The Mage in the Iron Mask by Brian Thomsen

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.
    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