"What are we supposed to be looking for?" the younger and taller Hawk inquired, apparently oblivious to the stench of the rapidly rotting bodies.

"Captain Rickman said there should be something by the body of the bald guy at the gate," the shorter and senior Hawk instructed, "but there doesn't seem to be anything there."

"How did he…" Chesslyn said a little louder than Volo felt comfortable with.

"Quiet!" the master traveler hushed, then added in a whisper, "Later."

"Well, if it's not here, let's leave," Jembahb said. "This place gives me the creeps."

Volo cupped his hands together, and blowing through them, carefully made the sound of an undead specter advancing into the daylight. He could tell that Wattrous recognized the sound; the Hawk instantly became wide-eyed and frantically looked from side to side.

"Good idea," he quickly replied to his junior Hawk, valiantly trying not to show his fear, but then adding, "but you have to be the one to tell Rickman."

"No problem," Jembahb replied as they remounted their horses. "But where will you be?"

"I have business in Hillsfar," the weasel-like Wattrous quickly replied, saying the first thing that came to mind. He thought to himself, knowing how Rickman dealt with an undesirable report, maybe Hillsfar wasn't such a bad idea. Perhaps he could join the Plumes. Jembahb was a nice enough guy, trusting and naive, and would, therefore, be the perfect scapegoat for their failure to complete their mission as directed. Yes. Hillsfar would be just far enough to save his own skin.

As the two Hawks set off back for Mulmaster, the Harper secret agent and the master traveler lowered themselves from their hiding place.

The Sewers Beneath Mulmaster:

Rassendyll felt a sensation of falling rapidly through midair, which was quickly followed by the slap and splash of the weighted burial sack's contact with the rapidly moving river of sewage-spoiled waters.

The thick viscosity of the underground fluid coated the burial shroud amniotically, without managing to permeate the sack itself. As a result, as long as the masked prisoner was able to hold the top cinch of the sack tightly closed, no air was able to escape, and for at least a few brief moments Rassendyll was able to breathe within the linen-lined bubble that was cascading through the underwater tunnels of Mulmaster.

The masked prisoner realized that he had to time his escape from the sack very carefully: too soon and he would be wasting precious drops of air that he might need before finishing his journey out to sea; too late and he would find himself too far below the depths of the icy Moonsea, and long drowned before reaching the surface.

The sheer power of the sewer stream propelled the bag and its contents forward, the leaded weight that was attached to it occasionally dragging against the bottom of the downward tunnel. Battered, bruised, and bounced around, Rassendyll struggled to listen to the tell-tale tones of the burial rock that would eventually drag the sack to the sea bottom. He knew that when the sound stopped and the ride smoothed out, that the course would have changed from forward to downward, and that only seconds would remain for him to escape and head to the surface.

It was only when he turned his head to the side and felt the drag of the iron mask against the linen lining did he remember that he too would be weighted down even after he left the sack. As this moment of realization hit him, he realized that the change of course had begun.

Seeing no rational alternative, he braced himself for the liquid onslaught, opened the sack, and valiantly kicked toward the surface, the weight of the mask resting heavily upon his shoulders.

On the Shore of the Moonsea:

Passepout's head hurt.

The last thing he remembered clearly was staggering out of the Traveler's Cloak Inn, and walking down an alleyway. From there, things seemed to blur. Pressmen hitting him over the head. Passing out. Waking up on a boat. Getting sick to his stomach. Being thrown overboard.

It had not been a good day.

Somehow aided by the buoyancy of his bulk, he had managed to float ashore. The hefty thespian groaned as he rolled his bulk on to his side for a cursory survey of the area. He opened his eyes for a quick look, and closed them even more quickly than he had intended due to the glare of the sun off the surf. He felt like a beached whale after the tide had gone out.

What could go wrong now? he thought to himself.

Carefully opening his eyes again, and shielding them from the setting sun, he surveyed his surroundings, and discovered that somehow his foot had gotten entangled in a pile of rags and a metal bucket.

Shaking his foot to get it loose, he was met with a surprise: the pile of rags and the coal bucket had started to move.

The stout and brave thespian quickly returned to unconsciousness as he fainted.

The Swordsman, the High Blade, his Wife, amp; his Brother

In Morning The High Blade's Study in the Tower of the Wyvern:

A new day had just dawned and once again the High Blade had stolen from the connubial chamber that housed his cursed marriage bed and loathsome spouse prior to first light-in order to avoid any possibility of having to converse with his despicable bride-and proceeded to his morning meal. Slater, his valet, whose sleeping accommodations varied from night to night so as to be available at his master's first stirring, had anticipated the High Blade's impulse and had risen from the folded-down pallet outside the door of the couple's chamber prior to his master's stirring. The faithful servant held his master's silk and fur morning robe in readiness for a quick escape to the secret study where Selfaril could enjoy the early morning serenity.

Once his master was safely ensconced in his study, Slater was free to fetch the High Blade's breakfast without fear of his master being disturbed by anyone but his closest confidantes, which, of course, did not include the Tharchioness.

The sun had just peeked over the horizon, thus signaling the next change of the city watch, when Selfaril's breakfast arrived, not borne by Slater as he had expected, but by Rickman.

Selfaril immediately realized that the captain of the Hawks must have been bearing important information or he wouldn't have risked the High Blade's ire at having his breakfast interrupted. He also realized that the information at hand would probably not be to his liking.

"Ah, Rickman," the High Blade said, addressing his right-hand man with deprecating sarcasm, "perhaps, you are auditioning for a new position that is more in line with the limited abilities of you and your men."

The captain of the Hawks held his tongue for a moment to allow the invective that was almost on his lips to pass into silence to be replaced by a simple, "If that is what you wish, sire."

"I wish for many things," the High Blade responded, beginning to dine off the tray that the captain was carrying. Rickman's inner instinct for survival prevented him from interrupting the High Blade by placing the tray on its usual place on the table.

"I wish that I had never married that traitorous she-devil," the High Blade continued. "I wish that I had acquired Thay as my domain rather than the Tharchioness as my bride. I wish that the ineptitude of your men had not bungled away the means by which my wishes might have been fulfilled."

Rickman stood stone-still, despite the tongue-lashing that coupled the strain that the heavily laden tray was bringing to bear on his awkwardly poised forearms. He knew that the High Blade already acknowledged his own disgust with the stupidity, ignorance, and ill-luck of a few of his men who had already borne the lethal brunt of his own anger.