The Mage in the Iron Mask Read online

  Scanning the residue of slaughter, Volo thought he recognized one of the corpses. He was about to stoop to get a closer look when he barely saw a moving blur out of the corner of his eye, and reacted in a second, raising his dagger to a defensive posture.

  He was half a second too slow.

  The master traveler felt the coolness of a steel blade against his windpipe, and heard an authoritative voice say, “Drop it, or breathe blood.”

  Realizing he had no alternative if he wished to live long enough to get to the bottom of the bloodbath, and to eventually complete his guide to the Moonsea, Volo dropped his dagger, and prepared to do whatever the other visitor to the Retreat requested.

  THE NOBLES

  King Pinch

  David Cook

  War in Tethyr

  Victor Milán

  Escape from Undermountain

  Mark Anthony

  The Mage in the Iron Mask

  Brian Thomsen

  The Council of Blades

  Paul Kidd

  The Simbul’s Gift

  Lynn Abbey

  THE MAGE IN THE IRON MASK

  The Nobles: Book 4

  ©1996 TSR, Inc.

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

  FORGOTTEN REALMS, Wizards of the Coast, D&D, their respective logos, and TSR, Inc. are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

  All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Cover art by: Walter Velez

  First Printing: August 1996

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-6415-4

  640A2927000001 EN

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  Visit our websites at www.wizards.com

  www.DungeonsandDragons.com

  v3.1

  For Donna,

  my tolerant wife, patient proof-reader, and loving soul-mate,

  and

  My mentors:

  my parents—Arthur and Eileen Thomsen; my teachers—Kathy and Terry Malley, Monsignor William F. Burke, Frank Walsh, Robert Sabatelli, Seymour Kleinberg, and Hildreth Kritzer; my advisors—Richard Allen, Tom Doherty, Charles N. Brown, and Mike Resnick; and my alma mater—Regis High School.

  Acknowledgments

  This book could not have been written without the gracious help and input from the following: Patrick McGilligan, Jeff Grubb, Ed Greenwood, James Ward, Michele Carter, Donna Thomsen, Jon Pickens, Julia Martin, Anthony Hope and Alexander Dumas.

  This book could not have been written without the musical inspiration provided by the artists who contributed to the following CDs: If I Were a Carpenter, Stepping Out—The Very Best of Joe Jackson, Sergio Mendes & Brasil 66 Greatest Hits, Music from the Original Motion Picture Soundtrack Streets of Fire, and Music from the Original Motion Picture Soundtrack Clueless.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Other Books in the Series

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  The Prisoner, the Thespian, & the Traveler

  One A Friend in Need

  Two Newlywed Games

  Three A Weakened Retreat

  Four Miss Alliances

  Five Under Currents

  PART TWO

  The Swordsman, the High Blade,

  His Wife, & His Brother

  Six In Morning

  Seven Past Tenses

  Eight Mates, Masks, Musk, & Meals

  Nine Dinner & Denouement

  Ten Reports, Instructions, & Revelations

  Eleven Tankards of Memories

  Twelve An Evening’s Just Rewards

  PART THREE

  The Plan, the Plot, & the Ploy

  Thirteen Morning Maneuvers

  Fourteen Treason, and Making the Most of It

  Fifteen Guards, Guards, & Custodians

  Sixteen Fungus, Fugitives, & Fencing

  Seventeen Just Desserts

  Eighteen Covering Tracks

  Nineteen Changing Blades

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Donal Loomis was a dwarfish gnome of a man, which is not to say that he claimed any blood lineage to either the dwarves or the gnomes but rather that his overall appearance, unfortunately, seemed to emulate the least favorable attributes of both races. With his bulbous features, stunted stature, and obese waistline, he was easily considered an unsightly wart on the face of humankind.

  The jagged facial scars that decorated his hairless head, unsightly reminders of the painful removal of tell-tale tattoos, did not help the ugliness of his physical appearance. Had he not retired to “the Retreat” he would have been a focal point for ridicule and persecution almost anywhere he went.

  The Retreat, as the members called it, was originally a place of study, refuge, and retirement for those who wished to devote their lives to the study of mage-craft and other magical arts. Scholarship alone, however, ceased to be enough of a reason for being or means of survival in the dour political climes of the Moonsea region, and the elder wizards who founded the Retreat many years ago decided that it had become necessary to widen their membership to certain other members of society who might help to subsidize their institution through financial endowments, political protection (whether by favors, military aid, or just good old-fashioned blackmail), or diplomatic influence. As a result, the institute of learning and refuge also became a place of sanctuary for political outcasts whose assets or knowledge could benefit their foundation, spies from the south or the west en route to the east or vice versa (Harpers were usually particularly welcome temporary guests whose incurred debts were always paid in a timely and generous manner); or just a convenient and permanent hiding place for offspring born on the wrong side of the blanket by royals or soon to be royals whose legitimate heirs had reason to worry about potential rivals.

