Author's Note: An enormous amount of thanks to all the wonderful people who've left reviews for this story. I really, really appreciate it. You folks are great, and all I can really think to say is 'D'awwww!' and 'Thanks so much!'

56 – Unwelcome Company

"Your Omnipotence" –Honorific given to a Zulkir of Thay

"I see you've acquired a few fresh scars since last we met," Edwin observed. His voice was dry as usual; hard for Ashura to tell if she was being mocked or not.

In any case she just shrugged as she handed the bridle of her stallion over to one of the Friendly Arm's grooms. It was nearing twilight, and a waxing Selune hung heavy in the pale and fading sky above them. "Yep," she simply stated. The diagonal gash that Ardenor Crush's sword had left across her cheek had faded quite a bit, but it was still visible, and perhaps it always would be.

"They are far from unbecoming of course," the Thayan continued. "Signs that you are a true and hearty survivor, and rather than mar your beauty I daresay they enhance it."

She looked over at Edwin and quirked a skeptical eyebrow. He really didn't seem to be mocking. That's a first. What was his game? And what was that strange tone that had entered his voice? It almost seemed he was attempting to sound…suave?

"I have also noticed," Edwin proceeded, "that you've recently acquired a vapid, frail, starry-eyed little pet as well." He waved a dismissive hand ahead of them, towards Garrick. The bard was walking with Xan up the steps to the keep and talking away, and it looked like Garrick was once again trying to make the elf laugh; a project he had been working at for months with very poor results. This time Xan did seem to indulge his friend with a slight nod, at least.

"Over our journey north," Edwin continued, "I've been trying to solve the mystery of exactly what you see in that annoying little boy. Yet it vexes me still."

Ugh. So it's that game. Really? "Boy?" Ashura asked with a chuckle. "He's actually older than me." A shrug. "By a year or two at least. Well-traveled too."

Edwin let out a disbelieving huff. "And well experienced? Somehow I doubt it. Of course I can forgive one as uncultured as yourself for having no idea what kind of bliss the touch of a true master of the erotic arts can-"

"No no no," Ashura repeated to cut him off fast, interposing a hand and clenching her eyes shut as well. "We are not having a conversation about your 'experience' or 'experiences' or 'conquests' or whatever." Gods! So was that the reason he had been so favorable towards her the last time, and why he had offered his little 'deal' in the first place? Should have realized then.

Edwin chuckled, unperturbed. "Ah, but your prudery and icy nature speaks volumes. You've obviously no idea what we Thayvians-"

"Wait!" Imoen cut in (gods bless her!) "Is it 'Thayvians' or 'Thayans?' I've seen it written both ways. Like, in this old guidebook to the Unapproachable East it was always 'Thayvians." But then in the Drizzt serial when he got captured he had to fight in the 'Thayan' gladiatorial pits."

"Either usage works," Edwin stated, deadpan. "It simply depends on whether or not you are an illiterate, uncouth, uncultured, poorly bred barbarian."

"Thayan it is then," Ashura said with a nod.

Instead of bristling Edwin actually chuckled. "I would expect nothing less of you. Booklearned barbarian." He patted her on the arm then pushed his way up the stone steps, to the keep and its great dining hall while Imoen and Ashura held back for a moment.

"Sheesh," Imoen muttered as they stood there on the stairs. "He's worse than Coran. Not nearly as smooth. And that's sayin' a lot!" She gave Ashura a glare. "Not to mention that he's totally going to betray us! Why are we even letting him tag along? I know he banished the demon and all, but how do we even know it wasn't him who summoned the thing to begin with? Maybe he just made it look like it was that poor wild mage's fault."

Ashura gave that a moment's thought, then snorted. "Eh. Edwin would love for people to think he's that devious and powerful, but I doubt it. And…" She crinkled her lips. Bah! This is going to be awkward. "And I think we can trust him not to harm anyone who's not tangled up in his games."

