The Mage in the Iron Mask (19 page)

“Well,” Passepout answered, scratching his head as if to stimulate a memory, “as I recall there was a cleric, named Oleigh if I remember correctly, who would treat Seau’s problem by rubbing it with oil that he made specially for such ailments.”

“Did it work?”

“I think so,” Passepout replied, “but I can’t really be sure. After the oil of Oleigh was applied he never complained about the problem again, but.…”

“So it must have worked.”

“Not necessarily; that is, I mean to say the problem was taken care of, but it might not have been cured by the oil.”

“What then? I mean, if the problem with his neck abrasion went away and he never complained about it again, why do you doubt the effectiveness of the cleric’s treatment?”

“He was beheaded.”

“The cleric?”

“No,” Passepout explained. “Seau. At least his neck rash problem was taken care of.”

Rassendyll looked at the pudgy thespian and laughed once again.

Passepout smiled back, almost at ease in the company of the masked stranger.

“Well I for one would rather avoid such treatments
and cure-alls as the one that worked on your friend Seau.”

“Indeed,” the pudgy thespian agreed. “By the way, what is your name, or at least what should I call you?”

Rassendyll thought for a moment, glad that the mask obscured the thespian from seeing the wary change of expression on his face. He himself was no actor, and he was sure that his face would have conveyed the indecisiveness he felt about whether he could trust this funny fellow or not.

“You can call me Rupert,” Rassendyll answered, “Rupert of Zenda.”

“Well met, Rupert of Zenda,” Passepout returned. “Can’t say I recognize the name.”

“Hope not,” the masked escapee replied inadvertently.

“What was that?” Passepout inquired. “That coal bucket you’re wearing gives you a bad case of the mumbles, if you know what I mean. By the way, why don’t you take it off?”

“I wish I could,” Rassendyll retorted, “but I’m afraid that it’s stuck.”

“Too bad,” the thespian replied.

Rassendyll scanned the area once again. He didn’t like the looks of the storm clouds that seemed to be rapidly bearing down on them. We should be on our way and looking for shelter, he thought.

Passepout in the meantime had concentrated his visual faculties on the ground around where they sat. Seeing exactly what he was looking for, he struggled to his feet and walked back over the ridge, picking up a sturdy branch. Rassendyll noticed his efforts once he returned. Good thinking, the masked escapee thought, he found a walking stick.

Rassendyll was about to stand up when he felt
Passepout trying to wedge one of the ends of the branch under the metal collar.

“Hey! Cut that out!” Rassendyll exclaimed, not wishing to add the discomfort of splinters to his long list of woes.

“Just hold still,” Passepout assured, continuing to try and wedge the branch between the masked man’s collar and his clavicle. “Once I have it wedged in place, I’m going to put my weight on the other end of the stick, using your shoulder as a fulcrum. It should force it off in no time.”

“Which? The mask or my head?”

“The mask, of course. Now just sit still.”

Rassendyll quickly wiggled out from under the awkward hands of the pudgy thespian, and got to his feet.

Passepout appeared bewildered at his sudden retreat. “What’s the matter?” the thespian implored. “I just wanted to help.”

Rassendyll shook his head, and said, “Thanks anyway, but it wouldn’t have worked.”

“How can you be sure?” Passepout asked.

“It’s been magically bound to my skull. I fear it won’t come off without separating my head from my shoulders as well.”

“I’m sorry,” Passepout apologized. “I didn’t know.”

“No reason you should have.”

“I bet you got on the wrong side of a powerful wizard of some sort.”

In return Rassendyll murmured something indecipherable, as he began to remove splinters from his shoulders.

“Me too,” Passepout replied as if he understood what the masked man had said. “I’ve run afoul of a few myself. Now, of course, the likes of Elminster and Khelben are indebted to me, but even so, you can’t trust a wizard.”

“Oh, no?” Rassendyll responded, cocking his head at an awkward angle so that he could look the thespian straight in the eye.

Passepout paled.

“You’re not one of them are you?” he asked in a panic.

Rassendyll thought for a split second about his current condition, and laughed. “I guess not,” he replied with a chuckle. “At least not for the time being.” He then quickly added, with a mischievous, almost conspiratorial tone, “I used to be, though.”

Passepout joined in his chuckle, and said, “That’s all right. I used to be a thief.”

Thunder began to rumble in the distance.

“Then let us steal away,” Rassendyll replied, “and find shelter.”

“Good idea, Rupert,” Passepout concurred, then asked, “I can call you Rupert, can’t I?”

“But of course,” Rassendyll answered after a moment’s hesitation. He then thought, I’ll have to remember that that’s my new name.

The thunder rumbled again, as the two continued their trek in search of shelter.

In the Tharchioness’s Boudoir

in the Tower of the Wyvern:

The Tharchioness was primping for dinner when her half sister Mischa Tam entered.

The First Princess finished buffing her scalp, and began to touch up the exotic eye liner that framed the seductive windows of her soul.

“Dear sister,” Mischa said tentatively, hoping that the First Princess was not in one of her many moods
that would have made this sudden, unannounced intrusion a gross act of insubordination.

“What is it, Mischa?” the First Princess asked impatiently, yet not necessarily hostilely.

“I have been giving your—I mean our—situation a great deal of thought.”

“Which of
our
situations?”

“The existence of stumbling blocks that are succeeding in preventing the Thayan annexation of Mulmaster.”

“You mean the High Blade.”

“Yes,” Mischa agreed, then added quickly, “your husband.”

