Having finished two eggs from which he had taken his time delicately removing the shells, Selfaril drank a draught of juice, and, with a swipe of a napkin, wiped the breakfast residue from his mouth.

"Don't just stand there holding that tray," the High Blade ordered. "Put it down and pour me a cup of coffee."

Rickman did as instructed and turned around to pour the pot.

"You may as well pour yourself a cup as well," Selfaril added, the sharpness of his tongue slowly disappearing.

"As you wish, sire," the captain of the Hawks answered, adding, "I don't mind if I do."

When he turned back to face Selfaril, and placed his cup in front of him, he noticed that the High Blade's robe had loosened when he had used the napkin, and that three apparently fresh parallel lacerations of no less than three inches each were visible on his master's bare chest. The High Blade was scratching them absently, not even realizing what he was doing until he noticed Rickman's stare.

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."

"Who have we executed for their incompetence this time?"

"A Hawk by the name of Jembahb, sire," Rickman explained. "He was one of the two men I sent to retrieve the Thayan crystal wand as evidence of the Tharchioness's people's involvement in the slaughter at the Retreat."

"What did he do?"

"He returned without the wand. He claimed that he couldn't find it, even though they were clearly told where it had been left. The other Hawk, a weasel named Wattrous, appears to have deserted. No doubt he realized the penalty for failure. A price has been put on his head, and I expect to have it on my mantle shortly."

"Good."

"Before his sentence was meted out, Jembahb did mention running into a thief on the way back to Mulmaster who claimed to have been paralyzed by a great and powerful wizard whose appearance matches the description of that writer Geddarm. Unfortunately the incompetent failed to bring him in. I have men patrolling the area with orders to retrieve him."

"That will have to do," the High Blade acknowledged, not happy with many of the implications.

"As to the incriminating evidence of Thayan involvement in the slaughter at the Retreat, I have dispatched another assignment of Hawks to scour the place, and then burn it to the ground. If we are unable to find that which we seek, we will at least remove any evidence that might incriminate us in the unpleasant matters that have taken place there."

"Indeed," Selfaril acknowledged, "it would appear that at the present time we will have to settle for a return to the status quo as a temporary victory."

"Unfortunately," the captain said, his eyes downcast in shame, "I am afraid that I will have to agree with you."

"It amounts to a stalemate with my mate, and I hate stalemates almost as much as I hate her."

Off the Road Twixt Mulmaster and the Retreat:

Honor Fullstaff arose from his slumbers, and stretched, noticing the warming rays of the already risen sun. He hadn't intended on sleeping so long (despite the fact that he always did), and, blaming it on his sumptuous meal of the night before (which was no more sumptuous than his normal dinner fare) resolved to make better use of his early morning hours on the morrow (a daily resolution), and perhaps partake of an predawn walk that might help to reduce his physical bulk that he feared was rapidly going to flab.

Fullstaff rubbed his eyes, stretched again, and scratched his still solid chest, his finger combing the wooly vest of his chest hair

"Hal! Poins!" he summoned his servants. "Fetch my robe, my jug, and my sword!"

A twin chorus of "Yes, milord!" was heard in the antechamber followed by the scurrying of slippered feet, scampering in pursuit of their master's wishes.

Hal arrived first and helped the six-foot-six former gladiator into his robe, then quickly exited to fetch his master's sword. Poins immediately took his place, and handed over the jug of ale to the former captain of the Hawks so that he could slake his thirst after his long night's respite.