Chapter Three
(*)
"I'm not sure about this," Sephiria said, looking rather guiltily at the road north. "My father was quite specific. His friends would be waiting at the Friendly Arm..."
"I'm sure they are. As will be someone waiting to kill you," Acherai said, stepping onto the road back to Beregost.
"You don't know that."
"No, but I suspect, and suspicion is good enough. You have been targeted by an unusually powerful individual whom we have reason to believe is connected to a fairly large organization. You have fought off an assassin in your own home, implying a bounty is clearly on your head at this point. The Friendly Arm is the nearest population center to Candlekeep and bounty hunters would draw no attention there, making it a superb spot to start a hunt. Therefore, it is best to avoid it as we are not prepared for battle."
Kagain shrugged. "Always prepared."
"The axe was a hint, yes. But our dear girl..."
Sephiria winced. "Please don't call me that."
"Needs outfitting. Thunderhammer's reputation is impeccable, worry not. We'll have you ready and armored in something better than decade-old chain by the end of tomorrow. And in the meantime, Beregost is larger than the Friendly Arm, has a half-dozen potential inns to keep track of for a party, and a lot more girls to look at while they're hunting for you. We'll slip in, rest and resupply, and hire a messenger to contact your friends and tell them to find us.
"Trust me," Acherai said as Beregost appeared in the distance. "Only someone with the common sense of a gnat would head to the Friendly Arm now."
(*)
Imoen smiled, heading into the Friendly Arm.
It was an impressive structure, an old fortress that had once been owned by an evil such-and-such until it was cleaned out by blah blah blah and renovated to be a gaaaaaaaaaaaah.
Imoen was not a history buff. Tales of evil and derring-do were more Seffy's thing. Though she studied harder, she preferred practical knowledge; values of gems in barter, how to get past the second set of tumblers on a Turmish double latch-lock, signs to determine someone was genuinely asleep as opposed to merely dozing or even faking. All totally unrelated to that guy in the upper floor of the inn who had been flaunting his star-sapphire ring, of of course. Imoen was just an academic spirit.
Setting a course for the main building of the inn, she whistled a little tune and made her way up the steps, stopping only briefly to nod at a man in robes who was studying her oddly closely. She was, after all, gorgeous. Who wouldn't stare?
Of course, this particular man was not staring at Imoen's admittedly pretty face so much as her short-cut, reddish-brown hair.
"Hi, friend. I've not seen here before today," the man said, stepping into the girl's path. He was a plain man; not much taller than Imoen, with a short black beard and oddly long fingers on his hands. He wore black robes, with a green outline, and his eyes were two empty, heartless chips of ice that did not match his smile at all. He seemed to exude a light air of menace with every motion, despite being in most ways unremarkable. "May I ask what brings you the Friendly Arm?"
Imoen stepped gracefully around him, said "Nope!" and walked toward the door, totally ignoring the creepy guy.
The man in the robe was silent for several long seconds, before saying, "Red-haired girl of twenty. Ward of Candlekeep. Meets the description, unseasoned enough to be born in a library. And besides, you are a little brat."
"Eh...?" Imoen asked turning to face the man again.
His fingers were moving in an intricate pattern, a pale green-blue glow dancing between them as he muttered something under his breath. Imoen had lived in a magical library for half her life, and while she had not hung out around Gorion quite so much as Seffy, she knew a spell when she saw one. Her bow wasn't drawn and she had no arrows nocked, and her dagger was still in her damn pack. She hadn't thought she would need it, she wasn't supposed to fight. She was the brains of the operation, whenever she found an operation to be the brains of.
The man's chanting was reaching a high point, the mystical light in his hands glowing more brilliantly. Imoen was not terribly familiar with magical combat, but she suspected he was about to kill her.
So, acting mostly on instinct, she reached out her hand and pushed him down the steps.
It wasn't the most dignified of battle tactics. It didn't have a whole lot of flash or style, she would freely admit that. She didn't even have a good one-liner. But what she did have was twenty or thirty solid stone steps, roughly hewn and very hard. The mage-assassin let out an undignified squawk as he tumbled down them, followed by a few very loud cracks as parts of him that were not as hard as stone impacted with stairs that were exactly as hard as stone. He landed on the grass in a crumpled heap of cloth and oddly angled limbs, and he did not move.
