Brian Thomsen - The Mage In The Iron Mask

Volo ignored the blackguard's cries of pain, and knelt by his boon companion, trying desperately not to look at the hilts of the duelist's two swords that swayed like flagpoles on the mountainous summit that was the body of his beloved Passepout.

"Oh, son of Idle and Catinflas," the master gazetteer cried.

The thespian opened his eyes, and a grimace of pain immediately passed over his face.

"You are alive old friend!" Volo said softly, not yet sure how serious the thespian's wounds were.

"Just barely," the son of Idle and Catinflas replied weakly.

"Is there anything I can do, old friend?" Volo asked.

"No, dear Volo," Passepout said a trifle dramatically. "Just allow me to pass from this life, here and now, in this pool of blood."

Volo felt on the verge of tears, and held the dying thespian's hand up to his face. "Courage, dear friend," he implored. "You are still warm, perhaps McKern can save you."

"No," the master thespian insisted, "I already feel death's cold shadow as my heart pumps its last few ounces of blood into the river that feeds this pool of blood."

Pool of blood, the master traveler thought to himself, it sounds so familiar.

Volo looked down at the area around his bisected friend. The floor was dry, and nary a trace of blood was visible.

Quickly the master traveler cast back the cloak from his prostrate friend's body, and observed the placement of the two blades, one sandwiched between two tree-sized thighs, the other nestled in the right armpit. In both cases, the thespian's skin was barely nicked.

The master traveler laughed.

"It serves me right, you lucky knave," the master gazetteer replied, as his thought-to-be-dying friend sat up with great vigor.

" 'Twasn't luck, 'twas skill," the thespian replied. "It is imperative that a skilled actor know how to avoid an oncoming blade in a dying sequence if one wishes to have much of a career on the stage."

"Pool of Blood was the title of one of the plays in your repertoire, if I recall correctly."

"Indeed, it is," the thespian replied, "Ward's Folly, also known as The Pool of Blood, a real slaughterfest of a show."

Out of the corner of his eye, Volo saw McKern. The old mage was still staring at the slowly recovering form of the captain of the Hawks, muttering under his breath.

"You killed my brother," he murmured. "An honest man, a craftsman, a humanitarian. He served Mulmaster as best he could, trusting his superiors, and now he is dead. He never saw it coming. My name is Mason McKern. You killed my brother; prepare to die!"

As the grief-possessed mage rambled on, his rage increased, his fingers began to flex, and his exclamations of grief dissolved into arcane incantations.

Rassendyll immediately recognized what was happening. "Back off Volo, Passepout!" he ordered.

"Get away from the bodies!"

Volo sprang to the side, while the chubby thespian responded with a quick roll to the right, seeking shelter behind a chair.

The High Blade's twin approached the mage, who was in turn approaching Rickman. "Calm down, McKern," Rassendyll urged gently, trying not to notice the smoke that seemed to be coming from the old wizard's fingertips. "This is neither the time nor the place for a fireball."

"Leave me be," Mason said sternly. "Your father's killer is dead, and my brother's killer should join him."

For the third time in less than half an hour, a person announced their presence to the inhabitants of the room with a loud, prohibitive command.

"No!"

The mage, former mage, gazetteer, and thespian turned toward a sideboard located on the other side of the room which had just started to swing forward to reveal yet another secret passage, out of which stepped the imposing figure of the blind swordmaster, Honor Fullstaff.

"The sentence of death will be carried out, old friend," Honor Fullstaff said with great certainty, "but not just yet. I am afraid that he might still be of use to us for just a little while longer."

McKern was torn between his desire for vengeance and the common sense preached by his old friend. The stern look on his old friend's face cast the deciding vote, as the old mage had no desire to cross Honor Fullstaff when he had already let his position be known.

"Agreed," the old mage assented. "What's our next move?"

In the Apartment of Mischa Tam in the Thayan Embassy in Mulmaster:

Mischa Tam was beginning to get nervous.

The cat's-paw who had been dispatched to attempt the assassination of Selfaril should have botched the job by now, she thought. Even if he had somehow managed to surprise the High Blade, surely he would not have been able to overpower him. And what about the Hawks? She had made darn sure that Rickman was aware of the plot as well and would be able to intervene and arrest the quivering maggot.

A heinous thought crossed her mind.

What if, somehow, the incompetent had succeeded?

The First Princess would surely have her head, that is, if any of the Thayans managed to make it out of Mulmaster alive.

Though the death of Selfaril was undoubtedly the eventual goal, timing was of the essence, and at the present, the time was not right.

Mischa removed a talisman from inside her robe, and stared into its multi-faceted surface.

"Do I dare to see through the eyes of the worm?" she whispered.

She had to know.

Mischa took out a piece of skin that had formerly belonged to the ambassador and placed it on the talisman. She paused for a moment, reliving the disgust she felt at the measures that she had to take to obtain this living souvenir of the maggot, shuddered, and placed it onto the orb.

The skin immediately melted into the talisman's surface.

Wasting no time she held the orb up to her eye, and looked into its opaque surface as if it were a magnifying crystal.

All she saw was darkness.

Mischa considered the possibilities. Perhaps he is already dead, or unconscious… but unfortunately that still doesn't solve the problem.

Concentrating with all her scrying powers, she once again looked into the orb, trying to backtrack through the images that had been recorded by the maggot before he had been enveloped by the darkness.

The shadows gradually cleared. First she saw a dishevelled and unkempt High Blade… a hearth… the High Blade better groomed, but obviously fatigued… a crystal wand striking home into the heart of the mortally wounded Selfaril!

Mischa dropped the orb in a panic.

The fool actually succeeded in killing my sister's husband!

A knock on her chamber door interrupted her panic.

"Who is it?" she said with mock calm.

"It is I, Mischa," announced the messenger, "Elijakuk."

Mischa opened the door to allow in the Tharchioness's chancellor.

"What is it?" she demanded, still trying to hide her own uneasiness.

"The First Princess sent me for your part of the project," he said gravely. "I believe she desires to use it tonight. She fears that our window of opportunity is rapidly diminishing."

Mischa stifled a laugh at the inadvertent irony of the chancellor's last statement, and thanked Szass Tam for the news.

My sister does not yet know of the fate of her husband! she thought in exultation. There may be a chance for me yet.

Maintaining her composure, the Tharchioness's half sister went to her vanity table, reached into a secret compartment, and extracted the disk that she had treated with the appropriate oils and herbs to accomplish her part of the spell. She wrapped it in a silk scarf and handed it to the chancellor.

"Her desire is my command," she said reverently. "My part is now complete."

"The First Princess will be pleased," Elijakuk acknowledged her with a bow that included a pause to appreciate the Tharchioness's sister's ample cleavage. "Szass Tam be with you."