14 – A Cutthroat Business
"Storm: Tis good to get into a little sisterly fight every now and then. It helps work off a century or so of tension."
-Nalen Anthras, Wrath of the Seven Sisters, Act IV Scene V.
"So are you going to tell me why you've been so edgy lately?" Imoen asked.
It was late afternoon and the early summer sun was shining brilliantly off the polished granite obelisk in the center of the Beregost town square. Around the pillar's feet farmers and craftsmen were selling their goods out the backs of carts or behind crude wooden stalls while children used the marker as an obstacle in an ongoing game of tag. Pipe music could be heard wafting from a nearby tavern, and out on the dirt-and-gravel path a young man was juggling three colorful rubber balls.
"Edgy?" Ashura asked before shrugging. "I've had plenty of reason to be edgy lately."
"Not really," Imoen countered. "We just completed a trip where somehow no one ended up dying a horrible, grisly death. Well, unless you count the gnolls. And some hobgoblins. And that bandit guy who's head got split open by Minsc. And that entire village of blue goblins that Dynaheir burned down with a couple of fireballs. That was a real shame. I kept saying 'we mean no harm' but the little buggers just kept attacking." She shook her head and tried to remember what she had started talking about. "But other than that no deaths. It's cause for celebration if you ask me."
"I guess." Honestly she was more inclined to celebrate the fact that the witch and her bodyguard had finally left their company, heading north and west to Candlekeep. Ashura had had her fill of the Rashemi woman's accusing eyes and the warrior's innocent, easy smile.
"Something happened between you and that wizard didn't it?" Imoen asked. "And I'm not talking about the sort of thing that went between Minsc and Branwen. He said something to you when you were alone right? What was it?"
Ashura frowned and studied her boots. Really it would be a relief to come clean with Imoen. In the sixteen years the two had known each other they'd never kept secrets, and now felt like a crummy time to start. Branwen was within earshot though, browsing the stalls. Ashura knew that Imoen would disagree vocally over the deal she had made with Edwin, but Branwen was likely to disagree with her hammer.
Giving the priestess a pointed look Ashura whispered: "I'd rather not talk about it right now."
Imoen didn't take the hint. "I'm gonna wrangle it out of you one way or another," she stated with a grin.
In the end Ashura was saved by the juggler, who had begun to saunter towards the pair as they talked, rubber balls still lazily arching from hand to hand as he approached. He was a strikingly handsome young man, with wide, warm blue eyes, short brown hair and an easy smile. His outfit was simple but well made: a short leather coat over a sturdy cloth shirt and loose leather trousers, all in browns and muted yellows. Not exactly the flamboyant outfit of a performer, but it suited him.
"Greetings," the juggler said, giving Ashura and Imoen a brief glance before his eyes returned to the three spinning balls. "You look quite a bit more well-armed than the rest of the shoppers here," he noted.
Once they had reached Beregost Ashura had gone to the smithy and had her armor repaired and improved a bit. Her chainmail tunic was freshly mended now and she had added some steel forearm and calf guards for good measure. As she had waited on the repairs she had examined suits of enchanted chainmail on display at Thunderhammer's, but they were still priced far beyond anything she could afford.
Imoen was a bit less heavily equipped, having forsaken a lot of her black leathers because they could interfere with spellcasting. She had kept a few straps of armor that she strategically wore over her padded purple tunic and trousers, along with bracers and leather padding at the knees and elbows. She had also gotten in the habit of carrying her bow everywhere she went, hung over a shoulder along with a quiver of arrows that poked out at angle from beneath her purple cloak.
"Yeah," Ashura replied to the juggler suspiciously. "We're well armed and armored. What of it?"
The young man cringed a bit, catching and stilling his juggling toys and giving the women his full attention. "I didn't mean to offend," he said with a hurt look. "I'm just supposed to be on the lookout for mercenaries passing through town. My boss is looking to hire some."
