Chapter Six

(*)

The two sat in silence, unable to say anything or even really think of saying anything, when Acherai finally managed to tear his eyes from Sephiria and say, very slowly, "Is that a chicken?"

And just like that, the moment was broken. Time flowed again, and Sephiria (who was very much a virgin) realized with a start that she had just spent nearly five minutes gazing longingly into a man's eyes, with barely three inches between their faces. She reacted to this in the logical way.

"Gah!" she shrieked, and hit him in the face as hard as she could.

"Hahahaha-AWK!" the chicken laughed malevolently, as Acherai laid in the grass moaning with the impression he had just been kicked in the face by a large, furious horse. "I wanted to *cluck, cluck* do that for ages. Smug bastard. Bu-GAWK!"

Rubbing his jaw, the elf came shakily to his feet and growled, "Do I know you, sir chicken? Or have we merely found some very amusing dinner for this evening?"

"Be cautious. It may be possessed," Sephiria said.

In a murmur too low for any but her to hear, "I am more worried about you on that front. Do your eyes often glow yellow, my dear?"

Sephiria paled in shock. "My...but your eyes were the ones that..."

Acherai arched an eyebrow. "Really? Interesting. I wonder..." he shook his head. "No. No, now isn't the time. Someone kill this chicken, then we need to move."

"In a bit," Kagain said. "Fine eatin' on a chicken, but finer can be bought with assassin's gold."

"Leave the bodies!" Acherai snapped, interrupting the looting. "The leader escaped. We need to catch him, now, before his trail goes cold."

Sephiria blinked. "How do you know the one on the ridge was the leader?"

Acherai smirked. "Because he was the only one smart enough to make sure he had an escape route if things went badly. Any evidence or information about the client will be with him, I'm sure of it. Kagain, take point and head up the ridge. We need to catch him. Alive if possible."

"Ba-gawk!"

"And someone kill the damn chicken already. It can't be that hard. Just grab and twist."

"Acherai-buck, buck-it is me. Melicamp! I...had a small accident, and...BA-GAWK!...well, you can work it out," the chicken snapped. "I...*cluck* could… use a hand. If you don't mind."

Sephiria fought to avoid a smirk. "You...know this chicken, then?"

Acherai blinked. "Apparently. We served for a time under the same instructor. Don't worry, you can still kill him. Trust me, he will not be missed, least of all by me."

The chicken screeched in panic and waddled over to hide behind Sephiria's leg. "R-reward! If you were to kindly take me back to our master, I will be sure *cluck* to reward you! I merely wish to be returned to my human form, and you will never see me again."

Sephiria smiled, looking at Acherai without even bothering to speak her thoughts.

"You," Acherai growled, "are very lucky you are pretty. Stuff the chicken in a pack and let's move!"

(*)

Being an adventurer, Imoen decided, was a terrible thing to be.

The problem she had now, really, was that if one was going to be fighting skeletons, a bow was a damn inefficient way to do it. The enemy was really mostly a bunch of empty space partially filled up by something without any soft bits, when you got down to it. And while she was hardly a pro at this adventuring stuff, she had worked out that arrows really worked their best when they went into the soft bits.

Jaheira, swinging around a big old stick, was actually doing a wonderful job of keeping them back, and Minsc's sword was heavy enough he could basically use it as a giant metal club. Khalid, however, seemed to be having a similar problem to herself in that his one-handed longsword was too light for this kind of work; for every blow that broke bone, there were four that skipped off harmlessly.

And of course Mulahey (Whom Imoen was now firmly convinced was a jerk) was hiding in the back, chanting madly, and slowly raising more and more undead from the cavern floor. The individual skeletons were weak, perhaps, but there were at least twenty of them now and the cleric was insistent on adding to that number.

Imoen tried to help, she really did. But it seemed the only target she could do anything to was the half-orc, and he had rather thoughtlessly positioned a small army between them. She wasn't a bad shot, but she was hardly the Grand Archer of Candlekeep (though she resolved to start telling people she was. It might lead to free meals somehow). She had a dagger, but...well. It was a dagger. She didn't know if a skeleton even had a back to stab, technically. Maybe work it between some vertebrae?

