At the Retreat:
"Where did you find that?" Volo asked the lovely Chesslyn.
"Over by the ugly monk's body, out by the gate," she replied. "It's obviously Thayan in origin. That's why I checked your head for tattoos. I thought you might be one of those Red Wizard murderers."
"So you believe that this mass slaughter was the product of a Thayan invasion?"
"That's what it looks like to me," she replied.
Volo fingered his beard and thought for a moment. The master traveler was no stranger to matters of bloodshed and the like, having survived numerous deadly altercations on his journeys around Toril. Pteramen, murderous Mazticans, and deadly dopplegangers-he had survived them all.
"That still doesn't explain why there was no sign of a struggle," he asserted, suspicious of the circumstances at hand. "Though the elders of the Retreat welcomed all refugees, I see little reason that they would open their gates to an armed contingent of Red Wizards. I-"
"Quiet!" she hushed with great urgency. "I hear horses. We'd better hide."
Volo looked from side to side, and then at his trusty steed.
"What should I do with him?" he inquired in a whisper.
"In here," she instructed, quickly leading him to a shed, then explaining, "It's where I put my horse when I heard you coming."
"If you heard me coming, why didn't you respond to my whistle?"
"Later," she answered.
When they had stowed the master traveler's horse next to that of the secret Harper agent, they closed the doors, and took a ladder up to the shed's roof.
"This gives us a perfect vantage point to see and hear our new arrivals without being seen or heard ourselves," Chesslyn explained.
"Are you sure?" the master traveler asked.
"Well, it worked when I was watching you," she replied.
They had no sooner reached their vantage point when the Hawks named Wattrous and Jembahb entered the courtyard.
"Look at this mess!" Wattrous said. The older weasel-like Hawk was barely able to control the gorge that was working its way up his throat.
"What are we supposed to be looking for?" the younger and taller Hawk inquired, apparently oblivious to the stench of the rapidly rotting bodies.
"Captain Rickman said there should be something by the body of the bald guy at the gate," the shorter and senior Hawk instructed, "but there doesn't seem to be anything there."
"How did he…" Chesslyn said a little louder than Volo felt comfortable with.
"Quiet!" the master traveler hushed, then added in a whisper, "Later."
"Well, if it's not here, let's leave," Jembahb said. "This place gives me the creeps."
Volo cupped his hands together, and blowing through them, carefully made the sound of an undead specter advancing into the daylight. He could tell that Wattrous recognized the sound; the Hawk instantly became wide-eyed and frantically looked from side to side.
"Good idea," he quickly replied to his junior Hawk, valiantly trying not to show his fear, but then adding, "but you have to be the one to tell Rickman."
"No problem," Jembahb replied as they remounted their horses. "But where will you be?"
"I have business in Hillsfar," the weasel-like Wattrous quickly replied, saying the first thing that came to mind. He thought to himself, knowing how Rickman dealt with an undesirable report, maybe Hillsfar wasn't such a bad idea. Perhaps he could join the Plumes. Jembahb was a nice enough guy, trusting and naive, and would, therefore, be the perfect scapegoat for their failure to complete their mission as directed. Yes. Hillsfar would be just far enough to save his own skin.
As the two Hawks set off back for Mulmaster, the Harper secret agent and the master traveler lowered themselves from their hiding place.
The Sewers Beneath Mulmaster:
Rassendyll felt a sensation of falling rapidly through midair, which was quickly followed by the slap and splash of the weighted burial sack's contact with the rapidly moving river of sewage-spoiled waters.
The thick viscosity of the underground fluid coated the burial shroud amniotically, without managing to permeate the sack itself. As a result, as long as the masked prisoner was able to hold the top cinch of the sack tightly closed, no air was able to escape, and for at least a few brief moments Rassendyll was able to breathe within the linen-lined bubble that was cascading through the underwater tunnels of Mulmaster.
The masked prisoner realized that he had to time his escape from the sack very carefully: too soon and he would be wasting precious drops of air that he might need before finishing his journey out to sea; too late and he would find himself too far below the depths of the icy Moonsea, and long drowned before reaching the surface.
The sheer power of the sewer stream propelled the bag and its contents forward, the leaded weight that was attached to it occasionally dragging against the bottom of the downward tunnel. Battered, bruised, and bounced around, Rassendyll struggled to listen to the tell-tale tones of the burial rock that would eventually drag the sack to the sea bottom. He knew that when the sound stopped and the ride smoothed out, that the course would have changed from forward to downward, and that only seconds would remain for him to escape and head to the surface.