"But why?" Imoen persisted. "I mean…" She sighed. "What happened between the two of you last time? You seemed real conspiratory. I had just assumed maybe you were…" She coughed and made a poking gesture. "Sneaking off to boink. Those couple of times during the late watches at camp. But considering what Mr 'Erotic Arts' said and how you shot him down...and how he wasn't bragging about past encounters-"

"Ims. You've got the dirtiest mind."

"Not as dirty as yours."

"Slightly dirtier."

"Just slightly. Maybe I'll concede that!"

They both chuckled, but there was an expectant look in Imoen's eye, and Ashura found herself turning away. Then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This was a conversation she had hoped to avoid forever, but here they were. So, once she had glanced around and made sure there was no one else within earshot, she just came out and said it:

"Edwin told me that he was planning to kill Dynaheir." Ashura tapped the ring on her right finger. "And he promised me this ring of protection, and to not let any harm come to you or Branwen, if I didn't interfere." Forcing her chin to rise, she turned towards Imoen, a predictably hurt look in her friend's wide blue eyes. "I figured..." Ashura went on. "Well, Thay and Rashemen are at war right? None of my damn business. And the ring's saved me a few times since then."

Imoen sighed. "Just wish you'd told me."

"I didn't think you'd un-"

"Understand letting some poor sod get murdered in exchange for a spiffy magic item? Oh, I understand it alright!" Imoen's arms clasped against her chest and she looked off. "Approve of it? Now that's another matter entirely."

"You would have protested." A cold statement. But there it was.

"I…yeah…I…gah!" Imoen snarled. "Sure do wish it was as simple as you sneaking off to boff the red wizard instead of all this!"

"Yeah. Well." Ashura glared at the ground. "He kept his word through the whole deal. It's how I know he'll keep his word again."

"Oh will he now?" Imoen asked coldly. Her lower lip was twitching a bit.

"He keeps a magic wand in the left breast pocket of his robe," Ashura found herself blurting out. "I saw him use it on Ekandor. It dispels protective magic, or at least protections against physical harm. I'm not entirely sure, but I think it's a wand of Breach. Gorion loved that spell. Talked about it a lot. The command word is 'abat.'"

Imoen raised an eyebrow. "Oh is it now?"

"If Edwin ever actually looks like he's going to be a threat you should snatch the wand and use it on him." Ashura tapped the hilt of one of her swords. "I'll do the rest."

Despite her best efforts to look stern, a mischievous grin broke out on Imoen's face. "That's more like it." She patted Ashura on the shoulder. "If you're going to be a devious backstabber, you've got to at least include me in your conspiring."

"Deal."

Imoen actually smiled slightly before she turned and hustled up the last few steps and into the yawning light of the keep, and Ashura found herself alone, pondering. Pondering and remembering the silly and elaborate vows the two of them had made one afternoon, under the flowering vines of the Candlekeep gardens. Blood sisters, 'together through thick and thin.'

She shook her head, a little ashamed that she was the one who always seemed to be testing the bonds of that sisterhood, at least lately (there had been that time with Imoen and Ulraunt and the antique vases,) and she resolved to make up the difference in whatever way she could. First though: a nice large meal and a nice long bath was in order.

Looking up to the tavern's doorway, she noticed that a man dressed in a hooded cloak was standing at the top of the stairs, his head tilted down and his eyes fixed on her chest. He continued to stare, and she found her hand shooting to the hilt of her sword, memories of the battle on this very stairway coming back. "Can I help you?" Ashura growled.

The man gave a startled shake of his head, ringlets of long blonde hair spilling out from his cowl. "Oh. Sorry. Was lost in thought."

"Staring at my chest?" Somehow she hoped it was just drunken ogling, but she seemed an odd target for that sort of thing. Her chainmail coat was hardly revealing or formfitting.

"Apologies miss." The man turned and shuffled through the door. "That is some nice armor though," he commented over his shoulder, then vanished.

After countless days of dusty roads and rough living in the wilderness (especially that horrid night on the stone floor of the Ulcaster ruins,) Xan was very much looking forward to the Friendly Arm's steam baths. It would be good for once to bathe in a setting where Shar-Teel was unlikely to appear out of nowhere, strip, dive into the pond, and immediately begin splashing him and making tedious comments about cold water and male anatomy. Not to mention that with the changing of the seasons even a little splash on the arms and face at a pond or stream had become unpleasant. Lazing in a warm sauna would be an excellent change of pace.

