The Mage in the Iron Mask (13 page)

The Sewers Beneath Mulmaster:

Rassendyll felt a sensation of falling rapidly through midair, which was quickly followed by the slap and splash of the weighted burial sack’s contact with the rapidly moving river of sewage-spoiled waters.

The thick viscosity of the underground fluid coated the burial shroud amniotically, without managing to permeate the sack itself. As a result, as long as the masked prisoner was able to hold the top cinch of the sack tightly closed, no air was able to escape, and for at least a few brief moments Rassendyll was able to breathe within the linen-lined bubble that was cascading through the underwater tunnels of Mulmaster.

The masked prisoner realized that he had to time his escape from the sack very carefully: too soon and
he would be wasting precious drops of air that he might need before finishing his journey out to sea; too late and he would find himself too far below the depths of the icy Moonsea, and long drowned before reaching the surface.

The sheer power of the sewer stream propelled the bag and its contents forward, the leaded weight that was attached to it occasionally dragging against the bottom of the downward tunnel. Battered, bruised, and bounced around, Rassendyll struggled to listen to the tell-tale tones of the burial rock that would eventually drag the sack to the sea bottom. He knew that when the sound stopped and the ride smoothed out, that the course would have changed from forward to downward, and that only seconds would remain for him to escape and head to the surface.

It was only when he turned his head to the side and felt the drag of the iron mask against the linen lining did he remember that he too would be weighted down even after he left the sack. As this moment of realization hit him, he realized that the change of course had begun.

Seeing no rational alternative, he braced himself for the liquid onslaught, opened the sack, and valiantly kicked toward the surface, the weight of the mask resting heavily upon his shoulders.

On the Shore of the Moonsea:

Passepout’s head hurt.

The last thing he remembered clearly was staggering out of the Traveler’s Cloak Inn, and walking down an alleyway. From there, things seemed to blur. Pressmen hitting him over the head. Passing
out. Waking up on a boat. Getting sick to his stomach. Being thrown overboard.

It had not been a good day.

Somehow aided by the buoyancy of his bulk, he had managed to float ashore. The hefty thespian groaned as he rolled his bulk on to his side for a cursory survey of the area. He opened his eyes for a quick look, and closed them even more quickly than he had intended due to the glare of the sun off the surf. He felt like a beached whale after the tide had gone out.

What could go wrong now? he thought to himself.

Carefully opening his eyes again, and shielding them from the setting sun, he surveyed his surroundings, and discovered that somehow his foot had gotten entangled in a pile of rags and a metal bucket.

Shaking his foot to get it loose, he was met with a surprise: the pile of rags and the coal bucket had started to move.

The stout and brave thespian quickly returned to unconsciousness as he fainted.

In Morning

The High Blade’s Study
in the Tower of the Wyvern:

A new day had just dawned and once again the High Blade had stolen from the connubial chamber that housed his cursed marriage bed and loathsome spouse prior to first light—in order to avoid any possibility of having to converse with his despicable bride—and proceeded to his morning meal. Slater,
his valet, whose sleeping accommodations varied from night to night so as to be available at his master’s first stirring, had anticipated the High Blade’s impulse and had risen from the folded-down pallet outside the door of the couple’s chamber prior to his master’s stirring. The faithful servant held his master’s silk and fur morning robe in readiness for a quick escape to the secret study where Selfaril could enjoy the early morning serenity.

Once his master was safely ensconced in his study, Slater was free to fetch the High Blade’s breakfast without fear of his master being disturbed by anyone but his closest confidantes, which, of course, did not include the Tharchioness.

The sun had just peeked over the horizon, thus signaling the next change of the city watch, when Selfaril’s breakfast arrived, not borne by Slater as he had expected, but by Rickman.

Selfaril immediately realized that the captain of the Hawks must have been bearing important information or he wouldn’t have risked the High Blade’s ire at having his breakfast interrupted. He also realized that the information at hand would probably not be to his liking.

“Ah, Rickman,” the High Blade said, addressing his right-hand man with deprecating sarcasm, “perhaps, you are auditioning for a new position that is more in line with the limited abilities of you and your men.”

The captain of the Hawks held his tongue for a moment to allow the invective that was almost on his lips to pass into silence to be replaced by a simple, “If that is what you wish, sire.”

“I wish for many things,” the High Blade responded, beginning to dine off the tray that the captain was carrying. Rickman’s inner instinct for
survival prevented him from interrupting the High Blade by placing the tray on its usual place on the table.

“I wish that I had never married that traitorous she-devil,” the High Blade continued. “I wish that I had acquired Thay as my domain rather than the Tharchioness as my bride. I wish that the ineptitude of your men had not bungled away the means by which my wishes might have been fulfilled.”

