“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.
Realizing that his slight desire to nibble and sample did not warrant the risk of a sip of cleaning water or boiled leather, Fullstaff left the kitchen, and followed his long-memorized route to his practice studio.
Undoing his robe, he bellowed loud enough to be heard throughout the entire villa, “Hal! Poins! It’s time for my afternoon practice session. Hurry up boys! I want to be finished with enough time left so that I can take a bath before my company arrives!”
I’m sure Master McKern will appreciate it, Hotspur thought to himself, as well as anyone else caught down wind.
The soft padding of slippered feet, followed by several huffs and puffs and the clash of steel, let the dwarf know that practice had begun, and that the ladle could be returned to its proper place, the risk of nibblers now nil, as the chronic perpetrator was otherwise engaged.
In the Apartment in
the Tower of the Wyvern
that the High Blade shared with his Wife:
“The First Princess of Thay approaches,” a eunuch elven herald announced.
“Well, it’s about bloody time,” the High Blade hissed to the captain of the Hawks, who was stationed at his side. “She knows I hate to be kept waiting, particularly in my own home.”
“Unfortunately, your majesty, it is her home as well,” Rickman whispered in return. “The fact that it annoys you is probably why she does it.”
The doors to the suite flew open with a slight push of mystical wind, and Selfaril and Rickman stood up to receive the Tharchioness, who entered flanked by her lady-in-waiting, Mischa Tam.
“Darling,” the Tharchioness cooed, her arms open to receive her husband. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“You, my dear,” Selfaril replied with all the sincerity of a polygamist professing his chastity, “are always worth waiting for.”
The two met, once again in the room’s center, and exchanged their requisite kisses that never involved their lips actually touching each other.
Selfaril was the first to resume insincere spousal blandishments. “If all women looked like you after sleeping in all morning,” he expounded, “all of the men of Faerûn would gladly forego having their breakfast made for them.”
“A simple woman such as myself,” the Tharchioness replied, “has few duties more important than maintaining her desirability in the eyes of her husband. I only regret that it denies me the pleasure of your company when I awake. An empty bed is a poor follow-up to a sleep of dreams.”
“I am sorry, dear, but you know that duty demands that I attend to affairs of state even before the cock crows.”
“And after, and during,” the Tharchioness replied, adding, “With all of your duties, one might think you could do with a respite … or perhaps a retreat?”
“If only I could spare the time,” Selfaril countered shrewdly, then, with an expansive gesture toward the her lovely half sister, added, “You are blessed with the lovely Mischa Tam as a sister. I, alas have no one to substitute for me. After all, it’s not as if I had a brother to call my own.”
“Such an idea,” the Tharchioness replied. “I don’t think I would be able to stand it. One of you is heaven. Two of you would be …”
“Interesting?” he interrupted.
“A challenge,” she replied, her hand beginning to play with a Thayan pendant that hung around her neck, thus drawing her husband’s attention yet again to her desirably ample cleavage.
“Well met,” he replied.
The two spouses stared into each other’s eyes, both conveying their animal attraction, and cunningly trying to read the other’s mind. Their desires were so similar, and they both knew it. It was a pity that their ultimate goals were mutually exclusive.
A courtier approached Rickman and whispered in his ear.
“Your majesty,” the captain interrupted, “various envoys await your and the princess’s arrival in the antechamber. They bear gifts and petitions from far-off lands and important companies.”
“Must we?” the Princess asked her husband with a pout.
“We must,” he replied with a restrained leer.
“Than we shall,” she answered, and arm-in-arm they entered the antechamber, doors forced open by the gentle yet powerful breezes that were conjured by the Tharchioness.
Out of routine and protocol, the captain of the Hawks and the lady-in-waiting also joined arms and followed them inside, neither realizing that they were sharing similar impressed thoughts about the exceptional acting ability of their respective lord and lady.