"Hm," Ashura grunted, still watching the juggler carefully. If this was another bloody assassin… "Well, that's fine then. We do happen to be mercenaries in-between jobs."
The juggler perked up. "Then I believe I have a pretty proposal for you. My boss needs bodyguards for what's likely to just be one or two days, and she's offering a hundred gold per guard. So uh…three hundred gold for all three of you."
"That's a lot of coin," Ashura noted. "I take it this is a high risk, high reward sort of deal?"
The young man nodded. "Indeed. I won't lie to you: my boss has some very bad men after her and your job will be to fight them off." He slipped the rubber balls away and extended a hand. "My name is Garrick Anthras by the way. Of the Dale Wind…urm…well formerly of the Dale Wind Troubadours."
Ashura and Imoen exchanged a look and Ashura's hand shot to the hilt of her sword. "You worked with Nimbul?" she asked, her voice icy.
Garrick didn't seem to notice the implied threat. He actually looked a bit forlorn as he nodded. "Yeah. We lost our prop-wagon and got run out of town when that madman burned down half the Nashkel fair. We mostly went our separate ways after that, though I stuck with Mistress Silke."
Imoen snapped her fingers. "Now I know why yer so familiar," she said. "You played Elminster right? I knew it was a young guy under the beard and those eyebrows but I didn't realize you had that much of a baby-face."
"Hehe," Garrick chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Thanks, I guess. I was pretty proud of that role." He switched to a deeper, more commanding voice. "'What the four-hundred-and-fifth layer of the Abyss lacks in hospitality it makes up for in color. I believe something from every shade of the rainbow has tried to kill me at least once.'"
Imoen chuckled. "Yup, that's the Elminster voice."
"I suppose you don't recognize us?" Ashura asked.
Garrick shook his head. "Sorry to admit it, but no. There were so many people at the fair."
"That's fine." Ashura reached out and shook his hand. "I'm Nina." It was a name from a book she had always liked back in Candlekeep. If the book was to be believed Nina had even lived for a time in the Abyss, but she put about as much stock in that as stories of Elminster.
"I'm Imoen." Another handshake.
"And I am Branwen," the warpriestess stated, having rejoined her companions a moment earlier. She gave Garrick a firm handshake that made him cringe slightly.
"So what are the details of this job?" Ashura asked.
"So, my little Garrick, these are the only mercenaries you could find?" There was a tinge of disappointment in the dark-haired woman's flighty, sing-song voice. "I suppose they will do."
"Sorry to disappoint," Ashura muttered as she took a seat. Garrick had warned them that his boss, Silke Rosena, was a bit of 'a barbed-tongued prima donna'. She was a striking woman certainly, with a heart-shaped face that accentuated her large emerald eyes, and though she was dressed all in blacks her outfit seemed more lavish than Garrick's: silks topped and lined with sable and large dark feathers.
"It's fine," Silke said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I was simply hoping for a pack of burly men rather than the amazon-brigade, but you seem armed and armored well enough for the job."
"I remember you!" Imoen blurted out. "You played Princess Layanna in A Waltz with Brigands."
Silke inclined her head. "Indeed. And The Simbul in our little production of Elminster in the Abyss. Neither were challenging roles but t'was quite a whirlwind to switch between them on the hour: to first inhabit the skin of the commanding and implacable witch-queen, then turn into a meek, cowering girl who gradually finds her inner strength over the course of her journey through guile, strength of arms and her…femininity. But you did not come here to learn of the thespian's process I'll wager," Silke added with another dismissive wave of her hand.
'Here' was a well-lit corner table in the Burning Wizard tavern, a cozy little place made of sturdy, roughhewn hardwood. The alehouse boasted the widest variety of drinks in Beregost, two stories of small, tightly packed bedrooms above the common area, and little else. The food in particular was notoriously bad.
"Nope," Ashura agreed. "We didn't. There was something about protecting you from thugs?"
