Rassendyll was amused by the verbal antics of the fellow, who undoubtedly had no idea that his natural buoyancy had not only saved his own life but Rassendyll's as well, and he was certain that his face would have conveyed this grateful amusement to the dripping and corpulent gent had it not been obscured by the infernal mask.
The mask, however, did not muffle the laughter that was once again escaping his lips.
Passepout smiled, taking the masked fellow's amusement as a good sign, and accepting his proffered hand and assistance at getting to his feet.
'Oooofff!' he exhaled as he got to his feet. 'Why thank you, kind sir, for your gracious assistance!'
'Think nothing of it, my mutually waterlogged colleague,' Rassendyll replied, noticing some threatening clouds that seemed to be approaching from the sea horizon. 'It looks like a storm is brewing. We probably should try to find some shelter.'
Passepout remembered the warm and comfortable bed back at the Traveler's Cloak, and the unceremonious exit from the inn at the urging of Dela's boot sole.
'Good idea,' the soggy thespian agreed. 'Any ideas where?'
Rassendyll quickly looked around, noticing a few buildings and ships in the far distance. One of the buildings was a lighthouse, and, if memory served the former Retreat student, nearby was a small barracks housing no less than thirty-six soldiers.
'That-a-way,' the masked mage instructed, pointing in the opposite direction along the shore.
'Fine,' Passepout agreed, following the iron-masked man. 'I hope we are not too far from Mulmaster,' he added, not realizing that they were headed in the opposite direction from the city.
Not far enough for my tastes, Rassendyll thought to himself as he set off down the shoreline.
The Tharchioness's Apartment in the Tower of the Wyvern:
Once Ministers Konoch and Molloch had finished their reports, the Tharchioness dismissed them so that they could attend to the inane duties of state that passed as the excuse for their presence in Mulmaster. The First Princess was always concerned with the pretense of diplomacy which had succeeded in obscuring the presence of her spies and conspirators in the court despite the equally thorough spy network of Hawks and Cloaks that was available to the High Blade.
Mischa Tam remained behind to assist the First Princess in the preparation of her appearance for her obligatory court appearances, aiding in the application of cosmetics, and the choosing of the proper gown for the ceremonies of the day.
'What to wear, what to wear,' the First Princess murmured absently, as Mischa held one gown after another up against herself, thus serving as a live mannequin. 'The citizens of this abysmal hamlet have certain expectations that I must live up to. I am the great beauty who seduced their High Blade, the eastern, exotic witch whose mystical powers hold him in her thrall. I am both their queen and their enemy. Their nationalism demands that they both love me and hate me.'
'So many demands on a single woman,' Mischa commented in a neutral tone that succeeded in masking any implication of either sarcasm or sympathy.
'On a married woman, sister,' the Tharchioness corrected. 'Remember it was the will of Szass Tam that bound me to the infernal bonds of matrimony.'
'Of course, dear sister,' Mischa acquiesced. 'The battles for the expansion of Thayan interests are sometimes fought in the bedroom, as well as on the battlefield.'
'With the High Blade, there is very little difference.'
Both sisters laughed at the Tharchioness's humorously apt remark. Settling on a quilted silken gown of green, blue, and turquoise, the First Princess sat at her vanity seat so that Mischa could paint her face in the appropriate cosmetic color scheme.
The First Princess closed her eyes, and pursed her lips. Mischa knew what to do, and was not to be distracted by idle conversation until she was done.
Mischa began to apply the base to the Tharchioness's cheeks and forehead. The First Princess's silence came more from a desire to enforce a certain class formality in their relationship rather than from any honest concern about Mischa's need to concentrate on her task. As the Tharchioness's half sister through an unidentified assignation on their mother's part, Mischa Tam realized that she had very little claim to actual nobility, and even less to the authority of a tharch such as her sister. She was neither as potent a magic-wielder or as popular a politician as the First Princess, and she was reminded of it every day of her life, and accepted her fate of never being more than the one who was referred to behind her back as the Second Half-Princess, and the sister of the Tharchioness.
She sighed and accepted the limitations of her station, at least for the present time.
It was fortunate that the First Princess didn't know that her half sister secretly hated her, and was patiently awaiting the day when she would replace her in the favor of the illustrious Szass Tam.
Well, Mischa thought, at least I don't have to be an enforced concubine and brood mare for some smelly infidel like Selfaril.
The last eye line in place, Mischa announced, 'Done.' The Tharchioness opened her eyes, to assess her own appearance in an ornate mirror.
'So, sister,' the First Princess said, 'am I beautiful enough to distract my wretch of a husband?'
'Of course, sister,' she answered.
'Will I bring a stirring to his loins?'
'Don't you always?' she replied.
'Not that it has done me any good,' the Tharchioness observed. 'Once I am with child, the High Blade will cease to be a necessary participant in my marriage bed. I will train his heir to take his place on the throne, the same way Selfaril succeeded his father.'
'Only this time, the new High Blade will be Thayan,' Mischa pointed out.
'In all eyes but those of the wretched citizens of Mulmaster. He will be one of them by birth.'
'A brilliantly conceived plan,' Mischa said, secretly knowing that the High Blade's heir could just as easily be raised by his beloved aunt as by his vain and pompous mother.
When the time comes, she thought to herself, Szass Tam himself will choose.
The Tharchioness rose to her feet, and once again admired her appearance in the mirror.
'You have done me well, sister,' she complimented. 'Now all we have to do is wait for the charms that we have ordered.'
I am very good at waiting, the half sister observed silently, and my time will come.
At the Private and Secluded Residence of Sir Honor Fullstaff, somewhere between Mulmaster and the Retreat:
Fullstaff walked into the kitchen where the dwarven cook named Hotspur was busy in preparation for the evening meal.
'Something smells splendid,' the blind swordsman exclaimed, as he used his keen senses of perception to home in on an open pot that had a ladle in it, and was thus easy access for sampling. Hotspur was a creature of habit, and Fullstaff knew that he always kept the ladle resting in the first pot on the left.
'I wouldn't be sampling anything in that pot, master,' the dwarf replied.
'And why not Hotspur?' the master replied with a certain degree of mock haughtiness. 'Is this not my kitchen?'
'Indeed it is, milord,' Hotspur replied, his back to the master, his concentration focused on the chopping at hand.
'And are these not my pots?' the master inquired, slowly lifting the ladle to his lips, careful not to spill a drop or make any sudden noise.
'Indeed they are, milord,' the dwarf replied, then explained, 'but that one does not contain your dinner.'
'Well, then, my insubordinate cook,' the master interrogated, the ladle poised a fraction of an inch from his lips, 'what does it contain?'
'My socks,' the dwarf explained. 'They got stained when I was making wine out back, and boiling them is the only way I'll ever get them clean.'
