Chapter Eighteen

(*)

"O-oh dear," Khalid said, not entirely sure what other response was appropriate at that moment.

Imoen and Jaheira, who had gone out to meet with Commander Scar and try to get an ally within the Fist to help prove their innocence, had returned. And indeed, they had returned with Scar himself, as one would hope.

They had also returned with a half-elven man in inordinately fancy clothes, who was gagged and his hands tied very tightly together. And Sephiria, who he had been fairly certain was on Death Row at the time, and who was wearing only some blood-soaked bandages and a badly torn grey shift. Frankly, Khalid wasn't entirely sure which of these was more confusing to him.

Though thankfully, given their locale, both actually kind of fit in.

"Heeey, sexy. Feeling lonely today, finally?" a woman asked, poking her head past the cloth that served as a makeshift doorway into the section of the Undercellars they had blocked off as their own. She was not terribly attractive, looked rather exhausted and unhealthily thin (black lotus did that to a person) and wore entirely too much perfume, but she had tried to counter these facts by walking around in as little clothing as humanly possible. It was basically three belts and a veil. The veil wasn't on her face.

"N-no. And I have a-asked you more than once to please n-not come i-i-into-" Khalid began, only to be stopped when she, as usual, ignored him. Only instead of offering a price list, she just looked at the tied-up man and the half-naked woman, and sighed in frustration.

"Dammit. All that work and someone else lands a party in here first. Why is it the cute ones always get taken 'afore I can work out a payment plan?" the courtesan asked the universe sadly. "Well, next time ya feel lonely, hot stuff, look up Sasha. I bet I can do better than escaped prisoner/hostage roleplay."

Khalid winced as she left. "H-honestly. E-every day with her since we g-got here. D-do I just look like someone w-who would need a p-prostitute?"

"Yes," Imoen said helpfully. Jaheira smacked her upside the head for the remark, which made Khalid a little happy despite himself. It was good to have a wife who stood by you even in the hard times. And these were hard times.

The Undercellars would not have been his choice for a place to stay, even had he been a young unmarried man. They were a good place to hide: being populated almost entirely by courtesans, drug dealers, and people cheating on their spouses, it was very certain nobody here would ever willingly walk into the Flaming Fist barracks to loudly declare their need to see justice served. But the place was just spiritually draining, a den of despair hidden under a haze of meaningless sex and hallucinogens. Nobody here was a good person, or even a happy person. The Undercellars were where you came when reality had beaten you down so much you simply needed to abandon it, along with all your senses, for a few hours of pointless, empty sensation.

Also, Sasha just could not take a hint that he wasn't interested. Happily married, thank you very much.

"How stands things, my love?" Jaheira asked. "Please tell me your time here has gone better than mine outside."

Khalid sighed. "W-well, I can't say i-it's been valuable. Xan mostly s-spends his time convincing c-customers drugs w-won't fill the void in their lives, because nothing ever will. Dynaheir is negotiating with a r-regular to deliver us s-supplies, and Minsc has no idea where he is."

"So did Dynaheir ever say 'yes' to teachin' me some spells? I know we were only gone like two hours, but I figured she mighta changed her mind in that time," Imoen asked cheerfully.

Ignoring her, Jaheira said, "Well, we had some luck, though if it was good or bad is debatable. Duke Eltan is, as far as can be told, dead at the hands of the conspiracy. Thankfully, we did manage to procure his killer, and Sephiria actually managed to free herself. Something of Gorion must have come to rest in her after all."

"It isn't Gorion I am concerned about, at the moment," Sephiria said softly. "You promised answers, Jaheira. And I think I've been through enough to earn them, of late."

Jaheira sighed. "We have much to learn from this Angelo fellow first. If you don't mind, I…"

"Jaheira. I need to know this," Sephiria said softly. "Please. I've already worked out much of it myself, but I can't go on with people like you and… and this thing knowing more about me than I know about myself!"

"Did you just call me a 'thing?'" Angelo muttered.

