1369, Eleint 06
It was a late summer's night in Athkatla and the city was sweltering – the very walls of the Docks district seemed to be melting and indeed, some of the older posters and signs had begun to slide down the walls, their pastes liquified from the strong summer sun. Unfortunately, Athkatla was even warmer at night – the tall buildings had trapped the heat from the day and reflected them back into the air, leaving no respite from the punishing sun. One man took advantage of the temperature, however, and walked the thinned crowds from the Temple to the Docks district undisturbed. His gait was slow, the footsteps rhythmically pounding against the packed dirt robes as he hauled a heavy load from one end of town to the other.
From somewhere nearby a shadow skipped out of an alley and considered the laden man that had just walked past. He was a native by the looks of him, and used to carrying heavy things: the torches on the street illuminated a thin film of sweat on him when normally a man with such a load would be drenched from head to toe in this heat. He was dressed plainly, too, in greys and shades of muted red – the colors of the layfolk (the nobility having traditionally preferred more brilliant hues).
The shade slipped between a few more buildings, following behind him as quietly as she dared. A flash of silver and the sigil of a gauntleted hand– ah! A holy symbol – shone in the torchlight as he continued to haul, from the Government district across the bridge. He stopped for a moment in front of a group of vagabonds, men and women and children huddled around the grand arch, and, balancing the laden sack on his shoulders precariously, rummaged around his coinpurse and extracted a handful of gleaming metal coins.
"Me life's book's all in red ink," one of the woman wailed, hungrily eyeing the coins in his hand. "Won't ye spare a Fandar or two?"
"I ain't had a proper meal in three days," another complained. Ere long the whole assembly had joined in, but the man remained inert the scene, standing, with one hand carrying the heavy sack he was hoisting and the other poised to the scatter the coins. His hesitatation was brief, though, and he tossed them with resolve. There were several cries - "A pearl to you!" and "You're right mithral, sirrah!" as they fell down in metallic shower but the man had began to walk away and missed the appreciation of the crowd.
The shadow picked up one of the fallen coins that had scattered far from the rest: an electrum Decime, stamped with the crest of Athkatla on both ends. She eyed it for a moment, then tossed it at the woman who had spoken first.
"Bless yer heart –" the woman began, but the shade put her finger to her lips and smiled in the flickering torchlight. The older woman cocked her head to the side and peered intently at the woman who clung to the darkness.
"Ain't you –" she began once more, but the shadow had fled back into the night as silently as a ghost. The burdened man was waiting for her, several hundred feet away.
"You shouldn't have come, my lady." He stared at the darkness just out of the range of the torches. The flashing torchlight picked out flecks of auburn from his dark hair and beard, and emphasized dark circles underneath his eyes – the signs of many recent sleepless nights.
"Why not?" the woman asked, stepping into full view. On her, light reflected differently: off of obviously-dyed pink hair and a pale, freckled face. She smiled at him, and it struck the man how little Imoen of Candlekeep had changed since the last time they had spoken. Though her cheeks were less gaunt now and she seemed in better spirits since the Bhaal ordeal, she still wore the same wistful, vaguely sad expression.
Anomen Delryn sighed and shifted the weight of the sack to his other shoulder. "This is a journey I'd prefer to make alone, if it's all the same," he said, a little more tersely than he'd intended. He strode off again, skirting the edge of the Graveyard District into the Slums and Imoen followed, not bothering to hide as she caught up to him.
"With all due respect," she began, leisurely keeping pace, "The last thing you need right now is to be alone."
"Funny that you should be one to mention such a thing," he responded.
Imoen, in her usual fashion, let the comment slide over her. "Me?" she asked, slowing her stride. "Me, I'm never alone. Not anymore." She lifted a chain around her neck to produce a small golden charm – the sigil of Brindhal, Goddess of Mercy. Anomen made an inscrutable noise in the back of his throat and increased his pace. The heat and his cargo began to take their toll and when Imoen, walking at a casual pace, caught up to him large beads of sweat were forming on his brow and temples.
"That… was very low of you," he said quietly.
Imoen rolled her eyes. "You can't run away from it forever, Anomen. Sometime, you'll have to face up to it. She's allied with your God, if I recall correctly."
"My lady, I am not running away from anything," he retorted, the exertion of his pace and carrying his possessions beginning to take their toll on his wind. "I haven't had time to think of the matter."
"You haven't wanted to think about it," Imoen argued, pressing her point. "That, as I recall, counts as running away from it."
Anomen pursed his lips – all of the things he really wanted to say would be far from constructive, but he felt the need to finish the conversation. Running away from it indeed…
"This discussion is over," he said bluntly. "Good business, Imoen."
Everyone, including Imoen, knew that when Anomen reverted to Amnish aphorisms he was not in his right mind. The cleric shied away from such reminders of his family whenever possible.
"Look, I'm not here to argue," Imoen responded, raising her hands submissively. "It's been a rough year for us all… some of us more so than others," she added, upon seeing his expression. "Hey. I heard you were leaving and wanted to see you off –"
"Who told you I was leaving?" Anomen interrupted, the sweat starting to pour down his face.
"Silly, you're carrying a sack full of armor and clothing, and your room at the Order's been vacated. Anyone with half a brain can infer–"
"That," Anomen began, pausing to catch his breath "did not answer my question."
Imoen's face remained impassive, her expression closed. "Heard it through the grapevine, s'all."
