Brian Thomsen: The Mage In The Iron Mask

"What about them?" Volo asked seriously, nudging the bodies of the wormlike ambassador and weasel-like captain of the Hawks who were both still enjoying the oblivious state of unconsciousness.

"They must remain here," Honor said emphatically. "Mason will temporarily befuddle their brains with a feeblemind spell. They can then both be turned over to the proper authorities and charged with attacking the High Blade. No one will question the veracity of that story, and no one needs to know that they succeeded, since an attempt at the act itself commands the same sentence as its successful completion."

Not even Passepout had to question what that sentence would be.

"Okay," said Passepout agreeably, "we need to get rid of the body. I'm sure that Volo can manage that with no problem on his own. He is very resourceful after all. He and I can meet up later at some tavern or other. Yes, indeed, that sounds like a good plan, so I guess I can be off and running. This entire ordeal has increased my already ample appetite."

Volo chuckled. He knew that Honor had other, more definitive plans in mind.

"Surely you will not leave your friend on his own to complete this task?" Honor said sternly.

"He doesn't mind," Passepout answered quickly, turning quickly to Volo. "Do you?"

"Well…" the master traveler began to answer.

"See," said the corpulent thespian. "Now if you will excuse me-"

"Enough!" ordered the blind swordmaster. "Precautions must be taken. Both of you are to ferret the body back through the tunnels from whence we came, to the room in which we removed the iron mask from Rassendyll's head. You are then to carefully place the halves together around the head of our now deceased High Blade. It will weld itself back together, and this well-known face will be permanently obscured until normal decomposition takes its toll."

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.

"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?"