Jaheira sighed, sitting in a pile of cushions and rubbing her temples. "Fine. If you intend to be troublesome about it, I can illuminate much. I was there with your father the night he found you, after all. Khalid, listen well and catch any mistakes I make, it has been too many years to be totally certain of it all.

"It begins…"

… On a day when the gods are reminded they are no more than masters of their own destiny than the mortals they govern. Less, in some ways.

For many long years they had shirked their duties, concerning themselves more with the endless conflict among themselves than with ruling the world they served as lords and guardians. Shar and Selune; Bane and Tyr; Myrkul and Lathander; the gods had come to be defined less by their roles or portfolios, and more by their disdain for each other, using mortals as chess pieces in a game that could have no ending. The final straw came, however, when two of the gods tried to rise above their stations in a way that could not be forgiven. Bane the Tyrant and Myrkul of the Dead, seeking power over their fellows as they had once sought godhood together, stole the Tablets of Fate on which were written the Divine Truth.

The punishment was swift and merciless. Ao, the Overfather of Toril and ruler of all its many gods, decreed that until the Tablets were returned, all Toril's gods would walk among the worshippers they had ignored so long, trapped as mortal avatars. Chaos reigned as the prayers of clerics fell on deaf ears, and magic went mad with the Weave torn asunder. Wars sparked across the world, and in the madness mortals were not the only ones to fall. More than one god was killed in the carnage, their blood spilling as easily as any human's. Bane, Myrkul, Mystra, Torm…

And Bhaal.

The lord of murder, patron of assassins, Bhaal was among the darkest deities in the Realms. His death at the hands of a mortal was not one that would be mourned by any save perhaps those who drew direct power from his patronage. But the death of a god was a portentous event, regardless, and one that had come before the eyes of more than one oracle. And through them, the eyes of Bhaal himself.

Bhaal was an immortal, and may have never believed his death would come. But he had been a mortal man once, and a professional assassin. One did not excel in such a career without learning to plan for every eventuality, and so he began to prepare.

For decades, before the Time of Troubles had ever begun, Bhaal had taken on many avatars and made many secret journeys to the surface of Toril to walk among the mortals. On each of these, he would single out a woman of one of the mortal races. Some were his priestesses or the monstrous allies to his church's dark works, and would submit willingly. Some were innocents, unimportant women taken by force and left broken by dark roadsides. Bhaal did not distinguish, and did not care: all that mattered to him were the results.

And the result was that from each such encounter, a child was conceived. A score and more of mortal progeny, each carrying the power of Bhaal buried deep in their blood. A divine spark that would guide them as they grew, pushing them toward the darkness of their father's will. And as they grew in power and depravity, they would die, each and every one. Whether they fell to the blades of their own mothers showing proper loyalty, met powers greater than their own, or came into conflicts with each other seeking their father's power, their divine blood would lead each one to self-destruction. That blood would be gathered, then, the divine spark within each child collected.

And if Bhaal should indeed fall, their bloody deaths would be a proper fuel for his return indeed.

(*)

Sephiria sat in silence, listening to every word and wishing very much that it didn't all fit so well with what she'd already worked out. "And… and my mother…"

"Was one of those women. And you are one of the children," Jaheira said. She briefly considered trying to sugarcoat the truth, but… there really wasn't a way to do that in this case. Besides, it wasn't really in her nature.

"Gods, Seffie, I'm so sorry," Imoen said gently. "I… you just need to know this doesn't matter, okay? You're still family to me, no matter what god might be your papa. I still love ya and I promise I'll keep right on stealing your dessert and hiding frogs in your underclothes."

Sephiria sighed. "Imoen, please, stop helping. Jaheira… my mother?"

Jaheira winced. "Khalid, I…"

Khalid placed a hand on her shoulder and sighed. "You were taken as a child, by a c-cult of Bhaal. They s-s-sought to… to speed the prophecy by s-sacrificing as many of the children as they could gather. Your m-mother did not survive, child. I'm sorry."

"Gods above," Sephiria murmured, her eyes closed. "I knew she was dead. But to hear it… sweet Torm have mercy. Gods above…"

"Oh my," Xan said, poking his head into the small enclosure. "And I thought we were doomed before."

