This is an in-between tale, a follow up to my long BG1 story, A Fragment of Substance, and a prequel to Shadows of Amn. This one will be updated weekly. Reviews and feedback are always gratefully received!
All Bioware characters are owned by Bioware, but Finn is mine.
...
"Oh, will you just get up already?"
Imoen let out another blast from the other side of the curtain, but Finn was determined to ignore it. Yes, he knew perfectly well it was past noon. The bright light streaming through the window and his sister's subtle hinting could leave him in no doubt. He knew what time it was. He just didn't care.
"Will you leave me alone?" he barked. "I'll get up when I'm ready."
"Leave you alone? How much do you think I like being harassed by a butcher's boy?"
"I'd have thought you rather enjoy it," he remarked idly.
"Just get your lazy arse out of bed!" Imoen cried in return, giving him a smack through the curtain. "You need to settle our bill. Today. Can you just say yes for me, please? I'm already running late!"
"Alright, alright," he grumbled. Anything to get rid of her. Imoen proceeded to storm around the room, muttering obscenities to herself as she set about rearranging the furniture, if the amount of noise she made was to be believed. But at last she grew tired of her tongue-lashing and headed out the door with a final crash.
Finn lay still for a while after she left, his aching head enjoying the silence. Alright, so he'd taken a little of their spare gold down to the tavern. He was in desperate need of a drink. And how was he meant to know she'd put aside that coin for the butcher? Imoen had taken the management of their little household entirely onto herself, never including him in the details unless it was to berate him over some lapse or another.
But soon he forced himself out of bed with a groan. Their grand lodgings consisted of a single room. Since the earthquake had damaged so many houses rents in the city had gone way up, but even without that they would have struggled to find somewhere decent. There was a recessed alcove where Imoen slept, more of a seat with a mattress on it than anything. And Finn got to sleep on the floor.
It was a miserable accommodation in more ways than one. The window frames leaked in the wet, leaving the plaster damp and mildewed. Their neighbours upstairs spent half the time fighting and the other half shagging, and their kids spent all the time screaming. The old woman across the hall ate cabbage at every meal and the stink of it drifted into their room, making the place smell like a stale fart.
And yet Imoen treated it like a palace. She was always on the go, a never-ending well of energy. Even working as a maid never slowed her down, and she always returned from her job at the big house in time to slap food into the pot to feed her starving brother. His rumbling stomach called for him to see what might remain. Fish stew. Last night's fish stew. Suddenly he wasn't so hungry.
Finn didn't understand why she bothered. The only other person who ever saw their flop was him, and he sure didn't care. Maybe she thought that if she scrubbed hard enough, all the taint of the last year would come clean. But some things would never wash.
Worst of all, Imoen's bustling only served to remind him that he was living off his little sister. He wasn't Flaming Fist any more, no wages to call his own. And he'd coldly refused any offer of a reward from the Grand Dukes after doing their job in dealing with Sarevok Anchev; a point of pride, maybe, but it left him more than a little light in the pockets.
Finn did what he had to out of necessity; fortune and glory were distant prospects. And there was no work to be had in Baldur's Gate. He'd found work, sure: laying bricks, acting as a tavern guard, even shovelling horse shite out of a stable. But it never lasted longer than a tenday. The story was always the same; the boss would call him in, tell him thanks, but he was no longer needed. A bag of coins and he was on his way.
It wasn't bad luck. Finn knew the reason why: he'd been blacklisted by the Flaming Fist.
Imoen thought he was being paranoid. Hadn't the Dukes cleared his name, and the commander of the Flaming Fist issued him an honourable discharge? But Finn knew the difference between a formal decree and the chatter of men huddled around a table at barracks.
He'd seen his old neighbour Mick in the street once. They were mates back in the days when they both lived in the officers' accommodation. Mick wasn't even in uniform that day, just out with his wife and kids. Finn had been so glad to see the lot of them, but they didn't want to know. If even Mick couldn't stand to look at him then Finn knew well enough where he stood. There was no room in Baldur's Gate for him. It was time to move on.
