Author's Note: If anyone's interested, I wrote a four-part supplemental story that runs parallel to the next few chapters. It's called Now You See Me and it follows Imoen's misadventures going through some of the thief's quests in Baldur's Gate. It also prominently features Alora, who may just make a brief appearance in the main story. You can find it on this site. Check it out if you like!

43 – Entar Silvershield's Greatest Treasure

"Is it really stealing if they totally, totally deserve it?" – Olive Ruskettle

Choppy water lapped from shore to shore of the river Chionthar, the shadow of the great stone bridge that spanned the Wyrm's Crossing falling across the waves. It was the most impressive bridge Imoen had ever seen: perhaps a quarter mile of mortared stone, wide enough for at least two carriages to pass each other and supported by great arches, the underside slimy-green with moss and algae. Tall stone towers and sturdy gates marked the beginning, middle and end of the span, along with a lowered drawbridge at the halfway mark.

And the size of the bridge was nothing compared to the stone walls beyond; smooth and thick and buttressed at regular intervals by conical towers. In a way the castle walls were familiar, as they were of about the same design and height as those at Candlekeep and the Friendly Arm. But unlike those little citadels, these walls seemed to curve and stretch across most of the horizon beneath the open midday sky, promising that whatever lay beyond was on an entirely different scale.

"Quit your gawping," Shar-Teel snarled at Imoen, the hooves of their horses clopping from the gravel of the road to the packed cobbles of the great bridge. "You'll make us a target for thieves once we hit the city."

Ignoring her, Imoen just kept starting up at the gate as they passed beneath. Shar-Teel shook her head and Eldoth did as well. "You've seen one city, you've seen them all," he stated dismissively.

"Well, I haven't even seen one," Imoen admitted.

Xan's horse trotted in the lead, the elf stooped in his saddle and watching ahead as they crossed the drawbridge and approached the final gate. In the windows of each tower Imoen had spotted the helmed heads of guards, mostly giving the party bored looks as they passed. It was not until they were almost off the bridge that someone stepped out and began to approach the group, hailing them with a wave of his hand.

The man who greeted them was enormous; at least as tall and wide as Taugosz Khosann, if a bit chunkier. There was a stern and steady look on his ruddy face, along with a prominent scar that curved from cheekbone to chin beneath the gleaming bald dome of his head. He wore a thick black doublet emblazoned with the badge of the Flaming Fist, the hilts of several throwing axes clinking together at his belt as he marched forward, flanked by two heavily armored Fist soldiers.

"You don't wear a grey cloak," the big man told Xan by way of greeting.

The elf drew his horse up and pulled at the collar of his outer garment just a bit. "It is grey on the inside, but the color hardly matters." Slipping his feet from the stirrups, Xan slid down from his saddle and landed lightly on the bridge. "You were expecting us?"

The big man cocked his head and half-shrugged. "Hoping at least. I take it you and these mercenaries were the ones who wiped out the bandits in the Sharp Teeth? We had some men come through with tale of that, along with a big prize."

Xan nodded. "What happened to Khosann, if I may ask?"

The Flaming Fist leader shrugged. "Rotting in a dungeon or some such. So you really did take care of those bandits for us?"

"That and a bit more." Xan produced a packed of vellum from his cloak. "The Bandit King himself is dead. We tracked him to a secret iron mining operation in the Cloakwood Forest, where slaves taken from the caravan raids were being used to produce a secret stockpile of weapons, armor and other equipment. We have reason to believe, gleaned from these documents, what the slaves overheard and the interrogation of one of the slavers, that the bandits, the sabotage in the Nashkel mines and the operation in the Cloakwood were all masterminded by Rieltar Anchev."

The scarred man's eyes narrowed. "The merchant lord? Really?"

Xan nodded. "His Iron Throne cartel conspired to create a shortage of iron and then make a very hefty profit with the only supply of the stuff."

"But you've stopped that eh? Good on you. So what happened to that big stockpile? It could be useful to the Fist. Important evidence too."

Xan frowned and bit his lip.

"Well?"

"It's under a lake," Ashura interjected. "Along with the whole mine. Long story."

"Really? Damn…" the big man muttered. He swept them all with a suspicious look. "And how convenient for you."

Ashura shrugged, meeting his eyes. "It's the truth. On the plus side that lake got dumped on Tazok's head. Was a bit of a battle."