"Excuse me? Is someone dying out there again?" croaked a tired, pained, and yet somehow bored voice from around the corner, deeper in the caves. "If so, please keep it down. The chains make it hard enough to sleep without all the clanging and screaming."

Imoen, blinking in confusion, left behind the battle (what? She hadn't really been contributing anyway) and turned the corner into a small side cavern.

"Oooooh! An elf!" she said cheerfully.

The elf, who was a skinny thing, even shorter than Imoen herself and probably less muscular, sighed. "Quite so. Granted, most people would have noticed that I am chained to the wall first. Or the obvious signs of torture and starvation. But I suppose 'oooooh an elf' was the best quality of rescue I could hope for."

Imoen smiled. "Well, I could always not rescue you, if you prefer. I understand if you wanna wait for someone of 'higher quality'."

"Oh sweet Sehanine, a comedian," the elf muttered. "Very well. My apologies, young lady. I am Xan, a Greycloak of the elven city of Evereska, sent to investigate these mines for signs of foul play. As you may have guessed, I found some."

Imoen nodded sagely. "Dog lizards."

"... Why not. In any event, I should consider it a personal favor if you would most kindly postpone my inevitable doom by undoing these shackles?" A human skull chose this moment to roll into the cave and settle near Imoen's feet. "Before whatever is out there comes in here, if possible."

"You sure?" Imoen asked. "It is kinda dangerous out there. And you seem..."

She paused, and searched her mind for a better word than 'pathetic.'

"... Pathetic," she finished, not finding it.

Xan sighed. "Harsh, but sadly fair. I fear my power would turn the tide little enough. Though having my hands freed would leave me access to my magics once again, and my Moonblade is close at hand, I am certain hundreds of kobolds await, and..."

"Actually, we killed all those," Imoen said, cheerfully removing her lock-picking kit from her pouch and going to work. The shackles were custom, large, heavy clasps that covered his entire hands and held them immobile, but the locks were almost embarassingly basic. She had the first one off before Xan even realized she was working at it. "It is mostly one jerk with a lot of skeletons. You think you can help with that?"

Xan sighed, rubbing his wrists in a manner suggesting he considered Imoen giving him exactly what he had asked for to be a nuisance somehow. "Well, I suppose."

(*)

Sephiria moved through the wilderness as quietly as one could while wearing mail, and wondered if they were on a fool's errand.

The fact was, the killer had every advantage. He was alone, he wore only light gear for easy travel, and, he did not have a chicken attracting predators to him with disturbing frequency. Apparently Melicamp was delicious, because every wolf, gibberling, and wild dog west of Beregost seemed to want to eat him, and Seph was growing weary. The man was, as far as could be told from his contradictory ramblings, a criminal anyway; perhaps letting Kagain eat him would have been the better course of action.

Almost instantly she felt a surge of shame at the thought, piercing even her bone-deep fatigue. I cannot believe I would even consider such a thing. Condemning a man to death for thievery?! I... I must be more tired than I thought. That is all.

It wasn't all, of course. She knew better than anyone the doubts that had begun plaguing her since the night of her flight from Candlekeep...despite Acherai's reassurances to the contrary, she was very much beginning to feel this group's moral compass was not pointing in the right direction. The elf was pleasant enough, even charming in his own way. But when pressed, he showed a streak of greed and blasé disregard for others that truly worried her. And Kagain, of course, was much the same, save that rather than being a streak, greed and amorality seemed to be literally his entire personality. Garrick was the closest thing to decent among the three men, and she was not at all sure this was not simply because he hadn't yet figured out how to be evil.