Imoen smacked him, because there were some things you just had to do when you were family. Then she walked back over to Seffie, put a comforting hand on her shoulder, and waited until she raised her head.

"You okay?" she asked softly, once Sephiria had taken a few deep breaths and composed herself somewhat.

"No, but I don't have time to be 'okay,'" her sister replied, her tone quiet but strong. "Thank you, Jaheira, Khalid. I… none of that was pleasant to hear, but it needed to be said. And I will have a bout of religious terror once I've had time to process it, I'm sure. But for now, we need to gather the group, and have a discussion with Mr. Angelo."

She turned to the gagged half-elf, and her expression was very cold.

"And considering he is a murderer who serves the scion of a dark god, I do have to mention to him that there is little reason for us to make this discussion comfortable for him, unless he tells us everything he knows."

Angelo gulped.

(*)

Zhalimar Cloudwulfe was Sarevok's most loyal servant. Not the highest-ranked; Tazok, Angelo, even Winski had positions of greater clout and physical reward, but he was the most loyal by far. He and his band masqueraded as Sarevok's private guards, but the truth was that they were closer to his cult; a band of madmen and murderers worshipping him as the god he would one day be. They were absolutely devoted, competent, and their aid in the battle in the Iron Throne lobby had been what allowed Sarevok to successfully kill his father and pin the crime on Sephiria in a single perfect moment. He was unspeakably useful to the cause.

And now, he was dead.

Sarevok hunched over the corpse, his breath coming in deep, wild gasps, blood up his hands all the way to his elbows. He had literally torn the man apart, the spiked gauntlets of his armor as effective as any sword in ripping through flesh, and his inhuman strength more than enough to pull tendons apart.

Tamoko stood to the side of the chamber, her gaze lowered, saying nothing. Sarevok's lover she might have been, but she had seen his degradation as the plan proceeded. As enraged as he was now, he would kill anyone who caught his notice, even her.

"She," he said, his voice little more than a feral growl, "escaped."

"Yes, milord."

"Take the rest of my acolytes. Lead them personally, Tamoko, and bring Cythandria with you. Kill her, kill her friends, and kill Angelo for his incompetence," he said.

Tamoko winced. Cythandria was one of Winski Perorate's two apprentice mages, a vile shrew of a woman who hated Tamoko with an earnest passion because of her intimacy with Sarevok. Further, Cythandria had made little secret of the fact Sarevok also… dallied with her from time to time, ensuring this distaste was very much mutual. There were few things she wished to do less than work with Cythandria for any length of time. If anything, she had been tempted more than once to ignore her lord's wishes and hurl the insufferable harlot from the top of the Iron Throne tower.

But Sarevok had commanded. And when Sarevok was in this mood, there was no safe way to argue with him.

And he had been in this mood more and more often, of late. Since the armor had been completed, and he began to indulge daily in the power locked in his blood, his temper had been mercurial. Dangerous. He had always been a violent man, from the day she'd met him, but also intelligent, methodical, capable of patiently plotting for months or even years before making his move at the perfect moment. Of late, well…

The mangled corpse of his chief acolyte lying at his feet just for being the bearer of bad news was an indicator of how much his self-control had collapsed.

Tamoko had met Sarevok five years ago, and the passion he'd ignited in her almost instantly had never dulled, rather growing deeper into a true, helpless love. She had never claimed to be a good person, standing alongside him as his power and ambition drove him to ever great depths of depravity and feeling little guilt. The faith of the Eight Million Gods had many paths to power, and the spirits and deities Tamoko followed were gods of passion and elemental fury, the embodiments of storms, flames, and war. Beings who represented the most primal and destructive aspects of nature and the human spirit. This had given her great, great power, and she only admired Sarevok's drive to pursue paths she had initially assumed were similar in nature.

But the path she walked, a harsh faith that required much sacrifice and dedication, had paid dividends in power and asked nothing of her she could not give. The path Sarevok had chosen was no longer strengthening him. It was devouring him from within, his will slowly being subsumed by the power in his blood. With each passing day he was less the man she knew, and more Bhaal's avatar on earth.

