The Mage in the Iron Mask (4 page)

Volo, satisfied that no one would now be able to dispute that he had indeed checked in at the Tower of Arcane Might and equally eager to be on his way, verbally recognized the Senior Cloak's busy schedule and agreed to hurry along, promising to return at some later date when they would both have some time to swap stories and spells.

The master traveler was quite full of himself as he passed the secretary who had tried to bar his way. Volo chuckled, realizing that the lackey was probably staring daggers at him. That will teach him to try to get in the way of the master traveler of all Toril, Volo thought proudly.

Still preoccupied with his own elan and facility, Volo didn't even notice accidentally bumping into the sour old mage whose appointment he had usurped. Had he done so he probably would have apologized. Instead he continued on his oblivious path, not even hearing the vitriolic curses that were being spewed behind his back.

"Volo!" Passepout yelled. "Over here!"

I must remember to go alone on my visitations that require a low profile, the master traveler reminded himself, and then joined his friend at the opulently laid table.

"Dela darling," the portly thespian called to the barmaid, "Please set a place for my friend here, and bring more food. He might be hungry." Turning his attention to the recently seated Volo, he whispered, "I think she likes me. I have a way with barmaids."

"I remember," the master traveler replied. "You were always quite the ladies' man."

Dela quickly set a place for Volo, and was about to return to the bar when Passepout gave her a friendly pat on the rump, and said, "Very nice, my sweet. Play your cards right, and I'll put in a good word for you with the management."

Dela gave Volo a long-suffering look, and said, "You sure he's a friend of yours, Mr. Geddarm?"

"Afraid so," the master traveler replied.

"Well, please advise him to keep his hands to himself," she instructed, and regained her place at the bar.

Volo looked to his friend, and said admonishingly, "Well, you heard her."

Passepout was affronted. "Imagine her nerve!" the indignant thespian boomed. "I have a good mind to have a word with the owner about her."

"She is the owner," Volo instructed.

"Oh," said the chubby thespian warily. "Do you think I should leave? Or maybe apologize? A few well chosen compliments might go a long way, her being female and all."

"Just let it pass," the master traveler instructed. "Dela is a good sort, with a keen business sense, and no desire to alienate any potential paying customers. You can't ask for more in an innkeeper in these parts."

Passepout nodded, and continued the inhalation of his meal. Volo put his napkin in place, and joined in the dining experience. After a few more mouthfuls, Passepout once again struck up a conversation.

"I only arrived here yesterday," the chubby thespian confessed. "Is there anything I should know about these here parts?"

"Plenty," the master traveler replied. "But first a question: why did you come to Mulmaster to begin with?"

After a swallow and another quaff of ale, the portly thespian explained.

"Somebody around Westgate told me that there was plenty of room for my sort of trade in the Moonsea area."

"You mean acting, of course," the master traveler clarified.

"Of course," Passepout replied. "I learned my lesson after that little stay in Baldur's Gate, when you last came to my rescue."

"Go on," Volo urged, not wanting to experience another exuberant outbreak of undying gratitude from the chubby actor, nor relive his last jailbreak experience.

"So I said to myself, 'Self, where should we go?' Zhentil Keep was obviously out of the question. I mean, who is willing to pay good money for drama when your city is in ruins."

"Agreed."

"And Hillsfar didn't exactly seem to fit the bill."

"For sure," the master traveler replied, wondering if there was still a price on their heads for impersonating Red Plumes, the city watch, the last time they were there.

"And Phlan already has a resident thespian, Ward T. James."

"Ward T. James?" Volo repeated inquisitively. "Never heard of him."

"He's a big guy, like me," Passepout explained, patting his expansive tummy in illustration. "He tours with a group called the S.S.I.-Stupendous Stagecraft Incorporated. They are most famous for their Pools series of plays that set the great classics of Faerun in a mud pit."

"Great," the master traveler said, quickly taking out a pad and jotting down a few notes. "High drama and mud wrestling all rolled into one."

"So that ruled out Phlan," the actor finished heaping another pile of food onto his plate, to further usher it into his never-filling gullet, "which basically just left Mulmaster as the major metropolis at hand."

Volo swallowed, picked a crumb out of his neatly trimmed beard, took a napkin and wiped his mouth, refilled his mug with ale in case any parchness beset him during his lecture, and began to fill his boon companion in on Mulmaster minutiae.