Of course not everyone nearby agreed.

"Bathe in steam?" a richly accented voice sounded just behind Xan as the stepped into the long, open hall of the men's baths. There were only a few people milling about in the tubs; off-duty staff by the look of them. "What kind of backwoods madness is this?" Edwin continued to complain. "Nearly as imbecilic as the tribesmen of Raurin, who presume to 'bathe' with sand."

"Come on," Garrick's enthusiastic voice chirped. "It might seem silly, but it's fantastic once you've tried it. You sweat your worries away, and then bam! An invigorating plunge into some ice cold water makes you feel more alive than you ever have before! It's even more of a thrill up north, where everyone goes running through the snow before the big plunge. I remember once the Troubadours stopped in this little village called Hilltop, up in the Silver Marches-"

"Spare me your tedious life's story," Edwin groaned, nose high as he surveyed the hall. Clad in a cloth-wrap at the waist and without his bulky red robes, hood, and jewelry, he was somewhat less intimidating, his frame lanky and stork-like. As Thayvians tended to be, he was bereft of body hair, and almost seeming elfin, though without a trace of the grace or androgynous beauty of the People. And of course, like all red wizards, his shaved head had been decorated with stylized tattoos. Edwin's resembled the grinning, whiskered face of certain breeds of dragon.

There were more tattoos across his upper arms and over his chest; abstract black symbols that seemed more glyph than pictograph. Narrowing his keen eyes, Xan noted that the writing appeared solid, but was actually formed from countless tiny symbols woven together. The nearly microscopic script seemed to be slowly shifting and turning as well, making the tattoos appear alive. It was a form of magic the enchanter was familiar with.

"Direct your lustful gaze elsewhere," Edwin growled.

Ignoring that, Xan peered a moment longer. "If I am not mistaken," he said, "that is a minor protection against heat and cold written upon your chest. A most practical enchantment to place permanently upon yourself, insuring that you are comfortable in diverse climes."

"Bah!" Edwin didn't take to the complement, and his snarling only grew. "Direct your curious gaze elsewhere then. I've no intention of revealing the secrets of Thayvian tattoo-craft to an outsider."

Xan rolled his eyes, biting back a comment about how he had already deduced all there was to know about Edwin's 'craft.' Not to mention if he was to turn a lustful gaze on anyone here it would be the bard, who was lithely muscled and far more-

Urm. Yes, probably best to say nothing. He looked away from a shirtless, grinning Garrick, suddenly self-conscious.

"These facilities appear to be well equipped," Edwin observed, noting the large hot-water tub and the smaller ones that lined a far wall, along with shelves and tables where oils, salts, brushes and sponges were laid out invitingly. "Where are the showers? I should much prefer that over this steam-bathing nonsense."

"Shower?" Garrick asked, confused. "Like…rain?"

"No, you imbecile." Edwin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "A device to deliver streams of water down upon the bather, through holes in a basket which is attended to by slaves who continuously pour (some use water elementals instead, or mephits, but I much prefer slaves. Ideally the nubile and unclothed sort.)"

Garrick frowned. "Never heard of such a thing."

The red wizard sighed once again. "It is the most thorough and efficient way to clean oneself." A third huff and he threw his hands up. "So of course you western barbarians have not invented it. I suppose I shall see what these 'steam baths' are all about then, though it all sounds dreadfully Rashemi."

Shaking his head slightly, Xan moved on to the smaller chamber on the far side of the great hall, where an old man was stoking the boiler-stove. He gave the servant a nod, then passed through the cedarwood door and into the sauna proper, where a series of hardwood benches rested over slatted boards and under warm, heavy mist. Unraveling his cloth and setting it upon a bench, Xan sat up straight and closed his eyes, slipping into a meditative pose and letting the warmth envelope him like a cloak.

