"At least."

"As surprised as we were to discover it."

"Right."

"So how did Rickman know to send some men to investigate it?"

"And how," Volo added, "would they know to look for something as specific as the bloodstained Thayan crystal wand?"

"Unless," Chesslyn continued, "he knew what they would find, and how would he know…"

"… unless he himself was involved."

"Agreed," the Harper agent concurred. "Curiouser and curiouser. The sole piece of evidence, the bloodstained wand, may not point to Thayan perpetrators since it might have been placed there by allies of Rickman."

"Which still doesn't explain the reason for the attack on the Retreat and merciless slaughter within," Volo added.

"Or why, beyond the obvious, Rickman would want to pin it on the Thayans."

Volo fingered his beard once again, this time in confusion. "What's the obvious?" he asked, unashamed of his ignorance.

"Rickman is Selfaril's right-hand man, and Selfaril hates Thayans," Chesslyn answered.

"But he's married to one," Volo countered.

"That's right," she replied with a grin. "Sometimes life's a bitch, ain't it?"

Past Tenses In the Office of the Captain of the Hawks in Southroad Keep:

"Captain Rickman?" inquired an out-of-breath Hawk by the name of Danovich who hoped that the news he bore was sufficiently urgent to warrant disturbing the second most feared man in all of Mulmaster.

"What is it?" the captain of the Hawks demanded without looking up from the surveillance reports that seemed to form a blotter of paperwork upon his desk.

"You requested updates on the searches for the escaped prisoner, the released prisoner known as Passepout, and the travel writer Volothamp Geddarm?" Danovich asked tentatively.

Rickman looked up, his stern visage betraying the throbbing that resounded within his tortured brow.

"So I did," he said in a sarcastic tone. "Let me guess, they are all now in custody, along with Elminster, King Azoun, and the Simbul."

"Uh, no sir," Danovich answered, not comprehending Rickman's sarcasm, "and I only have updates on the three I mentioned. Should I add Elminster, King Azoun, and the Simbul to the list?"

"Just give me the report," Rickman demanded, a touch of weakness and exasperation in his voice. He couldn't help but be reminded of the inferior quality of men under his command since the Year of the Bow, when their fleet was destroyed by forces from Zhentil Keep. Back then men didn't just obey orders, they understood them as well.

"On the status of the escaped prisoner and the travel writer," Danovich reported officially, his mustached upper lip trembling, "there is no change. The escaped prisoner is still presumed dead, and the travel writer has not returned to Mulmaster since his observed exodus early yesterday morn."

"As I expected," Rickman observed, "but what of the itinerant?"

"According to one of our spies upon a Sembian merchant vessel of the name Tanyaherst, the former prisoner Passepout was shanghaied by a press gang, pressed into service, and subsequently thrown overboard when it was determined that he would be more of a hinderance than an asset on their journey eastward."

"Go on," Rickman urged in stern seriousness.

"He was thrown overboard, evidently still groggy from the physical persuasion that was inflicted on his cranium during his recruitment. Given his condition, and the deadly Moonsea tides, he is presumed dead. Officially, unless we want to challenge it upon the ship's return to Mulmaster, he will be listed as missing after an unfortunate shipboard accident."

"Any other interesting tidbits?"

"Well," Danovich answered tentatively, "the itinerant named Passepout was actually an actor by trade."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Rickman demanded.

"Nothing," Danovich replied sheepishly, "just that I, too, was trained in the theater."

Rickman rolled his eyes to try to suppress his rage at the incompetence and feeblemindedness that seemed to abound within the ranks of his men.

"Anything else?" he said, half under his breath.

"No sir," Danovich reported.

"Then back to work!"

"Yes sir," the Hawk replied doing a quick about-face, a smile crossing his lips as he left his superior's office, thankful that he, unlike previous men in his position, had not incurred the captain's wrath.

Rickman stood up and, hands clasped behind his back, strode to the lone window of his office, stopping only briefly to summon his batsman by means of the signal cord.

The batsman, Roche, arrived in a flash, finding his captain contemplating the sky over Mulmaster.

"My instinct tells me that a storm seems to be moving in," Rickman asserted.

"The weather scryer in the Cloaks has predicted as such, sir," Roche said officiously.

"Any word on the condition of the sea?"

"According to the last report from the Lighthouse, high tide is just now coming in. The seas are choppy, and a mariner's advisory has been issued. The Moonsea is quite unforgiving of those who challenge her, even under the best of conditions," Roche responded, confident in the degree of detail expected by his captain. He had been in service to Rickman for close to eight years.

"What odds for survival would you give someone thrown overboard during such seas?" he asked, still staring out the window.

"Slim to none, sir," the batsman retorted.

"Just as I thought," Rickman replied, turning to face Roche. "Nothing is ever certain. You may go, Roche, but please put in a change of orders for the soldier who was just in here."

"Lieutenant Danovich, sir?" the batsman confirmed.

"Yes."

"Where will his new posting be, sir?" Roche inquired, a pad instantly in hand to take notes.

"Use your own judgment, Roche," Rickman answered, once again taking his place at his desk, and starting once again to go through the surveillance reports. "Just make sure it's an assignment far from Mulmaster, with a very small survival quotient."

"Yet another one-way assignment, sir," Roche confirmed.

"You draw up the papers and I'll sign them," Rickman said with a sense of finality. "It is the only way to weed out the incompetents from this man's army."

Roche returned his note pad to its proper place in his uniform pocket, executed a perfect heel-toe pivot about-face, and silently left the office of the captain of the Hawks to carry out his master's will.

On the Moonsea Shore:

For Rassendyll it had all seemed like a dream.

The viscous membrane that had held out the poisonous onslaught of liquid sewage during his flush-propelled journey under Mulmaster was quickly washed away by the strong Moonsea currents. Once his exodus from the sea-bound burial shroud had been successful, the sack began its weighted, oneway journey downward.

The cold sea water instantaneously inspired an adrenalin surge in the iron-helmeted prisoner, and his body began to shiver violently.

Rassendyll realized that he had no leisure moments to allow himself the luxury of the anaesthetic effects of aquatic thermal shock, and with every ounce of strength that existed in his being, he frantically kicked toward the surface. He knew he had to maintain control, for to panic was to die.

It was just as important for him to maintain a vertical position as it was to continue to scissor-kick his way surfaceward. The least deviation out of a vertical position would result in the sheer weight of the iron mask dragging his body downward head first. With the weight centered on his shoulders, his neck muscles taut to keep his iron-encased head in place and erect, his lungs exploding from lack of air, and his arms and legs valiantly pumping him upward, the young mage concentrated his efforts on maintaining the energy upward.