"That there was," Silke replied, "and a hundred gold coins for each of you once the thugs are dealt with. Garrick, would you be a dear and fetch us a round of drinks?" Once they had been asked what refreshments they would prefer and Garrick was sent to the bar Silke turned to her new hires and asked: "Have any of you ever been to Feldepost's inn here in town?"
The three women shook their heads.
"I thought not. It's a very lavish, expensive establishment that caters to the wealthiest of clientele. No offense." She giggled. "But there is a dark side to the place. Feldepost, the proprietor, is a powerful and ruthless crimelord. I incurred his wrath recently when I refused to do an evening's performance at his inn. He offered so little pay and was so forceful and demanding about it. Had I realized what sort of man he was perhaps I would have just swallowed my pride but…" She shook her head, a pained look on her face.
"In any case," Silke went on, "after declining his offer I learned that Feldepost has hired some thugs to 'make an example' of me. I barely escaped their cudgels on the street last night, and I've been hiding in this tavern ever since. Oh it was most horrid; they approached me in an alley and began to say the most vile-"
"Look," Ashura cut her off, "you're paying a lot. The entire sob-story isn't necessary. Just tell us how to deal with the thugs."
The forlorn look on Silke's face vanished, and instead she smiled. "Simple and direct. That's good. Send ruffians after ruffians."
Ashura grimaced. This woman sure loves the sound of her own voice.
"The plan?" Imoen asked helpfully.
"Ah yes," Silke said, "the plan." She gave Garrick a nod of thanks as he returned with a tray of clay cups and glass mugs. Taking a sip of wine Silke continued: "Feldepost's thugs know that I'm hiding here but don't want to attack me somewhere so public. Once I'm on the street, however, I'm sure they'll pounce. After dark will work even better. So once the sun has set we go for a walk, and when the ruffians appear you kill them and collect your pay. Simple enough. There are three of them and three of you, and when last I saw them they were poorly armed."
"You're sure they'll show up?" Ashura asked. "Having guards might give them second thoughts."
"I'll walk a bit ahead of the four of you," Silke said. "Just make sure to rush in when they approach. And strike fast. I believe one of them is a mage. If this plan does not work I'll think of a more direct way to take the fight to them, but I'm confident they will appear."
Ashura shrugged and settled in at the table. By her estimation they had about an hour until sunset, so they sat there sipping and talking. Silke offered them another round the moment Branwen finished her cup of mead. It seemed odd to ply hired swords with drink just before a battle, but maybe these bards just didn't understand how to stop partying. For her part Ashura just took a few tentative sips from her tankard of Tanagyr's Stout. While they waited Garrick and Silke filled their ears with tales of the wondrous places their tours had taken them: from Neverwinter in the north to Eshpurta the Shield City at the southern end of Amn, if the two were to be believed.
Once the light outside the smoke-stained windows of the tavern had dimmed they rose and filed out into the streets. Silke took the lead with quick, self-assured strides and the rest scrambled to follow at the cautious distance they had agreed upon. They had to hurry even faster when the actress passed the town obelisk and turned sharply to the north, then again to the east, walking closely beside a row of tightly packed houses. The growing darkness threatened to swallow the figure in black ahead of them, and Ashura feared that Silke would overdo it and lose them entirely. At a fenced-in vegetable garden Silke turned once again, leading them south into a narrow alley that ran behind the Red Sheaf Inn.
When Ashura turned the corner to follow she nearly stumbled into Silke, who had stopped and backed away slightly from the far end of the alley. There in the dim twilight three hooded men slowly approached, staggered a bit in the tight passageway. "There they are!" Silke hissed as she raised an accusing finger. "Feldepost's thugs! Quickly now!" Imoen and Branwen had stepped around the corner now as well, bow and hammer both out and ready, and with another step forward Ashura swung her swords free, one after the other. Just like the actress had said. A simple job at last.
"Greetings Silke," one of the thugs said in a cheery tone.
