It hadn't, but to all outward appearances the flat, stark, blank face of the mask's surface had been transformed into an ornately engraved faceplate on an even more elaborately emblazoned helmet.
Honor approached the still bewildered former mage, ran his fingers over the mask's surface, and turned toward the direction of Mason McKern.
"You're slipping," the blind swordmaster commented, "it feels the same."
"True," the senior Cloak replied, "but to the naked eye, it is now a work of art. The glamour surrounds the surface of the metal, without ever making contact with it."
"Then it will do," Honor acknowledged, and called to Poins. "Are his tabard and leggings ready?"
"Indeed, milord," Poins replied, and began assisting Rassendyll in the donning of the uniform of a Knight of the Order of the Hard Day.
Moments later, Rassendyll was completely masked in his knightly disguise.
"Only one last touch remains," Honor said aloud, turning slowly to accept a locked case from the arms of Mason.
Honor held the case out flat, and placed it into the outstretched arms of Hal who acted as a podium stand for the heavy box, his hands and arms stiff and unwavering under its oaken weight.
Carefully and gently, Honor opened the case and withdrew a samite-draped object which, with the gentle assistance of Mason, he began to unwrap.
"This was your father's sword," the blind sword-master explained. "No one else has used it since the day he died. It has been waiting for you. Hold it, use it, and it will remember."
Rassendyll gripped the sword, gently swinging it through the air in a wide arc as the memories, abilities and skills of its former owner coursed through his body.
Rassendyll was still absorbed in his gentle practice when Mason turned to Honor and whispered, "We should be getting changed for the reception. Let's leave them alone to get acquainted."
15
Guards, Guards, amp; Custodians In the Dungeon of Southroad Keep:
"So these are the two aliens that we have been looking for," stated Rickman as he looked into the dark and dank cell that housed Volo and Passepout.
"Yes, Captain," the guard replied. "The fat one has been here before."
"Then he must be the vagrant Passepout," Rickman said. "Are they alone in there?"
"I believe so, captain," the guard answered.
"You believe so?" Rickman replied, on the verge of rage. "What do you mean 'you believe so?'"
"Well you see, captain," the guard explained, "the cell has been vacant for a few weeks, but the last prisoner we left in it was never found."
"Did he escape?"
"No, captain, we believe an unusual fungus ate him. There is something growing in the back darkness and, as best we can determine, it is carnivorous. The last we heard from the previous inhabitant was a scream in the darkness. By the time we got some torches to investigate, all that was left in the cell were his boots… and that fungus."
"How amusing," Rickman commented.
"Captain," the guard inquired as the captain of the Hawks turned to leave, "should I warn them to stay away from the dark parts of the cell?"
"Don't bother," Rickman instructed, not even bothering to turn around. "It will just mean less work for the torturer tomorrow, that's all."
"Did you hear that?" Passepout whispered frantically to his friend.
"Indeed I did," Volo replied, apparently unperturbed by the fungoid threat that lurked in the darkness.
"I thought I noticed some mushrooms back there, and was just about to treat myself to some for dinner."
"Well, then," the master traveler offered cheerily, "it's a good thing you didn't. A mushroom meal is what you wanted, not to be a meal for a mushroom."
Volo heard a nervous titter of laughter from the unamused thespian, who moved as close as possible to the door, as both prisoners sat and waited for their rescue.
The Reception Hall in the Tower of the Wyvern:
Fullstaff and Rassendyll had just reached the end of the receiving line to greet the High Blade and First Princess when a herald announced that the affair was coming to an abrupt end.
Honor tapped the shoulder of one of the guards in attendance, and asked him what was going on.
"Golly, I'm really not sure, sir," the guard replied, recognizing the decorations on Honor's tabard as belonging to a veteran of the Hawks. "Both the High Blade and the First Princess seemed rather preoccupied to begin with. You know, as if they would rather be doing something else."
"Imagine that," Honor muttered, trying to mask his concern over the change in plans.
"Then Captain Rickman arrived and told the High Blade that two wanted criminals had been captured, and that they were scheduled to be tortured tomorrow."
Honor heard Rassendyll draw in his breath.
"And then the High Blade seized the opportunity to leave, and announced that he would take care of all of the arrangements himself."
"Did the High Blade, perchance, mention when he planned on doing this?" Honor asked.
"I think he is on his way over there now," the loquacious guard added. "Captain Rickman said that he was otherwise engaged, but the High Blade didn't seem to be concerned, and left muttering something about if you want something done right, you might as well do it yourself."
"I see," Honor replied, keeping a firm grip on Rassendyll's arm to keep the disguised twin from panicking. "Thank you for all of your assistance. What is your name so that I can put in a good word for you with the High Blade."
"Well, golly," the guard drawled. "That would be mighty nice of you."
"Not at all," Honor replied quickly, getting ready to turn and leave.
"The name is Nabors," the guard answered, "but my friends call me by first name which is GoMar."
"Indeed," Honor replied, shaking the young man's hand, and then quickly turning to usher himself and Rassendyll out of the Reception Hall.
"We will have to move fast," the blind swordmaster instructed, as they hastened down the corridor. "We're just lucky that I know a shortcut."
In the Staff's Quarters of Southroad Keep:
Mason McKern knocked on the door to his brother's apartment and was instantly alarmed as the door swung open, apparently unlatched.
How odd, the senior Cloak thought. Normally my brother is a stickler for security.
The appearance of the room was even more unsettling. Even to the least observant visitor, it was obvious that the room had not been occupied for at least a day. The pallet had not been slept on, the hearth was left untended, and a half-eaten meal that looked as if its diner had been disturbed in midbreakfast had crusted over. Next to the meal's bowls and plates was a book of some kind which Mason assumed was his brother's spellbook or personal journal.
In reality it was both.
Mason was about to open it when a voice from behind him called.
"You there! What do you think you're doing?"
Mason turned around to confront the interloper who immediately recognized him.
It was Dwight Wrenfield, Southroad Keep's custodian.
"Oh, I'm sorry, sir," Dwight apologized. "I didn't know it was you."
"My apologies," Mason said calmly, "I should have stopped by your cell to let you know that I was here."
"Oh, that's all right," Dwight replied, "I was just collecting spiders before dinner, and saw that the door was ajar, so I decided to check things out. I assume you are here to pick up your brother's personal effects."