The Flaming Fist commander glared at them a moment, then to Imoen's surprise he shook his head and laughed, taking the package from Xan. "Adventuring parties eh? You can't just leave a place to pillaged later can you? Got to blow it all the fuck up in the most dramatic way possible." Another rumbling laugh. "I've been there, back in the day with Eltan and Moruene. Floods, explosions, collapsing fortresses, a lich's tower that fell into the ocean. All that fun stuff. Good times." A sigh. "Although, evidence and iron would have been nice."

"Thankfully they documented most of their conspiracy. Their correspondence is all here."

The Fist commander nodded. "Any captives? You said something about interrogating one of the slavers." Xan cringed, and the big man frowned, catching on immediately. "What happened?"

Shar-Teel happened, Imoen was tempted to say as many of their eyes fell on the warrior-woman.

Xan put it more tactfully. "Unfortunately the prisoner attempted to escape and…perished in the process."

Got run through from behind and then stabbed repeatedly by a cackling madwoman, more like.

"Although," Xan added, "the escaped slaves may have headed this way. They are led by a blonde, elderly dwarf."

"Hm. We'll keep an eye out." A little snort. "Flimsy evidence, all told. All you really have at the moment is this correspondence, and that could be faked." The big man gave Xan a pondering look and then pointed at the blade that sat at the Greycloak's hip. "You can touch that sword?"

Xan nodded and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the moonblade.

"Good. And you swear on your honor as a Greycloak that everything you've told me is true."

"Absolutely. On my honor as a Greycloak it is the truth."

The man waited a moment, even glancing up as if he expected a bolt to come from the sky. When nothing happened, he clapped Xan on the shoulder with a broad hand. "That works then. We'll begin an investigation of the Iron Throne, and hopefully find some more solid evidence. I always suspected the Amnish weren't behind the iron shortage. Folks here are always so eager to lay every problem at Athkatla's feet."

"So," Xan asked with a slight sigh, "you will take it from here?"

"Aye. And you've done an excellent service for the Flaming Fist and the city of Baldur's Gate. You'll all be well rewarded." He offered Xan his hand. "I'm Scar, by the way. Second in command of the Fist."

Xan inclined his head. "Xanisteirial Feilien of Evereska. And thank you." He turned back towards Imoen and looked her in the eyes. For the first time she could recall the Greycloak had a bright, full and genuine smile on his face. Genuine, and very relieved.

Despite Shar-Teel and Eldoth's constant complaints, the two girls from Candlekeep couldn't help but gawp. Beyond the great gate that led into the city lay broad avenues of cobblestone and tall brick buildings that stretched as far as the eye could see, dwarfed by distant towers. The walls of a massive fortress were visible in the distance, close to a tower of red stone with a fine point at the top and tiered roofs all the way down.

Closer by the streets were packed with people, bright colors mixing with patchy roughspun rags, simple shawls and big broad hats, young ruddy cheeks beside faces that were as wrinkled as prunes, beards that were greasy and wild or waxed and forked, women's hair tied up in buns, bound in a dozen different styles of braids, even hanging in dreadlocks that clicked with beads and seashells. There were more people here than Ashura had ever seen in a single spot.

There was even a man on the open street dressed up as Elminster, his costume nearly as elaborate and gaudy as the one Garrick had once worn. It consisted of a long white beard, bright red robes, a pipe and a pointy hat, along with curling shoes. It also helped that the beard didn't look fake, and there seemed to be genuine lines around the man's expressive blue eyes.

The street performer waved his pipe at anyone who passed by, Ashura and her companions included. "Ho there wanderers," he intoned dramatically as their horses trotted near. "Stay thy course a moment to indulge an old man."

Ashura rolled her eyes and guided her horse along, but Imoen laughed and gave the reins a gentle pull, staying her course and indulging. She got a longwinded thank-you from the old performer, peppered with vaguely archaic sounding verses.

From there 'Elminster' launched into some magic tricks, telling stories as he used cantrips to turn the smoke he puffed into elaborate illustrations. It smelled mostly of cloves, but some of the wilder stories had Ashura wondering if he was puffing the lotus. Especially the one about being sucked into one of Demogorgon's maws and finding his way out the other. When the old man finished and swept his conical hat from his head Imoen clapped politely and dropped a few clinking bits of silver inside.