"There's no need for all these guards you know," a second thug added. "We brought the jewelry just like you asked and we'll deal fair."
"Silke?" Garrick asked somewhere behind them. "What's going on? These men are unarmed."
"Don't listen to their lies!" Silke shouted over her partner's objections. "They're trying to confuse you. Attack now! Before the spellcaster strikes!"
Ashura nodded and began to stomp forward. "They're as good as dead," she said.
"Shurra STOP!" Imoen shouted as loudly as she could. She had slipped in close, and the assault on Ashura's ear made her pause if nothing else did. "This isn't right!" Imoen continued. "Look at them!"
"Ims, we have a job here!" Ashura shot back, whirling towards the three men at the far side of the alley. "And no time to debate." Two of the thugs were raising their hands into the air. Now which was the spellcaster?
Somewhere beside her she heard Imoen let out a frustrated growl. The next thing Ashura knew her legs were slipping out from under her and her vision was filled with a faintly starry sky high overhead. What the Hells? She was falling! A shock ran through her body when her back hit the cobbles, along with a loud thunk and the jingling of her armor. Above her she could see Imoen shooting to her feet, pivoting with her bow in hand and drawing the string back with a creek, an arrow knocked and aimed over Ashura's prone body and at Silke.
"I'm no assassin!" Imoen shouted. "And we're not killing these me. Now get the hell out of here!"
"Bah," Silke scoffed. "I knew Garrick wouldn't find decent help."
"We are decent," Imoen growled back. "And that's why we're not going to murder these men."
Silke shook her head slightly, opening her mouth as if to say something. Instead of speaking she flicked her fingers and something appeared between them: a thin blue-and-white rod with a stylized electrical pattern running along the side and a tip that came to a zig-zaging point. Something sizzled and crackled at the end.
Wand! Ashura realized, frantically trying to push herself to her feet. First she heard the thump of Imoen's bowstring, but then she was knocked flat on her back again by a blast of deafening thunder as her vision was overwhelmed by white-hot light. There were secondary crackles and booms all through the alley as the bolt of electricity carved a hole in the wall and ricocheted from there, zipping down the passageway and forcing the three men at the other end to scatter and dive.
As she blinked back dazzling motes and flashes Ashura began to see smoke, much of it rising from the spot where Imoen had staggered backwards. There was wide-eyed fear and shock on the girl's face and her hand was clutching her chest, her back near the biggest hole in the stone wall. Oh gods! She'd been hit!
There was no sensation of turning from Imoen and rising to her feet, nor of gripping her swords tight and dashing the three paces it took to close the distance with Silke. Ashura was simply on her back one moment staring in horror at her injured friend, then she was standing in front of the bard, screaming: "You bitch!" and ramming her swords through the other woman's chest. It was all instant and reflexive.
Silke had stumbled back and gripped Imoen's arrow, which protruded from her chest, before Ashura charged. With her other hand Silke held onto the lightning wand and attempted to launch another bolt, but two swords striking with sufficient force to lift the actress clear off the ground was enough to send the wand flying from her grip.
For a few moments Ashura just stood there like that, taking deep breaths and hardly noticing the strain on her arms as she held Silke high and impaled, feet kicking and quickly loosing strength. There was a mix of rage and agony on the actress's face that slowly drained away as her skin grew pale. When Ashura finally felt the pressure on her arms she turned her swords downward swiftly and threw Silke to the cobbles. There was an eruption of blood from the wounds in the bard's chest that she didn't even attempt to hold back, her arms flopping around limply.
Ashura turned a sword downward and ran Silke through one more time, just to make sure. Then she whirled around. "Imoen!" she shouted, rushing across the alley. The girl was kneeling on the cobbles by the burnt wall now, a hand still on her chest. Branwen was already there beside her, trying to remove the hand and administer some healing, but when she did she uncovered…nothing. No smoking hole. No wound.
"I'm uh….fine," Imoen noted with surprise.
