The Mage in the Iron Mask - Brian Thomsen [34]
Rickman quickly averted his eyes, and returned his attention to the placement of the coffee cup.
"Oh, sit," Selfaril instructed with a dismissive gesture.
Rickman sat, his body still at attention. Inwardly he was bemoaning his momentary lapses in decorum: his overly familiar acceptance of the High Blade's offer to join him in coffee, and his conspicuous staring at the scratches.
Selfaril discerned the uneasiness of his very necessary right-hand man, and immediately tried to set him at ease. He had punished him enough for the moment, and further castigation could wait 'til later.
The High Blade took a drink of his coffee, then set it down on the desk before him. Once again he began to scratch at the scabbed lacerations on his chest. Rickman's eyes involuntarily followed the path of Selfaril's hand, then quickly darted back to the High Blade's eyes which met his own dead on.
The High Blade maintained his locked-on stare for a moment, blinked, then cast his own eyes down on the source of his epidermal irritation, and with a chuckle slightly tinged with exasperation, resumed scratching.
"The First Princess was a little ferocious in her friskiness last night," the High Blade explained with a grin. "Blast, if only she didn't have a brain she would be a perfect wife."
"Sire?" Rickman responded, not quite sure of how he was supposed to react.
"I mean it," Selfaril continued, trying to put the captain at ease. "It's a pity that she wants to depose me as much as I want to depose her." The High Blade swallowed another mouthful of coffee, and feeling almost fully awake, readied himself for the first disappointment of the day. He asked, "Well Rickman, breakfast is finished. You may ruin my day now. What is the latest on the situation at hand?"
Rickman drained his own cup, and began his report.
"My information is mixed at best, sire," the captain of the Hawks explained.
"Has anyone discovered my brother's body yet?"
"No, sire, and I am confident that no one will. The harbor has been filled with ships as of late. Several of them are from our allies who have agreed to assist us in the rebuilding of our navy, while others are from certain other interests whose press gangs we have allowed to harvest our detritus in exchange for certain considerations. My spies in the ranks of both have indicated no sightings of bodies in the harbor or beyond. I believe it is safe to assume that his drowned corpse is either hung up in a subterranean sewer alcove, or safely resting at the bottom of the Moonsea itself."
"You must be right," Selfaril agreed, scratching his chest. "I realized that the mask would be the death of him, just not quite that way."
"According to my experts in the Cloaks," Rickman expounded, "the mask itself is only adhered to the flesh that surrounds the back of the skull. Once the flesh has decayed, the mask will separate and fall off. At that point, the features of your brother's face will have already fallen prey to the appetites of the scavengers that crawl along the bottom of the Moonsea. It will have ceased to be recognizable and, therefore, no longer of any use to anyone."
"Well, that is one small consolation," Selfaril acknowledged. "What about that missing actor?"
"Still unaccounted for, the same for the writer, I'm afraid," Rickman replied. "Though without the prisoner, any claims by them would be unsubstantiated. They cease to be a major threat, particularly with foreigners."
"Agreed," the High Blade assented, "but I still want them dead. One can't be too careful."
"Agreed, sire," the captain repeated, adding. "I assure you that they will soon be joining the ranks of those men who have failed to perform up to your expectations."
"Good."
"If I might also mention, your majesty, those ranks have just swelled with another addition."