But there was nowhere to go. He told Anna that he'd return to Beregost in the spring, but that was a long time coming. Now the city was held in the Claw of Winter, or Alturiak as the scribes at Candlekeep would say. The feasts of Midwinter had passed, and the months till spring seemed to stretch ahead in nothing but a parade of short grey days, driven under by snow or icy rain.
Today though the sun was shining brightly in defiance of Finn's hangover. He helped himself to the last of their ale, then counted out the remaining coins in the crock that Imoen had stashed in the back of cupboard. He grimaced at the little stack of copper pieces on the table, then counted again. It was no good. There wasn't enough to pay off the butcher's receipt. And Imoen would have his head if he didn't pay that bill. Fortunately though, he knew where to get a loan.
...
Finn threw on an extra woollen tunic, then wrapped his cloak tight and headed out the door. It was bright, but cold. Around him the city was bustling, life returned to normal in spite of the disaster that had struck months ago. Carts went clattering past, and the calls of hawkers and peddlers echoed with the noise through the crisp air. Somewhere he could hear a dog barking. Children ran and played, chasing each other around and screaming like banshees.
It all felt so normal, the usual buzz of human activity. But as Finn wandered through the crowds he felt no connection to them. For he had a secret inside, and he knew well enough that if anyone could see him for what he truly was, that buzzing crowd would change into a lynch mob in a heartbeat.
But for that he still had a few friends. Khalid and Jaheira had stayed in the city after Sarevok's defeat, and the pair checked in on them from time to time like worried parents visiting their newly-independent offspring. It always felt strange to see them on a social call; Khalid and Jaheira were not the most naturally sociable of people and the meetings were always strained with small talk. But they had departed nearly a month ago on some Harper mission, and Finn wasn't sure when he might see them again.
But perhaps the most unexpected friend to appear was the one who now dropped his burden and drew up Finn into an excited and rather unwelcome hug.
"Friend Finn! Our friend Finn is here!"
"All right, Minsc?" Finn said, his voice muffled as he tried to free himself from the monster man's embrace.
"Yes, of course! It is a beautiful day, and now our friend is here! Say hello to our friend, Boo!"
Minsc dropped Finn long enough to remove a small creature from a leather pouch on his belt. He tenderly caressed the hamster's head with a large finger. Boo for his part seemed half-asleep, and more than a little disinterested in Finn. From another pouch Minsc took half a biscuit and fed it to his pet, which garnered a good deal more attention from the rodent.
"Ay up, Boo?" Finn said tentatively.
"Ah, he is quiet today," Minsc said, sounding like a father apologising for his child's behaviour. "Very sleepy! Hamsters like sleep in the daytime. But you should see him at night! He never stops carousing, no!"
"That true, Boo?" Finn said, laughing a little. "We'll have to go out drinking some night."
Minsc gently tucked the creature back into his pouch.
"We would love to go with you. Ah, the taverns would ring with our songs! But Dynaheir says, Minsc, no more drinking. Minsc is not allowed an ale!"
"Ah, you're henpecked, that's what," Finn said, though he secretly couldn't blame her. Minsc was daft enough sober, he'd hate to imagine what the man would be like drunk.
"Eh? Minsc keeps no chickens," he replied, sounding a little confused. "But I must get back to work. Still many bags of flour to take into the bakery! Come see me later, my friend. Minsc may not have a drink, but he does like to eat! He will make good food for you!"
"I will, but…listen…can you spot me a few gold? I'll pay you back soon as I can," Finn said quickly, hoping to hold the man's attention.
Minsc heaved the great sack of flour over his shoulder, and he looked at Finn with a raised eyebrow.
"Short of coin again, my friend? It is not good to always be borrowing gold. A man needs to work. Good work is good for the spirit."
"I know, I know," Finn remarked, feeling his face turn red under the simple man's reproachful gaze. "But it's the last time. I'm just short… Imoen asked me to pay a bill…"
"Do not trouble yourself," Minsc interrupted him. "We always have gold for our friends. Except…not today. We have no more gold till the baker gives us our wages. I know! You must ask Dynaheir. She will give you gold for little Imoen, I am sure."
"Er, yeah…" Finn said. "Maybe I'll do that, then. See you later, Minsc."
