The Mage In The Iron Mask n-4

by Brian M. Thomsen

  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 young 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?

  4

  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 Faerun (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, a
nd run through the flowing locks that covered the top of what he thought to be considered as one of the more handsome heads of Faerun.

  "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 Faerun, 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 ignored 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 Faerun, 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.

  "In private, sire?" the captain of the Hawks whispered with a degree of urgency.

  "As you will," the High Blade assented, and quickly dispersed the nonessential politicians with whom he had been dealing with quick directions. "Leave me now," he ordered brusquely, "and don't return until you have a concrete plan for restoring our navy in half the time you are currently projecting."

  "Yes, sire," the nobles all said in unison, though the looks on their faces indicated that such a task was almost impossible, and that they would be spending the next few weeks avoiding the High Blade in order to dodge his wrath when he discovered their gross failings. They quickly fled the office of their supreme commander.

  "Well, that should keep them out of my hair for a while," the High Blade said with a fiendish chuckle. "Now what did you deem to be so important that it was worth incurring my ire by interrupting the second most unpleasant part of my day?"

  "The second, sire?"

  "The first being waking up to discover myself next to the Tharchioness, who still happens to be breathing."

  "Yes, sire," Rickman acknowledged, quickly returning to the matter at hand. "In an effort to, how shall I say, tie up all of the loose ends, I am afraid that I have discovered one that is not all that easy to tie up."

  "How so?"

  "That thespian who was released yesterday."

  "Yes?" demanded the High Blade, beginning to loose patience.

  "We can't locate him."

  The High Blade could barely contain the rage that had been building within him since he had first discovered his wife's plot against him. The captain of the Hawks hastened to continue his debriefing.

  "My spies have narrowed down the source of his sanctuary to two possible allies in the city."

  "So he is still in Mulmaster?" Selfaril asked. "Are you sure of this?"

  "The city watch at the gate is quite confident he has not left the city walls since his release from Southroad Keep."

  "Well that is a small consolation," the High Blade acknowledged. "Who are these possible allies? Spies and agents within the city perhaps? Maybe a Harper agent?"

  "No, your majesty," Rickman replied with great confidence and surety. "My sources are quite confident that organizations such as the Harpers and their ilk have no presence within the city walls of Mulmaster. The Cloaks constantly scan the area with their psionic surveillance, and have always come up empty. Harper interference is the least of our problems."

  "Go on," the High Blade instructed, relieved that one of his fears was unfounded, though still perturbed by the amount of dancing around the truth that Rickman seemed to be doing. "So who are these potential allies of this common itinerant thespian whom your men saw fit to release?"

  Rickman tried to skip over the reference to the incompetence of his men and continued. "Since we have safely ruled out all normal residential city inhabitants, this reduces our suspects to recent arrivals to the city."

  "Agreed."

  "Unfortunately, your majesty, our most likely candidate is one of your wife's people, or more specifically someone in her entourage."

  Selfaril's composure began to slip again.

  "You mean this so-called harmless itinerant thespian was a Thayan spy!" he shouted, confident that the soundproof walls of his office prevented anyone from eavesdropping. "Your men released from their custody a Thayan spy!"

  "No, your majesty," Rickman quickly tried to explain. "What I meant to say was that your wife's people, for some reason presently unknown to us, might be offering him refuge."

  Selfaril winced at Rickman's repeated use of the phrase "your wife's," but continued his interrogation nonetheless.

  "You said there were two possible allies for the thespian within the city. Who is the other one?"

  "A writer of some renown who arrived at the city the day after the thespian. One Volothamp Geddarm, guide book author and world traveler," the captain of the Hawks explained. "Curiously enough, he seems to have secured himself accommodations for two, though the city watch reported that he entered the city alone."

  "Well, have him arrested," Selfaril ordered matter-of-factly. "If he knows the location of your harmless thespian, we'll no doubt get it out of him with torture. If not, we will at least have succeeded in ridding Faerun of one more annoyance. If there is one thing worse than an itinerant actor, it's an itinerant writer. Believe me, he won't be missed."

  "Unfortunately, at least according to the city watch, it would appear that he has already left the city, though there is every indication that he plans on returning as he has maintained his lodgings at the Traveler's Cloak Inn, paid in advance."

  Selfaril fingered his carefully coifed beard with a neatly manicured fingernail that he kept sharp enough to draw blood.

  "Issue a warrant for his arr
est and for the thespian as well," the High Blade ordered. "Search his lodgings immediately and confiscate his belongings. If anyone asks what he is suspected of, be vague, but leave the implication that they are both involved with a plot to kill my dear sweet wife, just to make it interesting."

  "Yes, your majesty," Rickman replied, admiring the deceitful mastery that the High Blade choreographed as he tightened the noose around the Thayan bitch's neck. "And are there any new instructions concerning your brother, sire?"

  The High Blade gave his second a glare that could only be described as a death look.

  "Rickman," Selfaril said in an ominously controlled voice, "you are quite valuable to me, but not so valuable that I would hesitate having you permanently removed in a millisecond should the mood strike me. It would be in your best interest to refrain in the future from the use of any familial terms in my presence. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, your majesty," Rickman replied, his lone eye averted and downcast.

  "As for the prisoner," Selfaril concluded, "there are no new orders. I can't imagine that we will have to keep him alive much longer. Soon he will be used to embarrass the Tharchioness by exposing her seditious plot, and after that, he will be disposed of. For the time being, he's harmless, and he's not going anywhere."

  At the Traveler's Cloak Inn:

  Passepout, though he had slept well past the midday point, was still quite groggy, and slightly queasy from the previous night's merriment.

  A sensible individual would probably have taken things easy, until his hangover had passed. Unfortunately the chubby thespian's mammoth appetite had no desire to be ruled by common sense, and as a result Passepout soon found himself in the dining room placing a food order that at once combined the sustenance and bulk of a midnight snack, breakfast, brunch, and lunch.

  "You'll be sorry," the usually understanding and accommodating Dela advised.

  The chubby thespian just harumphed back at her, trying to clear his head of the miasma of Morpheus, and paying no mind to the worldly wisdom offered by the best hostler in all Mulmaster.