Rickman stood stone-still, despite the tongue-lashing that coupled the strain that the heavily laden tray was bringing to bear on his awkwardly poised forearms. He knew that the High Blade already acknowledged his own disgust with the stupidity, ignorance, and ill-luck of a few of his men who had already borne the lethal brunt of his own anger.

Having finished two eggs from which he had taken his time delicately removing the shells, Selfaril drank a draught of juice, and, with a swipe of a napkin, wiped the breakfast residue from his mouth.

“Don’t just stand there holding that tray,” the High Blade ordered. “Put it down and pour me a cup of coffee.”

Rickman did as instructed and turned around to pour the pot.

“You may as well pour yourself a cup as well,” Selfaril added, the sharpness of his tongue slowly disappearing.

“As you wish, sire,” the captain of the Hawks answered, adding, “I don’t mind if I do.”

When he turned back to face Selfaril, and placed his cup in front of him, he noticed that the High Blade’s robe had loosened when he had used the napkin, and that three apparently fresh parallel lacerations of no less than three inches each were visible on his master’s bare chest. The High Blade
was scratching them absently, not even realizing what he was doing until he noticed Rickman’s stare.

Rickman quickly averted his eyes, and returned his attention to the placement of the coffee cup.

“Oh, sit,” Selfaril instructed with a dismissive gesture.

Rickman sat, his body still at attention. Inwardly he was bemoaning his momentary lapses in decorum: his overly familiar acceptance of the High Blade’s offer to join him in coffee, and his conspicuous staring at the scratches.

Selfaril discerned the uneasiness of his very necessary right-hand man, and immediately tried to set him at ease. He had punished him enough for the moment, and further castigation could wait ’til later.

The High Blade took a drink of his coffee, then set it down on the desk before him. Once again he began to scratch at the scabbed lacerations on his chest. Rickman’s eyes involuntarily followed the path of Selfaril’s hand, then quickly darted back to the High Blade’s eyes which met his own dead on.

The High Blade maintained his locked-on stare for a moment, blinked, then cast his own eyes down on the source of his epidermal irritation, and with a chuckle slightly tinged with exasperation, resumed scratching.

“The First Princess was a little ferocious in her friskiness last night,” the High Blade explained with a grin. “Blast, if only she didn’t have a brain she would be a perfect wife.”

“Sire?” Rickman responded, not quite sure of how he was supposed to react.

“I mean it,” Selfaril continued, trying to put the captain at ease. “It’s a pity that she wants to depose me as much as I want to depose her.” The High Blade swallowed another mouthful of coffee, and feeling almost
fully awake, readied himself for the first disappointment of the day. He asked, “Well Rickman, breakfast is finished. You may ruin my day now. What is the latest on the situation at hand?”

Rickman drained his own cup, and began his report.

“My information is mixed at best, sire,” the captain of the Hawks explained.

“Has anyone discovered my brother’s body yet?”

“No, sire, and I am confident that no one will. The harbor has been filled with ships as of late. Several of them are from our allies who have agreed to assist us in the rebuilding of our navy, while others are from certain other interests whose press gangs we have allowed to harvest our detritus in exchange for certain considerations. My spies in the ranks of both have indicated no sightings of bodies in the harbor or beyond. I believe it is safe to assume that his drowned corpse is either hung up in a subterranean sewer alcove, or safely resting at the bottom of the Moonsea itself.”

“You must be right,” Selfaril agreed, scratching his chest. “I realized that the mask would be the death of him, just not quite that way.”

“According to my experts in the Cloaks,” Rickman expounded, “the mask itself is only adhered to the flesh that surrounds the back of the skull. Once the flesh has decayed, the mask will separate and fall off. At that point, the features of your brother’s face will have already fallen prey to the appetites of the scavengers that crawl along the bottom of the Moonsea. It will have ceased to be recognizable and, therefore, no longer of any use to anyone.”

“Well, that is one small consolation,” Selfaril acknowledged. “What about that missing actor?”

“Still unaccounted for, the same for the writer, I’m
afraid,” Rickman replied. “Though without the prisoner, any claims by them would be unsubstantiated. They cease to be a major threat, particularly with foreigners.”

“Agreed,” the High Blade assented, “but I still want them dead. One can’t be too careful.”

“Agreed, sire,” the captain repeated, adding. “I assure you that they will soon be joining the ranks of those men who have failed to perform up to your expectations.”

“Good.”

“If I might also mention, your majesty, those ranks have just swelled with another addition.”

“Who have we executed for their incompetence this time?”

“A Hawk by the name of Jembahb, sire,” Rickman explained. “He was one of the two men I sent to retrieve the Thayan crystal wand as evidence of the Tharchioness’s people’s involvement in the slaughter at the Retreat.”