"And Boo!" the man called, already away with his sack of flour.
"And Boo," he sighed.
It was hopeless. Finn would sooner face the gaze of a moneylender while wearing nothing but a sack round his waist than ask the imperial mage for a loan, but in this case he didn't have much choice. He wasn't trying to scrounge up a few coins for a drink, he really needed the money. So with a groan he left the bakery and headed for a nearby bookshop.
Of all the people Finn never expected to see again… After their adventures last spring Minsc and Dynaheir had made their way north, settling for whatever reason in Baldur's Gate. He'd always understood that Minsc was on a pilgrimage to prove his manhood, though how he intended to do that working in a bakery was anyone's guess. But any man can find himself in need of coin, he supposed. Maybe they decided to spend the winter in a settled spot, rather than try their luck in the wilderness.
He'd met the Rashemi pair in the city by merest chance; rumour told that a baker in the southern half of town was looking for help, and even though Finn was no baker he decided to try his luck there. Of course he didn't get the job, but he was startled to no end by the towering figure of Minsc shouting his name from the back of the premises.
Daft as he was though, Minsc was welcome enough. He was full of cheer, usually had gold in his pockets, and was a surprisingly good singer. But Dynaheir was another story.
There were people you met who you suspected didn't like you. Then there were people who you knew really didn't like you, and Dynaheir was one. The mage never held back her disdain, and Minsc was completely blind to his companion's lack of regard for their rediscovered friend. So asking her for money was as painful an exercise as it came.
...
The musty little bookshop was an oddity in that neighbourhood, the bookies being a far more popular destination with most folks. Yet the wizened old fellow who owned the shop must have found enough trade in second hand books to keep the place going. But his eyesight wasn't what it once was, so he found himself in need of an assistant. And he had found quite a remarkable one at that.
Finn doubted that most of the people who walked into that shop knew anything about the Wychlaran, the wild witches of Rashemen, but even without knowing her background Dynaheir would earn a second look. Her skin was brown as the bark on a hazel tree, and her hair hung in long, thick sheep-locks decorated with silver rings and charms. She seemed to float as she strode along in that purple mage robe she always had on, and her gaze could crack stone in two. Not a woman to be trifled with, and he didn't reckon many patrons tried to haggle down the price she set for them.
And now Finn found himself forced to ask her for money. As he opened the door of the bookshop he recollected his job as a stable hand a bit more fondly.
The sharp ting of the bells on the door made him jump. Dynaheir was alone in the dimly lit shop, standing behind a podium like she was about to begin a lecture. That would come soon, Finn thought. Her eyebrow raised slightly upon his entrance but for now the mage was civil.
"Fair afternoon to thee," she said.
"Aye, and to you," Finn said in return.
"Art thou in need of a tome this day?" Dynaheir said, casually as she could. Her old-fashioned manner of speech reminded him of the way some farmers talked in the out of the way districts, and Finn wondered again where she learned Common.
"Er, not today," he replied, feeling his face beginning to flush. "I, ah…"
"So it is coin you have come in seek of," Dynaheir interrupted, saving him the effort. "Does not Minsc usually giveth his spare gold to thee?"
"Ah, yeah-but he's a little tapped out," Finn said, trying to recover himself. "It's not for me, really, it's for Imoen. We need to settle a bill, and…"
"One does not lie very convincingly," Dynaheir said, gliding out from behind the podium. "If one is to beg, at least be an honest man."
"I'm trying," he said, gruffly.
Dynaheir made a slight noise in her throat, but Finn thought he saw the faintest hint of amusement in the corner of her mouth. She took the sizeable book she was reading and turned her attention to a shelf, in search of its home.
"Right, all right," Finn said finally. "So I drank up our gold, and now Imoen doesn't have the money to pay the butcher. He'll be round with his cleaver tonight unless I manage to pay that receipt, and if he don't get me then Imoen will. Happy now?"
"I wonder why you think this should make me happy," she replied. "But I prefer to heareth the truth on thy lips, rather than a false tale. How great is thy debt?"
Finn told her. Again he saw what looked like a sign of satisfaction, but she gravely nodded her head.
