The Mage in the Iron Mask (36 page)

Passepout began to interrupt. “But …”

Honor proceeded as if he hadn’t heard the objection.

“You will then carry the body out the other door of that chamber. Not the door that you entered, mind you, the other door. Follow the tunnel ’til you reach what appears to be a sewer hole. Drop the body down there. The current will bear it out to the bottom of the Moonsea in no time, far from prying eyes and dangerous minds.”

Rassendyll shuddered at the memory of his own journey through Mulmaster’s sewer system.

“From that point on, you two can find your way to the surface and do as you wish,” Honor concluded. “Your services will no longer be required by that point.”

Volo fingered his beard for a moment to contemplate the alternatives. There weren’t any. He had no
desire to incur the immediate wrath of Mason and Fullstaff who seemed to have taken charge of the matters at hand by protesting the proposed plan of action. In order to prevent total anarchy, or worse yet, the further spread of Thayan tyranny, Rassendyll had to ascend to the throne. Honor’s plan was sound, and no other choice was available for himself or Passepout.

“The plan sounds fine,” Volo finally concurred, “but how will we find our way? You were our guide on the trip to get here and, though I’m not a bad trailblazer if I do say so myself, I’m afraid that along the way I failed to notice any telltale signposts in the darkness, if you know what I mean.”

“We’ve already thought of that,” Mason replied, reaching into his tunnel-soiled robe and extracting an orb of luminescence. “This will light your way. As long as it glows gold, you will be on the right track. If it begins to fade, double back until the glow is restored to its previous luminescence, and then choose a different route. I am sure that you will be able to follow its guidance.”

Passepout snatched the orb from Mason’s hand and volunteered, “I’ll carry the orb, you carry the body.”

Volo chuckled. He had forgotten how fast the pudgy fellow could move when encouraged by hunger, fear or self-preservation. He concurred, and began to ready the body for transport.

“Mind if I wrap the corpse in the curtains?” the master traveler asked. “It will make it easier to carry and a lot less messy. Bloodstains are so hard to get out of cloaks these days.”

“As you will,” Honor replied, his tone dead serious.

The master traveler began to wrap the corpse, then paused a moment, and turned back to the blind man who had taken charge.

“Just one question, Honor,” Volo added. “How did you get up here so fast? You didn’t take the ladder we did. I looked back while climbing and you weren’t there.”

“My good friend Merch had installed a pulley-operated lift on the other side of the chamber that let me off on the other side of the wall of that closet. Unfortunately it can only carry one at a time, and time was of the essence, so rather than fighting over its use, I sent the rest of you up the ladder and employed it myself.”

“Does that mean we can use it instead of the ladder?” Passepout asked hopefully, remembering his own feelings of vertigo during the ascent.

“I’m afraid not,” Honor replied with out a trace of regret in his voice. “The pulley automatically resets itself, and dispatches the lift back to the bottom of the shaft.”

“Wonderful,” the chubby thespian said dolefully. “You’d better be off,” Honor instructed, adding, “good luck.”

“And to you as well,” Volo returned, tarrying a moment to specifically single out Rassendyll with, “and especially to you.”

“Thanks,” the former mage-in-training acknowledged, “and thanks for your help.”

“Don’t mention it,” the master traveler replied, hoisting the curtain-wrapped body of the dead High Blade over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. As he left he couldn’t resist adding, “and give my best to the Tharchioness.”

A look of panic crossed Rassendyll’s face at the thought of what he was about to do, but neither Volo or Passepout saw it, as they had already begun their descent back down the ladder to the bowels of Mulmaster.

Changing Blades

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

“Now get a hold of yourself,” Honor told Rassendyll. “Mulmaster needs you.”

“But I am not High Blade material,” the former mage-in-training insisted. “A week ago I was just another scholastic at the Retreat, learning the wizardly craft.”

Mason approached the surviving twin from the other side, and put his arm around him. “Those days are gone. You have taken up your father’s sword, and must live up to his legacy, rather than stain it like your brother.”

“But all of my studies,” Rassendyll insisted. “I was to be a mage just like you.”

“Is that what you chose?” Honor inquired. “As I recall, that was a fate that was thrust upon you. Now, as fate would have it, a different future awaits you.”

“You have already proven yourself as heir to the sword mastery of your father, with a little help from the weapon’s own memory of course. Soon that training will become as much a second nature to you as the wizardly arts once were,” Mason assured. “It was due to the treachery of others that your own father was killed, let alone your brethren at the Retreat, and my own brother. Their deaths must be avenged, against all who dare to defile our beloved Mulmaster.”

Rassendyll looked at the two old men in whom he now had to place his trust. Both had been friends of his father, and both put Mulmaster and its glory above all else. He had to admit that neither quality was anything less than admirable, and that their sole objective was just.