While the gods she worshipped could be cruel and unrestrained, it was the unfocused cruelty of a hurricane, not the pointless sadism and bloodthirst of the Lord of Murder. And more to the point, she had never felt as if any of them were inside her head, trying to remake her mind in their own image.

She left her lover's chambers to gather his acolytes and summon Cythandria. But as she walked, she found her mind leading her down paths she had never before considered, and she did not dismiss them as she might once have.

(*)

Viconia knelt over Lord Silvershield, looking mildly annoyed at being forced to heal a human whose life did not directly benefit her. Shar was not the sort of deity to lovingly approve such a thing, Acherai knew, though he truly didn't care overmuch about Viconia's faith so long as she used it to keep him alive and in a position of power.

And it was probably safer than her asking Lolth to do it, at least.

"Can he walk? If he dies, we've gained nothing here," Acherai said flatly.

"He will not die anytime soon. You might if you continue to irritate me," Viconia replied, stepping back as the Duke rose to his feet shakily.

"You're the one who loves it when I'm assertive, darling," he replied. "Duke Silvershield, I am praying you have some secret passage out of this manor? I hurt the assassin, but she isn't dead and it's only a matter of time before she recovers and brings friends back to take another stab at you."

"Secret passage? This isn't a chapbook, boy."

"You act like it's a ridiculous idea, and yet it would clearly be helpful right now," Coran said mildly, his bow trained on the door. "Because there's a better than average chance that someone is going to burn this manor down to get to us once they realize we have a defensible position here."

"And considering who runs the Flaming Fist now, they won't have much worry about guards interrupting them," Silvershield admitted sadly. "Well. All right, there is no secret passage, but you have mage and cleric support. I assume between the two of you, you could break down a wall?"

"Most likely. You're getting at a particular structure?"

"Two rooms over, we'll find the edge of the house that overlooks the western wall. There's an apple tree between the wall and the house we could use to climb down to the bottom floor and bypass the stairs, and no windows are in that room to ensure nobody could use the tree to get into the house. This also means the assassins likely won't have bothered to put a man on watching it. If you can break down the wall in that room, we should be able to get out of the building and into the streets before they realize what we're doing."

"All right! Then all we need is to get two rooms down the hall. We can manage that," Coran said cheerfully.

Entar smiled like a hungry wolf. "Assuming of course that I was willing to leave my wife and daughter here to die. I am not. You will save them, or at least try, or you'll get nothing even if you get me out."

"Oh."

Acherai cursed under his breath. "Dammit, a hard bargainer. You're very lucky you need to be alive for this to work, old man."

"I've made a career on that very statement."

"All right. Coran, you're with me. We move fast and quiet, and we stay out of sight. The rest of you, fortify the room we need to secure our escape. Kill anything that comes in except the two of us, we can't trust any of the household staff. Move, people!"

He did so, then, following his own commands and slipping into the shadows of the hallway, the moon outside casting more than enough for a skilled thief to avoid detection. Coran followed behind him, equally silent and stepping in the darkness with the same practiced ease.

Shame it didn't matter, given that they were already being watched.

(*)

Kristin giggled, running a finger idly through the blood on her dagger while she watched the silly puppies plan through her Wizard Eye. Invisible and no larger than an actual eyeball, it was ideal for scouting targets; the only real issue was that it could only see, not hear. Luckily, Kristin could read lips.

She hadn't expected Entar Silvershield to have a mage of his own in tow when she'd stabbed him in the kidney. She'd made the attack, put her dagger right where she wanted; a death that was both slow and not easily prevented, the loss of a critical organ that would let him suffer for awhile before he went to sleep forever. Then, just as she struck out at his friend, wanting to kill the scrawny elf for the sheer joy of doing it, she'd found her dagger intercepted on his own, and a glowing palm leveled at her chest.

Then she was on fire. That hadn't been much fun.

