1.
"My brave Sir Garrick!"
Garrick lifted his eyes, sad like that of a spaniel inclined to Netheril philosophy and obesity; golden-brown like smoky topazes from Gallena Mountains. He was noticeably drunk, and even more noticeably unhappy. Even his wooden harp looked sulky, its frame unpolished and its silver strings sagging.
"So," asked the newcomer cheerfully, "how was the bridesmaid? Apart from being pinker, whiter and crunchier than a spring radish?"
"You er… you spend too much time with Jan Jansen, Coran. The world is not a vegetable row," Garrick replied.
"Hmm, I grant you that. Some of it is an orchard. I so love peaches and other sweet fruit… oh! and beehives full of honey…" Coran sighed dreamily and licked his lips.
"Leave me, gardener. Every moment without Lady Irlana is like er… knife in my heart. I am in… uhm… in…"
"In melancholy," Coran supplied cheerfully. "Any man deprived of Lady Irlana's favors would feel the same. Why, I rued my decision to cuddle little Tiene, though at the time it seemed like a pleasant contrast to the primness, properness and two hundred pounds of plated armor."
Garrick gave him a murderous stare: "You… you are talking about a lady, Coran."
"Yes, I do. And, Sir, I have news to cheer a gravedigger' corpse… or you. We are to join your stolen dream, her honey-tongued gnome and Jan on a grand quest."
"How could you be so cruel?!" Garrick exclaimed. "Every moment with Lady Irlana is like er… knife in my heart."
"As is every moment without her. Come, Sir. Honor and glory await, and the spectacle of your Lady bending nigh in half to kiss her gnome. If that does not cure you, you will have to start drinking harder spirits. Mockery and rum glued together many a broken heart."
Garrick groaned in response and mumbled something.
"Yes, I know," Coran said benevolently, pulling the man up to his feet. "It's like a knife in your heart."
"Honeycomb," Cyrando was saying, "while we are waiting on Jan's recruits, I wish to recite a madrigal in your honor. I had come up with it while watching you in your sleep last night."
Cyrando was standing, Lady Irlana seated. She stretched her hand and tickled him under his chin.
"You might have woken me instead, Storm Giant."
Cyrando blushed: "My lady love, it would have been a selfish course. The great adventure we are about to embark upon will require us to be… rested."
A little frown spoiled the porcelain smoothness of Lady Irlana's features: "'Tis not an adventure, Storm Giant, but a task of great import, if Jan Jansen is to be believed."
"Your lady cut right to the point, Cyrando, she nailed that turnip so to speak. Why, the very accurateness of her remark reminds me of my twice-removed cousin and the dart-"
"If you ever again as much as breathe the word out about that darting contest, you are no blood of mine!" Cyrando said forcefully.
"Greetings to the brave company. Cyrando, I think he had lost at least two-third of his kin that way," Coran grinned, ushering pale Garrick into the common room of the Five Flaggons. "But those who remain are numerous and the sturdy sort, judging from what they had to live through. Why, that Uncle Sparky for one…"
"We are not here to talk about Uncle Sparky," Irlana said icily. "Jan Jansen, I remember very distinctively asking you to find the worthy allies to help us in a great cause."
"Rightfully so, dearest twice removed cousin through marriage. 'Twas a wonderful plan. That Order strategy and tactics training pays of every single time! Mayhap, I will tell you the full tale of how my choice fell upon Coran and Garrick here, after considering a goodly number of other adventurers, mercenaries and similar men-at-arms, but before that I will hear about your time exploring the attic in the Jansen's mansion. You looked better satisfied with the venture than I was when I cleared it out the last time. Why, the only useful thing I found was Aunt Goldenrod's wooden leg and something Lantanese that just asked to be added to the bruiser-mates' secret formulation. I am not sure yet what it does, but it smells potent. Or moldy, but we shall find it out shortly, never fear."
Cyrando gave the sack tied to Jan Jansen's belt a dubious look. Garrick had eyes only for Lady Irlana. Lady Irlana dropped hers and found Cyrando's hand.
Coran grinned: "Now, perhaps, someone could fill us in on the particularities of the quest Garrick and me had signed up to attend to. It irks me to be clueless."
"Oh, really?" Irlana inquired archly. "I would have never guessed."
"Dear cousins and friends!" Jan Jansen announced, waving away the steam that suddenly hazed the air. "I had received summons from Sir Orlando, also known as the Brave, and the Accursed, who in some parts is named The Hand of Justice, while in the others The Gnome with the Red Shield Taller-Than-Him, and yet elsewhere they call him the Best of the Bhaal. I have heard that in the East they call him the Westerner, and in the West the Easterner. I could not confirm if the called him the Northerner in the South, but it is beyond doubt that the man referred to as the Southerner in the North is also him, so we have doubt that he'd be Northerner as well.
In other words, I am speaking of the chap you all know as Lanny."
"So, you are speaking of er… Lanny of Candlekeep?" Garrick asked.
"Aye," Jansen replied. "His very own self. My five-time removed nephew. On his mother's side, of course. And he'd given me a great task."
All the eyes: Garrick's smoky, Coran's green, Irlana's blue and Cyrando's hazelnut trained on Jan with more than a shade of murderous fury while the dramatic pause stretched as if a mage had magically silenced Jan Jansen. However, it could not have been true, because as every Athkatalan dog knew, Jan had been newly and permanently immune to such a whicked spell.
This was the only reward (apart from his share of the booty) he asked of the said Lanny and the mighty Elven Queen Ellesime for his participation in the fateful rescue of maid Imoen from the fortress of Spellhold and some by-blow questing. It was said that after the last sounds of the magical incantation faded away, Lanny with great sorrow decided to part his ways with the famous Jan Jansen. Coincidentally, Lanny himself was asked to leave the safe sylvan heaven of Suldanessellar at about the same moment. Peculiar, how the things always happen in threes. They say, that there is even a Rule of Three that establishes that very axiom.
Jan the Never-Silent did not worry about such a rule, and finally deigned to speak:
"My dear nephew Lanny wants us to go to Saradush and assassinate the evil fire giant called Yaga-Shura, besieging that city. He'd do it himself, but he is too tied up with something of a family problem."
"Uhm…" Garrick asked, "where is that er… Saradush?"