How could that be? She had been right in the path of the lightning bolt. It took a moment for the reason to dawn on Ashura: the electrically resistant boots from Mulahey's layer! Guess they've finally been tested. It was only then that something else occurred to her. "Imoen," Ashura stated, "you knocked me off my feet."
"Yup," Imoen stated unapologetically. "It was the only way to keep you from doing something stupid.
"Pfft." Unfortunately her friend was probably right.
Between Garrick and the three strangers Ashura had been about to kill, they eventually put most of the story together. Feldepost was not any sort of crime lord, simply a merchant and innkeep, and the three men were not hired goons; they were a musical troupe that had been playing at Feldepost's for the past three days. They called themselves the Berdusk Brothers (they were actually two cousins and a childhood friend, but you can't make a snappy name out of that,) and apparently Silke had been jealous of their top billing at the most expensive inn in town. So she had hatched a plan to dupe some traveling mercenaries into killing her competition for her, luring the naive singers out with an offer to buy some of their costume jewelry in a dark alley. Worst of all it looked like she never had any intention to pay for the job. At least there was nowhere near three hundred gold on the actress's corpse.
Through all of this Garrick sullenly claimed innocence, and his shock at Silke's betrayal certainly seemed genuine. "Mistress Silke was always telling me that I needed to toughen up if I wanted to get ahead in entertainment," he muttered into his drink. "'Your pretty face and voice have gotten you this far, little Garrick,' she'd say, 'but you need to learn that this is a cutthroat business.' I didn't think she meant it so literally."
The grateful Berdusk Brothers had invited them to a round of drinks and a free performance at Feldepost's, and the three mercenaries and one forlorn bard were now seated at a broad, round table in the common room. Feldepost's was indeed a lavish establishment, with polished marble columns supporting the vaulted hardwood ceiling and richly colored Calishite rugs covering most of the floor. Despite not being brothers the Berdusk trio pulled off some remarkable three-part harmonies. Currently their voices were locked in a somber, haunting ballad.
Imoen gave the young man a pat on the arm. "Aww," she said, "don't worry about it. It all worked out in the end. Well…not for Silke, but you know what I mean."
"She got what she deserved I suppose," Garrick said. "Though now I'm out of an apprenticeship, no place to stay and not a copper to my name. I just should have seen it coming."
"Sometimes you just happen to be friends with a bloodthirsty killer," Imoen noted with a shrug and a pointed look at Ashura. "I can sympathize."
Ashura cringed and studied the tankard of ale in front of her for a time. "Imoen…" she eventually said. "Um…I'm sorry. I should have listened to you."
"Damn right," Imoen teased. "Don't get me wrong, I've liked the way you usually let yer swords think for you, especially since they've been doing their thinking on the hearts and guts and brains of some pretty bad people. But you had me worried in the alley. Wish you'd at least glance around and make sure that they're armed first."
"Aye," Branwen agreed. "Tis no honor in attacking a foe who cannot fight back."
"I get it, I get it," Ashura muttered. She wanted to make a point about how dangerous mages can be without needing to be armed, but now wasn't the time."I'll be more careful in the future."
"Good," Imoen said, seemingly satisfied. She reached over and tapped Garrick again. "As for you, Mr. Copperless, you can tag along with us for a while if you want. We're trying to make some money as adventurers."
Garrick perked up a bit. "You'd have a use for me? I don't want to be a burden but…"
"Oh yeah," Imoen said with a grin. Turning to a Ashura she asked: "Can we keep him?"
Ashura gave a noncommittal shrug and a smile. She was dubious as to whether Garrick had any real skills beyond juggling and being pretty, but she supposed only time would tell. And they had to build the 'war-party' somehow.
Soon the Berdusk Brothers had launched into a jaunty, up-tempo song and Imoen was swaying from side to side and tapping her hands to the beat. It wasn't long before she stood and insistently pulled Garrick along with her. Unlike the Jovial Juggler, Feldepost's had no wide and commonly used dance floor, but there was enough open space on one of the broad, gold-on-crimson tapestries to twirl a bit without fear of knocking into tables. Garrick acted bashful and reluctant, but once one hand was entwined with Imoen's and the other was resting above her hip he moved gracefully enough.