And yet, she had not abandoned them. Indeed, as now, she found herself slipping occasionally into the same thought patterns as her amoral associates. Not out of malice or avarice, perhaps, but did doing evil things out of fear make them less evil? She did not want to die, and she was a sheltered girl with little concept of surviving in the real world, much less withstanding what was obviously a coordinated attempt to end her life. Was compromising her morals for the purpose of her own survival wrong?

Gorion probably would have said so. But he was gone, and he had left her alone in a world that did not run on the black and white morals she had held to all her life.

She gazed at the dried blood under her fingernails, and recalled the feel of Acherai's heartbeat under her palm, the strange magnetism she had felt in his gaze, the sense of something enormous and powerful flowing through her to heal his wound where her power granted by faith had been insufficient.

Nothing romantic, gods no. She was worldly enough to spot that the elf desired her, but he had hardly made serious advances and she would not have accepted them. He made her distinctly uncomfortable. But at the same time, she had to admit there was...something. A connection. Something in him that called to something in her, and vice versa.

Did she have any right to be a paladin? Was this decay of morality not merely weakness and the loss of innocence, but a sign of something horribly wrong with her? Could this darkness be the natural state of her being, suppressed by the kindness and simplicity of her upbringing?

It was a power of healing. Wherever it may have come from, could such a gift be truly evil? She wondered.

Of course it could. Evil gods can grant their clerics spells of healing as easily as goodly ones. Her cynical side answered quickly.

I did not ask or pray for it.

You did not have to. It came from something already within you.

Something I did not know was there. I did not use it intentionally, and did so for a good purpose. Can something be inherently evil? Beyond all reach or concept of goodness simply by existing?

Don't I wish I knew, she thought with a sad sigh. Philosophical implications aside, it was a power that had saved Acherai's life. She might not have known its origins, but she could avoid using it when she had any other choice, and ensure when used it was only for selfless purposes.

She hoped that was enough. The world was murky enough without fearing she was a monster already.

(*)

Mulahey smiled madly as the invaders began to lose ground against his powers.

The cleric had been genuinely worried for a time. Tazok's lackeys had been well-armed, coated in blood, and one of them had apparently been a pirate. But he was wearing then down, now. His minions had them pressed to the wall, and his magic bolstered the ranks of the undead, the grace of Cyric rendering the simple skeletons more powerful and regenerating their damage. Soon, now, all three of them would be...

Wait.

Three?

Mulahey was not the sharpest sword in the armory, but he could count to four. One of the attackers had slipped away. He opened his mouth to shout for his minions to strike out down the tunnels and seek her out before she released the elven spy he had captured...

And no sound came out.

He pounded at his chest, as if hoping to dislodge his voice; if he was magically silenced, then he was in a lot of trouble. But the truth became apparent quickly enough...not only could he not hear his own words or gasps, but the crunch of bone under metal, the shouts of the intruders, none of it. He was not silenced, he was deafened.

Around the blind curve, in the darkness he had peeked out of to cast his spell, Xan nodded. "As you can see, the cleric's powers are largely neutralized. While many dismiss the powers of Enchantment because their specialization requires abandoning the more...explosive schools of magic, they can easily turn the tide of a hopeless battle. Of course this merely means I am free to pursue even more hopeless battles. Perhaps I should have taken the fireball option after all..."

Imoen blinked. "You have like, no friends, huh?"

"It is true, most prefer not to socialize with me."

"Gee, I wonder why."

"I don't. It is a blessing that saves me the pain of mourning when our uncaring world inevitably destroys them."

"... Just keep magicking, please."

(*)

"The trail ends here. He is nearby," Acherai murmured. "If the damn chicken clucks again, kill it. We have one shot at this."

"The chicken is a person," Sephiria whispered, crouching next to him as he studied the faint footprints. "And I worry. The assassin is alone and travelling light. How did we catch him so quickly?"

Acherai smirked. "You can learn. This is a trap. The bounty on you must be enormous, my dear, because he has decided taking another shot at you is worth four to one odds."

Sephiria sighed. "I would like to know why someone wants me dead so badly..."

