The Mage in the Iron Mask

by Brian Thomsen

  “What if I were to send two of my men back to the Retreat to investigate the unfortunate slaughter of that order of contemplative mages. They could discover the Thayan wand that was left behind, and report it to their immediate superiors who would then pass this discovery up through the chain of command.…”

  “And with gossip being what it is in the lower ranks, passing out into the unwashed masses as well.”

  “Indeed, sire,” Rickman agreed. “Maiden rumor will spread, fermenting public outrage against the Thayan murderers. I will have Wattrous and Jembahb dispatched immediately. Neither of them are known for their discretion.”

  “Indeed.”

  “In regards to rumor, sire,” Rickman continued. “Wouldn’t it be wise to remove any threat of it interfering with our plans?”

  “To what do you refer?”

  “The prisoner, sire,” the Hawk captain explained cautiously. “Though his appearance is obscured, he can still talk. Perhaps he should be further isolated from the other prisoners in the dungeon.”

  Selfaril shook his head and chuckled.

  “I really don’t think that is necessary. A trip to the dungeon is a one-way journey for the hopeless, penniless, and terminally unfortunate. What are the odds of someone getting out, and even at that, what of it?”

  Rickman became quite serious.

  “Through my sources, I have learned that the prisoner in the cell next to your brother was released yesterday. An unemployed actor I believe.”

  “What of it? If he heard anything at all it was the ravings of a madman. I find very little reason to fear an unemployed actor who probably knows nothing, nor anyone, of importance.”

  “Just the same, your majesty, I would like to assign one of my spies to keep an eye on him, at least until your plan has come to fruition.”

  “Fine, fine,” Selfaril responded. “Spy on him, kill him, whatever you desire. Just don’t waste my time with it.”

  “Yes, your majesty,” the captain of the Hawks answered dutifully. “And the Tharchioness? Does the same hold true for her?”

  “No, Rickman,” the High Blade responded with a lascivious grin as he recalled the night before. “I’m not quite finished playing with her just yet.”

  In the chambers of the First Princess of Thay

  in the Tower of the Wyvern:

  “Your majesty,” the fearful ambassador hesitantly interrupted the Tharchioness’s late morning meal. She had awakened to find her husband already departed from their bed, and was not in a very good mood at all.

  “What is it, worm?” she spat back with the venom of a recently disturbed cobra.

  “You requested an update, your majesty … from our spies?”

  The beautifully evil Tharchioness stood up, towering over the gelatinous bulge of her obsequious ambassador, spitting back: “And?”

  “Well, your majesty,” the ambassador replied, trying to maintain some composure while averting his eyes from hers, only to find them now locked on the satin V of her gown, and the ample breast that rested behind it. “Rumor has it that a group of riders were seen outside Southroad Keep on the early morning after the night of the abduction. Other sources indicate that there is a new prisoner in the keep’s dungeon.”

  “Has anyone been dispatched to verify the identity of this prisoner?”

  “Yes, y-y-y-your majesty,” the ambassador stuttered, “but according to an easily bribed guard named Smagler, he is just a madman.”

  “And you trusted an easily bribed guard named Smagler to know the truth about an exceptionally sensitive matter like the imprisonment of the High Blade’s own twin brother?” she barked, ready to arrange for the cowering diplomat to join his predecessor in the job.

  “No your majesty,” the ambassador quickly replied, a tone of pleading in his voice. “I then sent another of our spies to verify the identity of this madman, and see for himself. So he gained access to the dungeon, and snuck a peek into the new prisoner’s cell.”

  “And.…? You try my patience! What did he look like? Was he the High Blade’s twin?”

  “We do not know, your majesty,” the ambassador said meekly.

  “What do you mean we do not know? Was our spy captured?”

  “No, your majesty. I just finished debriefing him.”

  “Well, what then?”

  “It was the prisoner, your majesty.”