"I will give you the gold you seek, but in turn you must aid me," Dynaheir said.
"Sure, not a problem," Finn replied, feeling more than a little relieved. Relieved, and surprised. "What did you need? Wood chopped, windows cleaned…"
"None of those things. I need you to acquire a book."
"A book? Haven't you got enough of those already?"
"Do not be impertinent," Dynaheir warned him. "This is a…particular book. For my own study. It is not of the type that interests my master here. I have learned that a bookseller in the city has a copy. I shall give you the coin to barter with, and whatever is left, thy may keep."
"Alright…" Finn said. "But why not just get it yourself?"
He bit his tongue as the words left his mouth, thinking that he shouldn't question the hand of charity at the moment. But Dynaheir just looked at him rather sharply.
"It is…better if someone else were to acquire it. And I fear that if I wait someone else may purchase the book. The book is titled The Mists of Mir. Canst thou remember, or shall I write it for thee?"
"Mists of Mir. I think I can remember that," Finn said dryly, trying to avoid saying something else to irritate the mage. "Now where do I need to go?"
He waited while Dynaheir told him the details, and waited even more impatiently as she fetched a bag of gold from the rooms she and Minsc shared above the bookshop. The bag was heavy and he wondered just how much she had put in there, but he didn't stop to count it. There was enough in there to buy an entire library with some to spare, he was sure.
...
The sky was still painfully bright to his tired eyes, especially after spending so long in the dark shop, but the winter days were short and the sun was already beginning to dip to the west. Better to get this over with soon as he could.
The north side of town seemed to fare better than the south after the quake that had marked Sarevok's demise, and there was something comforting in the narrow streets lined with white half-timbered houses. That neighbourhood always had a soothing kind of gentility, though Finn himself could never afford to stay there on his own coin.
He passed by the Golden Hind, that inn which had seemed like such a refuge, and focus, for all his troubles; not because his path took him that way, but because he wanted to. It was still standing, though by the looks of things the landlady had replaced some of the glass windows.
None of his friends were there now. He thought about them now, scattered to the winds. The ranger Kivan was gone, headed south to Shilmista, not likely to be seen again. Xan, the dour elf, had gone back to his home in Evereska, though Finn doubted he was much happier for it. But he still fared better than the knight Ajantis, who was carried home to Amn in a funeral urn.
But mostly Finn thought of Anna. He still hadn't replied to her last letter. Had it been a month? Every day he meant to write, but by evening the will had left him. He thought of her sitting by the fire in her cottage, alone, as the winter waited outside. Time had stopped now, he was sure. That winter would never end.
At last he found the shop in question. It was a considerably more upmarket kind of place than Dynaheir's shop, quite possibly because more folks in that neighbourhood could actually read. The diamond-pane windows glistened smartly in the fading afternoon sun. As he walked in the door Finn read a notice tacked up near the entrance.
All types of BINDING available, leather volumes in twelve COLOURS to suit any setting. New volumes cut, old books rebound, professional SERVICE of the highest calibre…
Finn began to feel decidedly shabby as he entered the shop. Carved wood panelling framed the spaces between the heavy shelves that were rammed with books of all sorts, bound and unbound. Finely upholstered chairs dotted the place as a comfort to the patrons. A well-dressed shopkeeper appeared from nowhere, eyeing Finn through round spectacles.
"Is this a trade enquiry, my man?" he asked. "We do prefer that tradesmen ring at the back door, as not to disturb our customers."
Apart from himself there were no customers there, and the shopkeeper clearly looked concerned someone with money might walk in the door at any moment.
"No," Finn replied, trying to muster what confidence he could. "I'm here to buy."
"Ah, are you?" the man replied, sounding surprised. "We do not stock chapbooks here, though I could tell you a shop in the area which does. We do carry a selection of popular texts, though the cost of binding can be somewhat…expensive. Perhaps you would be better off in the market."
The man clearly expected Finn to slink away, but his snippy manner was getting his ire up. Besides, he had a reason to be there.
"I'm only after one book. I was told you'd have a copy of it," Finn said bluntly.
"Indeed? We do stock many volumes…what might the title be?" the shopkeeper asked.