  As long as the accounts were met, no questions were asked, nor information given out. As a result, numerous members of the peculiar institution who had come to accept their lives of study had no knowledge of their parentage or lineage, and possessed memories solely of their lives within the monastic walls, nor did they desire such information nor opportunities for adventure. Loyola Ignato, one of the Retreat’s founders and, according to legend, a mage of some note, had prided himself on his abilities to indoctrinate the young and inexperienced into the ways of life in the monastery. He was known to boast that if you gave him a youth between the ages of two and twenty, the Retreat would have him for life, and many nobles were more than willing to accommodate him. Without exception the Retreat had never lost an initiate to temporal temptations that lie beyond the monastic walls.

  Donal, however, was not one of these members for he had actually
chosen the sanctuary of the Retreat (seeing few alternatives) for himself, and, furthermore, was more than partially acquainted with his own lineage and parentage, no matter how hard he tried to forget.

  The self-labeled wart of humankind rubbed the scars that adorned his bald and wrinkled pate. I wore my tattoos with pride, he thought to himself, if I regret anything it is their removal. With them, I had respect, power, and prestige despite my godsforsaken appearance.

  Donal sighed.

  And with them, I was soon a marked man, he continued in his reflection. Such is the case when one finds oneself on the wrong side of a revolution, and Szass Tam was one lich who definitely didn’t forgive and forget.

  Donal had had his telltale tattoos painfully burnt off his facial skin, and had applied for sanctuary at the Retreat, supplementing the mercy and pity that the elders felt toward him with promises of devotion and the sharing of numerous secrets of conjuration. To them, he was just another poor wizard who had fallen victim to hard times and misfortune, and so he was accepted and put to work to earn his keep.

  Originally the former Red Wizard had had illusions of safety in his anonymity, and dreamt of secreting a small fortune by which he could leave the Retreat and live out his days in a secret location at a higher degree of comfort, but these hopes were soon dashed when Nathor, a fellow conspirator from that ill-fated revolution had also turned up at the steps of the Retreat.

  Donal still remembered the Thayan refugee’s rant to the elders trying to make them understand his dire straits.

  “Have you gazed upon the Runes of Chaos, beheld the thing which sits upon Thakorsil’s Seat, held the Death Moon Orb in your trembling hands, wielded Nyskar’s Nightblades, entered the Devouring Portal and walked the Paths of the Doomed, or sat at the left hand of Szass Tam during the Ritual of Twin Burning?”

  The others had felt pity toward him, and suggested that he be taken in until he could be handed over to the authorities as a madman in need of incarceration. Donal knew differently.

  “I have done all these things,” Nathor had confessed, “and each day I pray for forgiveness, and each night at sunset I pray for deliverance from the evils that stalk me. I pray, but I fear that no gods will listen.”

  Donal still remembered the chill that went through him when their eyes met. From that point on, the refugee remained silent, almost as if he had gone into a fear-induced catatonic state.

  The emissaries from the asylum were due to arrive in four days.

  Nathor disappeared after three days, and was never heard from again.

  Since that day, Donal had been perplexed. An optimistic individual with a touch of cruelty might have chuckled over the situation. Perhaps Nathor had recognized him and leaped to the conclusion that he was a spy from Thay who had been sent after him. Little did the poor fool realize that he too was a wizard in hiding with probably an even higher price on his head.

  Though Donal was cruel enough to laugh at the unfortunate and mistaken Nathor (an opportunity which the much-maligned and trod-upon self-proclaimed wart on the face of Faerûn would have been more than eager to seize upon), he was far from optimistic.

  Donal was a realist and realized that his days of anonymity at the Retreat were numbered, and he quickly seized upon an opportunity to remove the danger that he knew would quickly be coming from the East, and perhaps make plans for a more comfortable future.

  An opportunity soon presented itself when Donal had to take his turn as an elder of the Retreat and make the half-day journey into Mulmaster to deliver the monthly tithe. (Only elders were allowed to venture from the Retreat, as the more youthful interns were prone to distractions that might persuade them to forsake the life of scholarly pursuits, and at his eighty-plus years, Donal more than qualified as an elder).

  As per usual, Donal tried to make his journey as swift and as inconspicuous as possible. His progress, however, was held up by one of the numerous connubial festivals that was celebrated by the thrice-yearly reunion of the High Blade and his bride from the Far East, and Donal’s most direct path out of town was blocked by a parade in their honor.

  Donal at the time did not expect to feel honored or blessed by actually seeing the city’s nobility, but rather just waited impatiently to resume his journey. A chance view of the High Blade himself, however, quickly changed his mind, and from that point on devious wheels of planning and deceitfulness began to turn with a plan that would grant him safety and security for the rest of his days.