As Ashura watched the pair dance something slipped between the nearby lamp and her table, casting a long shadow. As she turned to see who it was a slurred voice nearby muttered: "Ere now, get out! I don't like your type in here!"
Ashura's heart raced and her hand leapt to her sword, but when she faced and inspected the man she relaxed a bit. His weathered, middle-aged face was red and glistening with sweat, and his whole body swayed unsteadily. Just a drunk.
An equally ruddy and sweaty man stood a pace behind the first. With a clumsy hand he tapped the man who had spoken on the shoulder. "Heh," he barked and said in a slurred voice: "you tell 'em Marl." Both men wore plain, well-made clothing.
"My type?" Ashura asked.
"Ya," Marl growled. "Mercenaries. Adventurers. Upjumped thugs trackin' mud on good Mr. Feldepost's rugs an' upsettin' the local economy wif piles ah' gold ya dragged out of some tomb." He violently tapped his chest with the palm of his hand. "I put thirty years into ma' farm before I could afford a regular spot here at Feldepost's, and here you are, just some pimply kid, waltzing in like ya own the place. Prolly spreadin' gold you picked off some dead man."
"A lot of dead men, actually," Ashura stated. Branwen had risen to her feet as well and was standing by Ashura's shoulder, a big wolfish grin on her face.
"Ah, so you admit it!" Marl shouted. "Bloody murderers and opportunists. Ya have no place here 'mong us who've rightfully earned our coin."
"But I'm not leaving either," Ashura stated flatly, placing her fists on her hips. "Are you going to do something about that?"
The drunk snarled. "Damn right I am, ya little brat. I think ya need a good solid lesson. I've a mind ta take you over me knee and give yer little ass the sort of reddening you'll never forget."
Ashura rolled her eyes. She'd been in a few brawls before, and for some reason whenever she fought with a guy they had to bring up her ass, along with elaborate descriptions of spanking, during the trash-talking session beforehand. It was just as boorish coming from this old pervert as it had been from the boys of Candlekeep. "You'll find no little girls here," Ashura growled back, "though I sure don't see any men standing before me."
"Aye," Branwen interjected. "You talk and talk but I doubt either of you have the testicles to come outside with us and back it up. You'll find no spankings out there, just your blood and teeth in the dirt when we're through with you." Ashura felt like she had read somewhere that barroom brawls were considered a sacred business to the followers of Tempus. Branwen certainly gave that impression at the moment.
The drunk behind Marl stepped forward and gave Branwen a shove. "Oh I've got the balls alright!" he growled.
Ashura clinched her fists and smiled. This was perfect! Some drunken idiots to take her frustrations out of in a good, clean fight. No guilt or ambiguity.
"I can ta…take…" the drunk tried to continue as a dazed, empty look came over his eyes.
"Ya…you…uh…" Marl stammered, losing his line of thinking and staring at nothing in particular.
A dry, familiar voice spoke over Ashura's shoulder. "There's no reason to waste your time on these ladies is there?" he asked, and the two drunks nodded. "I thought not. Now why don't you two go back to the bar and drink yourselves into a benign stupor?"
"Sounds like a plan," Marl responded sleepily, patting his friend on the shoulder and turning him around. The two staggered away.
When Ashura whirled around to face the newcomer there was a certain satisfied look on his gaunt, elven face. Xan was wearing the same outfit she had last seen him in: sharp purple robes, jewelry and all. The moonblade hung from his hip.
"Why did you do that?" she asked the elf accusingly.
A confused look came over Xan's face. "Why did I…what?"
"Cast whatever spell you did on those drunks."
