The Mage in the Iron Mask (22 page)

“Oh, yes,” Fullstaff replied. “It will be served in my study, a place of peace and quiet and contemplation where old soldiers and old mages such as myself and McKern can regale you younger folk with tales of past heroics and derring-do. The boys are fetching our puddings now. Shall we go?”

“I’m still waiting for my wine,” a slightly cranky McKern reminded, adding, “It’s time.”

“Indeed it is,” Fullstaff agreed. “To the study we go.”

Passepout followed McKern as he hastened to the study to get a seat in one of the more comfortable chairs. Fullstaff followed, then turned back when he realized that the others were still rooted in their places at the table.

“Chesslyn, you know the way,” the host called back. “Please show your friend, and Mr. Passepout’s friend, the way.”

“Sure, Honor,” the Harper agent replied.

“Thank you for the splendid meal,” Volo called after the host.

“Nothing of it, nothing of it,” Honor called, already on his way.

“My thanks too, your lordship,” Rassendyll chorused.

Fullstaff stopped in his tracks for a moment as if he had just thought of something, but then shook his head, and called back, “As I said before,” and continued along the hallway.

“Shall we?” Chesslyn said, standing up.

“We shall,” Volo agreed, taking her arm. “Care to join us, stranger?” the master traveler asked good-naturedly.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Rassendyll answered. “And the name is Rupert, Rupert of Zenda.”

“Well met then, Rupert. I knew you weren’t from around here,” Volo replied.

“The face cover is a giveaway,” Chesslyn offered.

Volo began to finger his beard, and said, “I’ve traveled a lot, and I can’t say that I recall a place by the name of Zenda.”

“I’m not surprised,” Rassendyll answered, quickly changing the subject by saying, “I hear dessert calling. Shall we?”

“We shall,” Chesslyn and Volo said simultaneously, then looked at each other and began to laugh.

The three set off after their dining companions.

Honor Fullstaff’s study was far from what you would expect from a retired recluse’s place of contemplation, but was in keeping with the remarkable abilities of their host, at least in the minds of Rassendyll and Volo. It was a veritable arsenal of bladed weapons, decorated with all sorts of military memorabilia and commendations tastefully arrayed
in various display cases, mountings, and stands, complimented by several overstuffed chairs and numerous end tables that seemed to have been tailor-made for holding after dinner treats and cordials.

When the threesome arrived, the others had already settled into their chosen post-dinner modes. In the few minutes that had elapsed since the group had split in half, Passepout had already polished off two puddings, and had safely ensconced himself in an overstuffed settee that Volo assumed had been imported from far-off Kara Tur or possibly Zakhara to the south. The cushions reallocated themselves to support the thespian’s bulk in such a way that no doubt provided the heavyset actor with luxurious comfort, but would also hinder him from being able to right himself later on. The master traveler anticipated more than a bit of huffing and puffing on his own part when Passepout called upon him for assistance. Mage McKern was sitting in a slightly more austere throne that might have at one time functioned as a sedan chair, and was sipping a glass of dessert wine, smacking his lips in zealous appreciation after each swallow.

Honor Fullstaff was not seated, and was instead pacing around the room juggling four daggers in the air while carrying on a conversation with McKern. Volo thought he noticed their jovial host cock his head to the side slightly when they entered the room as if to signal that he had indeed sensed their presence.

“Have a seat, have a seat,” Honor heralded while not interrupting his juggling exhibition. “Anywhere will do. There’s even a double, Chesslyn, for you and your friend, though I will not tolerate it if you two ignore the rest of us for the simple pleasures of each other’s company.”

Chesslyn looked at Volo and rolled her eyes at her teacher’s misconception of their relationship, but nonetheless ushered the master traveler over to the double-seated couch.

“Pish tosh, Honor,” McKern interjected, “leave them be. And besides, all eyes in the room are on you and your magnificent manipulation of the blades.”

“Are they really?” Honor asked coyly, with a trace of a chuckle in his tone.

“Mmmmphyph,” Passepout offered, his mouth full with the start of his third pudding.

“Agreed,” said Honor, who shifted the orbit of the blades from in front of him to behind him and then back again without so much as a hesitation in his breathing.

“I am quite impressed,” Volo said to the host, “and I’ve seen quite a bit in my travels.”

“Oh, have you now,” Honor responded. “Did you hear that Mason? The young whippersnapper claims to have been around. Maybe he’s not necessarily the type of fellow who should be hanging around our Chesslyn.”

Our
Chesslyn, the Harper agent thought.

“Could be,” McKern replied, and turned to face Volo. “You seem to be a bit familiar. Perhaps we have met before?”

“Perhaps,” Volo replied carefully, adding, “after all I do get around.”

McKern gave a hearty laugh at the witty rejoinder, and then turned his attention to Rassendyll. “I was just filling Honor in on the latest goings on in Mulmaster. Evidently a prisoner has escaped, two vagabonds are being sought, and there is rumor that there is unrest in the High Blade’s marital chambers.”

Honor quickly joined in.

“McKern here is one of Mulmaster’s older Cloaks,”
Fullstaff explained, surreptitiously adding yet another blade to his juggling assortment. “We’ve known each other for years, and, in fact, both served under the previous High Blade.”

“Selfaril’s father,” Chesslyn interrupted to annotate for Volo.

“Now
there
was a High Blade,” McKern reminisced. “He wasn’t the type to go off and marry some bald-headed sorceress from the east, of that I am certain.”

