Another Kind of You

A look through one of the windows in Mithrest Inn was a curious experience. The interior of the tavern appeared to had been literally taken from the Coast: chairs and couches upholstered with a green, leathery material; a round, blue carpet, an improvised scene for eventual preformers: bards, actors, speakers. Only the dishes were different: elegant, made of thin glass bend into various shapes. Yet again, I glanced at the yellow cup at my table. It posessed a simple, impractical kind of beauty, was art in and for itself. The melting ice covered the dish with a white, cold mist. Even the temperature in the establishment seemed northern: a pleasant, refreshing chill of an autumn dawn. I had not dared to guess the cost of such an enchantment, as the price was probably way, way higher than my current financial abilities. Expensive or not, this improvement brang relief to countless patrons. It was bliss for those who spent most of their days under the cruel beams of Amnian sun.

Yes - though it was hard to believe even for me, we had found ourselves in Amn, Athkatla to be exact. That was the cause of the strange contrast between the interior and the exterior of Mithrest. Inside: North. Outside: South, South being an archetype, a mariner's tale, an illustration to 'Amnian Nights'. The shiny, sun - heated roofs covered with brass and copper; buildings hewn out of gleaming sandstone; market stalls painted in each and every colour known to humanity. The door and walls of the inn protected it's guests not only from the warmth, but also the noise. Were it not for that, the soft sounds of the preforming bard's song would have surely been drowned in the usual hustle and bustle of the promenade. We would hear the shrill, high - ptched sounds of the snake - charmers flute, low calls of the tours, swearing that their masters wares were the best in the world; the sing - song voices of the storytellers; the commands of beast tamers... and that would have been a waste of the minstrel's talent. The music and the lyrics also came from the Sword Coast. The troubadour started his ninth song:

Of all the maidens in the land...

I raised my glass for him and drank, a silent toast. The beer reminded me of Elminster's Special, yet, had a sour, refreshing aftertaste... lemons, maybe? No matter. Once again, I had to admire my comrade's adaptation skills. Any lesser minstrel, should he find himself in Amn, would sing of roses and nightingales, of sultaans and slave girls, of djinns and noble women. Not him. He knew perfectly well what the audience needed. He knew that no one cared to admire the culture of their own country. No; the assembled patrons desired to hear the waves of the Sword Sea. Their dark, Amnian eyes yearned for sights uncommon in their land. That necessity caused him to sing this ballad, so popular in the Gate, so widely preformed: from bawdy taverns to the Duchal Palace. For me, a woman of the same profession, this version was only satisfactory. A work of a skilled artisan, but no more.

Apparently, it was only I, of all the listeners, who was not holding the performance in the highest esteem. Then again, it was only me who knew what the bard could achieve. Eldoth Kron, for whatever reason, rarely showed his true talent... almost as rarely, as his true self. None of the spectators, however, would wish to hear of his true world. None of them would wish to be reminded of how affection could be bought, fidelity sold, a loved one used. The illusionist put the borrowed lute down and bowed. He informed the audience of how his Muse was whimsical and instructed to leave the eventual tokens of apperication with the bartender. His voice was that of a man bored and tired. Tired not because of sleeplessness, of a day spent on gold - earning, of a not - so - dashing escape from a madman's prison. No. The troubadour played a man world - weary, tired with life itself, with gold, with the fame, with his own talent. I had to admit, the man could out - preform me any day. As for me, I had not even bothered to notice the deadly stares of young Amnian girls. No words could describe the rage they felt towards the woman to whom their bard returned. If looks could kill...

'Some lute it was', he remarked after sitting next to me, 'Lute, bah! More like a gourd with strings made of beggar's hair... well, compared to the state of their primitive flutes and whistles...'

I was willing bet the newly gained six hundred gold pieces -five, I corrected myself, five after we found lodging and bought some clothes - that the instrument was not that bad, in fact, that it was not bad at all. I could find out for myself, of course, yet apparently my Muse was as whimsical as Eldoth's, as I had no desire to sing or play.

'I will have to believe you. Your newest adoring fans would never forgive me touching something you handled. The lute is sacred now.'

'Jelous, you think? Funny. I was sure that the half -wits would think we are siblings.'

He was right. The fact that to the eyes of Amnians, every Northerner looked alike was not the only reason. A close inspection would reveal how many details made us look different from one another. His eyes were brown, mine, blue. He was in his early thirties, I have not yet reached mid - twenties. His body was that of a hedonistic intellectual, mine: that of a fighter. We shared only one trait: the black colour of our hair. Still, there must have been another similarity between us. The way of speaking, the voice, the gestures, the bearing? I had not known. Whatever it was, it caused quite a few people to draw false conclusions concerning our consanguinity.