The puzzlement on Xan's face deepened. "Uhm. To save you two from harassment and a potential beating? It seemed like the most prudent course." A pause. "Wait," he went on. "You wanted that situation to escalate into violence?"
"Well…yeah."
Xan shook his head. "You're more hopeless than I remember."
Ashura snorted, then reached out and gently patted Xan on the shoulder. "Thanks anyway for 'rescuing' us from those drunks. I appreciate the thought." Xan nodded slightly at that and Ashura turned to her companion. "Branwen, this is…Xanisteirial (I got the name right? Good!) He's been investigating the iron crisis."
Xan nodded, shuddering a bit as Branwen gave his hand a tight squeeze and a hard shake. "Yes," he whimpered, "though you may call me Xan. It's what all the humans seem to be calling me."
"Okay Xan," Branwen said with a grin before finally letting his hand go.
"My investigation is actually what brings me to this tavern," Xan stated, gesturing towards the table. "May I?"
"Of course," Ashura responded. By now Imoen and Garrick had returned to the table, arm-in-arm, and they all made their greetings and introductions.
"You were looking for clues about some bandit king right?" Imoen asked as they took their seats.
"Yes," Xan replied, pitching his voice low and leaning forward. "And I've tracked his main messenger and go-between to this very inn. He arrived in town a few days ago, and seems to be enjoying the local luxuries. Unfortunately I've been unable to do anything beyond observing him from a distance."
"Aw. How come?" Imoen asked.
"Tranzig –the messenger- appears to be a mage, and a competent one at that."
At the mention of his name Branwen's face scrunched up. Noticing, Imoen gave her a quizzical look and asked: "Branwen? What is it?"
"Tranzig," the priestess replied, "was the name of the mage who imprisoned me in stone. How odd."
Imoen's eyes went wide. "Oh wow. Do you think it was the same person? You hear all sorts'a stories about wizards stretching their lives out."
Branwen shook her head slightly. "A powerful archmage would not be working as a courier. No doubt this is some descendant of the villain. Though by working with bandits and hiding behind dirty trick he is certainly carrying on the family tradition. 'Twould be a pleasure to introduce him to my hammer."
Xan cringed a bit at her bloodthirsty eagerness. "From what I've seen he's certainly no ancient archmage. Though neither am I. If I confront him or even follow too closely I could easily find myself on the losing end of a wizard's duel."
Branwen snorted. "Bah," she scoffed, "you sound like a coward."
"I don't particularly care what I sound like," Xan stated dryly, "if I can complete my mission without dying a horrible death. Inevitable as that seems to be."
"The life of a warrior is all about searching for a good place to die," Branwen insisted.
"Then it's a good thing I'm not a warrior," Xan bit back. "In any case, violently confronting Tranzig would also be an excellent way to get kicked out of this inn and most likely run out of town."
"We'll just have to come up with a stealthy plan then," Imoen concluded.
"Oh we will huh?" Ashura asked.
"Yup," Imoen said with a smile, followed by a pointed look. "Because we're going to help Xan here. Free of charge I might add. It's the least we can do for Khalid and Jaheira."
Ashura nodded. "Fair enough."
"I was not going to ask for your assistance," Xan put in, "but I must admit I would be grateful. Tranzig has already taken his dinner and retired to his room by the way. I've no idea when he goes to bed but it may be prudent to wait."
"I know a little about sneaking around and picking locks," Garrick offered. "I'd be happy to help."
"We'll go together then," Imoen said, giving Garrick a conspiratory smile. "It'll be our first adventure together. I think I have some ideas."
Ashura took a quiet sip of her ale as she listened. Between backstabbing bards, drunks and Greycloak investigators on urgent missions the gods certainly seemed to be conspiring against her having a quiet, relaxing evening. She had to agree with Imoen though. They owed it to Khalid and Jaheira to at least help a little more with their mission, especially when the problems of the Sword Coast fell right into their laps.