Imoen gingerly walked down the stairs and poked him with her foot a few times. He did not move. Or appear to breathe.
So, Imoen thought. Does this count as adventuring? What comes next, then? Do I loot him? Am I allowed to loot him if it was the middle of an inn? I think I should get his stuff, on account of him calling me a brat. Rude, that was.
"Miss...?" a guard asked, snapping her out of her reverie.
"It wasn't me I didn't do it you have the wrong girl!" Imoen shrieked.
"No fears, miss. Old Tarnesh has... had... a dark reputation, and even if he did not, Gregor saw his castings," the man said, gesturing to another guard. "You acted in self-defense, and could hardly be blamed for his point of attack being foolish."
"... Right. Because... it was all an accident!" Imoen said, a huge, guilty smile on her face as she lied through teeth.
Wait... it was all an accident. Why do I sound guilty?
"He asked who I was. Then he attacked me when I wouldn't answer. I don't know why," Imoen said, a bit more naturally. "I-I was just here to meet some friends. Creepy, huh?"
The man nodded, and smiled in a manner he clearly hoped was reassuring, though at the moment Imoen was hardly paying attention to him, her mind going back to run over the events in her head once more. 'Red-haired girl of twenty'. Technically, it fit her, but her hair, while tinged enough with crimson to count as red, was just as easily described as brown (though she'd occasionally pondered dying it pink, just to see the look on Puffgut's face). If someone was really after her, why wouldn't they have made sure to give out a better description?
Candlekeep, however, had more than one ward. And Sephiria's hair was a shining, almost metallic red that could hardly be mistaken for any other color. She had assumed that the attackers were after Gorion, what with him being a hero and a wizard and old enough to have enemies and stuff. But people looking for the red-haired twenty-year-old girl from Candlekeep...
Imoen knelt down by the body, sighing. "Weird. Why would anyone ever go after me? I'm just a totally normal and in no way odd girl. And alas, the heartless killer is himself dead, and can no longer answer any of my questions! Woe is me, woe is me! There shall be no comfort, alas. I am lost indeed!"
Gregor the guard knelt beside her, patting her on the shoulder. "Come inside, lass. We'll get you a hot meal and help you find your friends. Everything will be all right."
Discretely pocketing the scrolls she had slipped out of the man's robes, Imoen smiled up at the guard. "Why, I bet it will be."
(*)
Sephiria sighed, looking down at the shiny plates of the splint mail. "I can't afford this. It must be a hundred gold, at the least."
"Given that your health and wellness is now our concern, taking it out of party funds is more than tolerable. Your share of the first successful venture can go to paying for it, if you prefer," Acherai said.
"Assumin' we ever have one," Kagain grumbled. "Time is gold, and we haven't enough of either to be wastin' time armoring the whelp."
"Relax, dwarf. I've a lead on a solid mission that will make us back the cost of the armor fifty times over, and our dear little maiden-"
"Please stop calling me such terms of endearment. I am in no way dear, nor yours," Sephiria said, taking the armor to the smith to finish her fitting and make payment.
"-shall be integral to it," Acherai finished, unfurling a bounty poster. "A murderer, believed to be haunting the forests to the southwest. The cleric Bassilus, wanted by the Church of Lathander. A bounty of five thousand gold, a small fortune! The backbone of a future adventuring party, more than certainly."
"Don't much care fer the lightbringers. An' they don't care much for anyone what isn't all full of righteousness an' fluffy feelings," Kagain muttered, though the mention of 'five thousand gold' had brought some visible cheer to his face.
"Indeed they do not, which is why our dear paladin-to-be will be the one to claim the reward," Acherai whispered. "It's perfect. She has everything. Beauty, charm, an unflinching morality. All the things the masses adore. You see, my dear little mercenary friend, being a hero is a harsh and pointless life that leads only to an early grave. But appearing to be a hero is simple indeed."
He smiled, and Kagain was reminded of nothing so much as a snake about to strike. "Our darling little girl," he whispered, "will be the face of the group. People will know and love her for the hero she is, and enemies seeking her will, once her fame grows, find her quickly and die horribly as our own power grows to meet and exceed them. And meanwhile, we will make sure her unflinching sense of goodness is aimed at the missions that give us the greatest profit. Is this acceptable, my little. Greedy. Friend?"