'You there, wench!', the bard called, 'Wine for the troubadour!'

I sighed. His nouveau riche manners were painfully parochial - and yet, very effective with servants or slaves. Indeed, giving orders was an art similar to that of a beast tamer: it was all about the tone of one's voice. Apparently, my companion chose the right way to adress the serving maid: a bottle of wine appeared before him within seconds.

'I am still surprised', he spoke, pouring the liquor to a crystal goblet, 'That you chose not to preform. For those of... your unusual ancestry, a wrongful death should provide a suitable inspiration.'

'As you can see, 'tis not so.'

'A shame, truly. As for me, I feel the need to preserve your last night's feat in a ballad for future generations. As for now, I managed to create only the title. A Pearly Tear...'

I pulled my hair back, showing him the new earring. The shining, bright mother - of - pearl was shaped into a small drop, adorned with a little gem cut in many facets.

'Put this instrument away as well, Eldoth. No words would make me feel the guilt you are trying so hard to evoke.'

He raised the goblet and drank, downing almost all of it's content. It looked like the minstrel wanted to experience not the wine's taste, but it's intoxicating effects.

'I would not dare to attempt such a thing. 'Tis folly, considering your heritage. Myself, I did play a part in this innocent death, that I shall not deny. Just between the two of us, fair Ravenika, I do not regret it.'

Maybe you would, I corrected in thought. Maybe you would, had your part consisted not only of throwing witty remarks into the conversation I had with our client. For a moment, I toyed with my memories, remembering those who would resent my deed. Gorion, stern and unapproachable. The ever sad Kivan, once my friend. Imoen. And, maybe, my younger self.

'For me', I stated after a brief silence, 'It is not a question of regret.'

Eldoth raised his eyebrows: an expression of kind interest, a non - verbal 'by all means, do continiue.' I had been sure that te troubabour shall yet again announce what he thought of women and their dependency on emotions. He held his peace, however. Maybe, after what I had done that night, he will not share such observations in my presence ever again.

'Just... disbelief. I think it would be safe to say that I still do not believe I actually did it.'

The corners of the bard's lips twitched in a slight smile. Slight... and most probably honest. I felt the urge to note this rare occurance in my journal.

'I understand... maybe I understand even more than you think', he assured, 'It is why I have to protest. My dear, dear Ravenika, it was not you who committed this atrocity. For such quests, one should hire a mercenary. A mercenary from inside his or her psyche... the so - called another kind of oneself.'

'And this kind of me will take the blame, I gather?'

'Why, no! This kind of you will refuse to feel it. I understand the impact our involuntary visit to the madman's dungeon had on your memory, but both of us have done this before, not once nor twice! Would you allow me to explain more throughly, using a proper example?'

'Go on...'

'Skie. Do you remember Skie?'

I remembered, yes. Still, she was probably alive, from what I knew. Which was not the case with a girl resembling her, in a way...

The dust, rising from the heap of the post - explosional debris, piled in the centre of the disctrict, had danced in the warm air. Illuminated by the sun, the twirling, sparkling ash resembled countless grains of diamonds. Everything seeed to shine here: the roofs of the temples, the bronze dishes from the bazaar. The weapons, still clenched in the hands of the dead thieves, gripped in this last effort of their lives. The colorful, non - material remains of the spells, cast mere moments ago by Imoen, the hooded mages and a man called Irenicus. The destruction was a beautiful catastrophe, beautiful and irrevocable. A breach in the wall. Great pieces of stone, threwn all over the marketplace. The bodies of those fallen in a conflict someone called 'Guild war'. It looked like the explosion left other people undamaged. No screams to hear, no dying ones to look upon. No on - lookers, even. It appeared that the people here decided to stay clear of wizards and their matters. A wise approach.

Looking away from the magnificent destruction, I started to consider mine own situation. Eldoth and me, alive, out of a madman's maze. And that was where the good news ended. We had one hundred and twenty gold pieces, a primitive chainmail, an atrocity made out of calfskin, probably in vain attempts of crafting a leather armour; a crossbow worth two pieces of gold and a short blade worth three. There was also a two handed sword, magical and seemingly powerful. The sword Sarevok wielded in the Undercity... Besides the pathetic state of our belongings and the lack of coin, there were a few other things to worry about as well. A madman who managed to abduct us both without effort, the war for influence we have found ourselves in the middle of, Imoen, kidnapped to Gods - know - where...

