The Mage in the Iron Mask (16 page)

“Yet another one-way assignment, sir,” Roché confirmed.

“You draw up the papers and I’ll sign them,” Rickman said with a sense of finality. “It is the only way to weed out the incompetents from
this
man’s army.”

Roché returned his note pad to its proper place in
his uniform pocket, executed a perfect heel-toe pivot about-face, and silently left the office of the captain of the Hawks to carry out his master’s will.

On the Moonsea Shore:

For Rassendyll it had all seemed like a dream.

The viscous membrane that had held out the poisonous onslaught of liquid sewage during his flush-propelled journey under Mulmaster was quickly washed away by the strong Moonsea currents. Once his exodus from the sea-bound burial shroud had been successful, the sack began its weighted, one-way journey downward.

The cold sea water instantaneously inspired an adrenalin surge in the iron-helmeted prisoner, and his body began to shiver violently.

Rassendyll realized that he had no leisure moments to allow himself the luxury of the anaesthetic effects of aquatic thermal shock, and with every ounce of strength that existed in his being, he frantically kicked toward the surface. He knew he had to maintain control, for to panic was to die.

It was just as important for him to maintain a vertical position as it was to continue to scissor-kick his way surfaceward. The least deviation out of a vertical position would result in the sheer weight of the iron mask dragging his body downward head first. With the weight centered on his shoulders, his neck muscles taut to keep his iron-encased head in place and erect, his lungs exploding from lack of air, and his arms and legs valiantly pumping him upward, the young mage concentrated his efforts on maintaining the energy upward.

The mask prevented him from feeling the air of the surface when he managed to break the Moonsea surf, and his lungs had refilled themselves with air before he consciously realized that he had made it.

The flash of recognition interrupted his stroke and at the precise moment of victory, he immediately re-submerged, the weight of the mask fighting the natural buoyancy of his body to meet a deadly equilibrium beneath the water’s surface.

Rassendyll remembered the surge of strength, a last jolt of adrenalin fueled by the two lungfuls of oxygen before he re-submerged. He remembered struggling back to the surface, frantically looking for something to hold onto, something to add to his own buoyancy to compensate for the added mass of the mask that, despite his escape from the dungeon, still threatened to be the instrument of his death sentence.

Vaguely he remembered seeing the shore in the distance, and hearing the faint sound of breakers on the shore. He remembered the despair of thinking that it was too far, his strength quickly waning, his body trembling.

He felt himself slipping into unconsciousness when a great sea mammal seemed to pass by, riding the surf shoreward.

With his last focus of energy he reached for a fin, hoping that the whale would drag him to safety like so many other sailors of Faerûn’s nautical lore.

Then he blacked out.

His ragged breathing, occasionally interrupted by coughing and the spewing of salt water, awakened him to the knowledge that somehow he had survived the trip to shore. He tried to move, and quickly regretted it, for every muscle in his body was cramped and contorted from its quest for survival, and further
agitated by the awkward posture it had wedged itself into once it had reached shore.

The iron mask had become entangled in seaweed, and had wedged itself into the sea-softened sand of the shore at an extreme angle to the rest of his body.

His entire being yearned for more time to replenish itself, and Rassendyll would probably have remained unconscious longer, had the surf not returned to reclaim its rightful place at the high tide line.

Have I been lying here for a full day? he thought, realizing that it must have been the previous day’s high tide that had delivered him to safety.

The high tide and the noble sea mammal, he recalled, trying to get his bearings, working out the kinks in his neck, and clearing away the seaweed and sand from the openings of the second shell of facial skin that the mask had become.

Rinsing his head in the shallows that would have previously brought his death, he carefully cleaned the mask and bathed as much of his face as he was able to, given the limited access afforded by the mask’s apertures.

Reluctantly his vision began to clear, and he was able to look around. He first looked to the sea, and to his relief saw only the waves, and two seagulls diving for prey.

Had I not made it, he reflected, they would probably be perched on me, their beaks searching for the tender filling that lies within the iron shell of the mask. It is better that they content themselves with their regular diet.

His thoughts suddenly turned to images of his savior, the noble whale that must have beached itself to assure him of his salvation.

If it is still alive, he thought, I must return it to the surf or it will die.

Energized with what he thought to be his debt-required duty, he looked away from the waves, toward the shore, to find the beached leviathan. Out of the corner of his eye-slit he saw a large white mass that seemed to be smaller than he remembered his albino mammalian savior to be.

Staggering to his feet, his body protesting every effort, he dragged himself toward the white blob, blinking to clear his vision.

He looked down and laughed. It was his savior, he realized, but it was no whale.

It was a man.

Rassendyll continued to laugh out loud at his own misconception, a laugh that was uncontrolled and free, the first that he had allowed himself since the moment of his abduction.

The roar of his humor, coupled with the roar of the surf, and the moist lapping of its eddies, awoke the fainted-unto-sleep Passepout, who opened his eyes and, seeing Rassendyll standing above him, quickly took on a look of abject panic and fear.

Rassendyll quickly stopped laughing, and, realizing the panic that was evident in his savior’s face, quickly said, “I mean you no harm.”

The near valiant thespian swiftly replied, “Well, that’s good. What are you doing with a coal bucket on your head?”

Rassendyll took another step closer to the still prone Passepout to assist the actor in coming to his feet. The thespian immediately misinterpreted this as a threatening act and, perhaps, a response to what the iron masked fellow inferred as an insult.

Thinking on his feet (or on his back, as it happened), the thespian quickly added, “Not that it’s unattractive, I mean to say. Of course, not everyone could carry off this look, but on you it’s quite impressive;
one might almost say ‘singular.’ ”

Rassendyll was amused by the verbal antics of the fellow, who undoubtedly had no idea that his natural buoyancy had not only saved his own life but Rassendyll’s as well, and he was certain that his face would have conveyed this grateful amusement to the dripping and corpulent gent had it not been obscured by the infernal mask.

The mask, however, did not muffle the laughter that was once again escaping his lips.

Passepout smiled, taking the masked fellow’s amusement as a good sign, and accepting his proffered hand and assistance at getting to his feet.

“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?”