The Office of the High Blade in the Tower of the Blades:
"Sire," Rickman cautiously interrupted, "a word with you if I may?"
"What is it Rickman?" the High Blade answered impatiently. The rigors and demands of dealing with the lesser nobles who, in the eyes of the people, really ruled the city, always left him in a bad mood, and he always saw interruptions to his business affairs as merely means to prolong his own bureaucratic misery.
"In private, sire?" the captain of the Hawks whispered with a degree of urgency.
"As you will," the High Blade assented, and quickly dispersed the nonessential politicians with whom he had been dealing with quick directions. "Leave me now," he ordered brusquely, "and don't return until you have a concrete plan for restoring our navy in half the time you are currently projecting."
"Yes, sire," the nobles all said in unison, though the looks on their faces indicated that such a task was almost impossible, and that they would be spending the next few weeks avoiding the High Blade in order to dodge his wrath when he discovered their gross failings. They quickly fled the office of their supreme commander.
"Well, that should keep them out of my hair for a while," the High Blade said with a fiendish chuckle. "Now what did you deem to be so important that it was worth incurring my ire by interrupting the second most unpleasant part of my day?"
"The second, sire?"
"The first being waking up to discover myself next to the Tharchioness, who still happens to be breathing."
"Yes, sire," Rickman acknowledged, quickly returning to the matter at hand. "In an effort to, how shall I say, tie up all of the loose ends, I am afraid that I have discovered one that is not all that easy to tie up."
"How so?"
"That thespian who was released yesterday."
"Yes?" demanded the High Blade, beginning to loose patience.
"We can't locate him."
The High Blade could barely contain the rage that had been building within him since he had first discovered his wife's plot against him. The captain of the Hawks hastened to continue his debriefing.
"My spies have narrowed down the source of his sanctuary to two possible allies in the city."
"So he is still in Mulmaster?" Selfaril asked. "Are you sure of this?"
"The city watch at the gate is quite confident he has not left the city walls since his release from Southroad Keep."
"Well that is a small consolation," the High Blade acknowledged. "Who are these possible allies? Spies and agents within the city perhaps? Maybe a Harper agent?"
"No, your majesty," Rickman replied with great confidence and surety. "My sources are quite confident that organizations such as the Harpers and their ilk have no presence within the city walls of Mulmaster. The Cloaks constantly scan the area with their psionic surveillance, and have always come up empty. Harper interference is the least of our problems."
"Go on," the High Blade instructed, relieved that one of his fears was unfounded, though still perturbed by the amount of dancing around the truth that Rickman seemed to be doing. "So who are these potential allies of this common itinerant thespian whom your men saw fit to release?"
Rickman tried to skip over the reference to the incompetence of his men and continued. "Since we have safely ruled out all normal residential city inhabitants, this reduces our suspects to recent arrivals to the city."
"Agreed."
"Unfortunately, your majesty, our most likely candidate is one of your wife's people, or more specifically someone in her entourage."
Selfaril's composure began to slip again.
"You mean this so-called harmless itinerant thespian was a Thayan spy!" he shouted, confident that the soundproof walls of his office prevented anyone from eavesdropping. "Your men released from their custody a Thayan spy!"
"No, your majesty," Rickman quickly tried to explain. "What I meant to say was that your wife's people, for some reason presently unknown to us, might be offering him refuge."
Selfaril winced at Rickman's repeated use of the phrase "your wife's," but continued his interrogation nonetheless.
"You said there were two possible allies for the thespian within the city. Who is the other one?"
"A writer of some renown who arrived at the city the day after the thespian. One Volothamp Geddarm, guide book author and world traveler," the captain of the Hawks explained. "Curiously enough, he seems to have secured himself accommodations for two, though the city watch reported that he entered the city alone."
"Well, have him arrested," Selfaril ordered matter-of-factly. "If he knows the location of your harmless thespian, we'll no doubt get it out of him with torture. If not, we will at least have succeeded in ridding Faerun of one more annoyance. If there is one thing worse than an itinerant actor, it's an itinerant writer. Believe me, he won't be missed."
"Unfortunately, at least according to the city watch, it would appear that he has already left the city, though there is every indication that he plans on returning as he has maintained his lodgings at the Traveler's Cloak Inn, paid in advance."
Selfaril fingered his carefully coifed beard with a neatly manicured fingernail that he kept sharp enough to draw blood.
"Issue a warrant for his arrest and for the thespian as well," the High Blade ordered. "Search his lodgings immediately and confiscate his belongings. If anyone asks what he is suspected of, be vague, but leave the implication that they are both involved with a plot to kill my dear sweet wife, just to make it interesting."
"Yes, your majesty," Rickman replied, admiring the deceitful mastery that the High Blade choreographed as he tightened the noose around the Thayan bitch's neck. "And are there any new instructions concerning your brother, sire?"
The High Blade gave his second a glare that could only be described as a death look.
"Rickman," Selfaril said in an ominously controlled voice, "you are quite valuable to me, but not so valuable that I would hesitate having you permanently removed in a millisecond should the mood strike me. It would be in your best interest to refrain in the future from the use of any familial terms in my presence. Do you understand?"
"Yes, your majesty," Rickman replied, his lone eye averted and downcast.
"As for the prisoner," Selfaril concluded, "there are no new orders. I can't imagine that we will have to keep him alive much longer. Soon he will be used to embarrass the Tharchioness by exposing her seditious plot, and after that, he will be disposed of. For the time being, he's harmless, and he's not going anywhere."
At the Traveler's Cloak Inn:
Passepout, though he had slept well past the midday point, was still quite groggy, and slightly queasy from the previous night's merriment.
A sensible individual would probably have taken things easy, until his hangover had passed. Unfortunately the chubby thespian's mammoth appetite had no desire to be ruled by common sense, and as a result Passepout soon found himself in the dining room placing a food order that at once combined the sustenance and bulk of a midnight snack, breakfast, brunch, and lunch.
"You'll be sorry," the usually understanding and accommodating Dela advised.
The chubby thespian just harumphed back at her, trying to clear his head of the miasma of Morpheus, and paying no mind to the worldly wisdom offered by the best hostler in all Mulmaster.
When the plate was placed in front of him, he immediately dug in without so much as a thank you or other acknowledgement for the efforts of the hard working innkeeper.
True to the advisement of Dela, he was midway through his second plateful when his stomach revolted, and his faced turned a sickly color of pea green.
Dela, who had been keeping a close eye on her least favorite guest of the moment, decided that she had taken quite enough abuse up to this point. She strode over to the chair that was straining under the weight of the heavy thespian and, taking him by the collar, none too gently escorted him to the door.