"And what grapevine would that be?" the Watcher panted, turning with the bend in the road into the Docks District.
"That, young Sir Delryn, would be me," the deep voice of Keldorn Firecam boomed from ahead. The old paladin brought up an ungauntleted hand and twirled a keyring around it that glittered in the city lights. "You should know better than to hand your housekeys off to me and expect a quiet departure. Thank you, Imoen."
The pink-haired wizardress smiled in return. Anomen swore in a most unknightly manner just as another voice added, "You should also know better than to expect two nobles from Athkatla and an ex-thief to keep their mouths shut."
Nalia too? The Hells be incarnate…how many more are there?
The paladin and mage stepped forward to join them, and Keldorn hoisted the sack from the younger man's shoulders. As Anomen's body sagged in relief, Nalia, being ever-proper, handed him a handkerchief to wipe his face. She smiled at him and said, "The rest of us are up ahead."
"How many'd we get?" Imoen asked her, taking Anomen by the crook of the elbow and leading him forward. He followed, too tired and stunned to resist.
"Oh," Nalia said airily, waving her delicately gloved hand dismissively, "A few here and there. See for yourself."
Anomen had been surprised before, but nothing prepared him for the sight that lay in front of the small party. His allies – all of them – stood in the lantern- and torchlight of the docks district smiling, moving forward. Jaheira, Minsc, Aerie, Mazzy, Valygar… Keldorn cleared his throat and set Anomen's things down gently.
"I hope you don't mind," the old paladin smiled, helping Imoen nudge him forward into the crowd, "But we took the liberty of inviting a few old friends."
Several hours later
From the deck of the ship, Athkatla looked like a great, sparkling jewel against the black velvet of the Sea of Swords. The turrets of Goldspires glittered in the Temple District's streetlights and the docks were awash with the lanterns of ships hailing from far distant lands, their colorful sails with their stripes and heraldry visible even a long way's out. Above and all around the ship the stars twinkled merrily, casting faint light upon the crew of the Gilded Summer. Never in his life had Anomen seen so many lights at once, illuminating everything as far as the eye can see. Athkatla-by-sea had lived up to its reputation: lovely… illuminating…yet terrifying at the same time.
The beauty of the moment was lost, however, as the ship rocked with a large breaker and the Watcher stifled a sudden wave of nausea and turned his back to the magnificent sight. Anomen Delryn had always had trouble with his sea-legs- that is, he had none- and his stomach and the alcohol sloshing within it were proving themselves no match to swaying of the ship. A few sailors looked his way and laughed; he ignored them, but turned once again towards the rail and unceremoniously proceeded to empty his stomach of its contents.
"Outta yer element, holy man?" One of the sailors called, from the laughing group. "Ain't earned yer sea legs yet, eh?"
"Eh, bloke's prob'ly never set foot outta Amn a'fore this," another said sagely to the first. Their guffaws grew louder, and Anomen irritably crossed his arms, laid his head upon them, and leaned against the railing to steady himself. The entire boat reeked of fish and dirty water and was almost crusted over with sea salt, and not for the first time that night he wondered why he was there and not back at the Sea's Bounty, sleeping off what was sure to be a Balor of a hangover.
Helm help me, he thought irritably as he stared into the inky sea. From somewhere down below decks a sailor had taken up a fiddle and was sawing away, singing an overly sentimental tune that made the other sailors clap and his head hurt. Why am I here again?
"We drink in memory of Brindhal, Goddess of Mercy!" Minsc called out to the assembly, holding up a gigantic tankard and sloshing ale over both Imoen and Aerie.
Oh yes, he responded to his mental query. The reflection of the upper half of his head stared back up at him grimly, echoing his expression. You're on some damnable ship, fighting seasickness at every wave and heading a very, very long way from home because you don't fit in anymore, Anomen. There's nothing left for you.
He snorted, disgusted. A lovely mess you've gotten yourself into, Delryn. Lovely indeed.
Sighing, he looked up at the retreating city once more, looking radiant in the distance. It was a pretty view, but a meaningless one – a trick of the dark. Anomen had had enough of the lights of Athkatla, though, enough of the fresh sea air and smell of fish and nausea. He was ready to be once again below deck, where he at least couldn't see the waters churning around him. For now, he wanted imagine he was still with friends and that, perhaps, all was still as it was before Her ascension.
Author's notes: You might be wondering about some of the weird phraseology in here (e.g., "My life's book's all in red ink!"). There's a wonderful book out there online called Lands of Intrigue that details the little aspects of Amn and Tethyr. It's 2nd edition and can be found free online from several different sources in .pdf format. I highly recommend giving it a glance, because there's loads of information about those regions that you can't find anywhere else. Now, for some translations of the colloquialisms I've included:
"My life's book's all in red ink!" pretty much translates to "I'm really down on my luck!"
A Fandar is the Amnish equivalent to a copper piece, and a Decime to a silver. Even though you wouldn't know it, the different regions have differently minted coins that all have different names.
The Amnish tend to use metals to describe a person's character. The more precious a metal is, the higher the praise. Ergo, "You're right mithral!" is a really big compliment, and pretty much says that you're perfect and beyond reproach.
Lastly, "Good business!" is used as both a greeting and goodbye in the power- and business-driven society of Amn. It can also be used to hastily make one's departure, as Anomen so skillfully demonstrated.