Along the Back Roads Twixt
the Retreat and Mulmaster:
Volo and Chesslyn had been riding for hours, exchanging the idle conversation that strangers sometimes engaged in when they wanted to appear more at ease with one another than they really were. Conversation of the slaughter at the retreat, and the mysterious goings on in the Mulmaster area, soon gave way to tales of youth and adventure far from current shores.
The route that Chesslyn had chosen lengthened their journey by at least half a day, and as the sun began to make its descent towards the horizon the master traveler decided it was time to query his traveling companion about their possible accommodations for the night.
“Well, I must thank you for this marvelous impromptu tour of the Mulmaster area back roads and byways,” the master traveler said. “I’d label it the scenic route, but unfortunately there’s not much to look at.”
“We agreed that it wasn’t worth the risk being seen together, given where we were coming from, and all that has happened,” the Harper agent admonished.
“Yes, yes,” the master traveler agreed amiably, then added with a leer. “I’ll call it the ‘Lover’s Route.’ ”
“The Lover’s Route?” she asked, giggling with an air of incredulity.
“Sure,” the master traveler replied, “the route one takes when wants to be alone … or perhaps when one wants the circumstances to dictate an unexpected extra night on the road. Which reminds me, you mentioned that you knew a place that would provide us with discreet overnight accommodations.”
“Indeed, I did,” she answered assuredly, “and discretion is guaranteed.”
“My! A place out here in the middle of nowhere, where we don’t have to worry about being seen together,” Volo answered, taking his own turn at mock incredulity.
“Not by the lord of the manor, at least,” she added. “What’s that?”
Chesslyn smiled, and explained. The road had leveled off slightly, and she seemed to be able to trust her steed to lead itself along the intended route.
“Have you ever heard of Blind Honor?” she asked.
“Sure,” the master gazetteer replied, then paused for a moment, and ventured an explanation. “It’s when something is so sacred between two people that both are bound by honor never to reveal their—”
“It’s a person,” she interrupted.
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“Never heard of him,” he conceded.
Chesslyn threw her head back and laughed.
“Imagine that,” she declared. “I’ve stumped the master gazetteer of all Faerûn.”
“Of all Toril,” Volo corrected. “Here, let me get out my notebook. I can ride and write at the same time.”
“I don’t think so,” Chesslyn ordered, reining her horse around so that she was once again confronting the master traveler with direct eye contact. “Our discretion is mandatory. If I find a listing for the home of Honor Fullstaff in your upcoming guide to Mulmaster, I’ll …”
“Cleave me in twain,” the master traveler offered, immediately replacing his notebook in his pack before he had even finished extricating it.
“Something like that,” Chesslyn affirmed with a smile that did not undercut the seriousness of her message. The Harper agent once again righted her horse, and proceeded along a parallel path to that of the master traveler.
“Well, between just you and me, and not for publication, under any circumstances, who is this Blind Honor guy?” Volo asked, a slight bit of impatience evident in his tone.
Eyes set ahead on the trail yet to be traveled, Chesslyn began her explanation. “Simply put, Honor Fullstaff is the master swordsman of all Faerûn,” she asserted.
“So why have I never heard of him?”
“He’s been retired since before you began your illustrious career of belles lettres.”
The master gazetteer made a mental note to try to remember as many specific details about the sword wielder as possible. With any luck, he imagined, he would be able to gather corroborating information from other sources. After all, a tale told a second time nullifies a promise of silence to a former source.
“He began his illustrious career in the gladiatorial arenas of Hillsfar where coming in second leaves one with a very short career.”
“And life,” Volo added.
“I forgot that the master traveler has already been there, as well as everywhere else,” she acknowledged.
“With no clue to his true parentage,” she continued, “who probably either died in the arena before he came of age, or on some oppressive slave plantation, Honor realized at an early age that he had a natural propensity toward the mastery of all things bladed. He was on his way to an undefeated career in the arena when he led a slave revolt, thus instigating the escape of over half of Hillsfar’s gladiators.”
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