"Perhaps it has something to do with the way your eyes glow and you can heal wounds with your touch?" Acherai murmured, lowering his voice to ensure the others didn't hear him.

"If that is the case," she whispered back a little harshly, "Perhaps they should be after you too. It was touching your blood that made everything go...wrong. Your eyes changed too. Whatever...whatever thing I might be, you're the same."

"I know. Exciting, isn't it?" he said with a small smirk. "You have just been the most amazing clue for me. A week with you and I know more than I did for the last eighteen years."

"What are y-"

"All right, team!" Acherai said, standing up. "We need to look around, I think. Split up. Stay in pairs, of course, and be wary. Kagain and Garrick look north, our illustrious leader and I shall head south. Leave the chicken here."

"B-but *cluck* if there are wolves about..."

"Then I am sure you will be delicious. March, troops!"

The team split up with appropriate grumbling to begin combing the woods for the assassin, as Melicamp hid inside a fallen log.

From less than twenty feet away, safely hidden under the spell of a potion of Invisibility he had brought for just such an occasion, Nimbul smiled and proceeded to silently head south after his target, another of his favored throwing hatchets in his hand. Had anyone been able to see the weapon, the thin coating of a foul-smelling black gel along the edge would have been very attention-grabbing. Obvious poisons were only a problem, he always said, if you had to trick someone into taking them.

Acherai followed the grumbling Sephiria into the woods, and tried very hard to hide his smile.

He had lived on the streets of Scornubel for nearly two decades. You didn't survive that long without knowing how to turn a trap around.

(*)

Jaheira spun, her staff slamming a skeleton into the cavern wall and crushing its skull between iron-shod wood and rough stone.

She was not sure what had happened. The undead had been swarming them, pushing them back so firmly she had no time to even chant a prayer between strikes. Yet suddenly, their assault had slackened, the will guiding them losing cohesion as the priest began to spout gibberish and claw at his ears.

On the edge of her hearing, a murmured arcane spell reached her sensitive ears over the din of battle...and the priest began grasping at his eyes, screaming half-coherent raving about going blind.

Her blood going cold, Jaheira turned to look down the side tunnel. Imoen waved at her cheerfully, standing next to an emaciated and disheveled elf who was moving his fingers in the intricate gestures of a wizard's casting.

Jaheira sighed, fighting the urge to rub her temples against the encroaching migraine. Blessed Silvanus, the girl had run down a random tunnel and found a friendly mage. It was like she went out of her way to destroy everything Jaheira knew about logic and replace it with her own personal brand of madness.

...Still, she thought as she watched the undead horde slacken and fall out of the determined assault, their master no longer guiding them, one can hardly argue that the girl gets results.

"Khalid! Some altitude would be a help!" she snapped, slamming aside a creature and sprinting toward her husband. Without a word, Khalid shoved back hard against the skeletons pressing him, the undead puppets too disoriented to resist, and fell to his knees. He raised his shield above his head, and Jaheira jumped onto it just as he stood, propelling her.

She thanked Mulahey for choosing a cave with a high ceiling for his lair, or this would not have worked. So as she sailed over the skeletons, directly toward the priest in question, she pondered the best way to express this gratitude.

She settled, in the end, for bringing her weapon down on the flailing man's head with enough force to crack the iron-coated oak of her quarterstaff, splitting his skull like a ripe melon.

Jaheira had an unusual definition of gratitude.

(*)

Acherai smiled at Sephiria, and said, "A lovely day, is it not?"

The young paladin glanced about warily, murmuring, "I thought we were trying to be quiet. What if he hears you?"

The elf chuckled. "If he has not heard your footsteps, trust me, the man is deaf. Besides, I don't truly expect to find him. He is almost certainly long gone, halfway to the Gate if he keeps in the direction he was heading."

Sephiria blinked. "Then...we split up to search..."

"Perhaps I fancied a walk in the woods with a lovely young lady? Without a grumpy Dwarf and a buffoon ruining the atmosphere, of course."

