The Mage In The Iron Mask

7

"Captain Rickman?" inquired an out-of-breath Hawk by the name of Danovich who hoped that the news he bore was sufficiently urgent to warrant disturbing the second most feared man in all of Mulmaster.

"What is it?" the captain of the Hawks demanded without looking up from the surveillance reports that seemed to form a blotter of paperwork upon his desk.

"You requested updates on the searches for the escaped prisoner, the released prisoner known as Passepout, and the travel writer Volothamp Geddarm?" Danovich asked tentatively.

Rickman looked up, his stern visage betraying the throbbing that resounded within his tortured brow.

"So I did," he said in a sarcastic tone. "Let me guess, they are all now in custody, along with Elminster, King Azoun, and the Simbul."

"Uh, no sir," Danovich answered, not comprehending Rickman's sarcasm, "and I only have updates on the three I mentioned. Should I add Elminster, King Azoun, and the Simbul to the list?"

"Just give me the report," Rickman demanded, a touch of weakness and exasperation in his voice. He couldn't help but be reminded of the inferior quality of men under his command since the Year of the Bow, when their fleet was destroyed by forces from Zhentil Keep. Back then men didn't just obey orders, they understood them as well.

"On the status of the escaped prisoner and the travel writer," Danovich reported officially, his mustached upper lip trembling, "there is no change. The escaped prisoner is still presumed dead, and the travel writer has not returned to Mulmaster since his observed exodus early yesterday morn."

"As I expected," Rickman observed, "but what of the itinerant?"

"According to one of our spies upon a Sembian merchant vessel of the name Tanyaherst, the former prisoner Passepout was shanghaied by a press gang, pressed into service, and subsequently thrown overboard when it was determined that he would be more of a hinderance than an asset on their journey eastward."

"Go on," Rickman urged in stern seriousness.

"He was thrown overboard, evidently still groggy from the physical persuasion that was inflicted on his cranium during his recruitment. Given his condition, and the deadly Moonsea tides, he is presumed dead. Officially, unless we want to challenge it upon the ship's return to Mulmaster, he will be listed as missing after an unfortunate shipboard accident."

"Any other interesting tidbits?"

"Well," Danovich answered tentatively, "the itinerant named Passepout was actually an actor by trade."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Rickman demanded.

"Nothing," Danovich replied sheepishly, "just that I, too, was trained in the theater."

Rickman rolled his eyes to try to suppress his rage at the incompetence and feeblemindedness that seemed to abound within the ranks of his men.

"Anything else?" he said, half under his breath.

"No sir," Danovich reported.

"Then back to work!"

"Yes sir," the Hawk replied doing a quick about-face, a smile crossing his lips as he left his superior's office, thankful that he, unlike previous men in his position, had not incurred the captain's wrath.

Rickman stood up and, hands clasped behind his back, strode to the lone window of his office, stopping only briefly to summon his batsman by means of the signal cord.

The batsman, Roche, arrived in a flash, finding his captain contemplating the sky over Mulmaster.

"My instinct tells me that a storm seems to be moving in," Rickman asserted.

"The weather scryer in the Cloaks has predicted as such, sir," Roche said officiously.

"Any word on the condition of the sea?"

"According to the last report from the Lighthouse, high tide is just now coming in. The seas are choppy, and a mariner's advisory has been issued. The Moonsea is quite unforgiving of those who challenge her, even under the best of conditions," Roche responded, confident in the degree of detail expected by his captain. He had been in service to Rickman for close to eight years.

"What odds for survival would you give someone thrown overboard during such seas?" he asked, still staring out the window.

"Slim to none, sir," the batsman retorted.

"Just as I thought," Rickman replied, turning to face Roche. "Nothing is ever certain. You may go, Roche, but please put in a change of orders for the soldier who was just in here."

"Lieutenant Danovich, sir?" the batsman confirmed.

"Yes."

"Where will his new posting be, sir?" Roche inquired, a pad instantly in hand to take notes.