She'd only survived by luck, she knew it. Lashing out madly, something a veteran knife-fighter would have called stupidly sloppy even by gutter-fighter standards, but she was damn fast and you couldn't predict something so unpredictable. The elf had been nicked near the eye and she'd been able to flee back to the ground floor, roll out the flames and quaff a potion or two. And her baby had found her, then, his hands still slick with the blood of the serving staff he'd been taking care of while she hunted Entar, and the world was all right again.

"Slythey-baby, you know what they're doing? I saw it all and they think they have a plaaaan," she purred, pursing her lips lightly in the way that always made her baby want to kiss her.

"Oh, baby, you know I love it when you outwit people. They got no idea, no idea my sweet Kristin played them so bad," her lover and partner-in-crime said, punctuating the sentence with his own gleeful chuckle as he flipped his shortsword from hand to hand, the pale red glow along the black blade showcasing the enchantments on the weapon.

"Mmm, honey, you know you can't go talking sweet like that on the job, you know you can't," she murmured, nuzzling against him. "How's a girl supposed to stay focused on her work when her man is being so damn romantic? Here I am supposed to be focusing on painting Silvershield's house with his blood, but all I can think about is my big strong Slythey-baby. And you do it on purpose, you naughty boy."

"Oh, you know it. You know your Slythey, baby," he murmured, "You know I love my work, you know I do baby, but I can't think about it when my princess is showing off how amazing she is. The only thing in this big beautiful world that makes me happier than skinning a man alive is being with my sweet Krissie."

She could hardly resist after that. She grabbed Slythe roughly by his hair, tangled into filthy dreadlocks that had been permanently stained a shade too dark by old blood, and dragged him into a kiss that he returned with fire and passion that equaled her own. She moaned into his mouth, her hands tracing his muscles even as his own ran over her curves, seeking a hold to tug at his clothes, and…

Someone coughed. Annoyed, the assassin couple broke off their embrace to glare at the half-dozen dopplegangers that served as their supports in this job; each of them was currently in the shape of a Shadow Thief, right down to the black studded armor and the daggers dripping wyvern venom. It was kind of annoying, frankly; Kristin didn't like the Shadow Thieves, they thought they were so much better than her and Slythe because they were 'professional' and 'didn't stop to torture the target's associates for fun.' Pricks.

Slythe didn't even bother to hide his similar feelings as he turned to them, snapping, "What are you still doing here? Do you not see we want to be alone?"

"Wanna kill them, Slythey-baby? Wanna kill them good and slow?" Kristin giggled, nibbling on her lover's ear. "I bet they screeeeeeeam…"

He sighed, and Kristin felt a surge of disappointment as that meant he was about to suggest they do their job. So boring. "I would, baby, I really would, but you know that would annoy Sarevok."

She shivered, her lust for both blood and more traditional sources momentarily forgotten. One didn't annoy Sarevok if one wanted to live a long, healthy life; he had all the brutality of Slythe and Kristin, even less patience when he got angry, and precisely zero sense of fun. Pissing him off was a one-way ticket to pain and horror, and those were only fun when they were happening to people that weren't her and Slythe. "Oh. Right."

"So who about you tell us what you saw, baby girl, and we'll get on with this."

"Can we hit the Undercellars after, baby? Caaaaan we?"

"Oh, baby, you know we can. I'm gonna take enough black lotus to make the whole world burn away into raw sensation, I'm gonna tie you to a wall, then make you watch while I-"

The doppleganger leader coughed again.

"… Right. Krissie, baby, we do need to stay on task," he said. "Tell me what they're planning?"

"Two of them are going to get Entar's wife and brat. We need them alive anyway, to be our reliable witnesses, so I figure send a few of the jokers here to poke at them with daggers, show off as 'Shadow Thieves.'"

"Mmmmmmm, my baby is a genius."

"You know it, baby. You know your Krissie."

"And the others, baby girl? What else did my princess see with her scary little eye?"

She smiled. "They're gonna try to get out through a wall on the west side. Break down the outer wall and climb down a tree. I was thinking maybe I could go set it on fire, while you go play? I bet you can think of some great games to play with silly people stuck in a tiny little room, all trapped and scared."