  “What about him? What did he look like?” she interrogated, losing her temper, and pummelling the pudgy ambassador with closed fists about his bald head and stooped shoulders. “I don’t see what could have been so hard. The High Blade is the most recognizable of all this city’s wretches!”

  “He wore a mask, your majesty. A magically resistant, iron mask,” the ambassador cried between sobs and moans of pain. “No matter how hard my spy tried, he just couldn’t penetrate its ensorcellments.”

  The Tharchioness instantaneously regained her composure.

  “He must be our prisoner, or else there can be no reason why my loving husband would be obscuring his identity.”

  “My spy also observed that the mask seemed to have a magical dampening effect within, as well as without.”

  The Tharchioness chuckled sinisterly.

  “My husband has always been uneasy around magic. It is only to be expected that he would hobble the abilities of the mage-in-training.”

  With her fingertips, the First Princess gently massaged the tattoos that adorned the left side of her completely bald pate.

  “The fact that his identity is concealed from the outside world is a point in our favor. It indicates that my dear husband is uneasy about his presence, and has no desire for his lovely citizens of Mulmaster to be made aware of it. We too must keep the existence of his brother secret.” The Tharchioness turned and faced her ambassador who was regaining his composure after the physical interrogation that he had just been put through. “What of your spy?” she inquired calmly.

  “I killed him,” the ambassador replied, adding, “You stressed that absolute secrecy must be maintained, your majesty.”

  “Good,” the Tharchioness agreed. “For the time being, secrecy must be maintained at all costs. Leave, worm. Your presence nauseates me.”

  “Yes, your majesty,” the ambassador replied obsequiously, as he backed out of her ladyship’s private chambers, dreading the day when his own usefulness would no longer outweigh the Tharchioness’s desire for secrecy.

  In the Dungeon of Southroad Keep:

  Rassendyll looked at his strange visitor.

  The dwarf seemed inordinately cheerful for a prisoner in a dungeon, or at least so thought the imprisoned young mage. Perhaps he was a spy.

  The dwarf spoke again.

  “I can’t see your eyes with that funny coal bucket on your head, but I still think I can tell what you’re thinking. You’re probably saying to yourself, ‘Self, who is this crazy old coot?’ Well, I already answered that question, but I don’t mind repeating myself. My name is Hoffman, and I am formerly of the Seventh Dwarven Abbey—of which I was senior abbot and protector of the legendary Seal of Robert, I might add—and I have been a prisoner down here for quite a long time, since before something that someone told me happened, the Time of Tremors, or something.”

  “You mean the Time of Troubles,” the masked prisoner corrected.

  “I might do, I might do,” the dwarf assented. “You’re probably also asking yourself, ‘Self, can I trust this crazy old coot? Is he a spy? Is he a madman?’ Well the answers to those questions in order are : yes, no, and maybe. The Seventh Dwarven Abbey was attacked by Zhent agents, and I alone survived. Once I had ascertained the safety of the Seal, I came to Mulmaster in search of help. The powers that be claimed I was a spy, threw me in the dungeon, and forgot about me. It is a fate worthy of a sole survivor … in a cosmic sense. Don’t you agree?”

  “I’m not sure,” Rassendyll responded, not realizing the apparent similarity of their situations.

  “Now what did a fine youn
g fellow like yourself do to wind up in a place like this?” Hoffman quickly inquired.

  “I don’t know,” Rassendyll replied, “and how do you know if I’m young or not?”

  The dwarf started to laugh.

  “Heckuba,” Hoffman swore between guffaws, “just about everyone around here is young compared to me.”

  Unexpectedly, the dwarf’s laughter was quickly halted and replaced by a racking cough that seemed to shake the former abbot’s entire body. Rassendyll immediately came over to him in hopes of casting a spell to help him, but quickly realized he was unable to, and instead settled on putting his arm around the dwarf and helping him into a recline on the floor of the cell.

  As soon as the coughing fit seemed to subside, Hoffman cocked his head to the side as if to listen for something, and said in an urgent whisper, “Quickly, the guards are coming, and they mustn’t discover me here or it will go badly for both of us. I must return to my cell. Help me over to the tunnel, and return the stone to its place blocking it. I promise to return shortly, once the coast is clear.”