"Use your own judgment, Roche," Rickman answered, once again taking his place at his desk, and starting once again to go through the surveillance reports. "Just make sure it's an assignment far from Mulmaster, with a very small survival quotient."

"Yet another one-way assignment, sir," Roche 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."

Roche 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, oneway 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 Faerun'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?"

"Of course, sister," she answered.

"Will I bring a stirring to his loins?"

"Don't you always?" she replied.

"Not that it has done me any good," the Tharchioness observed. "Once I am with child, the High Blade will cease to be a necessary participant in my marriage bed. I will train his heir to take his place on the throne, the same way Selfaril succeeded his father."

"Only this time, the new High Blade will be Thayan," Mischa pointed out.

"In all eyes but those of the wretched citizens of Mulmaster. He will be one of them by birth."

"A brilliantly conceived plan," Mischa said, secretly knowing that the High Blade's heir could just as easily be raised by his beloved aunt as by his vain and pompous mother.

When the time comes, she thought to herself, Szass Tam himself will choose.

The Tharchioness rose to her feet, and once again admired her appearance in the mirror.

"You have done me well, sister," she complimented. "Now all we have to do is wait for the charms that we have ordered."

I am very good at waiting, the half sister observed silently, and my time will come.

At the Private and Secluded Residence of Sir Honor Fullstaff, somewhere between Mulmaster and the Retreat:

Fullstaff walked into the kitchen where the dwarven cook named Hotspur was busy in preparation for the evening meal.

"Something smells splendid," the blind swordsman exclaimed, as he used his keen senses of perception to home in on an open pot that had a ladle in it, and was thus easy access for sampling. Hotspur was a creature of habit, and Fullstaff knew that he always kept the ladle resting in the first pot on the left.

"I wouldn't be sampling anything in that pot, master," the dwarf replied.

"And why not Hotspur?" the master replied with a certain degree of mock haughtiness. "Is this not my kitchen?"

"Indeed it is, milord," Hotspur replied, his back to the master, his concentration focused on the chopping at hand.

"And are these not my pots?" the master inquired, slowly lifting the ladle to his lips, careful not to spill a drop or make any sudden noise.

"Indeed they are, milord," the dwarf replied, then explained, "but that one does not contain your dinner."

"Well, then, my insubordinate cook," the master interrogated, the ladle poised a fraction of an inch from his lips, "what does it contain?"

"My socks," the dwarf explained. "They got stained when I was making wine out back, and boiling them is the only way I'll ever get them clean."

Hotspur, his focus still on the vegetable-chopping at hand, smiled as he heard the ladle drop, making a subtle splash in the laundry-filled pot.

"And don't go sampling any of the other pots, master," the dwarf instructed in a similar tone to the one his master had adopted earlier. "One of them contains your old sword belt. Poins and Hal believe that they may be able to stretch it to a more suitable length for your expansive girth, once the boiled water softens it."

"Just as well," the master replied. "Without my occasional midafternoon snack, their expansive efforts on my belt's behalf might prove to be unnecessary."

"Besides that, milord," Hotspur reminded, "you have company coming to join your evening repast."

In a fraction of a second Fullstaff removed a dagger from his belted scabbard, tossed it in the air, snapped his fingers, and returned it to its place. He said, "Oh, that's right. Old McKern is stopping by for dinner on his way back to the Retreat. I hope, in addition to the sumptuous meal that you have prepared for me, you have also prepared something sensible and strained for the old wizard. When you get to his age, there is no reason to tax one's intestines."

"Indeed, milord," Hotspur replied, choosing to omit mentioning that he knew that his master and the old wizard were indeed the same age. Secretly he looked forward to overhearing the old former captain of the Hawks swapping made-up memories with the former Cloak, who had been retired to the Retreat almost as long as the master had been blind. Their both being put out to pasture at the same time had formed a bond that made them seem like friends for life, despite the fact that they had never actually served side by side during their tours of duty.

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 before 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.