“Indeed,” Fullstaff concurred. “I miss the old devil.”

The gracious and jovial host interrupted his juggling for a moment to quaff an entire goblet of the dessert wine that McKern had been slowly savoring. When the cup was empty, he removed two sabers from their stanchions and began to twirl them in close quarters.

“And you sir,” Honor said to the seated Rassendyll as he resumed the show of his expertise, “by your tone, you are either quite congested or your head is bound in blankets. Which is it?”

“The latter, your honor,” Rassendyll replied, “or at least something like that. It is the custom of my people.”

Midway through Rassendyll’s second sentence, a shocking thing occurred. There was the clang of steel on stone. Honor Fullstaff had dropped one of the blades, and was bracing the other, hilt in hand as if he was ready to deal some sort of mortal blow.

“What are you doing here?” Honor demanded of the masked and disguised escapee, the tip of his blade poised bare inches from his blanket-swathed head.

The others were speechless.

“I will not repeat the question,” Honor said drawing
back the blade as if readying a slash.

“Honor,” the shocked Chesslyn asked, “what is it?”

“Yes, old boy,” McKern added, standing up and hastening to his old friend’s side. “What is the matter?”

Honor remained braced, and ready to strike. “I thought I was the only one blind here,” the swordmaster declared. “Are you all deaf as well?”

“Again, I ask you,” McKern repeated, concerned more for the agitation of his old friend than for the danger that loomed over the head of the turbaned guest, “what is the matter?”

Honor Fullstaff laughed out loud. This time however the tone was no longer jovial, and was, in fact, quite sinister.

“Why don’t you tell them, Selfaril?” Honor said to the masked man.

“What?” the shocked escapee asked, as the onlookers stood by, puzzled at their host’s actions and allegations.

“Surely I am not the only one here to recognize the High Blade through his tawdry disguise,” Honor said firmly. “The custom of my people indeed. I’d recognize your voice anywhere. Prepare to die for the murder of your father.”

To the shock of the others, Honor drew back the saber once more, and launched into a killing blow.

Reports, Instructions, & Revelations

In the High Blade’s Study
in the Tower of the Wyvern:

“Permission to speak frankly, your highness,” Rickman requested.

“What is it now?” the High Blade demanded.

“My men apprehended a felon by the name of James just before nightfall,” the captain of the Hawks explained. “In addition to having claimed to
have seen the travel writer named Geddarm when he left the city, he also claimed to have spotted two men who resembled drowned rats walking away from Mulmaster along the Moonsea shoreline. The description of one of them matches that of the itinerant thespian by the name of Passepout.”

“Go on.”

“At first we suspected that the other drowned rat was Geddarm, but James firmly denied this, saying that it was not the same person he had earlier encountered.”

“Did he talk to the two, as you call them, drowned rats?”

“No, sire,” Rickman explained. “He was hiding in wait for easier prey. He didn’t like the odds of two against one.”

“Indeed,” Selfaril commented. “Maybe he was mistaken the first time. Perhaps the fellow that he previously encountered was not Geddarm. Maybe he was mistaken then.”

“I don’t believe so, sire,” Rickman replied, reaching into his tunic and withdrawing a throwing dagger. “He claimed to have taken this off the first fellow.”

The captain of the Hawks handed the dagger to the High Blade who drew it closer to examine it. Clearly etched into the hilt of the bladed weapon was the monogram VG.

“Two questions,” Selfaril petitioned.

“Yes, sire.”

“Where do you suppose this Geddarm fellow was heading after he left the city, and where do you suppose he is now?”

The captain was prepared with an answer.

“The felon pinpointed his encounter with the alleged Geddarm as taking place on a remote road that
I am not unfamiliar with.”

“Oh?” the High Blade said, an eyebrow raised in evidence of peaked interest.

“It’s the road to the Retreat,” Rickman explained, “and as much as I was able to extract through our various means of persuasion, it was roughly within a few hours of when Wattrous and Jembahb were supposed to be there. I fear that this Geddarm fellow is the reason for their inability to find the bloodstained wand that would have implicated our friends from the east.”

“The fools,” Selfaril hissed. “The bleeding incompetents.”

“Before he died, Jembahb mentioned that he thought the Retreat was haunted. Something about strange noises and such. Obviously this Geddarm fellow was in hiding and managed to trick the two half-wits. I fear that we have underestimated this clever travel writer.”

“Do you believe him to be a Harper agent?”

“Perhaps, sire,” Rickman answered. “Cyric knows they would love to have an agent in your city.”

“You have already mentioned that Jembahb is no longer a risk, due to his incompetence. What about Wattrous?”

“An assassin has been dispatched,” Rickman replied. “A reliable one, one of my best. Stiles should have Wattrous … 
removed
by the end of the week. Our spies have already tracked him to Hillsfar where he is seeking an appointment. The only one he will receive is with our discreet executioner.”

“Good,” Selfaril said with a tone of demanding finality. The High Blade stroked his neatly-trimmed goatee in deep thought, then continued his inquisition.

“Were you able to get anything else out of James the felon?” he demanded.

“No sire,” Rickman apologized. “I’m afraid that he lacked the constitution to survive our thorough cross-examination. Ironically, his body was disposed of at the same time as the late Jembahb.”

“So we still don’t know who the third conspirator is?”

“No, sire,” Rickman replied. “I concur that Geddarm and Passepout are obviously in league with each other. The third fellow’s identity is still a mystery.”