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 Faerun 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.
"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 Faerun."
"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 Faerun," she asserted.
"So why have I never heard of him?"
"He's been retired since befo
re 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."
"I bet the Red Plumes were none too happy."
"Not at all," she conceded, "but the powers that be realized that a band of gladiators who could engineer their own escape from the arena were probably of more value to Hillsfar as allies than as outlaws. They offered Honor and his comrades a contract as a mercenary force, and they accepted."
"Not a bad move for the former lead act for the afternoon bloodbath," Volo conceded, making a mental note to have someone check on the gladiatorial victory records for the pertinent years for the book currently underway.
"As with most mercenary bands, attrition, opportunism, and disparate goals eventually caused them to break up, and Honor accepted a position in Mulmaster, with the Hawks, where he quickly rose through the ranks, and became the right-hand man of the High Blade himself."
"Selfaril?"
"No," Chesslyn corrected, "his father."
"Whom Selfaril killed to take the throne himself," Volo interrupted, trying to show that he wasn't a complete dullard about all things Mulman.
"Right," the Harper conceded, "but you're getting ahead of the story."
"Sorry."
"Legend has it that Merch, that's what Selfaril's father's name was…"
"I'm aware of that," Volo replied in slight indignation.
"Sorry. As I was saying, Merch and Honor were said to be closer than brothers. In addition to handling the day-to-day operations of the Hawks, he also supervised the City Watch, and was responsible for the security of both the City and the High Blade himself, a turn of events that did not necessarily please the then-head of the Cloaks, an aristocratic mage by the name of Rathbone who saw the safety and security of the High Blade to be his sole responsibility. Honor's low-born background didn't help matters in the eyes of the egotistical wizard, who set about to remove the master swordsman from his position."
"You don't want to tick off a jealous wizard who feels his position is in jeopardy," the master traveler agreed.
"So Honor found out," Chesslyn confirmed, as she continued the tale. "Honor used to always supervise the forging and tempering of his own weapons, and it was on one such occasion that there was a terrible explosion. Miraculously no one was killed, but Honor was blinded beyond the limits from which any available cleric could cure."
"Thus, his new moniker: Blind Honor."
Chesslyn continued: "Rumors ran rampant through the Mulmaster court of Rathbone's complicity in the explosion, but nothing was ever proven. The Cloaks once again became responsible for the security of the High Blade, and when Honor had recovered sufficiently to get by on his own, he resigned his commission and left the city, reportedly to spend the rest of his years in retirement."
"Whatever happened to Rathbone?" the master traveler inquired, recalling that his name was not among those listed in the current Cloak registry in Mulmaster.
"He committed suicide," Chesslyn explained. "He held himself responsible for Merch's assassination. His main motive for replacing Honor, at least in his own self-justifying mind, was the overall safety of the High Blade, and when he failed to prevent the High Blade's death, I suppose he asked himself the question of whether or not it could have been avoided."
"And the answer was 'yes,' " Volo offered, "if only Honor had still been by his side."
"Rathbone was found dead in the Tower of Arcane Might. He had hung himself. Soon thereafter Thurndan Tallwand was appointed Senior Cloak, and he immediately pledged his support to the new High Blade Selfaril, and thus the transition of power was complete, at least as far as the citizens of Mulmaster were concerned."
"They didn't mind that there was a murderer on the throne?" Volo asked incredulously.
"Well," Chesslyn explained, "Merch himself was far from an angel, and the fact that Selfaril was his son was looked upon as just a slight deviation from the normal rules of ascendancy."
"That slight deviation being patricide," the master traveler commented.
"Wasn't the first time, and probably won't be the last," the Harper agent conceded.
"So the old swordsman, now blind, went into retirement, living out the rest of his days in peaceful isolation and seclusion?" Volo ventured.
"Not bloody likely," Chesslyn corrected. "One might say that he set himself up as a martial alternative to the Retreat."
"Come again?" Volo queried.