"I can understand your reasons for choosing Mulmaster, now that you have explained it to me," the master traveler offered, "but I would still recommend that you pick another place to ply your trade. As far as I'm aware no one ever tells anyone to go to these here parts unless they really never want to see them again."

"I'm sure that's not the case," Passepout protested. "Olive, who recommended this area, was quite fond of me."

"I'm sure," said the master traveler, not wanting to start an argument, "but Mulmaster is known as the City of Danger for a very good reason. If you thought the Red Plumes of Hillsfar were bad, wait 'til you get a load of the Hawks."

"Well, I did last night," the thespian countered. "They weren't too bad as far as a city watch goes."

"No, my friend," Volo corrected. "You were probably taken in by regular soldiers. The Hawks are the High Blade's own storm troopers. Rumor has it that he regularly dispatches them to do his dirty work throughout the Realms. Let me give you a little history.

"Mulmaster was founded-by various influential merchant groups-in the Year of Fell Wizardry, as a trading fortress way station between the Moonsea, the River Lis, and the Dragon Reach. It managed to not only survive, but thrive during the years of unrest, and eventually, in the Year of Thunder, made a bid for complete domination of the Moonsea, only to be put back in its place by the combined forces of Sembia, Hillsfar, Phlan, Melvaunt, and Zhentil Keep."

"Scrappy little place," the thespian commented between mouthfuls.

Volo continued in his recitation of exposition text that he no doubt had already composed for the guidebook in progress.

"There was much finger pointing after their failed attempt at expansionism, and out of the anarchy arose the formation of a single seat of power, to rule over the others. This leader was to be called the High Blade, who was to work in conjunction with the other ranking nobles who from that time on were known as the Blades. The first High Blade took power in the Year of the Wandering Wyrm, and quickly assassinated any of the Blades who didn't agree with his way of doing things. From that point on the Blades were nothing more than a puppet ruling council."

"Wonderful," the thespian observed, "so that's why he needs those shock troopers around to protect him."

"No, my friend," Volo corrected. "That's the job of the Brotherhood of the Cloak. Any mage in the city of fourth level or higher is immediately recruited to their ranks, or else."

"Or else what?"

Volo made a motion as if he was slitting his throat with the bread knife.

"Oh," said the chubby thespian, beginning to think that maybe leaving town would be a good idea.

"The current High Blade is a fellow by the name of Selfaril Voumdolphin, who succeeded his father into the job after assassinating him. That was back in the Year of the Spear."

"Did he then marry his mother? I seem to recall a play about something like that."

"I'm afraid not," the gazetteer replied. "This is one case where life does not mirror drama. He did recently marry though, to an equally powerful young lady by the name of Dmitra Flas."

"Never heard of her."

"She's also known as the First Princess of Thay, and the Tharchioness of Eltabbar, or just the Tharchioness for short. It was a major diplomatic coup for both Mulmaster and Thay."

"Wonderful."

"She
spends most of her time back in Eltabbar, and
he's
been known to continue to play the rogue with the wandering eye despite their matrimonial vows. She visits here three times a year. I believe she just arrived yesterday for her most recent visit. Both sides claim that they were wedded due to their mutual respect and love for each other, but I wonder."

"The problem with you, Volo," Passepout said sagely, "is that you are no longer a romantic. If she just arrived back in town yesterday, I bet we won't see hide nor hair of either of them for a while. This is obviously a case of true love winning out despite personal differences in upbringing and breeding. I'll bet they can't wait to see each other."

Volo chuckled at his friend's naivete.

"If you say so, my friend," the gazetteer replied.

"True love conquers all," the thespian spouted.

The master traveler took another quaff of ale, and was instantly reminded of the message he had once read from a Kara Turan fate biscuit that was capable of more believable profundity than his corpulent companion's observation.

Volo thought aloud to himself, "I wonder how the newlyweds are getting along."

Passepout resumed eating.

He was alone in his private study, a room secret to all but his closest advisors (which did not include his wife, the Tharchioness). His robes of silk and fur already smelled of tobacco and musk.

Selfaril Voumdolphin was in deep thought.

The resemblance was striking. It was almost like looking in a mirror. True he had the bearing and build of a weakling, as most wizards did, and his whiskers and his mane were more akin to a hermit's than the well-maintained locks and beard of the High Blade, but in all other respects this young man was the High Blade's perfect twin.

Damn you, father, he thought to himself, cursing his sire. You were almost the perfect High Blade, always with a secret backup plan to assure your own ascendancy and that of your line. We were alike in many ways. No wonder I had to kill you. Had I not acted fortuitously, you would, no doubt, have discerned my future plans and plotted to replace me with your other son. We are alike in many ways, but I am the better High Blade.