Idly, he hoped that the soothing steam and pleasant cedar aroma of the place would calm Edwin's constantly nattering tongue. Of course that was not the case. As the steam rose and coiled and the boiler sizzled nearby, the Thayvian continued to complain intermittently, all through the steaming and then afterwards when they went to the tubs.

"They do not serve tea in here? Such primitive facilities. In Thay even the lowliest of bathhouses at least serves tea."

"You must scrub yourself? Do they not have servants for that?!"

"Bah! This oil is scented with lavender? Do they think me a woman?!"

And on and on.

Eventually Xan cradled his face in his hands, on the far side of the great tub and trying his best to ignore the red wizard. Garrick (somehow) had kept up his usual good humor. "Finicky fellow isn't he?" the bard asked nearby as he massaged something sudsy into his short brown hair.

"That is an understatement," Xan muttered. "I do not think I have ever met a person who complains so much."

A mischievous look came over Garrick's face and he raised an eyebrow. "Oh really? Never huh?"

Xan frowned. "I don't sound like that!"

Garrick's look was enigmatic.

"Do I?"

The evening air struck Ashura sharply as she stepped out of the bath hall, cold and crisp, and she found herself reaching up to adjust the cloth she had wrapped about her head. Memories of dashing out to play in the autumn months, underdressed and unprepared, came back to her; father sternly demanding that she get back inside this instant and put on her quilted overshirt, while Winthrop quipped that she was 'too hotblooded to catch her death.'

As a child she had liked that notion (and perhaps taken it a little too seriously,) but she had caught plenty of chills around this time of year, and eventually decided that bundling up wasn't such a bad idea. Still, she had avoided mittens as much as she could. You just can't do anything fun in mittens.

Ashura was prepared for the cooling weather now; dressed in a set of spare clothes while the rest was being laundered by the Friendly Arm staff, and her black coat, long-sleeved shirt and woolen trousers kept her warm enough. She also wore the cloth over her damp hair of course, and her trusty and comfortable raincloak rested on her shoulders, though perhaps a cloak with a hood would be a nice edition before winter set in.

It was a fine luxury –having spare clothes– and none that were threadbare or spotted with holes either. Of course, despite her growing wealth, she couldn't start thinking like a fop with a walk-in closet. There's only so much you can carry.

And for now the linen cloth would keep her from 'catching her death.' At least for the short walk through the little hamlet of the Friendly Arm and up to the warm hearths of the dining hall. At the moment she was waiting on Imoen and Viconia, who had said they would be right out. Glancing back though, she saw no sign of activity in the front hall.

Movement in the dimly lit courtyard caught Ashura's eye, and she turned in time to see a tall figure approach. He was wrapped up in a thick black cloak, and far too near for her liking.

How had he crossed the courtyard so quickly? Had he slipped from the nearby shadows? Ashura's hand instinctively shot to the hilt of her righthand sword.

The stranger's cloak fell back as he raised his open palms in a gesture of peace, revealing puffy purple sleeves and a richly embroidered doublet; clean and neat, with every button in place. The man wore an apologetic look, though recognizing him put Ashura further on edge. It was the man who had been staring at her on the steps earlier. Mr. 'Nice Armor.'

"Apologies," the stranger opened hastily. "You are a guard, correct? You were wearing that thick chainmail coat last time I saw you." Ashura cocked her head and made to answer, but the man kept talking; kept stepping closer. "Could you direct me to the bathhouse? I am unfamiliar with this place and…"

Ashura gave a very slight nod backwards, glaring at the man. Here she was with her armor bundled up and stored in her room. Such a pain to carry the heavy chainmail everywhere, but she suddenly found herself missing that protective coat. "Building behind me. The men's baths is over on the far right."

The stranger nodded curtly, though he didn't immediately move off. "My thanks."

No armor, but Ashura was still wearing her enchanted boots, and the nervous tingle they sent up to her chest tipped her off and got her moving just in time; right as the man in the purple doublet flicked his wrist and something slipped out from one of those puffy sleeves. Ashura's body twisted to the side and there was a swish and a tock, an object flying past her and imbedding itself in the doorframe.

The stranger held a small hand-crossbow now, the sort that fired tiny darts. It almost seemed like a child's toy, though Ashura guessed that the dart had been poisoned, and the one he was swiftly reloading the mechanism with was likely poisoned as well.