"He bought himself a villa, and set himself up clandestinely as a master teacher of the bladed arts. Usually no more than one student at a time, tenure of stay to be determined solely at Honor's discretion. His students have included kings and thieves, and their tuition has varied from debts of gratitude to villas in Cormyr."
"Not bad," Volo said. "Those who can no longer do, can at least teach. Not bad for a former master swordsman."
"I never said former," Chesslyn corrected. "He still is more than a match for anyone, with choice of bladed weapons, and as a teacher he is the best."
"That's a rousing endorsement from a master of the long sword such as yourself."
"Honor taught me everything I know," Chesslyn said reverentially, "and I'm sure he will have no problem with us stopping by for the night. He has plenty of spare rooms, and is always amenable to offer hospitality to friends of friends who can be trusted."
Chesslyn delivered her last remark with such a withering degree of seriousness that the master traveler began to think better of featuring the legendary swordsman in his upcoming guide book. Perhaps confidentiality should be preserved in some cases.
Chesslyn reined in her horse, shaded her eyes from the midafternoon glare, and scanned the horizon.
"We should be there right about sundown," she said. "Knowing Honor, he'll be out front catching the last few rays of the setting sun before sitting down to a sumptuous dinner feast. We'll be just in time to join him."
"Can't wait," the master traveler said, eager to meet the teacher who had instilled such admiration in one of his students.
8
Mates, Masks, Musk, amp; Meals In the High Blade's Study in the Tower of the Wyvern:
The conspiracy of the moment over, both threat and advantage now neutralized, Selfaril felt a palatable taste of normalcy as things returned to the status quo.
He still hated his wife, and she him.
Eltabbar and Thay were still distant opportunities and menaces for the glory of Mulmaster and the High Blade himself.
He had grown used to the game of cat and mouse that he and his bride played. It excited him more than he liked to admit, and he was sure that she felt the same way. Why else did he always feel an adrenal rush whenever she was around? What else could account for the mixed feelings of excitement and revulsion he experienced whenever she entered the room?
For him, love was an abstract concept, not at all alien, just different from that normally felt by others. It required respect; yet did not the best of enemies command respect? It caused a physical attraction, yet did not the flame attract the moth to its death?
Love and death: they were i
ntricately tied in his mind.
Looking back he remembered wanting to be like his father, the great leader who taught him by example and was revered by all his subjects; Selfaril had accomplished this goal by killing his father and taking his place.
Family was the greatest threat of all, yet he felt a certain emptiness within, almost as if something was missing. Perhaps it was the fate of his brother; could this be what had left him feeling incomplete? Though he had been assured that his twin must have drowned during his futile escape attempt, how could he be sure?
There was an emptiness inside Selfaril, an incompleteness. Less than a month ago he had not even known that his twin existed, and now the stranger was forever on his mind, and all because the sheer incompetence of his men had cost him the ecstatic pleasure of seeing his brother die.
Selfaril shook his head in remorse over the experience he had been denied. Oh well, he thought, I still have my wife…
On the Back Roads Outside of Mulmaster:
As the clouds began to move in on them, and the sun inched closer to the horizon, Rassendyll and Passepout pressed onward.
The iron-masked escapee realized that he and his overweight traveling companion would have to avoid any of the numerous Mulmaster outposts, or he would soon find himself back in the dungeons of Southroad Keep. The combination of the sand, salt, and seaweed that had taken to roost in the collarlike ring of the mask's neck piece was rubbing raw his skin adjacent to it, causing an extremely uncomfortable mixed sensation of burning and itching. As he reached the rise of the next hill, having first scanned the area to assure it was deserted, he paused once again to rub at the chafed area.
"Is your neck bothering you?" the out-of-breath thespian asked, as he too reached the rise, adding tentatively, "Why don't you just take the helmet off? I'm sure you can't be that ugly. If you don't want to be recognized, well, don't worry about me. A famous actor such as myself knows all about traveling incognito to avoid overzealous fans. I'll keep your secret, whatever it is."
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