The performer bowed his head at that, the bald spot at the top of his crown glinting in the sun. "Thank thee kindly for thy indulgence, and thy patronage," he said to Imoen. "In return I shall grant a smidgeon of sagely advice, as is my custom." A deep breath. "Seek thy fortune in the secret house of Ffard, and you shall find it there, along with new friends." With that he turned and surveyed the rest of the group. "Sagely advice. Dost anyone else seek sagely advice?"

With a chuckle and a shrug, Ashura pulled a pair of silvers out and plopped them into the hat. "Sure."

'Elminster' nodded and looked at her a moment, then his brow crinkled and genuine concern grew on his face. "Do not yet seek thy brother out, for he is beyond thee. The time will come though, when brother and sister must vie for a throne. And not an Iron Throne." He seemed to smirk at his little joke.

Ashura's eyes narrowed. "Uh…thanks. I guess. Wasn't really planning on it."

"Regardless, tis nice when anyone accepts sagely advice." With that the old man placed the hat back on his head, turned away and went back to waving at the passing crowd.

"You have a brother?" Imoen asked with a puzzled look.

"Possibly. I have a theory at least." Ashura glanced around. "I'll tell you in private." They began to trot down the street again, searching for the sign that would mark the Elfsong Tavern.

"Spooky then," Imoen noted. "You think that was the real Elminster?"

Ashura shook her head with a scoff. "Just some minor mage probably. Divining a tiny bit of truth about a person and putting it into the act adds to the mystique." She chuckled. "And everyone knows that the real Elminster -if he exists at all- has a shorter beard than that. And he doesn't wear a goofy hat."

"Bhaal?!" Imoen exclaimed in a heavy whisper. "Really?"

Ashura shrugged slightly, just a silhouette in the dimly lit booth they had picked in a quiet corner of the Elfsong Tavern. The place had proven a perfect spot for a private meeting, with good food to boot. Only soft glowlamps lit the taproom and the many booths and alcoves where patrons sat, hidden behind curtains if they wished to pull them shut. Most of the light was focused on the bar, where a blonde half-elven woman cleaned glasses beneath a striking trophy: a small, stuffed beholder, glass eyes on its eyestalks and all. The proprietress wore a silky blue blouse that displayed a great deal of midriff and cleavage. Small wonder Coran recommended the place.

Both Ashura and Imoen had ordered spiced sandwiches with melted cheese, and where washing them down with flagons of a strong, licorice-flavored drink.

"Like I said," Ashura whispered, "it's a theory. I've been seeing the holy symbol of Bhaal in my dreams ever since we left Candlekeep, and with the dreams come powers. And you remember the prophesy the chanters were always singing? And what Nimbul called me. It would explain all that, if I was one of the 'scores of mortal progeny.'"

Imoen shook her head and gave her sandwich a poke, appetite gone. "No. There's other explanations. More plausible too. I mean, that symbol was on the chest of the guy who murdered Gorion right? You saw that, then you started having nightmares about it. Big surprise. I've been having some awful dreams lately too."

"That doesn't explain-"

"The powers? Lotsa mostly-normal people have weird little traits 'cause their great-grandma shagged a devil or a marid or a snake-person or something. Lot more likely that you're one-eighth tiefling than a half-god! I mean sheesh. Talk about an ego!"

Ashura chuckled. "Yeah. I like your explanation." She wanted to believe it too. But something in her blood sang at the mention of the Lord of Murder. Something reasonable-sounding words could not dismiss.

"I'm still holding out hope that you're the princess of Damara."

"Me too. And you won't tell the others right? It's just a theory. And maybe a silly one."

"Yeah. Real silly."

"'Chaos will be sown with their passage,'" Ashura quoted, imitating the chanter's monotone. Then she took a bite of her sandwich.

Imoen cringed at that. "Yup. We do get more than our fair share of chaos, I suppose."

Nearby a man cleared his throat and they both twisted around, Ashura's hands shooting for her weapons. It was a little shocking that they hadn't noticed the stranger approach, as he wore some of the brightest red clothes Imoen had ever seen along with some bits of clashing aqua blue, a hood and cloak included. Ashura drew one of her swords halfway but Imoen just eyed the newcomer. Didn't seem like an assassin would announce himself by clearing his throat.

"Yes?" Imoen asked.

"Sorry to interrupt, m'ladies," the man in bright red apologized with a little bow and something of a Waterdevian accent. "Me name's Niklos, and I'm just a humble courier. Here to deliver a little message is all."

"What is it?" Ashura asked, eyes sharp and hand still prepared to launch the sword from its sheath.

