'Honor taught me everything I know,' Chesslyn said reverentially, 'and I'm sure he will have no problem with us stopping by for the night. He has plenty of spare rooms, and is always amenable to offer hospitality to friends of friends who can be trusted.'
Chesslyn delivered her last remark with such a withering degree of seriousness that the master traveler began to think better of featuring the legendary swordsman in his upcoming guide book. Perhaps confidentiality should be preserved in some cases.
Chesslyn reined in her horse, shaded her eyes from the midafternoon glare, and scanned the horizon.
'We should be there right about sundown,' she said. 'Knowing Honor, he'll be out front catching the last few rays of the setting sun before sitting down to a sumptuous dinner feast. We'll be just in time to join him.'
'Can't wait,' the master traveler said, eager to meet the teacher who had instilled such admiration in one of his students.
8
The conspiracy of the moment over, both threat and advantage now neutralized, Selfaril felt a palatable taste of normalcy as things returned to the status quo.
He still hated his wife, and she him.
Eltabbar and Thay were still distant opportunities and menaces for the glory of Mulmaster and the High Blade himself.
He had grown used to the game of cat and mouse that he and his bride played. It excited him more than he liked to admit, and he was sure that she felt the same way. Why else did he always feel an adrenal rush whenever she was around? What else could account for the mixed feelings of excitement and revulsion he experienced whenever she entered the room?
For him, love was an abstract concept, not at all alien, just different from that normally felt by others. It required respect; yet did not the best of enemies command respect? It caused a physical attraction, yet did not the flame attract the moth to its death?
Love and death: they were intricately tied in his mind.
Looking back he remembered wanting to be like his father, the great leader who taught him by example and was revered by all his subjects; Selfaril had accomplished this goal by killing his father and taking his place.
Family was the greatest threat of all, yet he felt a certain emptiness within, almost as if something was missing. Perhaps it was the fate of his brother; could this be what had left him feeling incomplete? Though he had been assured that his twin must have drowned during his futile escape attempt, how could he be sure?
There was an emptiness inside Selfaril, an incompleteness. Less than a month ago he had not even known that his twin existed, and now the stranger was forever on his mind, and all because the sheer incompetence of his men had cost him the ecstatic pleasure of seeing his brother die.
Selfaril shook his head in remorse over the experience he had been denied. Oh well, he thought, I still have my wife…
On the Back Roads Outside of Mulmaster:
As the clouds began to move in on them, and the sun inched closer to the horizon, Rassendyll and Passepout pressed onward.
The iron-masked escapee realized that he and his overweight traveling companion would have to avoid any of the numerous Mulmaster outposts, or he would soon find himself back in the dungeons of Southroad Keep. The combination of the sand, salt, and seaweed that had taken to roost in the collarlike ring of the mask's neck piece was rubbing raw his skin adjacent to it, causing an extremely uncomfortable mixed sensation of burning and itching. As he reached the rise of the next hill, having first scanned the area to assure it was deserted, he paused once again to rub at the chafed area.
'Is your neck bothering you?' the out-of-breath thespian asked, as he too reached the rise, adding tentatively, 'Why don't you just take the helmet off? I'm sure you can't be that ugly. If you don't want to be recognized, well, don't worry about me. A famous actor such as myself knows all about traveling incognito to avoid overzealous fans. I'll keep your secret, whatever it is.'
Rassendyll looked at the amusing fellow, and said, 'You're a famous actor?'
'That's right,' Passepout replied, with an out-of-place flourish and semi-bow. 'Passepout, only son of the legendary thespians Idle and Catinflas, at your service.'
'Never heard of you,' Rassendyll replied, still distracted as he rubbed the raw spot in search of relief.
'You know,' the thespian ventured, 'if we were back in Cormyr, I'd know the perfect thing to rid you of that dry, flaking, skin problem you have. It's heartbreaking watching you suffer. A friend of mine by the name of Seau Raisis had that problem.'
'What did he use?'
'Well,' Passepout answered, scratching his head as if to stimulate a memory, 'as I recall there was a cleric, named Oleigh if I remember correctly, who would treat Seau's problem by rubbing it with oil that he made specially for such ailments.'
'Did it work?'
'I think so,' Passepout replied, 'but I can't really be sure. After the oil of Oleigh was applied he never complained about the problem again, but…'
'So it must have worked.'
'Not necessarily; that is, I mean to say the problem was taken care of, but it might not have been cured by the oil.'
'What then? I mean, if the problem with his neck abrasion went away and he never complained about it again, why do you doubt the effectiveness of the cleric's treatment?'
'He was beheaded.'
'The cleric?'
'No,' Passepout explained. 'Seau. At least his neck rash problem was taken care of.'
Rassendyll looked at the pudgy thespian and laughed once again.
Passepout smiled back, almost at ease in the company of the masked stranger.
'Well I for one would rather avoid such treatments and cure-alls as the one that worked on your friend Seau.'
'Indeed,' the pudgy thespian agreed. 'By the way, what is your name, or at least what should I call you?'
Rassendyll thought for a moment, glad that the mask obscured the thespian from seeing the wary change of expression on his face. He himself was no actor, and he was sure that his face would have conveyed the indecisiveness he felt about whether he could trust this funny fellow or not.
'You can call me Rupert,' Rassendyll answered, 'Rupert of Zenda.'
'Well met, Rupert of Zenda,' Passepout returned. 'Can't say I recognize the name.'
'Hope not,' the masked escapee replied inadvertently.
'What was that?' Passepout inquired. 'That coal bucket you're wearing gives you a bad case of the mumbles, if you know what I mean. By the way, why don't you take it off?'
'I wish I could,' Rassendyll retorted, 'but I'm afraid that it's stuck.'
'Too bad,' the thespian replied.
Rassendyll scanned the area once again. He didn't like the looks of the storm clouds that seemed to be rapidly bearing down on them. We should be on our way and looking for shelter, he thought.
Passepout in the meantime had concentrated his visual faculties on the ground around where they sat. Seeing exactly what he was looking for, he struggled to his feet and walked back over the ridge, picking up a sturdy branch. Rassendyll noticed his efforts once he returned. Good thinking, the masked escapee thought, he found a walking stick.
Rassendyll was about to stand up when he felt Passepout trying to wedge one of the ends of the branch