Mulmaster needed a High Blade, and he was the only one who would be capable of pulling off the masquerade.

“I know what you are thinking,” Mason said, “and you are right except in one respect. This will no longer be a masquerade. You
are
the High Blade, the son of Merch Voumdolphin, and Lord Protector of Mulmaster. The masquerade took place while your brother held the throne. Your father would have wanted you to succeed him; why else were you sent to be schooled in secrecy if not to one day return and succeed him?”

“What about the Tharchioness?” Rassendyll asked, absently cooperating with Mason as he began to undress the surviving twin. One of the High Blade’s robes and a basin of water had been readied while they were talking.

“She is to all outward appearances your wife,” Honor admitted, “but such matters of diplomacy as your marriage must be dealt with gently.”

“I hate her, and all that her Red Wizards stand for!”

Honor and Mason looked at each other and smiled. “That is good,” Honor admitted, “and it will be my job, with Mason’s help, of course, to make sure that you continue to think so clearly, for the good and solidarity of Mulmaster, let alone the entire Moonsea.”

Rassendyll nodded in agreement, but repeated his question. “But what about the Tharchioness?”

“I am sure you will be able to deal with her,” Honor assured. “After all you are the High Blade, aren’t you?”

“Indeed, it appears so.”

Honor smiled. “Let us call your valet,” Honor instructed. “You should be well cleaned up by the time he arrives. The two assailants can be turned over to him, and you can launch your new life.”

Mason put his hand up to the surviving twin’s head, and muttered a few words. Instantaneously, Rassendyll felt the onrush of a cacophony of unrelated messages.

“There,” Mason said, “just a little background to help you along. I’m sure you can pick up the rest
in medias res
.”

Rassendyll reached across the desk, and felt for a stud that was hidden between the drawers. He pressed it to summon
his
valet.

“And so it begins,” the High Blade said, already
beginning to feel the weight and responsibilities of office that had not been shouldered for a very long time.

Then a new thought crossed his mind. “What about Volo and Passepout?” he asked evenly.

“They will not be a threat, I assure you,” Honor replied.

“I don’t want them harmed,” Rassendyll ordered, “unless it can’t possibly be avoided, and then only if the security of Mulmaster is in jeopardy.”

“Agreed,” the two elder men said in unison, neither wishing to clarify their answer.

Beneath the city of Mulmaster:

The normally indefatigable Volo began to tire of carrying Selfaril’s corpse and opted to drag it after several wrong choices in the darkness had caused them to backtrack several times.

“Maybe I should be the navigator,” Volo offered to Passepout. “I am the master traveler after all.”

Passepout considered the offer for a moment. The slight bit of appetite that he felt back in the High Blade’s study had metamorphosed into a ravenous hunger, and he had no desire to delay its satiation any longer than he had to, nor did he want to carry the body either.

“Why don’t we just leave it here?” the pudgy thespian suggested. “No one will find it. We don’t even know where we are.”

“That’s the exact reason why we can’t leave it here,” Volo answered. “That light in your hand is programmed to lead us on a certain path. Do you
want to risk running afoul of a powerful mage’s magics?”

Passepout didn’t have to answer and returned his focus to choosing yet another underground corridor, hoping desperately that the orb would not begin to dim once again.

The two travelers and their deceased burden finally found their way back to the room in which Mason had removed the iron mask from Rassendyll’s head. The two halves of the magically insulating/leeching metal were still right where they left them.

“Well, we certainly took a roundabout way to get here this time,” Volo concluded. “That which took us bare minutes before, seems to have taken hours now.”

“My stomach feels like it has been days,” Passepout said, as he went to fetch the halves of the mask.

“Careful,” Volo advised sharply.

“I know, I know,” Passepout said with a pout. “I have to keep the two halves of the mask apart until we have them in position around the stiff’s head.”

“That’s not what I was referring to.”

The exasperated Passepout turned around and placed his hands on his ample hips, and said in his most long-suffering voice, “Well, what then?”

“The luminescent orb,” Volo replied. “Keep it away from the mask. We don’t want our only source of light to go out on us do we?”

“I didn’t think of that,” the thespian admitted, and carefully placed it on the ground between them. As Volo unwrapped the head of the corpse, Passepout brought the iron mask’s two halves over to him, one at a time.

“Would you like to do the honors?” Volo asked, already knowing the answer.

“No,” the thespian replied with a shudder.

“Well, I’ll need your help anyway,” Volo countered. “I’ll lift the stiff’s head off the ground. You set the mask half underneath it. Then I’ll lower its head back down, and place the other half on top. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Passepout said reluctantly.

Like clockwork the two went through the procedure as outlined by Volo. Though Mason had clearly told them what would happen when the two parts were placed in contact with each other, both of the travelers were awed by the magical glow that began to permeate the metal and fuse the two halves together.