The Mage in the Iron Mask (18 page)

From her hiding place down the hall, Mischa Tam patiently waited for the maggot-like ambassador to begin carrying out the instructions detailed in the note.

Her patience was soon rewarded. She spotted the quivering and shivering gelatinous mass of a wizard leave his apartment and set off down the hall, the fear of damnation and torture in his eyes. His lips were moving as he muttered some incomprehensible prayers to save his miserable excuse for a life.

When he was well out of sight, Mischa slinked back to the door of his apartment, and carefully let herself in. The door was unlocked, which was no surprise given the man's incompetence.

A quick look around the rooms immediately drew her back to the place he had been standing when she had left. Casting her eyes down to the carpeted floor, she found what she was looking for-the pile of ashes from the note she had brought. Extracting a small brush and a sheet of paper from a pocket in her gown, she proceeded to bend over and carefully brush up the ashes onto the sheet of paper. When she was positive that she had indeed recovered every single ash, she set them onto a bare spot on a nearby desk. Muttering the words of a spell of reconstitution over the ashes, she stood back and watched the note reform.

The original note now intact, she placed the other sheet of paper on top of it, passed her hand over it, and once again removed the paper. The note appeared as before with one minor alteration: the signature at the bottom having changed from that of her half sister to that of the ambassador's predecessor. As the High Blade's men were unaware of his recent demise, no questions would be asked of its validity.

Mischa Tam smiled and licked her lips as she examined her handiwork. The note contained clearly written plans for the ambassador to assassinate the High Blade. The discovery of this would clearly obfuscate their more subtle plans of the gentle sorcerous coopting of Selfaril.

Mischa laughed softly. 'Tis a pity, she thought, that my sister's name has been removed, but it would not suit Szass Tam's goals at this time to point fingers at her. It is important that this plan be attributed to a splinter faction led by intransigent ambassadors who are opposed to the coming together of the two great powers. My sister will get her just desserts eventually.

Mischa looked around the room for another moment, and softly said aloud to herself, "Now, where would a great master of deceit like that worm dispose of confidential papers."

Laughing one more time, she crumpled the reconstituted and altered note, and threw it into the wastepaper basket, then, after peeking through the peephole of the door to make sure that the coast was clear, she picked up the trash basket and left the apartment, setting the container with its crumpled evidence in its appointed place for pickup.

A fast look in both directions assured her that she was alone, and once again licking her lips in anticipation of the rewards for a job well done, she hastened back to her own apartment.

"Hey, Volo," Passepout called after his friend, "wait for us."

"Damn!" the master traveler cursed under his breath, thinking, just inches from a clean getaway!

"Your friend seems eager to talk to you," Chesslyn said, unentangling her arm from that of the master traveler.

The roly-poly thespian caught up to them, quite out of breath, and was followed closely by the iron-masked man named Rassendyll.

"We were just on our way to bed," Volo said, trying to give his former companion of the road a subtle wink.

"How did you know the way to the bedrooms?" asked the very dense Passepout.

"Oh," Chesslyn explained, "I've been here before, and I was showing Volo the way."

"Oh," answered Passepout, the stars of infatuation beginning to twinkle in his eyes.

Rassendyll put his arm around the thespian. "I'm sure that Poins and Hal will be along shortly. We can wait for them to show us the way."

"Here they are, now!" Passepout exclaimed, "just in the nick of time."

Poins approached Chesslyn, saying officiously, "Miss Chesslyn, the master has instructed that you should enjoy the comforts of your usual room. Mister Geddarm and the others will share the students' quarters."

"But…" Volo began to protest, but was cut off by the secret Harper agent.

"It's all right," she said softly. "It's late, and Honor was quite specific that we should all get a good night's rest, because tomorrow will be quite busy. It's for the best."

"I guess," Volo said, unsure.

" 'Til morning," Chesslyn replied, giving Volo a light peck on the cheek.

"What about me?" the thespian asked moonily.

"Of course," Chesslyn said, giving him a quick peck as well, and offering the masked man a quick handshake in lieu of a kiss against the metal barrier that obscured his cheek. With a quick wave, she disappeared down the hall.