"It's…" Finn began, then his mind drew a blank. "Mir. Mountains of Mir. Something to do with Mir."
He felt his face growing hot with embarrassment, but the bookseller looked more intrigued than anything.
"The Mists of Mir? Yes, we have taken in a copy of that book. I acquired it at an estate sale recently…the previous owner sadly lost his life, if not his collection in that terrible disaster. It hasn't yet been rebound, but if you are truly interested in making a purchase…I would be willing to sell it to you. Of course, the price is…"
"High. I get it," Finn said. "Don't worry, I've got the gold. How much do you want for it?"
"Well…it is a rare and somewhat obscure old tome. I'm quite curious as to how you knew… But that is not my business. I would be willing to sell it today for a hundred gold weight."
Finn felt his stomach twist. One hundred? For a book? A hundred gold would pay their rent into next year. He knew some of the books in Candlekeep were worth a fortune but he didn't know what was so special about this one. And he had no idea if the weighty bag Dynaheir gave him even held that amount. He needed to get the price down.
"A hundred, and it hasn't been rebound?" he heard himself saying. "It must have taken damage in the quake. I'll give you sixty, tops."
"Well, the book has taken some damage, to be sure…but mostly due to its age. It is quite old. Still…I am pleased to see a man of your station take an interest in…never mind. I could accept eighty, but not one copper less. Of course, I would need to ensure that funds are received before I could let the book out of my possession."
"Seventy. Cash on the nail," Finn replied, and held up the bag for him to see.
There wasn't a merchant going who could pass up a cash payment, and this man looked no different. His little beard twitched and he drew in a breath.
"Well. It has been a slow trade day…if you can produce the coin, you may have the book."
Finn's hands shook as he opened the bag. Could he produce the coin? He'd feel a right tosser if there wasn't enough. But Dynaheir obviously hadn't reckoned on his bartering skills, for there was enough coin for the book and then some. Finn finally began to relax watching the merchant counting out the gold to his satisfaction.
"Excellent, excellent. This all looks in order," he said, eyeing up the gold in case of potential forgery. "Now, if you would like to leave me your address, I can have the book delivered to you by tomorrow afternoon."
"No need. I'll take it with me," Finn replied.
"If that is what you wish…I will have it wrapped."
He rang a small bell on the table, and a crisp-looking but pale young fellow appeared from the back.
"Perengil, if you will see to this gentleman's wishes, I need to step out back for a moment," the merchant said.
"Yes, sir," the young man replied as the merchant disappeared with Finn's gold.
The fellow offered him wine, but Finn declined. He was in a rush, and he got the feeling the bloke was there less to cater to his needs than to ensure he didn't rob the place while his master's back was turned. After what was an awkward wait for the pair of them the merchant finally returned, bearing a book in his hands.
"Here it is…The Mists of Mir. Are you a reader of Jonus Holkenar's travelogues?"
"Read every single one," Finn said brusquely.
"Interesting…" the merchant said, examining the tome. "He was quite popular in his day, but accused in later years of fabricating much of what he wrote. Though I suppose a certain amount of hyperbole is to be expected amongst such writers. His volumes are rather difficult to come by these days. He was disdained by serious historians, deemed of little value. A pity, really, for he was quite astute at observing the architecture…"
"You're right, but if you don't mind, there's other things I need to do today," Finn said, interrupting the man.
"Ah, yes…of course. If everything is to your liking, my assistant will wrap your book."
Finn took the book from the man and flipped though a few pages. The parchment was foxed and yellow, the leather cover dry as dust, and he held it carefully lest the whole book disintegrate in his hands. He squinted at the ornate, old-fashioned text, though he was familiar enough with this sort of antiquarian tome from his days in the library.
It was a travel narrative, the story of the long-dead author's journey through Tethyr into Calisham. Why Dynaheir was so keen to get her hands on it Finn couldn't imagine. She could have travelled to Calimport herself for the price that book fetched her.
But that was Dynaheir's business, not his. He'd done as she asked and had a pocketful of gold left over to boot. The merchant's boy wrapped the precious parcel and Finn was on his way.