to his lips, careful not to spill a drop or make any sudden noise.

  "Indeed they are, milord," the dwarf replied, then explained, "but that one does not contain your dinner."

  "Well, then, my insubordinate cook," the master interrogated, the ladle poised a fraction of an inch from his lips, "what does it contain?"

  "My socks," the dwarf explained. "They got stained when I was making wine out back, and boiling them is the only way I'll ever get them clean."

  Hotspur, his focus still on the vegetable-chopping at hand, smiled as he heard the ladle drop, making a subtle splash in the laundry-filled pot.

  "And don't go sampling any of the other pots, master," the dwarf instructed in a similar tone to the one his master had adopted earlier. "One of them contains your old sword belt. Poins and Hal believe that they may be able to stretch it to a more suitable length for your expansive girth, once the boiled water softens it."

  "Just as well," the master replied. "Without my occasional midafternoon snack, their expansive efforts on my belt's behalf might prove to be unnecessary."

  "Besides that, milord," Hotspur reminded, "you have company coming to join your evening repast."

  In a fraction of a second Fullstaff removed a dagger from his belted scabbard, tossed it in the air, snapped his fingers, and returned it to its place. He said, "Oh, that's right. Old McKern is stopping by for dinner on his way back to the Retreat. I hope, in addition to the sumptuous meal that you have prepared for me, you have also prepared something sensible and strained for the old wizard. When you get to his age, there is no reason to tax one's intestines."

  "Indeed, milord," Hotspur replied, choosing to omit mentioning that he knew that his master and the old wizard were indeed the same age. Secretly he looked forward to overhearing the old former captain of the Hawks swapping made-up memories with the former Cloak, who had been retired to the Retreat almost as long as the master had been blind. Their both being put out to pasture at the same time had formed a bond that made them seem like friends for life, despite the fact that they had never actually served side by side during their tours of duty.