It was only when he turned his head to the side and felt the drag of the iron mask against the linen lining did he remember that he too would be weighted down even after he left the sack. As this moment of realization hit him, he realized that the change of course had begun.
Seeing no rational alternative, he braced himself for the liquid onslaught, opened the sack, and valiantly kicked toward the surface, the weight of the mask resting heavily upon his shoulders.
On the Shore of the Moonsea:
Passepout's head hurt.
The last thing he remembered clearly was staggering out of the Traveler's Cloak Inn, and walking down an alleyway. From there, things seemed to blur. Pressmen hitting him over the head. Passing out. Waking up on a boat. Getting sick to his stomach. Being thrown overboard.
It had not been a good day.
Somehow aided by the buoyancy of his bulk, he had managed to float ashore. The hefty thespian groaned as he rolled his bulk on to his side for a cursory survey of the area. He opened his eyes for a quick look, and closed them even more quickly than he had intended due to the glare of the sun off the surf. He felt like a beached whale after the tide had gone out.
What could go wrong now? he thought to himself.
Carefully opening his eyes again, and shielding them from the setting sun, he surveyed his surroundings, and discovered that somehow his foot had gotten entangled in a pile of rags and a metal bucket.
Shaking his foot to get it loose, he was met with a surprise: the pile of rags and the coal bucket had started to move.
The stout and brave thespian quickly returned to unconsciousness as he fainted.
PART TWO
The Swordsman, the High Blade, his Wife, and his Brother
6
In Morning The High Blade's Study in the Tower of the Wyvern:
A new day had just dawned and once again the High Blade had stolen from the connubial chamber that housed his cursed marriage bed and loathsome spouse prior to first light-in order to avoid any possibility of having to converse with his despicable bride-and proceeded to his morning meal. Slater, his valet, whose sleeping accommodations varied from night to night so as to be available at his master's first stirring, had anticipated the High Blade's impulse and had risen from the folded-down pallet outside the door of the couple's chamber prior to his master's stirring. The faithful servant held his master's silk and fur morning robe in readiness for a quick escape to the secret study where Selfaril could enjoy the early morning serenity.
Once his master was safely ensconced in his study, Slater was free to fetch the High Blade's breakfast without fear of his master being disturbed by anyone but his closest confidantes, which, of course, did not include the Tharchioness.
The sun had just peeked over the hor
izon, thus signaling the next change of the city watch, when Selfaril's breakfast arrived, not borne by Slater as he had expected, but by Rickman.
Selfaril immediately realized that the captain of the Hawks must have been bearing important information or he wouldn't have risked the High Blade's ire at having his breakfast interrupted. He also realized that the information at hand would probably not be to his liking.
"Ah, Rickman," the High Blade said, addressing his right-hand man with deprecating sarcasm, "perhaps, you are auditioning for a new position that is more in line with the limited abilities of you and your men."
The captain of the Hawks held his tongue for a moment to allow the invective that was almost on his lips to pass into silence to be replaced by a simple, "If that is what you wish, sire."
"I wish for many things," the High Blade responded, beginning to dine off the tray that the captain was carrying. Rickman's inner instinct for survival prevented him from interrupting the High Blade by placing the tray on its usual place on the table.
"I wish that I had never married that traitorous she-devil," the High Blade continued. "I wish that I had acquired Thay as my domain rather than the Tharchioness as my bride. I wish that the ineptitude of your men had not bungled away the means by which my wishes might have been fulfilled."
Rickman stood stone-still, despite the tongue-lashing that coupled the strain that the heavily laden tray was bringing to bear on his awkwardly poised forearms. He knew that the High Blade already acknowledged his own disgust with the stupidity, ignorance, and ill-luck of a few of his men who had already borne the lethal brunt of his own anger.
Having finished two eggs from which he had taken his time delicately removing the shells, Selfaril drank a draught of juice, and, with a swipe of a napkin, wiped the breakfast residue from his mouth.
"Don't just stand there holding that tray," the High Blade ordered. "Put it down and pour me a cup of coffee."
Rickman did as instructed and turned around to pour the pot.
"You may as well pour yourself a cup as well," Selfaril added, the sharpness of his tongue slowly disappearing.
"As you wish, sire," the captain of the Hawks answered, adding, "I don't mind if I do."
When he turned back to face Selfaril, and placed his cup in front of him, he noticed that the High Blade's robe had loosened when he had used the napkin, and that three apparently fresh parallel lacerations of no less than three inches each were visible on his master's bare chest. The High Blade was scratching them absently, not even realizing what he was doing until he noticed Rickman's stare.
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."
"I
t 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.
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