With a stomp forward Ashura unleashed her sword and lashed out at the man, but something struck her halfway through the slash and she faltered, her vision filling with scintillating light.

The man was glowing; countless beams of dazzling color snaking and dancing about his silhouette, which suddenly seemed insubstantial. In time with the motion of the lights his form slipped and slithered backwards, out of reach as Ashura just stood and stared, dumbfounded. "Hold still a moment, would you?" the man asked, his voice seeming to come from several places at once as he warped and wavered.

"Nu…" She fought the torpor. Clenched her teeth.

A breath and she spoke again. "No…I…WON'T!" And with that furious shout all of the rainbow patterns snapped together, crisp and clear, and there the assassin stood in the center of the courtyard. The regal purple clothing was gone (perhaps it had been an illusion?) replaced by simple charcoal black, and instead of wavy blonde hair it was now plain and close-cropped.

Ashura was dashing forward now, but a familiar sensation sent up by her boots forced her to doge to the side at the last moment, her sword missing the man as he skittered backwards and fired a second dart. Her lefthand blade launched from its sheath and she tried to overtake the assassin with a surprise slash, but his form seemed to blur and the steel whistled through empty air.

Dancing backwards, the man continued to look ghostly and insubstantial. It was a spell Ashura had seen Eldoth employ in many battles, making him harder to hit. "Thought you'd be easier prey without your armor," the blur that had been a man noted dryly.

Another premonition, and Ashura turned her shoulder just before the crossbow twanged, a third bolt streaking by. "Ah," the assassin concluded, his voice even and clinical. "It's some sort of arrow-dodging magic isn't it? Imparted by an enchanted item."

As the assassin spoke Ashura lunged, but the man's voice never showed any sign of exertion as he slipped away with dazzling speed (a haste spell?) and her blade bit into the wood of a nearby wall.

Before she could yank her sword clear Ashura felt a sharp stab at the back of her arm. She spun and countered, but once again the blur had skipped several paces out of her reach. Hard to tell, but he didn't seem to be holding a knife. Had he stabbed her with one of the darts?

As Ashura raised her blades and advanced she felt a prickling tingle run through her bicep. Another step and that whole arm went heavy, numb fingers still clenching her lefthand sword but hardly feeling its presence.

"Dodging arrows is a nice trick," the assassin taunted. "But there's more than one way to deliver poison. That's Dambrathian sea snail venom pumping through your veins, by the way. Quite deadly."

An attempted lunge and stab from Ashura turned into a woozy lurch, and the clouded form of the assassin strafed in from the right. He patiently danced back when she managed to send a half-assed swing his way. "Your strength is fading fast," he chided. "Even if the poison doesn't kill you outright, you'll be an easy target soon enough."

When Ashura tilted her right arm back and then hurled her sword at him the assassin at least let out a satisfying gasp, though he dodged aside easily enough. As the blade struck the courtyard with an impotent clang, Ashura slammed her free hand against her injured arm, ghostfire flickering across her fingers. Through numbed nerves she felt tendrils of that fire slip into the wound, seeking the poison out; tugging and drawing it from her veins, and when she pulled her hand away it released a cloud of inky black.

The poisoned mist billowed for a heartbeat between her and the assassin, then dissipated and vanished, and as it did Ashura felt strength and fury welling up through her limbs, sure as ever. She gave the assassin a feral grin, and this time when she rushed him she did not wobble or stagger.

The assassin's startled gasp turned into familiar words: "Umbrial visitas quail!" and then the blurred man vanished. Ashura's lefthand sword simply sliced through empty air, and she whirled around, her sword spinning and her voice snarling.

From a nearby doorway another voice replied to the assassin's with arcane words. "Tiras krali vistus!" Xan shouted –no moonblade and wrapped in only a cloth– unleashing a wave of white light that surged across the courtyard. The wave was displaced by a dark form, and for a moment that form was covered in sparks, then with a pop they fell away and revealed the assassin, no longer invisible or even blurred.

