dearest bride that I will be there directly.'
The courtier gave one final message.
'Sire, the First Princess said to tell you that she would be counting the minutes,' the Thayan said, and returned to his post.
As am I, the High Blade thought, to your death!
Selfaril turned back to Rickman, delaying his trip back to his wife even further. A thought had just crossed his mind, and he was grinning in fiendish glee.
'Have your men returned from the Retreat with the bloodstained wand yet?' he inquired.
'No, your majesty,' Rickman replied.
'Notify me immediately when they do,' Selfaril instructed. 'The Retreat was under Mulmaster's protection, and I would hate to see the unfortunate slaughter of those wizards turn into a diplomatic hot potato, if you know what I mean.'
'Yes, your majesty,' Rickman replied, understanding what the High Blade was planning. 'It wouldn't be the same as a plot against the throne.'
'No,' Selfaril agreed, 'but sometimes we have to settle for the next best thing.'
At the Retreat:
'Where did you find that?' Volo asked the lovely Chesslyn.
'Over by the ugly monk's body, out by the gate,' she replied. 'It's obviously Thayan in origin. That's why I checked your head for tattoos. I thought you might be one of those Red Wizard murderers.'
'So you believe that this mass slaughter was the product of a Thayan invasion?'
'That's what it looks like to me,' she replied.
Volo fingered his beard and thought for a moment. The master traveler was no stranger to matters of bloodshed and the like, having survived numerous deadly altercations on his journeys around Toril. Pteramen, murderous Mazticans, and deadly dopplegangers-he had survived them all.
'That still doesn't explain why there was no sign of a struggle,' he asserted, suspicious of the circumstances at hand. 'Though the elders of the Retreat welcomed all refugees, I see little reason that they would open their gates to an armed contingent of Red Wizards. I-'
'Quiet!' she hushed with great urgency. 'I hear horses. We'd better hide.'
Volo looked from side to side, and then at his trusty steed.
'What should I do with him?' he inquired in a whisper.
'In here,' she instructed, quickly leading him to a shed, then explaining, 'It's where I put my horse when I heard you coming.'
'If you heard me coming, why didn't you respond to my whistle?'
'Later,' she answered.
When they had stowed the master traveler's horse next to that of the secret Harper agent, they closed the doors, and took a ladder up to the shed's roof.
'This gives us a perfect vantage point to see and hear our new arrivals without being seen or heard ourselves,' Chesslyn explained.
'Are you sure?' the master traveler asked.
'Well, it worked when I was watching you,' she replied.
They had no sooner reached their vantage point when the Hawks named Wattrous and Jembahb entered the courtyard.
'Look at this mess!' Wattrous said. The older weasel-like Hawk was barely able to control the gorge that was working its way up his throat.
'What are we supposed to be looking for?' the younger and taller Hawk inquired, apparently oblivious to the stench of the rapidly rotting bodies.
'Captain Rickman said there should be something by the body of the bald guy at the gate,' the shorter and senior Hawk instructed, 'but there doesn't seem to be anything there.'
'How did he…' Chesslyn said a little louder than Volo felt comfortable with.
'Quiet!' the master traveler hushed, then added in a whisper, 'Later.'
'Well, if it's not here, let's leave,' Jembahb said. 'This place gives me the creeps.'
Volo cupped his hands together, and blowing through them, carefully made the sound of an undead specter advancing into the daylight. He could tell that Wattrous recognized the sound; the Hawk instantly became wide- eyed and frantically looked from side to side.
'Good idea,' he quickly replied to his junior Hawk, valiantly trying not to show his fear, but then adding, 'but you have to be the one to tell Rickman.'
'No problem,' Jembahb replied as they remounted their horses. 'But where will you be?'
'I have business in Hillsfar,' the weasel-like Wattrous quickly replied, saying the first thing that came to mind. He thought to himself, knowing how Rickman dealt with an undesirable report, maybe Hillsfar wasn't such a bad idea. Perhaps he could join the Plumes. Jembahb was a nice enough guy, trusting and naive, and would, therefore, be the perfect scapegoat for their failure to complete their mission as directed. Yes. Hillsfar would be just far enough to save his own skin.
As the two Hawks set off back for Mulmaster, the Harper secret agent and the master traveler lowered themselves from their hiding place.
The Sewers Beneath Mulmaster:
Rassendyll felt a sensation of falling rapidly through midair, which was quickly followed by the slap and splash of the weighted burial sack's contact with the rapidly moving river of sewage-spoiled waters.
The thick viscosity of the underground fluid coated the burial shroud amniotically, without managing to permeate the sack itself. As a result, as long as the masked prisoner was able to hold the top cinch of the sack tightly closed, no air was able to escape, and for at least a few brief moments Rassendyll was able to breathe within the linen-lined bubble that was cascading through the underwater tunnels of Mulmaster.
The masked prisoner realized that he had to time his escape from the sack very carefully: too soon and he would be wasting precious drops of air that he might need before finishing his journey out to sea; too late and he would find himself too far below the depths of the icy Moonsea, and long drowned before reaching the surface.
The sheer power of the sewer stream propelled the bag and its contents forward, the leaded weight that was attached to it occasionally dragging against the bottom of the downward tunnel. Battered, bruised, and bounced around, Rassendyll struggled to listen to the tell-tale tones of the burial rock that would eventually drag the sack to the sea bottom. He knew that when the sound stopped and the ride smoothed out, that the course would have changed from forward to downward, and that only seconds would remain for him to escape and head to the surface.
It was only when he turned his head to the side and felt the drag of the iron mask against the linen lining did he remember that he too would be weighted down even after he left the sack. As this moment of realization hit him, he realized that the change of course had begun.
Seeing no rational alternative, he braced himself for the liquid onslaught, opened the sack, and valiantly kicked toward the surface, the weight of the mask resting heavily upon his shoulders.
On the Shore of the Moonsea:
Passepout's head hurt.
The last thing he remembered clearly was staggering out of the Traveler's Cloak Inn, and walking down an alleyway. From there, things seemed to blur. Pressmen hitting him over the head. Passing out. Waking up on a boat. Getting sick to his stomach. Being thrown overboard.
It had not been a good day.
Somehow aided by the buoyancy of his bulk, he had managed to float ashore. The hefty thespian groaned as he rolled his bulk on to his side for a cursory survey of the area. He opened his eyes for a quick look, and closed them even more quickly than he had intended due to the glare of the sun off the surf. He felt like a beached whale after the tide had gone out.
What could go wrong now? he thought to himself.