"This way gentlemen," Poins said, starting down the hall in the opposite direction in which the young lady had gone.

The threesome followed the servant of Honor Fullstaff, eager to get started on a well-earned rest.

The room they arrived at resembled the typical barracks quarters of a young students' hall. The three quickly found suitable accommodations on beds that were only slightly smaller than their adult-sized bulks. Passepout accomplished this by putting two of the cots together.

Poins gave each the promised sleeping draught, and turned the light off as he left.

Volo was just about to pass into slumber when he heard his friend whisper his name.

"What?" the master traveler answered, trying not to be too terse.

"You know that Chesslyn?"

"Yes," Volo answered, not really wishing to be reminded of the company that he would have preferred to be sharing at this very moment.

"I think she likes me," the clueless thespian said.

Volo just rolled his eyes, and replied, "How could she not?"

After less than a moment's pause, and in the middle of a yawn, the thespian concurred, "I guess you're right."

Passepout didn't see Volo shaking his head in disbelief, as he turned over and embraced a deep slumber.

After two hours of unsuccessful tossing and turning, Captain Rickman returned to his office to do some paperwork, considering that to be a more productive alternative to lying sleepless in his bed. The halls were empty, and the chill of the Moonsea winds brought a coolness to his chambers that necessitated his drawing a blanket around his shoulders to keep warm. The single candelabrum that provided enough light to work by could not possibly also adequately heat the room.

"Brrr," the Hawk captain said aloud as he settled into the chair behind his desk, his mind not really on the paperwork that lay before him.

For months now, Rickman had been growing progressively more worried about Mulmaster's stability. The rebuilding of the navy was proceeding at a slower pace than even he had anticipated, and there was talk of civil unrest among the common folk, who still had not accepted the desirability of their alliance with Eltabbar.

For many, the diplomatic incentive of this alliance was overshadowed by the misalliance that was construed as the High Blade's marriage.

Initially, Rickman had every confidence that Selfaril knew what he was doing. The plot for the annexation of Eltabbar, and the subjugation of the Tharchioness, had seemed both sound and desirable, but now the captain of the Hawks was beginning to feel uneasy.

Rickman did not like the game of cat and mouse that the High Blade seemed to enjoy playing with his bride. Everything would have been much easier had he just confronted her with his knowledge of her treasonous plans, forcing her to abdicate to him the throne of Eltabbar… just before her execution for treason; but the High Blade had decided against this pragmatic course of action, and as a result that which had been a winning endgame was left as a fool's stalemate with both sides at the same point they were when the game started.

Eventually, Rickman realized, Selfaril would come to his senses and look for a scapegoat, and no minor functionary like Wattrous or Jembahb would do. The captain of the Hawks knew that his days as the High Blade's right-hand man were numbered, and, therefore, his days among the living were equally numbered. He only hoped that a plan for his own salvation would present itself.

His prayers (perhaps to Cyric, perhaps to Bane) were answered with an unexpected knock on his chamber door.

"Come in," he responded, his voice gravelly with night congestion.

The door opened and a spineless informant that Rickman recognized as his man in the Thayan embassy entered.

"Sir," said the man, whose name was Lendel, "I came by to drop off some recently acquired intelligence of great importance. I was going to drop it off at our usual place, the Warrior's Arena, but decided it couldn't wait. I had hopes of leaving it under your door so that you would see it the first thing tomorrow morn, but when I saw the light flickering under your door. I felt that it was best to deliver it to you personally."

"What is it?" the captain demanded. "Even though it is late, I hope you took precautions to avoid being followed. It would serve Mulmaster naught if we were to lose our ear within the enemy's embassy."

"I took every precaution I could," Lendel said obsequiously, "but I felt that this was worth the possibility of blowing my cover. Even so, I am fairly sure that I have managed to arrive here unobserved."

The captain of the Hawks stood up and said, "Then what is it?" at the same time noting to himself that perhaps the security around his own office should be increased.

"Here," Lendel said, taking a step forward and proffering his hand, which held a crumpled up note. "I found it in one of the ambassadors' trash."

Rickman read the note with great interest. "Do you believe it to be authentic?" he demanded.

