McKern interrupted, his eyebrow arching in interest, "Did you say a blind mage?"

"Yes," Rassendyll replied. "He did as he was told, under the watchful eyes of the High Blade. When he was done, I could no longer remember a single spell, let alone wield my magic."

McKern approached Rassendyll and examined the collar piece of the mask carefully.

"I thought it looked familiar," the mage replied. "It is my brother's handiwork. What else do you recall?"

"Only that the High Blade seems to be my twin."

Honor stood up, pushed McKern out of the way, and confronted the seated Rassendyll directly. A quick scan by Chesslyn revealed that he had left the numerous bladed weapons out of hand, and therefore probably did not intend a repeat performance of his prior attack.

The blind swordmaster stared with unseeing eyes into the iron-masked face of Rassendyll, and said, "What do you mean 'twin?' "

"We look exactly alike, save for his trimmed hair and beard. We are dead ringers."

Honor chuckled. "Indeed," he said, "this resemblance would have undoubtedly led to your death."

"He said that I would eventually choke on my own beard," Rassendyll recalled.

"No doubt an appealing thought to our esteemed High Blade." Honor turned toward the direction from whence he had last heard Chesslyn's voice, and said, "Chesslyn dearest, would you please bare our masked man's shoulder please."

Chesslyn complied without asking why. The sane and knowing Honor Fullstaff who had been her teacher had returned, replacing the rage-driven mad swordsman who had made an appearance earlier that evening. She knew that he had a reason.

When Honor heard her completion of the deed, he turned toward Mage McKern and said, "Do you recognize that birthmark in his armpit?"

"But I thought he was…" Passepout said, none too discreetly.

"I am, my fine epicure," Honor retorted. "I have no need for the use of my eyes to validate that which I now know to exist."

McKern raised the masked man's left arm, and gasped.

"It is the birthmark," the mage confirmed.

"I thought so," Honor said, and extended his hand to the masked man. "You have my sincerest apologies. I could have borne you no greater insult than to mistake you for your brother."

"My brother?"

"Yes," Honor said, "you are the other son of Merch, my dearest dead friend, the former High Blade. You are, therefore, the heretofore unknown twin brother of the ruthless murderer Selfaril."

Honor took a step back and called to his men. "Hal and Poins, get Hotspur and fetch us a keg of my best Halruaan ale. We have much to discuss this night!"

11

Tankards of Memories At the Villa of Honor Fullstaff, Swordmaster, retired:

As they waited for the ale to arrive, they splintered off into separate groups. Volo introduced the very confused Passepout to Chesslyn. The master traveler was careful to conceal the young lady's Harper affiliation as he was more than acquainted with the chubby thespian's pronounced lack of discretion. Poins and Hal had set off to help Hotspur with the monstrous keg of Halruaan ale that their master saved for occasions of exceptional note, while the blind swordmaster and the senior cloak argued in hushed tones.

Through all of this the iron-masked man remained silent, pondering his fate, his identity, and the recent turn of events. He was conscious of the discreet glances thrown his way by Volo, Chesslyn, and Passepout. He was forced to acknowledge that these strangers might be his only chance for reaching safety and freedom.

Hal and Poins reentered the room, helping to balance the monstrous keg that the dwarf cook bore on his back. The threesome maneuvered it over to a place next to the trophy wall, and inserted it into a sort of harness that seemed to exist specifically for this purpose. As Hotspur fiddled with the recently attached spigot, Hal and Poins distributed mugs to the rest of the group and each became filled with the delicious libation from the Shining South. By the time everyone had been served, Honor and Mason had reached some sort of agreement, and had taken their places in the impromptu circle of chairs that had formed around Rassendyll.

Accepting his tankard from Poins, Honor downed it in a single quaff and wiped away the foam from his bearded jowls.

"Ahhh!" the blind swordmaster said in appreciation as he handed the empty tankard back to his servant who immediately set off to refill it. "You can't beat the Halruaans when it comes to ale, a fact that I am sure you are more than aware of, Mr. Volo's-Guide-to-Wherever."

The master traveler was slightly startled, then amused at the sudden reference to his reputation and repertoire made by their host. Indeed, he thought, our host is quite cagey and knows much more than he lets on-about a lot of things.

"I agree," the master traveler concurred aloud, "though I personally prefer the brew from a different part of the south, Luiren."

"Ah, but too many halflings can spoil the brew," Honor replied, accepting his second brimming helping.

The masked man's fear and uncertainty gave way to his own impatience.

"All this talk of halflings and brew is well and good," Rassendyll said with impertinence, "but I really do wish you would get on with whatever you plan to get on with."

Honor stiffened, and Passepout feared that the swordsman was about to enter into another rage. His fears were quickly allayed when he saw the wide grin spread across their blind host's face.

"Told you," Honor said to McKern. "Even has his father's lack of patience."

"Indeed," the senior Cloak concurred. "More and more, I am inclined to agree with you, and set aside my own misgivings."

"I knew you would, old friend," the blind host said, then turned his attention to the rest of the group. "I'm sorry. Please forgive us. Old men are prone to share old times and memories, both the good ones, and the bad, whenever the opportunity arises, no matter how discourteous it happens to be. Still, that is no excuse, and I beg that all of you will accept my apologies on behalf of Mason and myself."

Honor downed his second tankard of ale, once again emptying it in a single quaff, whispering instructions to send his appreciation to Hotspur for a job well done, as he went about deftly refilling his own mug. Refilling it faster than a Baldur's Gate bartender, he strode over to the seated mage in the iron mask who was the focus of all their attentions, and said, "Most of all I beg your forgiveness, and request your indulgence for just a little while longer. You are among friends now. Mason and I will protect you, as we should have protected your father."

Rassendyll felt the gentle bear paw of the blind swordsman on his shoulder, and looked up into his unseeing eyes. For some reason, he felt a profound sense of security. He believed the words that the generous host spoke.

Honor gave Rassendyll's shoulder a gentle squeeze, much as a teacher would give a star pupil to signal some private affection, and took what would have been considered a sip in comparison to his earlier draughts from the brimming tankard, only draining it of half its contents. He then returned to the tap to top it off, and took his place back in the circle.

"Mason," Honor said, "why don't you fill everyone in on our friend's background? I'm sure they will find it quite interesting."

"Agreed," the old mage replied, then added, to the masked man, "I am sure that you would like to know a little about your parentage, wouldn't you?"

"Of course," Rassendyll replied. "Of the many things I learned at the Retreat, that was not one of them."

"Well, old friend," Honor encouraged Mason McKern, "get on with it."