Luskan, 1415 DR
Jarlaxle woke up and instantly regretted it. Sharp pains flashed through his skull like lightning and he began to understand why Kimmuriel had suggested he take some time off while he recovered.
It was an hour after sunset. Normally, he would be starting his day: checking reports, meeting with Kimmuriel or Athrogate, giving a hundred different orders on how to deal with different situations, wrangling their local allies into cooperation for the thousandth time. It never ended and he needed to be at his best. Right now, Jarlaxle wasn't sure he could beat a drowned rat in a battle of wits, much less the hungry captains of Luskan who were waiting for him to make a wrong move.
He sat up, letting the blankets pool around his lap. The room was stifling and hot. He went directly to the window and leaned out, letting the cold wind of late winter move across his face. In the street below, shadow-figures moved briskly. Jarlaxle watched them dodge the lantern light and wondered how many of them were his people. It was hypnotic, until a loud crash from the alley below startled him. How long, he wondered, had he been watching as traffic passed?
He shook his head, then winced as that made the headache worse. The next hour passed in a fugue. Walking made him feel dizzy and lightheaded. He was shaking. There was a mysterious hissing noise somewhere in his apartment that he couldn't locate, no matter how often he circumnavigated the walls.
Perhaps worst of all, he didn't remember anything differently. There was no flash of realization, no sudden flood of his proper memories. The only thing suggesting the inconsistency in his mind was what Quenthel had told him and Kimmuriel had confessed to. Perhaps he needed to go through and find the incorrect memories himself?
With trepidation, he tried to focus on that night in Baldur's Gate, to replay the events as he recalled them. It hurt, just as it always did, an empty ache in his chest. Suddenly he desired nothing more than think about something else, anything else. Was this what Kimmuriel had meant by 'slippery'?
Perhaps food and a distraction would do him more good than simply sitting. He pulled on his boots and eyepatch. Uncomfortably aware of how underwhelming he looked but needing to get out of the apartment, he crept down the stairs and into the dark, icy streets.
Barrabus studied the building from the alley across the street. Despite being in good condition and not having guards, there were no squatters. That meant the locals knew better than to mess with it and it belonged to someone who didn't want to mark their lair to the outside eye. Perhaps the owner of the building was notoriously vicious about trespassers on their property, but even if it wasn't Luskan's mysterious shadow-rulers, whoever it was would likely have information that Barrabus did not.
It was an old warehouse and there were no windows on the first floor and only a single large door facing the street. He'd be better off going into the alleyway and climbing to reach the higher floor, which did have windows. Just because he couldn't see any guards didn't mean they weren't there, so he still lurked in the shadows as he climbed up the side of the seemingly abandoned building. The building was old and the clay bricks were crumbling in places, leaving easy footholds as he scaled the wall. When he was halfway up, a loud group of partiers passed the building, waving lanterns and yelling obscenities to amuse themselves. He pressed himself flat against the wall, knowing that if one of them glanced into the alleyway and up ten feet, he would be visible and vulnerable against the wall. But they passed without a yell. He shook his head and continued to climb until he reached one of the second-floor windows.
The window he reached had a broken pane of glass and was unlocked. Too easy. He pulled himself up onto the windowsill and looked along the inside of the latch. If he hadn't been looking for it, he wouldn't have noticed the needle, slick with some kind of poison, just along the window latch. He carefully removed it and pocketed it for examination later. It would be good to know if the owners of this building prefered to kill or capture their intruders, but he didn't wish to find out through personal experience.
With the window defanged and no one watching, he opened the window and crept into the darkened warehouse.
Jarlaxle found himself following cheerful groups of people as they moved through the streets. In the dark, with his hat enshadowing his features, many people seemed not to notice that he was a drow. He flitted from group to group, feeling distant and oh so tired. At one point the crowd he was shadowing passed one of Bregan D'aerthe's outposts and he considered breaking off, going inside. It would give him a chance to breathe.
But despite the windows being dark, there was no guarantee that the outpost would be deserted and he wasn't sure if he could maintain his usual attitude if he encountered one of his soldiers. Any rumor that the ever-cheerful leader of Bregan D'aerthe was absent-minded or vulnerable would fly through the organization, doing irreparable harm. With some regret, he left the warehouse behind and abandoned this group of people to walk.
Barrabus started by wandering the building, getting a sense of his surroundings. The lower layer was acting as a warehouse of some kind, filled with crates. He pried one open; it was filled with jars of fruit preserves. The upper layer was a maze of smaller rooms, all dark. Despite the windows, there were unlit lanterns interspersed through each room. He checked one. The glass was cool and the oil was congealing, which suggested it had been unlit for most of the day. Barrabus frowned. This office was probably more busy at night and its usual residents could arrive at any moment.
He found the largest desk and began to search it, not caring if he disturbed the items in the drawers. If they were competent, they would notice the missing needle and realize someone had broken in. Seeing how they reacted to an unknown intruder would be more useful than keeping his presence a secret.
One drawer contained a series of leather-bound ledgers. He smirked in satisfaction. An operation of any size would need to keep records. Perhaps he wasn't wasting his time here, after all.
The moon was new and the room was too dark to read the ledger. He found a corner that wasn't in view of any windows and lit a lantern. To his surprise, the lantern's glass shutters were tinted a deep blue, dimming the light from the flame. He could still read by it, but it wouldn't show nearly as brightly.
Something about that snagged at his mind, but he left it alone and began to examine the ledger he had chosen. He wasn't expecting to be able to decipher it; it would almost certainly be in code. But he might be able to recognize the code. If he did, that would tell him how deeply the organization valued their secrecy and possibly how they passed along information.
He opened the ledger and his jaw dropped.
The code was familiar. He had learned it decades ago, even helped adapt it to certain things on the surface. This one was slightly different - it had switched to the surface base-ten number system, rather than the base-eight favored by drow. Certain symbols were unfamiliar. But he knew it.
Bregan D'aerthe was in Luskan. Perhaps they were even the mysterious force holding the city together, though that would be a significant step up from their escapades in Calimport. He bit his lip. In Calimport, Bregan D'aerthe had faced significant competition. Perhaps not in Luskan.
Kimmuriel had been in charge of Bregan D'aerthe, the last time Barrabus had heard of it. But Kimmuriel would never be able to set up the mercenaries so well in a human city, nor would he want to. That meant...
Jarlaxle is in Luskan.
His heart was beating faster. Tucking the ledger into his cloak, he blew out the lantern and left the building as quietly as he had entered it, taking care to close the window. They would notice the intrusion, but not until they returned to the building. An open window would be an invitation to investigate and an advertisement to any rivals they had that someone was interfering, and he wasn't ready for that level of complication.
He needed space to think.
Jarlaxle stumbled against a wall. Unsure of whether he had tripped, he stayed leaning against the stone for a while. It was cool against his skin, a welcome respite from the feverish heat that seemed to be fogging his brain.
There was a snowflake on his nose. When had it started to snow?
The sky was warming to a soft gray and he realized he wandered for the entire night. It was cold, but he hadn't brought his cloak. He still didn't feel like he needed it. But he was tired.
He pushed himself off the wall and trudged home. He didn't bother removing his boots before laying down. He wasn't going to sleep just yet. He'd try to remember again. To focus. But every time he tried to think about Baldur's Gate, his mind recoiled. He'd get distracted by something else, or he'd get stabbing pains in his head, or his chest would start to ache in the same empty way that he'd previously associated with grief.
Kimmuriel had clearly understated how difficult this would be. Jarlaxle closed his eyes, tried to grasp the memories that eluded him, but before he had succeeded, he fell into unconsciousness.
He dreamed of bells.