Niklos cleared his throat again. "You folks are the ones who destroyed the secret base in the Cloakwood right?" Ashura just glared and Imoen nodded. "As such, I've been told to extend you an invitation to a very exclusive little club here in the city. We could use the help of mercenaries of your…particular talents."

"What club's that?" Ashura asked.

Niklos looked off and his head bobbed to one side, then the other as he went on. "It has no specific name, mind you. Just a place for men and women who enjoy their anonymity and a certain sort of-"

"The local thieves' guild?" Imoen suggested helpfully.

"I wouldn't say guild exactly…"

"Massive gang?" Imoen asked.

"Organized crime syndicate?" Ashura suggested.

"That's another way of…urm…" The young man shook his head a bit. "In any case my master, Alatos Thuibuld, would like a word, and to possibly hire you for a lucrative job. You can meet him in the big building just north of here. Bunch of ramshackle structures stacked together. Enter by any door and when the person minding the inner passage asks you for today's password say 'Ffard.'"

Imoen's eyes grew wide and she exchanged a look with Ashura. "Okay."

Niklos gave a little bow. "Good. Then I'm on to my next job." He turned and silently walked off, dodging past patrons and tables before he turned a corner and vanished.

"Wow!" Imoen whispered once he was gone. "Maybe you really are a child of Bhaal with a mysterious brother who's trying to murder you."

"That or 'Elminster' is part of the thieves' guild." Ashura's eyes suddenly went wide and she slipped a hand down to her belt. "Fuck!"

Imoen searched too, shaking her head. Both of their coinpurses were gone. Several hundred gold and silver, all told.

"Ugh. At least we kept the gems in the saddlebags." They had a long afternoon of trying to pawn jewels for all they were worth ahead of them, if they wanted to rent some nice rooms at the Elfsong. And pay their tab.

Although she had bathed, had her clothes laundered, wore a new cloak and had even gotten her chainmail repaired at a smithy on the south side of the city, everyone Ashura passed on the street made it very clear that she didn't belong. All around her people bustling about in the crisp, spare outfits of domestic servants exchanged whispers and gave her suspicious stares.

From the people whom she guessed were nobles she simply got upturned noses as they walked through the pristine gardens, the fops trying to look anywhere but in the direction of her and her companions. The men wore colorful, flared hose and big, formless caps that were all the rage at the moment, and the ladies on their arms were dressed in elegant gowns tapered tight at the waist, their caps tall and billowing. Though it was the fading hour of the afternoon many of them carried parasols, and seemed to use them as twirling barriers to keep the poor and unworthy at bay.

Ashura recognized their type well enough. The rare traveler that visited Candlekeep tended to be wealthy, thanks to the high price of admission to the citadel. As a child she had gotten the same disdainful looks from men and women dressed much like these, usually when she ran past them, barefoot and caked in mud. Sending the easily-flustered peacocks squirming away from her had seemed like a fun game at the time, even if it often meant a stern lecture from Parda. Perhaps it still was.

"Is it really a good idea to do this in broad daylight?" Imoen asked in a low voice. Her part of the planned heist would supposedly involve climbing out of a second story window, along with Eldoth.

From the front of their little entourage Eldoth replied: "I assure you, my timing is impeccable. Showing up on their doorstep at night would arouse suspicion, and twilight should just be falling when we make our escape. And of course if we can manage to remain invisible it will matter little."

Over the past two days he had been gone most of the time, staking out the Silvershield Estate and supposedly planning this all down the most minor detail. At least he assured Ashura of that, though he had been skimpy on the details with her. Supposedly she, Garrick and Xan just needed to look solemn and deliver the bad news. Viconia and Shar-Teel had been left behind, not being part of the original crew of caravan guards (and being a bit conspicuous on top of that.) Coran would have been a nice addition, especially if he actually possessed the jewelry-stealing skills he always bragged of, but he had not yet arrived in the city.

"Guess that works," Imoen said, stifling a yawn.

"Another late night?" Garrick asked her.

"Yup. Workin' for the funny-talking guy from super-secret you-know-what-guild! And I didn't have to play lookout this time. Got to do some sneak-about work. And impersonate a cat!"

"You were 'working' huh?" Eldoth asked. "Out all night with a dashing rogue?" Ashura couldn't help but glance at Xan. He was frowning of course, but perhaps he looked more morose than usual.