  Rassendyll helped the old and now obviously infirm dwarf over to the tunnel, through which the visitor quickly scurried. The masked prisoner had no sooner replaced the stone to its proper location, when a light was flashed through the small window in the cell’s door.

  “You there,” a stern voice bellowed, “take your plate or go hungry, madman. Whatever you choose doesn’t matter to me.”

  The light remained in the window, while Rassendyll crawled on hands and knees to the door. A plate had been placed at its base, and the young mage was barely able to reach it through a narrow slot in the door. The guard moved on as he began to eat. The food was rancid, and probably the most inedible sustenance that he ever encountered in his entire cloistered life, but as it had been over two days since he had last eaten, he managed to choke it all down.

  Once his meal was over he replaced the plate through the slot at the base of the door and looked back at the stone that he had just recently put in place in hopes that the jolly gentleman with the long white beard would return as he had promised.

  In the Captain’s Quarters in Southroad Keep:

  Rickman was not amused.

  “Blough, what do you mean that itinerant thespian has disappeared?” he shouted.

  The fearful Hawk maintained his composure, even though he knew that he had just told his commanding officer information contradictory to what he wanted to hear, and repeated his report.

  “The thespian, a certain Passepout, son of Idle and Catinflas, was bailed out yesterday by person or persons unknown. After leaving the custody of the keep, he apparently disappeared. The city watch at the gate has no record of his having left Mulmaster in the past twenty-four hours, and he is not on the registry of any of the local inns. A drunkard matching his description may or may not have been at the Wave and Wink last night, but other than that we have no leads.”

  “Did you check the most recent roundup of vagrants that were picked up after tavern closing last night?”

  “Yes, sir,” the efficient Hawk replied. “I even checked with the officer on duty for last night’s round up. According to him, Lieutenant Boston, the streets were free of human debris before sunrise. If he had passed out, he would have been found, sir.”

  Rickman made a minor adjustment of his eye-patch as he was wont to do while thinking. The thespian was obviously in hiding, but why? Surely he didn’t have an inkling that his presence among the living was no longer desired by the Mulmaster powers that be. Where could he be?

  “When he arrived in Mulmaster was he alone, or with someone?” the one-eyed Hawk captain inquired.

  “According to the city watch officer who was on duty at the gate at that time,” Blough answered, “he was alone.”

  Rickman readjusted his eye-patch once again. Tension usually brought on a certain degree of discomfort in his now vacant eye socket, as if the missing eye had somehow returned with an exceptionally annoying feeling of irritation and itchiness.

  No stone must go unturned, the captain of the Hawks thought to himself, or the High Blade will have my head.

  “Are there any other aliens who have arrived in Mulmaster within the last three days?” he demanded.

  “I assume you mean above and beyond the normal merchants who travel in and out of the city like clockwork, paying the necessary duties as they sign in and out on schedule.”

  The captain of the Hawks answered with a quick nod.

  “Well, there is the entire entourage of the First Princess of Thay,” Blough answered, adding, “and because of their diplomatic immunity, none of them had to register …”

  Great, Rickman thought to himself, the High Blade will have my head for sure.

  “… and there is one other,” the efficient Hawk added, “a travel writer by the name of Volothamp Geddarm. According to the city watch on duty at the gate, he left Mulmaster early this morning, but has maintained his accommodations of two adjoining rooms at the Traveler’s Cloak Inn for at least an additional week, paid in advance.”

  Volothamp Geddarm, the captain of the Hawks repeated to himself. Why does that name sound familiar?

  Miss Alliances

  At the Retreat:

  Volo did exactly as the voice he now recognized as female instructed, dropping the blade from his hand, and moving his arms away from his sides, palms out and empty. All of this was done slowly and carefully, without any sudden movements.

  The master traveler of all Faerûn (if not all Toril) had no desire to drown in his own blood.

