The Mage in the Iron Mask

by Brian Thomsen

  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.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He returned without the wand. He claimed that he couldn’t find it, even though they were clearly told where it had been left. The other Hawk, a weasel named Wattrous, appears to have deserted. No doubt he realized the penalty for failure. A price has been put on his head, and I expect to have it on my mantle shortly.”

  “Good.”

  “Before his sentence was meted out, Jembahb did mention running into a thief on the way back to Mulmaster who claimed to have been paralyzed by a great and powerful wizard whose appearance matches the description of that writer Geddarm. Unfortunately the incompetent failed to bring him in. I have men patrolling the area with orders to retrieve him.”

  “That will have to do,” the High Blade acknowledged, not happy with many of the implications.

  “As to the incriminating evidence of Thayan involvement in the slaughter at the Retreat, I have dispatched another assignment of Hawks to scour the place, and then burn it to the ground. If we are unable to find that which we seek, we will at least remove any evidence that might incriminate us in the unpleasant matters that have taken place there.”

  “Indeed,” Selfaril acknowledged, “it would appear that at the present time we will have to settle for a return to the status quo as a temporary victory.”

  “Unfortunately,” the captain said, his eyes downcast in shame, “I am afraid that I will have to agree with you.”

  “It amounts to a stalemate with my mate, and I hate stalemates almost as much as I hate her.”

  Off the Road

  Twixt Mulmaster and the Retreat:

  Honor Fullstaff arose from his slumbers, and stretched, noticing the warming rays of the already risen sun. He hadn’t intended on sleeping so long (despite the fact that he always did), and, blaming it on his sumptuous meal of the night before (which was no more sumptuous than his normal dinner fare) resolved to make better use of his early morning hours on the morrow (a daily resolution), and perhaps partake of an predawn walk that might help to reduce his physical bulk that he feared was rapidly going to flab.

  Fullstaff rubbed his eyes, stretched again, and scratched his still solid chest, his finger combing the wooly vest of his chest hair

  “Hal! Poins!” he summoned his servants. “Fetch my robe, my jug, and my sword!”

  A twin chorus of “Yes, milord!” was heard in the antechamber followed by the scurrying of slippered feet, scampering in pursuit of their master’s wishes.

  Hal arrived first and helped the six-foot-six former gladiator into his robe, then quickly exited to fetch his master’s sword. Poins immediately took his place, and handed over the jug of ale to the former captain of the Hawks so that he could slake his thirst after his long night’s respite.

  Fullstaff drained the jug in four gulps, and held it out to be received by Poins, whose unburdened hands had tied his master’s robe so that it would no longer flap open and possibly impede his swordsmanship.

  After a hearty belch, the master tutor of all things swordsmanlike reached out and grasped the broadsword that Hal held out to him, and quickly began to twirl it as if it were no larger than a throwing dagger. The two servants, following their strict routine for this time of day, quickly took four steps back to allow their master room to move and maneuver.

  Once Fullstaff had achieved a certain centrifugal force with the massive broadsword swirling in one hand, he reached out with the other and quickly flipped the sword from his right hand to his left, without interrupting the baton-like swirling of the massive broadsword.

  “Now!” he instructed, and the two servants jointly hurled a second broadsword at the master, which he quickly caught with his right hand, and immediately started to twirl in the opposite direction.

  The muscles on the arms of the over sixty-year-old veteran of many a battle, stretched and firmed at the joyous exertion a
nd strain, as Fullstaff’s jaw became set and tightened into a grin that emphasized both the physical trial, and the adrenal ecstasy that the master swordsman was feeling. Faster and faster the blades flew through the air, twirling and twirling with their orbits intersecting like the gears of a gnomish machine as Fullstaff swapped them from hand to hand, their twirling never stopping, their blades never making contact with each other.

  Faster and faster the master swordsman drilled, until a single bead of sweat began to make its appearance on his forehead.

  “Halt!” he ordered, as he brought both blades to a simultaneous standstill, his shoulder muscles almost spasming at the added exertion that was required to stop their rapid motion.