"... Please explain, and quickly, why I should not punch you again."

"I can give you a reason," the elf purred, and Sephiria flushed openly as he leaned in, painfully close to her ear, and she readied herself to drive a knee into his midsection with enough force to break him in half...

When he whispered, "Pretend I said something absolutely scandalous and horribly offensive. Explode at me. As loudly as you can."

Her eyes widened. "What are y-"

"He is right behind us. I am sure of it. This walk has been to lure him to a point in the trees where I can be reasonably sure of where. If he hears me start to cast a spell, he will get away. Now scream at me." Then, almost as an afterthought, he reached and traced a finger down the length of her neck. "Ammunition."

Sephiria blinked, her entire essence freezing at the tingling of skin against skin as that...unnatural spark, however briefly, leapt between them. Cool, and enticing, and absolutely wrong. As if, behind his touch, there was another set of fingers under her skin trying to push her forward, a voice other than his at her ear whispering promises she could not quite hear, but she knew that something inside desperately wanted her to...

Well. At least acting offended would not be hard, even if the disgust she felt was mostly for these bizarre sensations that had burrowed into her soul.

"You sick, amoral, pervert!" she roared, jumping a step back from the elf and putting on her best expression of outrage. "You assume that just because the assassin has eluded us I will simply let you bed me in the woods like some common whore?! You are lucky I don't kill you on the spot!"

Acherai winced, and turned his head aside...but she saw his lips were moving almost imperceptibly, and his hand was shifting slowly through a series of intricate gestures. She fought to hide a smile, and thought, You know, I rather like this plan!

"And further!" she roared, doing her best impression of Gorion the time she and Imoen had accidentally shattered the Cormyran pottery in Ulraunt's chambers. "Your choice of a party has been intensely questionable. Garrick is, despite his generally kind demeanor, extremely limited in his actual combat value. And Kagain. Kagain. It would take me literally hours to list everything I find problematic about Kagain's companionship. The man is clearly an amoral mercenary of the worst sort, and yet you not merely allow him to remain, but keep him deep in your counsel! And do not think I have not noticed that. I am not some naive child!"

Technically she was a naive adult, she knew, so this was accurate. Still, she saw Acherai roll his eyes over his murmured spell casting. Irritant, she thought. "Stop smirking at me. I am, by your own admission, the leader of this group. And I am not amused by your constant decision making without my input, nor by your blatant lechery! You will-"

And then Acherai shifted, throwing a handful of something that looked like nothing so much as powdered gemstones, a fine sand that glimmered brilliantly in the sunlight as it flew. Sephiria squeaked in surprise at the sudden motion... but not nearly so much as she did when the Glitterdust spell impacted in the seemingly empty space between two thick patches of thorny brush, the glimmering motes forming the outline of a lightly built man, grasping at his eyes as he cried out in shock.

Acherai smiled. "You don't make it as a thief without picking up an instinct for when you're being followed. Now if you could be a dear and break his hands?"

"I-"

"Magic! Break his hands before spells are cast! And gods above if you stop to pray again I will..."

In a refreshing change, however, Sephiria was in motion before the sentence was even finished. She was a large, strong girl, and she didn't need a sword out to break fingers… but she had it out and ready anyway. Maybe she can learn, Acherai thought in amusement.

Nimbul was not a direct fighter. He was a rogue, someone who struck from the shadows with poison, or magic, or basically anything other than walking directly up and getting the tar beaten out of him by a gigantic amazon woman.

But he also, unlike Karlat and Neira, knew who he was working for, who had put the bounty out on this young girl. Above and beyond the substantial reward, he knew failure or, worse, being taken alive were simply not options.