"My little blackhearted angel is giving me a present? My sweet baby is giving me the final kill?"

"Mmmmm, I am. You like that, baby? That make you hot?"

"I wanna take you right now. Right here like an animal while I'm still bloody from that whiny maid I caught in the dining room."

"Oooooooooooh, baby, you always say the most romantic things. Did she scream? How long did you make her last?" Kristin purred.

"After the job, baby. After we go down in history as killers of Dukes, I'm gonna tell my sweet baby everything and listen to her squeal."

The dopplegangers shuddered, the two of them assigned to waylay Silvershield's wife and daughter taking the opportunity to actually sprint out of the room. Literal man-eating monsters they might have been, but gods above, there had to be standards.

(*)

Acherai fought hard to ignore the growing distress in his gut as he and Coran slid from shadow to shadow with practiced ease.

For starters, this manor was entirely too large, closer to a castle than a house. Who needed thirty rooms to house a four-person family, for Mask's sake? When he was (and he would be, one day) wealthier and more powerful than Silvershield, he was definitely going to invest in more practical living arrangements.

But despite this annoyance at rich people that naturally came in some degree to anyone who had grown up poor, he had a deeper worry as well. That being that they really should have been noticed by now. He and Coran both had a good deal of skill at sneaking about. He would even go so far as to suspect Coran's boots were enchanted to muffle sound, given how he was walking heel-toe instead of lightly on the balls of his feet, and yet made no more noise than Acherai himself. But there was a big difference between sneaking past people who were unaware and asleep in their snug manor, and sneaking past trained killers actively hunting for you in confined corridors. That was not a matter of going unnoticed, because you would be seen at some point. It was about buying a few extra minutes and hopefully starting the inevitable engagement with surprise in your favor.

And yet, they had made their way past the third bathroom, lounge, upstairs conservatory with actual birds, and second library (I hate rich people. Not that I'm jealous or anything) to find a room with poorly muffled sobs coming from within as someone female tried and failed to remain silent, and not come across so much as a whisper of leather or the gleam of a dagger being drawn. So either the enemy was much better at remaining hidden than two professional thieves, or they were not actively moving anywhere nearby them.

And that was worrisome, because the Lady Silvershield and her idiot daughter were important only in that they were needed to convince the man of the house to help. If he died before they got his family out safely, they lost their support network before they'd gotten to do anything with it.

Focus, Acherai. You just need to get two women to another room and kill anything that tries to stop you. You have Coran, and he will serve as an admirable shield if you need one. You have most of a day's spells ready, and you were even clever enough to mutter out a Vocalize on the way here so no need to talk. You're not half-bad with a dagger. You can do this, quickly and quietly.

He tapped the door lightly, and murmured, "Ladies Silvershield? Lord Entar sent us to-"

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!" came the piercing shriek from inside the room.

Oh for Mask's sake, he thought with a wince, slipping a hand to his weapon and setting the other in the beginnings of a spell sign. If there was anyone nearby, they had to make a move now.

"Oh for Tymora's sake, Skie, do stop that," an older and significantly more annoyed female voice said. "You at the door. Prove my husband truly sent you, and prove your intentions."

"Look through the peephole, dammit. I'm the one who delivered news of your son's death to you! If I wanted your family dead, I had ample opportunity to do it without killing half the serving staff downstairs," Acherai hissed. "Your husband is alive and in a position to escape, but he won't leave without you two. So open the door, because we need to move."

The door did open, Acherai noticed, and he glanced in to confirm the target. He expected two worried noblewomen in frilly dresses, probably with tear-streaked makeup.

He saw one woman that fit that description, though she had not apparently been crying. If anything, she looked as though she had never cried in her life, and since he'd have placed her age at around fifty that was pretty significant. She had to be the Lady Silvershield; he hadn't known Eddard long, but it wasn't a stretch to assume the 'iron lady' type was very much his thing.

The other woman was much younger, a cute raven-haired girl, in her late teens, twenty at the oldest. She did have tear-streaked makeup, but she wasn't in a frilly dress. Rather, she was in gold-trimmed and shiny, but otherwise mostly practical leathers. Also, she didn't look scared, she looked furious.