He heard the bookcase that functioned as a secret door move, and assumed that Rickman had returned, as the Hawk commander was the only one other than himself who knew how to work that entrance. He did not bother to turn around. Such things as common courtesy were not required of the High Blade.

"The resemblance was uncanny," Selfaril muttered.

"Yes, your majesty," Rickman agreed. "Donal, that chancre, wasn't lying."

"Imagine his gall," Selfaril said, finally turning to face his one-eyed right-hand man. "First, he betrayed the Retreat and offered the young mage to the agents of my dear bride, and then, not satisfied with the price they offered, he came to us for a better deal."

"For which you were more than willing to comply, sire," the Hawk assented. "They offered him amnesty, we offered him wealth."

"And neither of us planned on keeping our word, anyway. Donal was a fool, and a greedy one at that."

"Agreed, your majesty, but his shortcomings were definitely our advantage."

"Indeed," the High Blade agreed, taking a seat in a chair that had been one of his father's favorites. "Have you taken care of the rest of the loose ends?"

"Yes, sire," the Hawk captain assured. "A company of my best men have just returned from the Retreat. They gained entrance under the pretence of investigating the apparent Thayan raid of the night before. The elders were ever so grateful for a prompt response to the attack, and offered my men their full cooperation. With their guard down, it was relatively easy for my Hawks to carry out your orders."

"All slaughtered, then?"

"Yes, sire."

The High Blade tapped his forefinger to his temple as if to force out a single drop of thought. "I hope that there weren't too many other secret guests like my father's other heir and rival to my sovereignty. I understand the monastery was also used as an occasional way station for Harper agents, and I have no time to deal with their peskiness at this point."

The Hawk captain quickly dispelled the High Blade's concern. "I took the liberty of instructing one of my men to leave behind the crystal wand that had been used on the Thayan turncoat Donal. It's Thayan design, and the blood of that slug will no doubt focus the possible blame for this little bloodbath on more easterly sources."

"Well done, Rickman," the High Blade complimented. "Take a seat. You have been very busy, and very productive."

The Hawk captain bowed in thanks, and took his place across from the High Blade, adding, "and of course I have seen to the unfortunate demise of our friend the blind wizard smith whose exceptional handiwork adorns the head of our secret guest."

" 'Tis a pity," Selfaril agreed, "but there is no sense in not being careful."

"Agreed," Rickman acknowledged, glad that he was not being perceived as overzealous in his performance of his duties. "So what are your plans for the dispensation of your twin brother, if I might inquire, sire?"

"My twin brother," Selfaril mused. "It's funny. Up until just this moment I never thought of him quite that way. I mean, sure, he has to be my brother, my twin, but as far as I am concerned, he is merely my father's other son, my rival, a challenger to my throne. Tell me Rickman, do you have any brothers?"

"One, your majesty, but he is dead. His name was Jeremy."

"How sad," the High Blade replied in an unsentimental monotone.

"Not really, sire," the Hawk corrected. "As he was the first born, he received all the privileges. That is why I entered the military. It was either there or a monastery."

"Your loss was Mulmaster's gain."

"In more ways than one, sire. When father died, Jeremy inherited it all. In my then capacity as sergeant of the guards, I had him thrown in irons, charged with high treason, and executed a week later. My father's estate was, of course, seized for the state, and I appointed myself as custodian. I was soon promoted, and it was turned over to me as my fiefdom."

"You're not just saying this to earn my favor, are you, Rickman?"

"I wouldn't think of it, sire," the Hawk said proudly. "All you have to do is check the civil records."

"Of course," the High Blade observed in a jesting manner, "one who has already engaged in fratricide would never stoop to falsifying civil records."

"Of course not, your majesty," the Hawk replied, jovially adding, "that would be against the law."

"But of course."

The murderers' conversation was interrupted by the quick sounding of three chimes.

The High Blade cursed.

"It's the Tharchioness, no doubt," Selfaril offered. "I left strict orders with Slater-my valet-to ring me if she inquired of my whereabouts. Word has no doubt already reached her about last night's thwarting of her plans, and she, no doubt, wants to pick my brain about what happened."

"Do you think she suspects that we are behind what happened?"

"No more than I would suspect her of wanting to depose me," the High Blade replied with a grin, coming to his feet. "Come with me. Let us seek out my still blushing bride, and let the game of cat and mouse begin!"