"Yes, captain," Lendel answered. "This particular ambassador is not what anyone would call very bright. His carelessness is Mulmaster's gain."

"Agreed," said Rickman, tapping his forehead with the note as a plan began to present itself. "Remind me, Lendel," he asked, "who is your contact within the Hawks?"

"Lieutenant Wattrous, sir," Lendel replied.

Rickman walked around the desk and put his arm around the spy's shoulder. "And other than him," the captain inquired, "who in Mulmaster knows your true affiliation?"

"Just yourself, sir," Lendel replied officiously. "I have been very careful about that."

"Good," the captain of the Hawks replied, patting the spy on the back. "You have done well, and in doing so have made things much easier on me."

With another pat on the spy's back, Rickman silently withdrew his dagger, and quickly slashed the throat of the surprised and shocked Lendel, who tried to gurgle a protest, a question, then a scream, but to no avail. His throat was already clotted with blood.

"Sorry about that," the calm captain apologized. "In another time and in another place you would have gotten a commendation. Unfortunately at this time, and in this place, you are a liability. Rest assured, however, that the new High Blade will look upon your memory fondly… as I take the throne."

The slain spy slid to the ground, as the captain of the Hawks returned to his desk. Quickly, Rickman took the crumpled note and set it next to one of the candelabrum's flames. When it was aflame, he carefully set it in a dish where it safely converted itself to smoke and ash.

Rickman began to talk to himself out loud as he practiced his explanation. "Imagine my surprise," he said. "When I returned to my office, I found this Thayan lying in wait for me. It was only through sheer luck that I was able to dispatch him before he me. I'm afraid that I have many enemies in the Thayan camp, unlike our High Blade… the High Blade… oh, I see no reason to alarm him. It's not as if
his
life were in any danger."

The Thayan bastards would carry out their assassination, and Rickman would be ready with a few trusted men, to seize the throne in the name of Mulmaster, ending this eastern affair once and for all. The First Princess and her lot would be executed for treason, and he would ascend the throne.

"Mulmaster needs a High Blade who will think with his head, the way you used to, Selfaril," Rickman declared to the empty room. "Mulmaster needs me, and I will graciously serve."

Blowing the ashes out the window, Rickman took several short, fast breaths, disheveled his robes, and set off down the hall to alert the night watch about the altercation that had just occurred in his office.

Eventually exhaustion had been sated, and the sleeping draught began to wear off. Rassendyll drifted into a lighter mode of sleep that was disturbed every time a movement would upset the center of balance of the heavy mask that encased his head. Despite the fact that he could not recall having ever slept in a more comfortable bed (for his quarters at the Retreat had always been in keeping with the ascetic ways of the older contemplative mages), he was unable to find a position that would allow him to return to the arms of Morpheus.

Realizing that he had received about as much rest as he was going to, he sat up in the bed and waited 'til he heard footsteps in the halls outside, before leaving the room that he had shared with the world-traveling Volo and the snoring Passepout. Making as little noise as possible, he opened the door and made his way down the corridor to the main hall in which dinner had been served.

The hall was empty, though he could hear the clatter of pots and pans in the nearby kitchen, where Hotspur the dwarf was undoubtedly making preparations for breakfast. Most of the torches from the night before had almost burnt down to their holders, which common sense told the masked man meant that sunrise would be upon them at any moment. Having nothing better to do, and not wishing to disturb his slumbering companions, Rassendyll retraced his steps to the foyer where he and Passepout had first entered the villa and stepped outside to watch the golden dawn.

As he walked out to the gate, a blanket held firmly around his shoulders to protect him from the dawn's early chill, he looked off to the horizon where he saw the beginnings of a new day. Odd, he thought to himself, less than two days ago I despaired of ever seeing another sunrise… now here I am, and it is beautiful.

So engaged in the rising of the sun was Rassendyll, that he did not even hear the telltale approach of footsteps coming up behind him. The senior Cloak McKern, aware of the seemingly oblivious state of concentration of the iron-masked man, decided to announce his presence more forcibly.

"Young fellow," McKern hailed before he had reached the subject of his and Fullstaff's private conversation the night before, "mind if I join you in your enjoyment of one of Toril's early morning attractions?"