"Pish-posh!" Imoen retorted. "Of course you'd make an assumption like that. Pure business! I could never fall fer' a fellow who doesn't enunciate proper-like." She waved a finger in the air. "And besides," she added "I think Narlen's sweet on Black Lily."

They walked on, past trickling fountains, manicured trees and uncluttered streets lined with benches that sat beneath estates of fine stone or brick; two or even four stories in height. Some of the homes were simple and elegant, others decorated with flanged minarets or even gargoyles and roof-gardens. And they seemed to be nearing the greatest estate of all: a walled-off compound that filled the very northwestern corner of the city.

"Amazing isn't it?" Imoen spoke up again. "Just our third day in the city and already it's my second…nay, third grand heist!"

"Um…" Ashura muttered, glancing around at the empty street and the intimidating stone walls that marked the edge of the Silvershield Estate. "It might be better if you don't use the H-word in public."

"Quite true," Eldoth agreed.

"Woops! Sorry." A pause. "But it is exiting."

"Not the word I would use for this most foolish endeavor," Xan complained.

"Aw. Come on! We spent a lot of time looking into your 'most foolish endeavor.' I think at one point or another someone even called it 'doomed.' Yet here we are. Only fair that I get a turn leading us on a merry mission!"

"A mission implies some sort of service," Xan pointed out.

"Yup. A service to Mask. It's my sacred duty, you see. And what we're serving is some comeuppance to some pricks who really deserve it! That's how these sorts of things work. Find the richest guy in town, take 'em down a peg!"

"And you know that this Entar fellow is a 'prick who really deserves it' how exactly?"

"Like I said, he's the richest guy in town. He must have done something nasty to someone to get there. Maybe Eldoth has some more details?" She looked at the bard hopefully.

"You put it succinctly enough, my dear Imoen," was all Eldoth said.

Xan shook his head. "When I swore an oath to uphold the laws of Evereska this is the last place I imagined it taking me."

"Uh oh," Imoen said in a teasing tone. "You're not gonna turn us in, are you Mr. Lawman?"

"Not my jurisdiction." Xan gave her a pat on the shoulder. "I'll play along. With a little protest."

"Wouldn't expect anything less."

The key-shaped sigil of House Silvershield hung above the gate in the great stone wall, and once they had passed beneath the arch and portcullis a well-manicured lawn stretched before them. A gardener was clipping at a rounded cherry tree nearby, giving them a suspicious eye as they walked the white pebble path towards a sprawling three-story manse of whitewashed brick.

Ashura took the lead, head high and acting as if she belonged here, the way Eldoth had instructed. 'You have the best 'caravan guard' look about you,' he had said. She strolled up to the heavy oaken double doors and knocked.

Eventually a manservant in a rigidly pressed suit peeled the door back slightly; just enough of a crack to show Ashura his wary look. She waited a beat for a 'State your business,' and when the man just glared at her silently she asked: "May we speak with the lord of the house? We carry news of his son, Eddard Silvershield."

"You do?" His eyes stayed narrow.

She used the most formal voice she could manage. "Yes. We worked for Eddard as caravan guards. The rest we'd prefer to convey to the lord of the house himself."

The manservant snorted. "News huh. That you would prefer to convey." There was an awkward silence and then he shrugged and pulled the door open. "Wipe your feet thoroughly before you enter the foyer, and stay right there." He gestured. "The lord of the house is away, but the lady will see you. I am sure she wishes to hear your 'news.'"

To describe the interior of the estate as opulent would have been an understatement. Gold-threaded tapestries covered every wall, rich with elaborate patterns and bright hues, and every surface was covered with thick Calishite rugs. Overstuffed couches and chairs lined the chamber, and in the next room Ashura caught a glimpse of a grand piano carved from gleaming red spruce and polished so brightly it could be used as a mirror.

As they looked around, the manservant scurried towards a distant hallway and Ashura gave his back a thoughtful glare. She had not been sure exactly how they would be greeted, but this seemed wrong. Turning towards Eldoth, she tried to give him a questioning look, but he ignored her, his face a mask of arrogance and certainty.

A heavyset man in a uniform of leather and steel had stepped in to watch them, a sword on his belt and arms crossed over his chest. Under his gaze they fidgeted and waited for the lady of the house.