The elf's spell had mostly blinded him, glimmering sparkles dancing behind his eyelids and burning his eyes, making anything further away from his face than his own hands turn into a barely visible blur. Still, it wasn't hard to spot the fact that one large, silvery blur with a red blur on top of it coming his way. His axes were balanced for throwing, but they made a valid melee weapon as well, and with the poison still on the edge, he only needed a scratch…

He slid under the descending blade like a wraith, taking advantage of his perceived helplessness, his weapon slashing upwards, hoping to hit a soft spot in her armor, certain he could at least manage this one strike…

And then he screamed in pain as her descending blade shifted almost impossibly, the blurriness of it becoming a razor-sharp line of light as she intercepted his attack. On the shaft of the axe.

More specifically, where his hand was.

The poisoned weapon flew from his grip, and it took two of his fingers with it.

The assassin cursed, falling backward, trying only his best to get away from the rampaging silver titan he could barely perceive. He could follow her moves well enough when she was this close to him, but she was faster than him, stronger than him, and surprisingly good with that damn sword. The weapon slashed across his shoulder, sending a bright red spray that even his blind eyes could make out, but he held in his screams, reaching into his pouch as he tumbled back. He had more than one potion that might prove useful, but he needed to get the damn thing out, drink it, or…

He saw the orange bottle in his hand that marked an Oil of Explosion.

Not ideal, but it would do. He threw the bottle over the girl's head, to land between her and the elf, and dove for his life.

(*)

Oh Gods, it hurt.

Acherai had never been set on fire before. He was surprised to find that mostly, he felt cold. Nerve endings died, making feeling pain impossible in the sections struck hardest by the explosion.

But the parts around those deepest burns. The pain was…

He fell, not even feeling the impact as he landed on his back. He could hardly see. Barely breathe. He didn't even have enough clarity of thought to curse his own stupidity for falling for such a simple ruse. All he could do was stare up at the sky, blinking the tears from his eyes, as his charred skin cracked, oozing…

Blood.

Sephiria, thrown forward by blast, scrabbled to her feet, her eyes wide. Her back was burning, the same armor that had protected her from the worst of the Oil of Explosion also superheated and tearing into her body. And yet, she could barely feel it over a sudden chill that ran through her mind, a pulse that ran through her blood like a heartbeat, only from a heart that was somehow outside her body…

Acherai rose to his feet, rising bonelessly from the charred and blackened grass. His face was hideously burned, but his eyes…

She saw the golden glow in them, far brighter than it had been when she had healed his wounds. His blood, soaked under her fingernails and into the cracks of her skin, seemed suddenly very, very cold.

Blood calls to blood. Again, and again, and again.

Born in darkness, living in darkness. Do not run, do not question. Murder is the calling of your soul, what your born for. There is no higher purpose for you than this most holy of darkness.

And if you fear this… then let the calling of your blood lead by example.

Acherai tilted his head to one side, his eyes glowing coldly, and something golden lit in Sephiria's in response. But he did not see it. He saw only Nimbul, still coated in magic hiding blurring his form… and saw the man, a hardened killer who could barely see, staring at him with undisguised fear.

He didn't smile. There wasn't enough active thought in the elf's mind for him to be happy about anything. But on some level, if he could put it into words, he would call the fear in the man's foggy eyes something like satisfying. He raised a hand, and clenched it into a fist.

Nimbul did not scream. There wasn't time. His open wounds, his eyes, and his mouth all exploded in a shimmering white mist. The gleaming energy flowed across the clearing, past the horrified young paladin, to melt into Acherai's hideously burned palm.

And as she watched, the burns on his face and hands went from a sickening, oozing black, to a more simple angry red. And for a brief moment, Sephiria felt an intense sense of approval, only it wasn't her approving…

And then the moment passed. Acherai fell to his knees, gasping for air. And the assassin…

He fell to his knees as well. But Sephiria suspected he would not be needing air any time soon.

"Search… search…" Acherai gasped, stopping briefly to gag at blood in his throat. "Search his… body. For information. Signs. Anything. Wanted to take him alive…"

Sephiria did not move, merely cast her gaze suspiciously on the wounded elf. Finally, she said, very quietly, "What are you?"