  Donal cursed the chill of the night air, as he checked the hiding place for the pack that held all of his worldly possessions. Everything was in order, and he hoped that the escort would arrive promptly. It had not been easy to manipulate the schedule so that the young mage-in-training, Rassendyll, would follow him on watch duty, nor had he been able to make all of the necessary other preparations without alerting any of the Retreat’s brethren to his machinations and preoccupations.

  The drug was already in the jug of ale that the watch was allowed to partake of to ward off some of the night’s chill, and Donal had made sure that Rassendyll’s meal had been well salted earlier that evening. Once he had been relieved of duty, Donal would join his pack in hiding, and wait for his successor on guard duty to nod off by the sleep draught, at which point he would be free to open the gate, and meet his expected escort.

  Donal had just returned to his place at the gate, when an eager young wizard crept up behind him.

  “Boo,” the young mage said, startling the older wizard. “Hope I’m not late.”

  Donal closed his eyes, and bit his tongue to hold back a curse or incantation of rebuke for the young wizard. After less than a moment’s hesitation, he turned around, and warmly confronted the young wizard who would prove to be the means of his deliverance unto safety and prosperity.

  “My dear Rassendyll,” Donal fawned, “you gave me such a fright.”

  “Sorry, magister,” the younger wizard replied, obviously repentant for his previous action, “but I have also shown up early for my watch.”

  “How thoughtful of you,” Donal replied, hoping that he had succeeded in removing all traces of sarcasm from his words despite the intent that existed in abundance within.

  “It’s all right,” Rassendyll replied, “I couldn’t sleep anyway. My mouth has been exceptionally dry since evening meal, and no matter how many trips I’ve made to the well, my throat still remains parched.”

  A little bit of salt and some Thayan spices usually have that effect on you, Donal replied in his thoughts, and then said out loud. “Why don’t you try a sip of ale? I seem to recall a land of miners where all forms of spirited beverages were outlawed except for ale, and do you know why?”

  “No, magister,” the younger wizard replied, fearing that he had just re-entered some imaginary classroom in the mind of the older wizard whose kindest of nicknames was “doddering Donal.”

  “Because it was the only thing that would slake their thirst after a dusty day in the mines, that’s why,” Donal replied, then added, “so drink up.”

  “Care to join me?” the younger wizard offered, jug already in hand.

  “I think not,” Donal replied, then adding to avoid all suspicions, “I am heading to bed, and, at my age, beverages have a way of making themselves the most temporary and inconsiderate of houseguests.”

  “Come again magister?”

  “They like to come and go as they please, and quite often at that,” Donal replied with a chuckle.

  “Enjoy your rest.”

  “And you yours,” Donal replied heading back to his cell. “And you yours.”

  When Donal had passed the corner of the inner hall and was thus obscured from the watchful eyes of the younger wizard, he quickly took to the shadows and secreted himself in his hiding spot, out of sight, but well within earshot. In no time at all, he heard the sound of his future salvation: Rassendyll’s snoring, and the whistle of a lark.

  The lark is one of Faerûn’s most common birds of the morn,
and since it was still well into the middle of the night, Donal quickly recognized the signal from the Thayan agents on the other side of the gate. He pursed his lips together, returned the signal, and let them in.

  “He is over here,” Donal instructed, not wasting time with introductions. “Quickly bind his hands behind his back with silken cords.”

  The shadowriders quickly complied; their telltale beards, and dirty and greasy manes quickly revealed their identities to the older wizard.

  Mercenaries, he thought. Dirty hands for dirty work.

  “You should also gag him,” Donal instructed with great authority, now that he knew that they were merely hired help, “and perhaps put a sack over his head as well.”

  They once again quickly complied, and hoisted the dead weight that was Rassendyll up onto the back of a horse, and bound him to the saddle.

  “Where is my mount?” Donal insisted, pausing only to pick up his pack. “We mustn’t keep the Tharchioness waiting.”

  The tallest of the mercenaries, who had remained mounted and in the shadows all during the abduction of the young wizard, stepped down from his steed as if to offer it to the self-described wart on the face of Faerûn.

  “You are right,” he replied drawing closer to Donal, “we mustn’t keep the Tharchioness waiting.”

  As he drew closer, Donal began to make out the emblematic tattoos that adorned the tall one’s cheeks, and the wig that had fallen off his pate and was now resting in the cowl that drooped behind his robe.

  Donal dropped his pack, and opened his mouth as if to cry out.

  “She sends her regards,” the tall one said, quickly removing a crystal wand from the folds of his robe, and thrusting it into the portly wizard’s abdomen, then ripping it upward until it had succeeded in splitting the lower half of the old wizard’s heart, and then adding, “but she regrets that you will not be joining us. She has this thing about traitors to the cause of Szass Tam, and specifically not giving them a second chance to betray us.”