Waited, and waited, and then waited some more; until Ashura's eyes had scanned over every tessellating tapestry and could have counted the candles in each candelabra. Eventually there was a sound of muffled footsteps in the distance, and they watched a woman of middle years in an elegant dress of solid black stroll towards them. The manservant walked ahead of her, and there was a guard at either side.

When Lady Silvershield halted, her nose upturned and her puffy sleeves pressed together, the look she gave them was downright hateful. Definitely something wrong.

"I am told you were guards, working for Captain Kagain?" the lady asked.

Ashura inclined her head. "Yes ma'am. We-"

"Guards entrusted with protecting my son. A duty you were most derelict in."

Ashura's mouth opened, then shut tight, her eyes narrowing. She recalled something Imoen had told her, about how Captain Kagain had reacted when they found Eddard's body. Supposedly he had claimed that he'd never be able to show his face in Baldur's Gate again. Nine bloody Hells. She glanced over. Eldoth, what have you gotten me into?

"Do you expect some sort of reward?" the lady went on. "Did you think we would not already know, over two months after my son's death, what had happened to him? Some of your comrades crawled into the city a mere tenday after the attack." She shook her head. "When Entar found them…"

"We could show you exactly where the body is," Garrick suggested in a helpful tone. "I was there, when the coach crashed. Maybe we can-"

"You were there? My son's personal guard, and you failed him."

"It wasn't-"

"I should have you hanged! Like Entar did with the others. 'Dereliction of duty, pure and simple,' he said." She gestured towards the guards, the two at her side already fanning out and the third man stepping towards them. "I should have you seized!"

Ashura's swords were out of their sheathes long before the guards had even put hands to hilts, and she was down and ready in a fighting crouch. Nearby she could see the glow of Xan's moonblade, and Imoen had an arrow ready and knocked. "No one's getting seized," Ashura snarled, leveling a glare at one guard, then another.

The guards had their swords out but they were holding back. It would be three against five, and the men could obviously see that they were outmatched in arms, armor and magic.

Nine bloody skull-fucking Hells! It would be a simple matter to tear through these three, and cut the harpy down too. But what then? They'd have the whole of the Flaming Fist coming down on their heads after that. Hunters and war wizards and battalions in heavy armor.

Ashura was sorely tempted to turn around and burry the edge of her blade in Eldoth's smug face for getting them into this mess. Sadly that wouldn't do them any good at the moment.

"You'd best all leave," one of the guards stated. Seemed he had done the math too. "And fast."

The lady waved her hand. "Indeed. Get out of my sight."

Ashura gave a quick nod and began backing towards the door, the others moving with her, weapons still ready and eyes facing out. "Gladly."

"See," Imoen whispered from within their little formation. "Pricks who really deserve it, just like I said. Hangin' some poor caravan guards…"

"Shhh," Xan hissed, and then they slipped out.

Ashura sheathed her weapons and turning towards the far stone wall, setting the pace as she swiftly marched for the gate. Her eyes were on the raised portcullis. Things might still go south if they dropped that damn thing and summoned more guards. "Well that went terribly," she muttered.

"I don't know," Garrick stated, almost cheerful. "We might still be following the plan."

She glanced around. Garrick was on her left and Xan walked at her right, Imoen and Eldoth nowhere in sight. True enough, getting those two into the mansion had been the plan. The rest would be up to them. Grabbing the two men by their arms, Ashura picked up the pace, dragging them through the gate and to the safety of the city beyond.

A heist! A heist! A heist!

Now this was the sort of thing that Imoen had been dreaming of ever since she set out on the road with a head full of adventure stories and a pocket full of stolen potions. Invisible, she crept down the hallways of the great mansion, stalking cross the carpets as silent as a cat, holding her breath as she crept past lounging guards. Catching her breath too, when she came close to blundering into a patrolling sentry, dressed in one of those leather uniforms and so close she could have counted his acne scars.

From time to time she would stop to carefully tease a lock open, guided forward by Eldoth's measured whispers. The bard could walk silently well enough, and his invisibility spell was handy, but it was clear he was at a loss when it came to locks and traps.

With every step Imoen's eyes swept about in search of traps or warding glyphs, alchemical powder prepared to disrupt the magical obstacles, nimble feet ready to dance over anything mechanical. So far she had disarmed two minor wards, but there was no sign of any spike traps or pressure plates. Probably not something wise to put on the floor where your children play.