It was two hours past midnight when Imoen and Garrick silently slipped out of the Xan's room at the Feldepost inn, wary of the door's creaking hinges. Once the pesky thing was closed they walked in absolute silence, Imoen in the lead and grateful for her nightvision ring, creeping along the carpets that decorated the second story hallway. It was a short trip to Tranzig's door, which according to Xan was located on the opposite corner of the hall from his own room.
Kneeling and careful not to bump the door or anything else with the bow that hung from her shoulder, Imoen probed the lock with her thinnest metal tool and the lightest of touches. The mechanism seemed little different from the locks in Winthrop's inn, and within moments Imoen had the correct tiny latch depressed, using another tool to slowly turn the lock. There was the faintest of clicks (a sound that sadly couldn't be helped,) and then she gently pushed the door forward, an inch at a time. The hinges never made a peep.
The bedroom beyond was as wide and extravagant as they'd come to expect in Feldepost's. Moonlight through the window provided a little illumination, dappled across a wide Calishite carpet in the center of the room. The edge of a polished ceramic bathtub peaked out from behind a standing privacy curtain, and in the far corner of the room stood an elegant desk carved of teak.
They left the door slightly ajar and crept across the carpet to another corner of the room, where a broad, covered bed stood. In the darkness Imoen could see a faint red glow coming from the sheets. Good. He really was sleeping there. Garrick took one side of the bed and she took the other, the bard wielding a thick strip of cloth while the redhead fingered a black wooden club. When they yanked aside the covers Garrick would use the cloth as a gag and Imoen would subdue the mage with the club. Not a pleasant business, but when was it ever?
Once their prisoner was subdued the plan was to drag him back to Xan's room as quietly as they could, then smuggle him out of the inn and to an abandoned house where he could be questioned. That's if everything went as planned. But there was something wrong. Imoen could sense it as they huddled over the sheets. She just couldn't put her finger on it.
It wasn't until they pulled back the covers to reveal nothing but a pile of pillows that the realization hit her: the glow she had seen with her infravision hadn't been strong enough to be a person's body heat. The mage had left the bed before they entered the room and now he was…
Before Imoen could turn from the bed a voice hissed from behind the privacy screen: "You do realize I had an alarm spell placed on that lock right?" it asked. "Any mage worth his salt would do the same."
"It's been too long," Ashura noted, glancing for a third time out into the empty hall. There had been nothing but silence from the far end where Tranzig's door still hung open ever so slightly.
Xan sighed. "I fear you may be right," he admitted.
Ashura's swords came out of their well oiled sheathes silently, making her wish that wasn't where her skill at stealth ended. "Well then," she noted, "it's time to do this the loud way."
"Good," Branwen growled impatiently, adjusting her shield and hefting her hammer. When Xan offered no argument they pushed the door fully open and quickly marched down the hall. At the door to Tranzig's room Ashura halted very briefly to take a deep breath, then slammed her foot into the door and flung it open. She stopped in her tracks when she saw Imoen: unharmed and standing in the center of the carpet with her bow in one hand and an arrow in the other.
"Ims?" Ashura asked. "What's going on?"
Imoen didn't answer. Instead she simply looked up from the floor with an empty expression in her eyes. There was a familiar tingling sensation in Ashura's upper body, but by the time she realized that it was a warning from her magic boots and tried to twist aside it was too late. By then Imoen had knocked and drawn the arrow, and she didn't hesitate to fire it point-blank into Ashura's chest.
Author's Note: Don't you hate Silke and her surprise zig-zagging lightning attack? It's wiped out a lot of first level parties for me.
To Kyn: Of course I don't mind if you borrow any elements from this story.
Though I can't claim to be fully original. Some of the characterization I've given NPCs was inspired by the Baldur's Gate NPC Project Mod (I think that's where the idea of Khalid having been a more competent warrior who lost his nerve came from,) and other fanfiction, though I find myself making up more and more stuff as I go along (and wondering how wildly my story is going to vary from the actual plot of Baldur's Gate by the end.)