Kagain blinked a few times, before smiling wickedly. "Aye. Mayhaps yer not as hopeless as I'd thought, elf."
Sephiria walked back to them, her newly purchased armor shining and her hands shifting her sword belt again. "I am prepared to continue. Did Garrick secure us a room?"
"We assume such, but it's rather hard to be certain with him. On the one hand he did go to the Jovial Juggler, but on the other the man is a bit pathetic. Kagain, if you don't mind checking to make sure the team pet didn't ruin our night?"
Sephiria sighed as Kagain walked off. "You shouldn't be so hard on him. He's not precisely wise, but he means well. At least, more well than the dwarf."
"There's no reason to not be hard on him. He's a buffoon. Treating a buffoon brutally is one of painfully few ways to teach him the error of his ways."
"You treat me just fine. I know you're not that harsh to everyone."
"You're exceptional. Exceptional people should be treated exceptionally, and buffoons should be treated like buffoons," Acherai said with a shrug. "That is the way of the world. If someone is useful and performs well, then effort should be made to make them happy. If someone is an idiot, then efforts should be made to hone them into something useful. People need to be treated how they deserve to be treated."
Sephiria sighed. "I know I'm not very worldly, but that seems cold to me."
"Is it that different from the code of Torm? If a man obeys the law, he is treated well. If he breaks it, he is punished," Acherai said.
"Exactly. If a man is loyal, brave, and true... like Garrick... then he should be judged and treated well. Even if he is lacking in other departments. It's the heart that counts more than anything."
Acherai blinked, before chuckling lightly. "Well. If you want to see him as brave and loyal, you're welcome to, I suppose. But frankly, I'm not certain it's accurate at all. Still, he may have succeeded at finding an inn room. Tomorrow, we head to our first true quest. And while we seek out a dangerous murderer... a task even you can hardly disagree with!... a traveler heading north will accept a small fee to deliver a message for you, to let your father's friends know plans have changed. Have you objections, dear girl?"
Sephiria pondered it. "Don't call me 'dear'."
(*)
"That's definitely them," the pale man in the hood said, twisting a ring on his finger as he stared out the window of the Red Sheaf Inn at the small party walking past the inn out of Taerom Thunderhammer's smithy. "They never used her name, but she's wary of hunters and she matches the description."
"My god's will shines down on all who walk the killer's path. The Black Sun would not have guided us wrong in this matter," the woman seated in the corner of the room said softly, her eyes closed in meditation. A helmet and a wickedly spiked club of some dark, polished wood sat by her side.
"Woman creeps me out, Nimbul," the final inhabitant of the room, a red-bearded dwarf, whispered to the man at the window. "Killing a girl for money, that's just business. Cyricists... they get off on it."
"If Neira wants to sacrifice her share of the reward to Cyric, that's her business," Nimbul said softly. "She got us to within range of our target when simple hunting did nothing of the sort. And now, we know where they're going."
"Bassilus. Big name bounty for amateurs."
Nimbul shrugged. "The girl has a bounty of her own for a reason, Karlat, and her party seems skilled. But no worries... we follow them. We let them fight it out. Whichever side wins, we kill them and claim both bounties. That is, if our resident lady of Cyric has no problem with the mad cleric's death? I believe he's part of the same 'team' you are, for lack of a better term."
Neira smiled, opening her hands to reveal an iron carving of a black sun surrounding a grinning skull in her palms. "The Black Sun is wise, my friends. If a man is too weak to prevent his own death, that man was too weak to deserve his life in the first place."
Karlat smiled. "Y'know, every once in awhile you death-worshipers do manage to make sense."
(*)
The soup was awesome.
Imoen gobbled it down like a woman starving, devouring chunks of meat and boiled vegetable alike without actually chewing on them. "Smmm mfmmffmf mmmmmfffmmm mmmmmm!" Imoen said cheerfully.
"Are we... certain this is the girl, Khalid?" Jaheira asked doubtfully, watching the display.
"W-we can hardly claim otherwise d-dear. She m-matches the description, d-doesn't she? S-s-sort of."