'Not good. Not good at all.', I concluded.

Eldoth snorted.

'Truly, Ravenika, I never suspected you would be the one to use euphemisms.'

'If you wish to listen of how doomed we are, I shall find Xan.'

I went down to the epicentre, searched the dead bodies. It was a most unpleasant chore, and, alas, an unrewarding one as well. The indignity provided me with two minor spell scrolls and six gold pieces. Great. Just great.

'And they say Athkatla is paved with gold', I complained after returning to the bard.

'Ah, yes, this architecture is unmistakable, is it not? Judging by the size of this bazaar, we might be in Athkatla indeed. In any case, I suggest we sell the sword and look around... surely some explanation of the whole havoc should arise eventually.'

'No. I am not selling it.'

'Beg your pardon?'

'You heard me. I refuse to sell my brother's sword.'

'Am I to understand that you deprive us of two thousand or more gold pieces because of some idiotic whim?'

'You are to understand', I spoke slowly, 'that I shall not sell Sarevok's weapon. It was me who was the leader when you decided to leave. Nothing in this regard had changed during your absence.'

'Then I take it I should be greatful for getting dragged here? Do you find that a fitting reward for my fight against this oaf Anchev?'

'Not a reward at all', I had not raised my voice, as I never had a habit nor need for doing this, 'As you decided not to enter the Undercity. Whoever captured you was probably not aware of this fact. Myself, I remember. Clearly.'

He gave up, stepped back, lowered his gaze. Eldoth Kron was not a brave man. Were he one, he would have probably been dead by now.

'Very well. What is your proposal, then?'

'A bath. And a few hours of sleep. For that, one hundred and twenty six is more than enough. We shall decide the further course later.'

The minstrel grimaced, as if my mention of the current, pathetic financial situation caused him pain. Suffering or not, he followed me as I headed towards the inn I had noticed. 'Mithrest Inn', read the silvery nameplate. The door was opened: a pleasant, chilly wind was blowing from the inside. Yes. This was the kind of place I wanted to visit. Alas, it looked like the two young guards by the door, both armed with sabres, begged to differ.

'The Copper Coronet will be a more suitable place for you, madam', the first recommended.

'Situated in the Slums.'

'Dear lads, could you not make an exception in the name of ar...'

'Be silent, Eldoth.'

He obeyed. We have been travelling together for a few years now. During these years, he learned to recognize the tones of my voice. The one I used now was usually a prelude to bloodshed.

'Dear lads', I repeated after him, yet in a less friendly manner, 'If you really wish for me to show you what the toys in your hands should be used for, say it again.'

'You will not dare to attack here, in front of all the guards!'

'Easy, easy!', sounded an exclamation from the inside of the establishment, 'Easy, no need for violence, no need!'

After a brief moment, a short, bald and dark - skinned man stood between us. His belly, huge and resembling a shaman's drum in shape made him look like a halfling... a hairless halfling.

'No need for violence' he repeated, panting, 'These people are dear friends and guests of mine.'

'Guests?', one of the boys repeated.

'Yes, dear lad', it seemed everyone adressed them that way, 'Guests. Welcome guests.'

Eldoth smiled. He regarded the man in the way all handsome bards would regard all plump, bald men of unidentified profession. The fact that the said bard was wearing rags while the plump, bald man in question was clad in the finest green silk had not changed anything. Anything at all.

'Thank you for the hospitality', he said, all dignity and grace, 'Lead on!'

The table occupied by our mysterious benefactor was situated a few steps away from the exit.

'Ah, here at last. Sit, sit please, one of the servants will take care of your weapons... Let me offer you some drinks, weary travellers. This fine establishment has the eldest wine and the best beer... one gulp and you will wish to remain here for the rest of your lives!'

I glanced at my companion. The minstrel seemed not surprised at all - rather amused, if anything. He was accustomed to such treatment. The cordial politeness of our mysterious host was nothing unusual for the troubadour... for me, such behaviour was a reason for suspicion. After the servant handed us our brevages of choice, the man smiled widely, showing quite a few golden teeth.

'If you allow me to introdouce myself. Saerk Farrahd, merchant and a priest to Lady Waukeen. Not to mention, your friend till death and beyond.'

This mixture of northern professionalism and southern rethorics amused me. The strange situation was a potential funny experience, all in all...

'Ravenika of Candlekeep, warrior and bard.'

'Master Eldoth Kron, troubadour.'

