Jaheira barely managed to stumble back into the Coronet. An ache settled in her head and under her skin, growing until every step was painful. Her very blood seemed to move sluggishly.
But through the pounding in her skull, she held onto one thought: she was in over her head and needed to get help. At least to get to relative safety.
She stumbled back to the Coronet. She'd easily made this walk not long ago, but now putting one foot in front of the other was an arduous task.
She barely managed to open the door and made her way slowly across the taproom, not caring or regarding some of the stares she garnered.
Mercifully, Bernard caught her eye almost right away. He stopped in his tracks, directed a nearby employee towards tending the bar, and met her halfway across the room.
He put a steadying hand on her arm. "Jaheira? Jaheira — no games; you look like you've seen your own ghost, or are about to."
"I…I'm fine, Bernard," she said. However, she was decidedly not, as she leaned against a nearby empty table, her legs shaking with exhaustion. "I…I just need some information, that is all. If you know where Baron Ployer is..."
"You need rest, is what you need," he said.
"I…I doubt it will do much good."
"It'd be a sight better than leaving you to wander about, I reckon," he said.
"Perhaps…perhaps you are right. Still. I know you can connect to the network if you need…"
"I thought you and the Harpers had some kind of bad breakup."
She tried to walk again. As soon as she let go of the table, she wavered on her feet, but Bernard caught her in time. Then, at his insistence, she leaned on him as he accompanied her to her room.
She whispered to him as they walked: "I cannot explain now, but I need you to contact Dermin."
"Dermin?" he muttered. "Dermin Courtierdale? You sure?"
"Yes, Bernard, I am sure. Tell him…tell him it is urgent. Please."
"Sure thing."
They made it to her room, and he opened the door, helping Jaheira onto the bed. "At least lie down. I'll send Celyce to check on you shortly."
Jaheira curled atop the blankets as though she could fall asleep then and there. She shut her eyes, but rest was slow to come. It dulled the ache, but nothing could abate it.
About seven hours later, the Coronet was approaching closing time, about two hours after the midnight watch began. The cooking fires had long been stilled in the kitchen, leaving only a lingering greasy, smoky scent floating out towards the bar, where the last keg had been tapped and where Bernard was pouring the dregs of the last barrel. The stairs up to Madam Nin's set of rooms were cordoned off with a threadbare velvet rope. And down the center of the common room, the long brazier had burned down into red-rimmed, flickering embers. The only natural lights left were several lanterns that had been lit along the wall near the bar.
Only about a dozen patrons remained. Some, who were insensibly drunk, were escorted out the door one by one. The rest were finishing their glasses, winding down their conversations, or putting on their cloaks and jackets and leaving into the darkest hours of the night.
A nondescript, worn-faced, black-hooded man of about fifty entered, making his way slowly to the bar and claiming a spot for himself. He settled in, hunching forward with a twitch of his shoulders.
"Greetings. We're closing soon, but can I get you something?"
The man's voice sounded disused as it croaked: "Have you got a Dathlue ale?"
A flicker of recognition passed across Bernard's face. "'Fraid not, it's out of stock. But I've got this instead."
Bernard poured a golden brown ale and set it in front of the black-hooded man. The other barely touched the drink and waited, his face almost completely hidden.
Before long, everyone else had cleared out, and Bernard and the hooded man were alone.
The man rose from his seat, suddenly standing tall and straight and throwing his hood back. Then, with a word, appearance shimmered and trembled, shifting into a more familiar face.
"Good to see you here, Dermin," Bernard said, taking the other man's gloved hand and giving it a firm shake.
"I came as soon as I could. What is the trouble?" Dermin said.
"Here," Bernard picked up a lantern from the bar and gestured Dermin to follow him to the back, down the hall to a small row of rooms.
He stopped in front of Room H. He gave the splintering wooden door a couple of raps with his massive hand, gently opening it after no response.
Jaheira lay on the bed. Though seemingly, she didn't have the energy to get under the covers, she still slept fitfully, occasionally tossing and turning. She was as pale as a sheet, with dark rings under her eyes, and though she had only been under the curse for less than half a day, the very act of carrying it exhausted her.
"She's sick as a dog, Dermin. I'd seen her walk out the door, and she was perfectly fine, but when she came back not two hours later, she could barely stand."
Dermin's brow furrowed. "Did she tell you where she went?"
"Just for a walk," Bernard said. "And then she came back sick and asked about Baron Ployer. She's been here since. No sign of getting better, either."
"Baron Ployer, hm?" Dermin said, half to himself. "I didn't know he was still in the city."
"That's not all — she's not the first one this has happened to," Bernard continued. "I don't know if you remember Belgrade, but he died a while back, and he was the same way before he passed, too — he was fit as an ox and not a day over 27; it weren't natural."
"I remember Belgrade," Dermin said. "I knew his death was suspicious, but we never pinned down the murderer."
Bernard jabbed an accusing finger toward Dermin. "You mean to tell me there was a killer of Harpers on the loose, Jaheira had no idea, and you sent her out there anyway?"
"Jaheira knew the risks I asked of her," Dermin said. "And she can take care of herself. But, unfortunately, besides the Baron's personal wish for vengeance, I suspect her choice of company made her a target."
"How do you mean?"
"I made some inquiries before I came here," Dermin said. "Ployer or one of his associates most likely located Jaheira the day she accompanied Gorion's ward to the High Hall. The Radiant Heart has many eyes watching it, and the paladins are, for the most part, blissfully unaware. And the slavers have long memories. Among other things, Belgrade was an information broker for Porteus Morningale, a prosecutor who has gone after slavers in the past."
"But how could Jaheira and Belgrade have gotten sick so fast?" Bernard asked.
"Jaheira could have been followed without her realizing it. All Ployer would have needed for this particular curse was a single strand of her hair. It was tailored to her alone and will kill her unless something is done."
"Gods." Bernard folded his thick arms. "I should have done worse than kick Ployer out the last time. If he darkens my door again, I'll have him fish for shark in the bay with no net, mark my words."
"At least let me know first," Dermin replied, "so we can recover whatever it was he took."
"In the meantime, what's to be done? I'd go after him myself if I didn't have affairs here to look after. But if Ployer knows she's here…"
"I will arrange for her departure from the city to a safe place," Dermin said. "And I will personally confront Baron Ployer; you have my word."
He started to leave, lingered in the doorway for a moment, then turned back to Bernard. "Tell no one else about the cause of her sickness, and avoid admitting visitors to see her if you can. You would expose Jaheira to further danger otherwise."