The mask is a duplicate, a flimsy replica, but the water has soaked it and the little stains of mud look almost like blood, spreading into the white as they do. You crouch next to it, next to the pile of stinking, seaweed-and-salt-encrusted clothes barely holding onto a bloated body: a torn evening jacket and a mottled shirt. They were his, yes, but not truly his, so you didn't feel too bad binding them together on the corpse of an executed rebel.
Your men mill around behind you, hearing the hoofbeats of the imperial guard approaching. The face of the dead man is hideously twisted thanks to the water and your own intervention. Blasphemy, sacrilege - better to have to repent than to try to do it dead. The storm mutilated the body, you'll say. Rocks, cliffs, angry sea monsters - nothing left behind but a smashed and shattered corpse, barely recognizable. But the mask was key. So long as there was a mask, nobody would argue the authenticity.
You carefully affix it to the body again and stand up. Your sword hangs heavy at your side, your pistols tucked away and infinitely more comforting. They will be hard-pressed to believe you, but dead is dead. Let the princess throw a tantrum, let the shah curse you and cast you out. He is safe. He is bound for somewhere, anywhere else.
Despite the looming sword over your head, you feel only relief.