Acherai narrowed his eyes, his breath still coming in ragged gasps, before he managed to say, "I could ask you… the same thing. Couldn't I?"

"I healed a wound. You…" she looked down on the corpse of the assassin.

"I saved our lives. In a different way. Now check his body," Acherai growled. "I… I need to think."

Sephiria stood up, her body still steaming slightly and her expression still suggesting a great deal of distrust… but it wasn't like there was anything else to be done.

Acherai closed his eyes, and shuddered.

Something formless and dark, coiled in his chest, felt coldly satisfied.

(*)

Imoen looked down on what was left of Mulahey's head, and winced. "Jaheira. You maybe take this all a little too seriously."

"The man was seeking to kill us, child. In fact to kill us all, and with a horde of the undead. You would perhaps wish I should invited him calmly to tea?" Jaheira asked, poring through the chests and containers that surrounded the desk in Mulahey's makeshift study.

"… Well, I wouldn't mind some tea, if you-"

"Rhetorical question, child. Rhetorical," Jaheira muttered. Fortunately, Mulahey had been, in addition to a paranoid murderer, a very hands-on administrator. There were at least a dozen letters, requisition forms to request additional slaves and weaponry, samples of the iron poison, all the evidence she would need to confirm with Berrun as to the source of his troubles. But there was more she sought. The half-orc had spoken of a Tazok, and this name was on more than one of the documents he had saved. This, she knew, would be important, and soon.

She suspected that Tazok himself, whoever he might have been, would have gutted the priest like a fish for keeping such incriminating evidence. She supposed this would be a good way for him to claim a posthumous revenge against the employer who had put him in this place.

Somehow, she would have to find the will to continue despite this knowledge.

"My servant Mulahey," she murmured, reading aloud with the most recent letter, "it appears your mining operations do not go so smoothly. How could you have been so foolish as to allow your kobolds to murder the miners…"

"Oh," Imoen said brightly. "So maybe this Tazok guy is nice!"

"… I will not send the kobolds you have requested, as I need all the forces I possess to stop the flow of iron into the region. With this note, I have sent more of the iron poison you require…" Jaheira continued, skipping down a few lines.

"… Or not!"

"… and here. The next link in the chain," Jaheira said, giving the final line in the note a grim smile. "Tazok has set up a go-between for Mulahey to reach him. Tranzig, in Beregost. Even better, this Tranzig is apparently to wait for Mulahey to make first contact, so he will not come here to investigate! We need merely to find him in Feldpost's Inn, and…"

Minsc cleared his throat.

Jaheira winced. "Ah. Yes. That."

"It is not that Minsc does not wish to rush to do battle with the forces of evil!" Minsc said quickly. "In fact, Minsc wishes to do little else! But alas, Dynaheir…"

Jaheira sighed. "I am loathe to risk this trail going cold. But this fortress you have described is… is not so far out of our way, and a bargain is a bargain. You have aided us, and we shall aid you. We return to Nashkell to rest and resupply, then on to find this witch you are so fond of."

"And really," Imoen said with a bright smile, "what are the odds of something happening to this Tranzig in the next two days?"

(*)

Sephiria handed the note to Acherai, being careful not to touch his skin as she did. "He had little on him. Some gold, some simple weaponry, a little food and drink. Nothing of interest that I saw beyond this letter."

Acherai looked over the letter, and smiled, followed by a wince as the expression tugged at burn tissue. "Ha. I thought he was a professional, but this is a childish mistake. It's the assassination order, and not just a basic bounty notice. It has a contact name. We're lucky this wasn't destroyed or too soaked in blood."

"He didn't have much blood on him," Sephrira said softly, "when he died, after all."

Acherai narrowed his eyes, but ignored the obvious accusation in her tone. "Maybe he was just dumber than he looked, or maybe he wanted some proof for his flunkies that he had a confirmed contract in place. Either way, we know who he was supposed to collect his fee from after he brought you down…Tranzig. An agent staying at Feldpost's Inn in Beregost.

"Well, I know where we're going next."