  As was typical of this daily ritual, Fullstaff had stopped their movement in mid-twirl, and had finished with the two broadswords crossed, barely one inch apart, elbows at his sides, arms crossed back at the wrists, and the blades resting a fraction of inch from the master swordsman’s vein-mottled nose.

  Without a word from their master, the two well-trained servants quickly stepped forward, and each accepted a broadsword. They then reverentially placed them in their scabbards, and fetched the next two weapons the master needed.

  Poins handed Fullstaff a saber, as Hal placed a dagger in his master’s palm.

  Brandishing the saber he made a series of practice slashes from side to side as he tossed the dagger hilt-over-blade several times, his head never moving from its eyes-forward placement as the blades flew through the air like well-practiced falcons.

  “Now!” he instructed, and the two servants threw a melon and an apple at the master.

  The melon was slashed in two, while the dagger claimed the apple, catching it fast to the point. Fullstaff paused for a fraction of a second while the two servants once again stepped forward, this time to retrieve the two melon halves.

  They were no sooner back in their place than the master swordsman tossed the dagger-bisected apple into the air and quickly slashed it in mid-flight, chopping the apple in two, and freeing the dagger blade from its fructose prison. As the two halves of the apple fell to the ground, he plucked the simultaneously falling dagger out of the air, catching it twixt two fingers on its blade point.

  This was followed by similar drills with rapiers, epees, axes, and scimitars. As the pile of sliced fruit grew, so did the beads of sweat on the master swordsman’s brow.

  The final drill involved a complicated sword maneuver where Fullstaff caught ten daggers thrown one at a time by the two servants twixt the blades of two sabers, being careful to nick nary a blade, nor allowing any of them to make contact with the ground.

  When the drill was over, Fullstaff had five daggers in each hand, as well as the saber securely brandished therein.

  “Enough!” the master swordsman announced, and Hal and Poins quickly accepted the many bladed weapons from their master. As Poins gathered up the lethal practice weapons, Hal fetched a towel, and wiped his master’s brow.

  “That felt wonderful!” the former gladiator exclaimed. He loved the feeling of sweat on his brow and his chest, and revelled in the scent of his own manly perspiration. “Well done fellows! Well done!”

  The two servants bowed as was their routine. They were as practiced at Fullstaff’s mid-morning workout as the master swordsman was himself. Neither said a word throughout all the maneuvers, realizing that a single distraction, mistake or slip could cause either their own injury or death or that of the master they loved dearly.

  Fullstaff slipped out of his robe, and toweled off his bare and glistening chest. Poins was in place with a heavier robe, while Hal set a pair of sandals at his feet.

  Robe-clad and belted, feet shod in sandals, the master swordsman stretched again.

  “I think I’ll sit outside while Hotspur finishes his breakfast preparations,” he bellowed in a friendly tone.

  “As you wish, milord,” they said in unison.

  Poins quickly made his escape to aid Hotspur in the kitchen, while Hal led their blind master to his favorite seat, out by the villa’s gate.

  The sun’s rays were warm and glorious as it neared its peak above the horizon. The master swordsman took his place as if on guard duty for his morning vigil of solar absorption, the warm rays reflecting on his still glistening body.

  The Tharchioness’s Boudoir in the

  Tower of the Wyvern:

  The First Princess had risen in solitude hours after the First Blade had stolen from their chambers like a thief in the night. She was glad that he was gone, and hoped that her labors of the previous evening had not been for naught.

  The High Blade was always under the mistaken impression that she never rose before the noon hour, and she had no intention of disabusing him of this notion. She had always asked not to be disturbed until then, and he had naturally assumed that it was the sanctity of her slumbers that she wished to preserve.

  Such was not the case.

  Her mornings in Mulmaster betwixt the hour of her husband’s departure and her own appearance at the midday meal were important, as they were the hours that she set aside for planning and consultation with her own advisors.