Also she had a crossbow, and her mother was very noticeably stepping back from her in open shock. "Skie! Why do you have such a-"

"They. Took. My. Eldoth," she hissed, and opened fire.

(*)

Sephiria fought off an urge to kill Angelo that had nothing to do with Bhaal's influence on her.

"You treacherous, loathesome, vile little cur," Scar snarled from behind her, getting across her own thoughts fairly well. "You betray not only your command, but your entire city to that lunatic? How low can one man sink, Angelo?"

"Yikes," Imoen said.

"All of them?" Xan asked, and even he seemed a bit aghast. "He actually wants to kill all of the Dukes of Baldur's Gate? Gods. I'm hardly a student of politics, and even I know that would be mass chaos in the whole region. I mean, it isn't as though it could make the world much worse, but it would still be quite awful."

"Not helping, buddy," Imoen said.

"O-oh dear. Jaheira. This is a bit above our rank. Do you think we should…" Khalid began.

"We have little time and no reliable means of getting a message outside the city," Jaheira said, rubbing her temples as if it would speed her thoughts in some manner. "We shall have to deal with this, the seven of us. Once Minsc and Jaheira return, we leave."

"To where, precisely?" Sephiria asked. "Because our enemy is in control of far too much of the city already, and his plans are clearly beginning to come to their final fruition. If he manages to kill the Grand Dukes, parleying his current goodwill into a leadership position will not be difficult in the chaos that follows. Amn will be blamed, and Sarevok will have war. Because that is all he truly wants, you know. Murder on a grand scale."

Jaheira winced. "You are certain he is your brother, then? Half-brother, at least."

"As certain as one can be. He has the same power. He spoke to something in my blood," Sephiria murmured, her mind drifting back to the cold darkness that Sarevok had inspired in her. "He's twisted inside. I don't know what he seeks, ultimately; Bhaal's power? His rebirth? But I know how he seeks it, and the only method he would use is that which brings the most death to the world. In our 'father's' name."

"We need proof. Some evidence he killed Eltan, to turn the city against him," Scar said flatly. "And you miscounted earlier, lady druid, because I'm definitely a part of this until the end. You have eight to work with."

"A welcome aid, then. And as for proof, we have Angelo," Jaheira pointed out. "The assassin himself. He must have some physical evidence, and his testimony will aid as well."

"But he will not be helping you further. We had a bargain," Angelo snapped.

"I don't bargain with corrupt murderers," Jaheira snapped. "I cut my teeth on southern slavers twisting the government with their coins. I know how to deal with your kind, little man, and it is a swift blade to the throat. If you want to live to stand trial, you will do as you are told."

"Jaheira," Sephiria said firmly. "We did have a bargain, and he has kept his end. We shouldn't…"

"No, child, you had a bargain. My word was never given, and I do not accept him earning his freedom when he is complicit in the planned deaths of thousands," Jaheira said flatly. "Free him if you wish, but I will kill him before the bonds hit the ground, I swear this. He'll not escape his crimes on my watch."

Scar smiled. "I like her."

"She's taken," Khalid said primly.

"Bah, best ladies always are."

Sephiria sighed helplessly. "Well, sir Angelo, you have your ultimatum. I dislike the idea, but I appear to be outvoted, and truthfully you deserve to die for your crimes. You'll remain our prisoner."

"Um, guys," Imoen said hesitantly. "I mean, I don't wanna just kill this guy, but I also seriously don't think we can trust him. He's clearly gonna try something!"

And then the instant she finished that sentence, the very second, an arrow slammed through the opening in the canvas of their makeshift shelter and took Angelo in the side of his neck. The shock was such that none could even scream as the man fell sideway like a puppet with his strings cut, unable to make so much as a sound as he twitched helplessly from the missile embedded in his spine. It was almost trancelike, watching for nearly three long seconds in total stunned silence, until Imoen finally broke it.

"Well, I didn't think he was gonna try that!"