"Not at all," Rassendyll replied. "Isn't it picturesque?"

McKern recognized the tone the young man had adopted in his admiration for the sun's wonder-the same tone taken by his own brother when he reminisced about his sighted days.

"Indeed," the mage replied, putting his arm around the young mage's shoulders to try to set him at ease. So entranced was Rassendyll with the morning sun, that extra becalming efforts by the mage were completely unnecessary.

"So you were a mage-in-training at the Retreat?" McKern asked.

"More than in training," Rassendyll corrected. "I was more than qualified to leave the Retreat as a full mage, had I so desired."

"Or if such an opportunity had been offered to you?"

Rassendyll closed his eyes in realization. His teachers had never presented him with the option of leaving. Had the events of the past few days not come to pass, he would probably have spent the rest of his days engaged in study at the Retreat.

"Even if it hadn't been," Rassendyll said haughtily, "I was more than a match for other mages of my age."

The iron-masked man immediately became deflated when he realized what he had said. "I was," not "I am." All of his years of study had come to naught, unless…

"Good and gracious sir," Rassendyll beseeched of the senior Cloak, "can you help me to retrieve the spells and powers that I seem to have lost? I studied for so long, and so hard. All I was ever taught was to be a mage, and I would no longer have a reason for living if I have to consider a life as anything else."

McKern chuckled. "No longer have a reason for living?" the senior Cloak repeated. "What about the sunrise and her sister the sunset? Are they not reason enough? The world has much to offer even the simplest of men, let alone someone with your lineage."

Rassendyll did not have a reply for that common sense wisdom.

The senior Cloak put his arm around the masked man and said, "I am afraid that no one can undo what the mask has already done to you. Everything that you have learned through your studies, the proficiencies that you acquired, the spells you learned to cast, the incantations that you had memorized, have all been leeched out of you by the magical conductivity of the iron mask."

"Then all is lost," Rassendyll said in despair and resignation. "I am now useless. I would be better off dead."

Mason McKern gave the young man an encouraging squeeze as one might do with a discouraged brother. "Yes, that which was there before is now lost," the mage conceded, "but look at it this way. Think of a bottle of fine wine, properly aged, and cared for. Imagine that the seal on the cork breaks, and slowly, because of the angle the bottle is stored at of course, the contents of the bottle, the finest wine in the land, is allowed to leak out, and evaporate."

Rassendyll turned his head so that he could look into the mage's eyes through the narrow eye-slits of the mask, as he did not see how this story was supposed to be encouraging.

"Now, the wine steward discovers what has happened," Mason continued. "The wine is gone, the bottle is empty."

"So?" Rassendyll asked still failing to see the point that the mage was trying to make.

"What about the bottle?" the mage asked. "Is it not still a bottle?"

"Well yes, but…"

"Can it be refilled and resealed?"

"Well, yes, but…"

"True, it would take time, more wine of course, and a desire to maintain the usefulness of the bottle, but would it not be possible?"

Rassendyll tilted his head down and looked at the ground, and conceded the mage's point with a slight nod.

"It's your choice," Mason acknowledged. "There is nothing to prevent you from starting again provided you want to, and I advise you to think about that. You never really chose to become a mage; the Retreat made that decision for you. For the first time in your life, the choice will be yours."

Rassendyll kept staring down at the ground, and asked woefully, "But what about the mask?"

"We will see that it is removed," Mason replied. "I recognize the mark that designates it as being the handiwork of my brother. He will remove it quite easily."

Rassendyll brightened slightly, but still did not look up.

Mason continued, "And I guarantee that we will have it off long before your beard causes you more than a minor irritation."

"It already does," Rassendyll pointed out.

Mason chuckled. "Well, at least you're not choking on it, as your brother desired," the senior Cloak countered. "Stop looking at the ground. You are wasting the sight of a beautiful sunrise. Choose to enjoy it now, and afterwards we shall dine."

Rassendyll looked up and enjoyed the rest of the dawn's early light, feeling a bond of closeness with the old senior Cloak that he had never felt with his teachers back at the Retreat.