Mischa felt her half sister brace, her back growing erect like a viper about to strike. She realized that she would have to tread lightly if she wished to succeed in the deadly cat-and-mouse game of family and politics.

“What about him?” the First Princess demanded, turning around to face her half sister, her eyes fixed like a jungle cat contemplating its prey.

“Well,” Mischa started, averting her eyes from her sister’s predatory stare, “as I recall, your mission was to seduce the High Blade, and gain control of the throne of Mulmaster.”

“Yes,” the First Princess replied, clipped and clear.

“It was at your own suggestion that the seduction was metamorphosed into a diplomatic liaison cum marriage that would form an alliance between Eltabbar and Mulmaster.”

“Correct,” the First Princess acknowledged. “This is what Szass Tam and I agreed upon. It was our mutual feeling that such an official alliance would be more advantageous. I do hope you are not wasting my time with a simple regurgitation of the plans to date. My memory is quite acute and needs no prodding.”

“I would never presume to doubt your cognitive processes or powers of retention, First Princess, but I am curious about one thing.…”

“And what is that?” the Tharchioness demanded, all matters of primping temporarily set aside.

“Why is it taking so long? It is almost as if you are enjoying this game of prey and predator at the expense of the ultimate objective. Rumor has it, I fear, that you have become fond of the High Blade, and that perhaps your focus has become distracted or, how shall I say … channeled into other pursuits.”

The First Princess did not respond, maintaining an icy stare that seemed to lower the temperature of the room well below the freezing mark.

Mischa quickly changed her tact.

“Of course I don’t believe such stories, but I fear that they may reach the ears of Szass Tam himself.”

“I have never given Szass Tam any reason to doubt my loyalty!”

“Of course you haven’t, dear sister,” Mischa said, her tone becoming disarmingly comforting, “but you have been married for quite a while now, and still you have not yet become with child, thus securing Thay’s stake in the throne of Mulmaster. I am not saying that I believe this, but some of your ministers have speculated that perhaps you are artificially postponing such a conception, as you are enjoying the prerequisite maneuvers too much.”

“Who dares to sully my name and honor?” the First Princess demanded.

“
Who
is not important, dear sister,” Mischa insisted. “What is important is how things might look to those back east. Though I admire your ingenuity in this plan involving the High Blade’s twin—”

“It was not
my
plan!”

“Sorry, First Princess,” Mischa apologized in a
conciliatory tone. “I did not wish to imply that it was. After all, if it had been, it would surely have succeeded; still, your endorsement of it might still look like an unnecessary detour from the original plan, without the necessary approval of back east. Once again, I must point out that your actions might be construed as an unnecessary and dangerous dalliance for your own amusement.”

The Tharchioness stood up, and turned her back on her sister to contemplate her wardrobe for her evening meal with her husband, and the festivities that would surely follow.

“The game of diplomacy is dangerous in both the throne room and the bedroom,” the First Princess said, her back still to her sister. “One must always wear the proper armor.”

“Yes, dear sister.”

“The High Blade is also prone to wearing armor. For some reason, even after our exchange of vows he does not trust me. Can you imagine that?”

The First Princess unhooked a gown of the sheerest Thayan silk Mischa had ever seen.

“We were supposed to be dining in private tonight,” the Tharchioness instructed, “but matters of state have interfered. I guess I will have to find something more appropriate to whet my spouse’s appetite, lower his guard, and raise his ardor.”

“No one has ever questioned your ability to do that, dear sister,” Mischa confirmed. “Yet, you still have not been able to complete the mission that you have been sent on, and I have been thinking.…”

“About what?” the First Princess demanded.

“If, indeed, even in times of great ardor the High Blade is on his guard.…”

“Yes?”

“Perhaps he needs to have that guard lowered.”

“By what means?”

“An enchanted charm perhaps.”

The First Princess threw her head back and gave forth a derisive laugh, the likes of which she usually reserved for the mentally defective, freaks, and idiots who were brought forth for her amusement (or for particularly wormlike ministers).

“Of course,” the Tharchioness said in mock-naive revelation. “Oh, wait a minute, maybe I did. That’s right, I did, and then I dismissed it because it wouldn’t work, but thanks anyway dear sister. I’ll remember to summon you if I have a need for someone with an acute grasp of the extremely obvious.”

“But, dear sister, why do you dismiss my suggestion so lightly?”

“Because it is doomed to failure.”

“How so?” Mischa asked in a sincere tone that masked the contempt that she felt for her half sister’s deprecating manner.

“Because of the damned Cloaks who have sworn their allegiances to protecting the High Blade, that’s why. They would detect such a charm the minute it was brought into the city. Even though our people are exempt from searches, we are nonetheless closely watched, and even our most sophisticated mages would be noticed bearing the necessary amulets when they entered the city gate.”

Mischa tapped her bald temple with the lacquered fingernail of her index finger, as if pausing to think deeply. After a practiced pause, she feigned revelation, and said, “That is true, but what if nothing was brought into the city? What if the charmed object was constructed here, married with a personal piece of the High Blade himself within these walls, and cast in the privacy of your own bedroom. Surely the Cloaks are not watching you there too, and the High
Blade does not exactly strike me as the type who has spent a great deal of time being schooled in the matters of high magic.”

The Tharchioness braced again, followed by a slow, ecstatic chill that went through her body as if the recognition and anticipation of the action to come was as good as the experience itself. The pink serpent of her tongue moistened her dewy lips in anticipation.

“Once charmed, he would disregard his armor,” the First Princess said softly, almost as if she were voicing her thoughts to herself.

“Possibly, dear sister,” Mischa said in encouragement.

“And then he will be mine!”