  “Spread your legs further apart,” she ordered.

  “Glad to,” the master traveler answered, complying. As he felt a slight decrease in the pressure against the blade that was still resting against his throat, he slowly tried to turn his head so as to get a look at the fellow visitor to the slaughterhouse that had been known as the Retreat.

  “Eyes forward!” she barked.

  “Sorry,” he answered, once again complying, as he felt a deft hand giving him a practiced body frisk.

  Volo, in an attempt to ingratiate himself with the overly cautious woman, started to volunteer certain information about what he was holding. “I have a bando—”

  “Quiet!”

  “Sorry.”

  Her practiced hands undid the bandolier of blades that the master traveler always had concealed under his cloak, dropping it to the ground. She also quickly removed several of his other concealed surprises (though missing a few that the master traveler thought better of volunteering).

  The frisking done, the mystery woman made a strange request.

  “Remove your hat,” she ordered, “and do it slowly.”

  Volo slowly followed her instructions, eyes still forward, and legs still spread apart. With beret in hand, he felt her hand gently tug at his beard, and run through the flowing locks that covered the top of what he thought to be considered as one of the more handsome heads of Faerûn.

  “Well, at least I don’t have to worry about you being one of those murderous wizards from Thay,” she said. “You can turn around, but very slowly, hands still away from the sides of your body, and no funny stuff.”

  “Gladly, my dear,” Volo answered in his most charming tone, as he slowly turned around to face the woman who had come very close to slitting his throat. “Your wish is my command.”

  She was slightly taller than the master traveler himself, and was attired in a garb more suited to a ranger than the ravishing beauty that she was. Her tight leathers enveloped an obviously well endowed and maintained figure, and her flowing brown hair seemed to reach the base of her back, barely obscuring the long sword that was sheathed behind her.

  Drawing on his extensive knowledge of all things public, and most things private and secret in Faerûn, Volo hazarded a jibe.

  “Is that a long sword,” he asked with a light gesture from his left hand, then added jovially, “or are you just happy to see me?”

  The female ranger ign
ored the double entendre, and answered simply, “What if it is?”

  “Then Storm Silverhand sends her regards,” the master traveler responded, “as I assume that I am addressing Chesslyn Onaubra.”

  “How do you know the legendary bard of Shadowdale?” she interrogated.

  “Know her,” Volo quickly answered, trying appear more at ease than he really was. “I’ve stayed at her farm on numerous occasions.” He then quickly changed the subject, shifting focus back to the armed and deadly woman who was standing in front of him. “Rumor has it that you can hurl that long sword for a distance of up to fifty feet. How much of an exaggeration is that?”

  “It isn’t an exaggeration,” she replied, letting her guard drop ever so slightly. “And what is the name of this loquacious friend of Storm Silverhand’s who seems to know so much about me?”

  Volo quickly replaced his beret, which sat atop his head just long enough so that he could once again remove it with a flourish and a bow saying, “Volothamp Geddarm, master traveler of all Faerûn, at your service.”

  The Harper secret agent known as Chesslyn Onaubra shook her brown locks with a guarded laugh and an amused chuckle and said, “I should have known.” Extending a hand of friendship to the master traveler, she added, “And what brings the master traveler and scourge of the dopplegangers to the Moonsea?”

  “A new book,” he answered, jovially accepting the Harper’s proffered hand, “what else? Though it would appear that more is going on here than would usually be included in one of my travel guides.”

  “Agreed,” Chesslyn assented seriously, withdrawing a blood-stained crystal wand from her pack and holding it up for the master gazetteer to examine.

  The Office of the High Blade

  in the Tower of the Blades:

  “Sire,” Rickman cautiously interrupted, “a word with you if I may?”

  “What is it Rickman?” the High Blade answered impatiently. The rigors and demands of dealing with the lesser nobles who, in the eyes of the people, really ruled the city, always left him in a bad mood, and he always saw interruptions to his business affairs as merely means to prolong his own bureaucratic misery.