The two adventurers had been, as they'd promised in their letter, waiting in the Inn for Gorion and his ward to arrive. What they had gotten was... well. Imoen.
"'S true!" Imoen said between bites, picking up a small loaf of bread. "'m from Candlekeep *CHOMP* 'n me n' Gorion were *MUNCH MUNCH MUNCH* jus' like fam'ly *SLUUUUUUUUUUUUURP*"
"You... were his ward, then?" Jaheira asked doubtfully. Truthfully it wasn't that the girl did not completely fail to resemble the descriptions Gorion had given of her. She was the right age, fit and healthy, and... somewhat possessed of the crimson mane they had been led to expect. Somehow, though, Jaheira had been led to expect someone possibly a bit taller.
"MUNCH MUNCH MUNCH SLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURP."
And more dignified. "Child, you have had your meal. We must discuss the situation further. I do not know how much Gorion told you, but we were to take you in should anything happen to your guardian. We were his close friends, and well equipped to take up..."
"NOM CHOMP GULP."
"... your protection," Jaheira finished in distaste, looking at a chunk of carrot that had slipped from the girl's spoon to splatter on the table. "But I fear we must do it on the road, for we have responsibilities of our own to attend to."
Imoen, who was not even remotely Gorion's ward and really had no business acting as such, but didn't wanna be kicked out on the road for saying, 'I'm not the girl you're looking for but I swear I know her,' swallowed her latest mouthful and said, "Eeeeh? But nothin' personal, but I thought we'd kinda like... stay here."
"... Girl this is an inn. Nobody lives here. And more, I fear troubles stir to the south and Khalid and I have been asked by certain... associates of ours to investigate problems they are having. You are aware of the iron mines of Nashkel to the south?"
Imoen pondered it. Unlike Seffy, who's interactions with people tended to be offering to do them favors and shelling out claims of protection, while they slowly fell into that weird courtly-love thing people had with paladins, Imoen was an easygoing girl who thrived on small talk. Stories of the outside world were like sugar to her. "Um, as I recall, there's talk that the iron comin' from them is weaker than it should be? That's half the reason for the big shortage of late."
Jaheira nodded sharply, and Imoen suspected that was the closest she would get to approval. "Indeed. The supply of new iron into the region is weak and tainted, and bandits and highwaymen prowl the countryside stealing the metal still viable. As a result, iron, the lifesblood of the region, is in dangerously short supply."
"O-o-our employers," Khalid said, "W-wish us to look into the matter. W-we're acquainted with the mayor of Nashkel, you s-see. W-we can get into the mines and d-determine if foul play i-i-is involved."
Imoen's eyes widened. "Oooooh, so you're gonna be heroes! I can do that. When do we leave?"
"... You are rather more enthusiastic than expected, child." Jaheira said, her tone indicating she was trying to contain an enormously disapproving speech for the sake of the clearly traumatized young woman.
"Well, Seffy is totally crazy about doing hero stuff, she's gonna show up there," Imoen said cheerfully.
"... Excuse me?"
"Nothing," Imoen said. "Can I have another bowl of this? It's amazing stuff! The chefs are so much better than they were at Candlek-"
Jaheira narrowed her eyes, and Imoen had the uncomfortable feeling that if she had been able to, she'd have set the younger girl on fire with her mind.
"On the other hand," Imoen said quickly, "Perhaps I should order something I can eat on the road instead."
"Better! We leave within the hour. We've daylight to burn yet, and I want to make a few hours journey before we set up camp," Jaheira said. "Finish your meal, I'll handle supplies. You'll need arrows and the like, and some armor would not be amiss. Nothing too heavy, I suspect? Leather should be fine. Khalid, stay with the girl."
"D-dear, mayhaps we should stay the night? T-the girl must be tired, and..."
Jaheira narrowed her eyes again.
"... a-and I am certain fresh air would d-d-do her a world of good."
Jaheira smiled. "You ever know my heart. I'll return soon."
As she left, Imoen and Khalid watched her head up to the counter and begin doing something at the proprietor, Bentley Mirrorshade, that could only be described as the bastard child of haggling and just shouting.
"Your wife is kinda scary, huh Mr. Khally?" Imoen said.
"I-in a good way, I have always thought," Khalid said diplomatically.
Jaheira had amazing hearing.