'Ah. Both serving the art, then?'

We exchanged glances, almost identical smiles curving our lips. Blasphemous as it may sound, it was art that served us. No other way. Fortunately, Farrahd seemed not to care about subtelties enough to inquire:

'I do enjoy a cautionary tale, a song with a moral... is there anything more beautiful than a story which were it graven with needle gravers upon the eye corners, were a warner for whoso would be warned and an example for whoso can take profit from example...'

Gods, now I remembered why I never finished 'Amnian Nights'.

'But you, dear Ravenika, seem to be a warrior as well?'

Sarevok's greatsword was a hint enough, it seemed.

'You are right', I confirmed, not wanting to go into details, 'Allow me to say how greatful I am for the friendship you offer. I cannot help but wonder, however, of it's... consequences.'

Eldoth sighed. Maybe, after all, I should have let him deal with the merchant. The bard would toss insults as eagerly as an Ilmaterite would toss coins to the beggars, but his knowlegde of the Southern customs was far greater than my own.

'This is why I enjoy the company of Northerners', Saerk decided to overlook my faux - pas, it seemed, 'The honesty! The simplicity! Good Gods know how much the world needs it. You, my dear friends, are salt of Faerun... very well. I shall get to the point, as you wish...'

Six thousand, I repeated to myself, walking through the streets, now quiet and dark, covered with the shroud of the desert night. I stuck to the shadows, ignored the beggars, yet avoided those to pale to be of the living. Victims and predators. Sheep and wolves. The strong and the weak. So it goes. A contract killing. Who cares if Farrahd hired us because no other thug in the city would sink so low? Because no other thug in the city was desperate enough? A contract killing. It is normal, normal and not rare within my line of work. A deed, a coin pouch, a deed, a coin pouch. So it goes. Six thousand. I stalked around the Council's building, unseen by the night watch. Found the right house. The door was locked, yet it was no hindrance for me. So it goes. Six thousand.

I entered the residence, silent enough to hear the sounds of weeping, comming from one of the rooms. It was half - opened. The light was on. As if someone was expected. Someone who made a habit of late night returns...

Looking inside of the room, I noticed a girl. She was kneeling, facing the window, her back turned towards the now opened door. Prayed, perhaps. I had not cared to listen, to hear her invoking the name of Helm, asking the Watcher to guide her father, to cure him of his affliction, to make him happy again, to protect her brother. I had not wanted to see, to notice her brush, laying on the cabinet. I had not wanted to wonder wether her shiny, auburn hair recieved the hundred essential brush strokes yet. I had not cared to know how her life was a danger to Saerk. A contract killing. It is normal, normal and not rare within my line of work. So it goes.

She was young. She was praying. She was crying. Yet, it was no hindrance for me.

When she turned around, gasping, startled by the sight of my shadow on the white carpet, I caught a gleam of light on a peal earring. A tear - shaped one.

So it goes.

Saerk Farrahd was most pleased. He paid the price. He shed two tears, remembering his daughter, an innocent flower of his house. He told us to visit Lethinan, whenever we have a chance, as the man would surely love to hire someone just like me. The next morning every herald in the city would share the horrible news of a tragic and decpicable murder of the maiden Moira Delryn, a friend to everyone, a loving sister and a most devoted daughter.

A contract killing. It is normal, normal and not rare within my line of work. So it goes.

'I do remember Skie, yes', I noded, 'Still, the previous owner of my lovely earrings surely would not turn out as annoying.'

Eldoth twirled the wine in his goblet.

'That is of no consequence. In the end, it is all about you. Or, in the context, about... the another kind of you. You see, the kind that commits such crimes. Split yourself in two and you shall gain a powerful ally', he jested.

I motioned for the waitress to bring me another beer. It was easy to follow Eldoth's train of thought. The killer within me was different from the bard who also dwelled in my psyche. I saw it there, in the Government District, where I was unaffected by it's beauty, by the victim's innocence, by anything other than six thousand gold pieces and the contract I agreed to fulfill.

'Convenient', I complimented after taking a sip of the brewage.

'Indeed. Also, I hear the town - criers mentioned a sufficient reward for bringing the murderer to justice.'

'Don't even think about it...'

'Oh, I would not dare. You would have killed me without any doubts, would you not?'

'Not me. The other kind', I corrected, smirking 'As for the ballad... I think I might write one myself. It will be hard to think of a non - pretentious title, alas.'

'I think the name of my humble philosophical concept would be fitting.'

Another kind of you, I mused. Very well. And now, for the melody...

Finis