  The High Blade’s courtiers gossiped among themselves about the many frequent visitors to the First Princess’s boudoir, and she did little to discourage them. Their assumptions of promiscuity shielded her from their possible detection of her seditious plans, and did little to elevate their opinions of the High Blade who they now saw as just another simple cuckold toyed with by his opportunistic wife.

  A cautious series of knocks at the door indicated that her advisors had arrived. Slipping into her sheer silk robe, she went to the door and bade them enter.

  The ambassador that she referred to as a corpse worm (and who she assumed would be executed at her whim sometime prior to her return to Eltabbar) led the group of three into her boudoir.

  The three males did their best to avert their eyes from the partially open silken robe that did little to hide the beauty of the form that resided beneath it. Mischa Tam, the only female among the advisors, noticed their discomfort and made subtle eye contact with her superior and shared a silent laugh with the Tharchioness who considered such silly prudishness to be hypocritical at best.

  The First Princess rearranged her silken wrap cinching it at her waste. She had no desire to provide any of her advisors with an excuse for not devoting their full attention to the matters at hand, even when such things did provide the Tharchioness and her female companion with much amusement. “Reports,” she commanded.

  “Perhaps you would prefer to wait for the arrival of breakfast …” the wormlike ambassador began to suggest, but quickly changed gears in response to the Tharchioness’s withering stare. “As you wish, your majesty. It would appear that the High Blade’s men have been unsuccessful on three charged accounts and men have been executed as a result.”

  The Tharchioness licked her lips as if savoring some rare delicacy. “I can always count on my husband being just as demanding as I am,” she replied to no one in particular.

  “Yes, your majesty,” the ambassador continued. “Their continued search for the body of the prisoner has turned up naught, and they have accepted that it will never be recovered.”

  “Thus we are back to square one.”

  “Yes, your majesty,” the worm continued quickly, “though the High Blade has also ordered a search for a certain thespian named Passepout and a travel writer named Volothamp Geddarm. There have been vague suspicions that these two might be related to the prisoner in some way.”

  “Hmmmn,” the Tharchioness muse. “Find out more. I want them located and apprehended before my husband gets his sweaty hands on them.”

  “Wh …” the ambassador began to question, then thought better of it. “Yes, your majesty.”

  “You may leave,” the Tharchioness instructed.

  The ambassador became flustered, and said, “But there is more to report.”

  “The others will see to it.”


  The ambassador understood now that he was the only one being sent away, and almost asked for permission to stay for breakfast, but thought better of it.

  “Yes, your majesty,” the worm acknowledged, backing out of the boudoir in an almost ludicrous series of bows and abasements.

  When he had left, the Tharchioness broke into peals of derisive laughter that was soon augmented by that of her advisors. The sheer grossness of the overt cowardice of the ambassador had set the rest of the group at ease, and they were now prepared to get down to work.

  “Now that we’re alone, we can proceed,” the Tharchioness announced.

  “What about our new ambassador?” Minister Konoch inquired. “I fear that he is no more capable than his predecessors.”

  “Exactly,” the Tharchioness replied, “and he will therefore be the perfect scapegoat, should my beloved husband become suspicious.”

  “Or if we fail,” added Mischa Tam, with a grin that suggested the cat who had just swallowed the canary. “Szass Tam is even more an enemy of failure and incompetence than you are, First Princess.”

  “Indeed,” the Tharchioness replied, now slightly ill-at-ease.

  On the Road Back to Mulmaster

  from the Retreat:

  Upon completing a thorough examination of the Retreat’s grounds, Volo and Chesslyn had decided to pass the night together before heading back to Mulmaster in order to allow the Hawks Jembahb and Wattrous a wide berth on the road, thus assuring their own safety and anonymity. Both the master traveler and the Harper agent had ample experience doing things that would hedge their bets in order to maintain their secrets. In their respective lines of work their continued survival often depended on it.

  With the first rays of dawn, the two packed their kits and prepared to set off for Mulmaster. As Chesslyn swung herself into her saddle she asked her new found riding partner, “Did you encounter anyone on the way here?”