As Imoen knelt and carefully worked at the lock of an especially impressive door, she wondered if she would soon come to a vault with some sort of hard-to-crack safe. A clockwork gnomish invention perhaps? For something like that she would probably have to use up her special lock-opening spell, but maybe she was up for the challenge. Ooo! And what if there was some sort of magical guardian too? Maybe she'd have to slip by it.

Now this is my kind of adventure! Perhaps when they came to the vault it would be like that bit from The Misadventures of Jak Fleet where he had to switch the carved idol out with a bag of equal weight. Or maybe there would be as many guards patrolling in the next area as there had been in A Waltz with Brigands when the princess had to steal back the nude portrait, and Imoen would have to dance around the patrols.

Maybe the invisibility spell would wear off, and she'd have to come up with one of the elaborate lies that Lin Lanoda was always spinning in the stories. Of course it was more likely they'd have to bop the hypothetical guard on the head, the way Krognar the Uthgardt always did in the stories where he worked as a thief.

Hrm. Of course people usually don't go down cleanly when you hit them on the head. The stunning spell she had prepared would probably work better.

With a click the lock released and the door gently creaked inward, but instead of a vault or a magical guardian or halls full of neatly patrolling guards, the door simply opened on a bedroom. Of course, it was the most opulent bedroom Imoen had ever seen, with enough elegantly carved mahogany wardrobes to clothe an army, a massive bed with a silken canopy, and vibrant tapestries woven with a significant amount of goldthread, depicting birds and sundrenched mountains.

Entar's room? was her first thought as she crept forward, but across from the doorway a girl around Imoen's age sat in an overstuffed chair, dressed in a spotless outfit. There was a book that the girl seemed to be idly reading in her lap. Hmm. Maybe there's some sort of vault past here? We'll just have to sneak by the-

Behind Imoen the door slid shut and latched, and the girl in the chair gave a start, looking up from her book in surprise. The girl's hand shot to her mouth and she gasped, and at the same time Imoen tensed, finding her dagger in her hand and her back against a nearby wall. There was a shimmer in the air between them, and then Eldoth was standing in that space; tall and proudly smirking.

The girl's eyes were wide with shock, then to Imoen's surprise she let out a joyous squeak and sent the book flying as she leapt from the chair. Her arms entwined behind Eldoth's back and she buried her face against his broad chest. "Eldoth!" the girl exclaimed in a muffled, high-pitched voice. "You made it up!"

"Of course," he purred with utter confidence, then looked towards the spot where Imoen was crouching and hidden. "With a little hel-"

The girl silenced him by climbing up on her toes, cupping a hand behind his head and pressing her lips to his in an eager kiss. Eldoth's eyes widened for the briefest of moments, then he embraced her and settled in.

Imoen's eyes were wide with shock as well, and stayed that way. It certainly looked like a scene from a storybook, but not the one Imoen had expected. Somehow she'd slipped from the swashbuckling adventure section into a lurid romance. It might even have been touching, if not for the scene she remembered walking in on several nights ago at the Friendly Arm.

Sinking back with a smile, the girl gestured at herself. "I dressed for travel, just like you said." Looking her over Imoen supposed that the outfit was sturdy if a bit gaudy: tough woolen trousers and a matching shirt under a soft leather vest, all various shades of blue and deep royal purple, lined with soft red velvet beneath. Next the girl pointed at the bed. "And I made a rope from the bedsheets. But like I told you in the note: the lock daddy put on the window after last time is…well I think it's a gnomish contraption. I've tried and tried to pick it but…"

"I believe I have a solution to that," Eldoth said, gesturing towards Imoen's general location. "You see, I've brought a bit of an accomplice. Don't be shy now."

"Um…hi there miss," Imoen managed.

The girl's hand shot to her mouth once again. "Oh! I didn't realize."

Imoen shook her invisible head and walked over to the window, peering down at the box of brass and steel that housed the newly installed lock. It looked like exactly the sort of complex mechanism she had pictured protecting the Silvershield vault, though it seemed out of place holding two double-pained and leaded windows together. Not able to see her lockpicking tools, she went by feel and toyed with the tumblers. A slightly awkward process, made worse by the fact that the darn thing seemed have recesses deeper than even her thin steel wire could go.

Sod it, she decided after a few fruitless minutes teasing the mechanism and hearing it bite and click back into place. Setting her lockpicks aside, Imoen took a deep breath, closed her eyes and held an open palm over the lock. Picturing the mechanism as clearly as she could in her mind, she willed it all to unfold and unravel, at the same time intoning a few brief words. There was a prismatic glimmer all around as her invisibility spell lifted, and at the same time the little mechanical box glowed white for a moment, then clicked and slid apart, the windows silently parting.

Smiling a bit at her handiwork, Imoen looked over at Eldoth and the girl. "There! And nice to meet you. I'm Imoen, by the way."

"Skie Silvershield," the girl said with an elegant inclination of her long, swan-like neck. Even with her dark brown hair pulled back in a simple bun and dressed in practical boots and trousers she looked every bit the princess; golden threads and chains decorating her blouse, rings gleaming on her fingers, and a healthy amount of makeup accenting her large brown eyes; a hint of blue that matched the color of her clothes. There was a small mole that some might consider a beauty mark just above her upper lip, and she moved and held herself with a dancer's grace, waltzing over to the window once Imoen had opened it and uncoiling the long silken rope. Turning to Imoen, Skie gave her a shy smile.

"Thank you so much," Skie gushed in her high, sing-song voice. "It's kind of you to do a service like this for the sake of love."

Imoen blanched at that, and the other girl cocked her head slightly. "Something wrong?" asked Skie.

"I uh…just didn't realize you were…"

Eldoth patted Imoen on the shoulder. "As I told you, I sought to steal Entar Silvershield's greatest treasure." Skie giggled at that. "I apologize if there was any confusion." He reached over and opened the drawer of a gilt-lined mahogany desk. "Of course, we can compensate you for the trouble." He pulled out a fistful of glittering jewels; a black opal, a water opal and a gleaming pearl necklace. "Can't we dear?"

Skie inclined her head, smiling as she tied the silken rope to a heavy wardrobe. "Of course. I'm happy to share the wealth with all my rescuers."

With a satisfied nod Eldoth handed the gems to Imoen and then fished out another handful for himself, cleaning out the desk. She just gave the glittering stones a bewildered look. Not the bloody point.

Looking up, Imoen watched Skie hop onto the windowsill and began to climb out with practiced ease. Eldoth followed, climbing a bit more cautiously.

Imoen took one more look down at the jewels before she stuffed them in a pocket and followed the couple to the window, a sinking feeling in her stomach. Not like the heist tales at all. On the one hand maybe the girl really had needed 'rescuing.'

On the other hand, she couldn't shake the feeling that the 'pricks who really deserve it' in this tale were her and Eldoth.

The stunned look still hadn't left Imoen's face an hour later when she was sitting at a table in the Elfsong Tavern, an untouched bowl of stew in front of her while she watched Eldoth and Skie share intimate whispers in a secluded booth across the room. Viconia sat beside her, masked as usual and with what appeared to be amusement in her eyes. Imoen had been expecting fury.

"You're um…okay with this?" she muttered to the drow.

"Oh, I would have been most dangerously annoyed," Viconia whispered to her in a conspiratory tone, "if the male had not had the good sense to tell me of his scheme days ago. And a most amusing and audacious scheme it is. It reminds me of a time long ago, when one of my male playthings managed to seduce a naïve cousin of mine and helped me undermine the little wael to the point of ruin."

"I see." Not really.

"Sadly, that male grew too ambitious and had to be put down. Perhaps we'll need to do the same with this one, though things on the surface seem to be a bit different. Rather than being about status, for instance, his scheme is about coin. Something you surfacers are so obsessed with, though it does seem to be the key to a comfortable life up here."

"Ya. We already pilfered her jewel box," Imoen noted glumly.

"Ah, but as the male explained to me his plan runs far deeper. You see, the waif's family thinks she has been kidnapped, and will pay a hefty ransom for her 'safety.' The impression I received was that he even convinced the fool girl that the ransom was her own idea. Money for the two of them to start a 'new life' with or some such rubbish. Of course he never told me the entirety of his plan, but he is an easy enough creature to read."

Ashura was giving the happy couple a disgusted glare from the other side of the table. "We should tell Shar-Teel," she muttered. "Bet she'd sort this out. In a spectacularly bloody way."

Raising an eyebrow, Viconia asked: "You don't want the ransom money? As I understand it it's to be several thousand gold coins, at the least. If we are to put the male down we should at least collect that first." Ashura just scowled at that too. "And besides, why would you wish to disrupt such a happy couple? Look at how she hangs upon him."

Again, a silent scowl.

"I don't think you appreciate the elegance of his little scheme."

"No. I don't."