Imoen had emerged from the bathhouse as well, fully dressed and low to the ground, rushing forward with a dagger drawn. The moment Ashura spied her, however, the assassin followed her gaze and caught on, spinning and aiming his crossbow at Imoen.

Ack! Gave her away!

Thankfully Imoen managed to roll to the side and the bolt whistled past her, and as it did Ashura advanced. There were others entering the courtyard as well: guards armed with heavy crossbows and swords.

The assassin took the scene in with a glance and stepped backwards, towards a nearby wall. "Guess I'll need stronger poison," Ashura heard him mutter as he shot her a glare, then he began to chant in a lower voice. With a flash something that looked like the surface of a distorted mirror opened up just behind him, then he took one more step backwards and the portal swallowed him whole, winking out of existence less than a heartbeat later.

The guards with the crossbows spread out and pivoted, eyes searching for any sign of the man, and their leader's gaze settled on Ashura. The woman's close-cropped hair the crisscross of scars on her face seemed familiar, and when she spoke Ashura remembered her voice.

"You!" Captain Joia Ruthwhir snarled, pointing with her longsword. "Is this some sort of Harper business again? I won't tolerate any more of it! One assassination attempt and the murder on my grounds was more than enough!"

"Urm, it's not…well…" Ashura sighed and sheathed her blade, combing back her damp hair and wondering where she'd lost the towel. We're about to get kicked out of another inn aren't we? And she'd miss the Friendly Arm especially; the only cozy place to sleep for leagues. "Sorry," she stated lamely, hands raised.

"Hey now!" Imoen piped up. "It's not her fault she has assassins after her."

Captain Ruthwhir glanced over at the second girl and sighed again, one hand rubbing her face. "The both of you. Of course. Do you at least know why you were just attacked by an assassin in the middle of my courtyard this time?"

"Afraid not ma'am," Imoen admitted sheepishly. "And hey! We've stayed here a couple of times without any mysterious assassin attacks! I mean, how were we to know?"

"It is true," Xan put in, rubbing his hands together and hunching his thin shoulders against the cold. "We have made a few enemies though, helping to free up the iron trade on the Coast, but why bounty hunters continue to target her specifically remains a mystery. One we must investigate, it seems." As the elf spoke Imoen slipped in beside him, wrapping her violet cloak around his shoulders.

The captain looked Xan up and down. "That cloak's not grey, but I understand you are…"

"A Greycloak. Yes. And I vouch for her being an innocent victim, in this case." He put a lot of emphasis on the last part of the sentence.

Joia snorted. "Well, if you truly are the victim here –again– I suppose it would be rude to just toss you out on your ass." She sighed. "Guess we should take some security precautions. And…"

"We'll be gone in the morning," Ashura offered with a raised hand.

"Good."

Later that evening Xan, Edwin and Viconia put their heads together about warding the room Ashura would be staying in, and Shar-Teel volunteered to take the second bed, her weapons close by. Being Shar-Teel, she naturally had to stress that there'd be 'no rutting' while she was around. Hardly something that would have crossed Ashura's mind with the assassin still out there, but Garrick was a reassuring presence next to her, once they had all settled in.

The next day around midafternoon the party called a halt to water their horses and stretch their legs by a forest stream that flowed into the lakes of Peldvale. As usual, during these little stops, some people disappeared into the nearby trees and bushes in little shifts while the rest tended to the horses and waited, saddlebags rustling as some of them searched for snacks.

Skie busied herself with a hand mirror and rosewood hairbrush, and Shar-Teel found a convenient rock to sit on and lay her sword out in her lap, inspecting the blade with a critical eye. Edwin simply stood by the roadside, tall and straight and scowling off towards the south, his hands hidden beneath his robes and his hood thrown back, dragon tattoo grinning proudly above his jeweled circlet. At the edge of the road Ashura just stretched a bit, trying to be watchful until the people who had gone off returned.

Yet somehow none of them noticed the bearded little man swaying atop an old grey donkey. At least they didn't until he was nearly in their midst and had called attention to himself by muttering something about 'the Coastway Road' and 'foolishness.'

Shar-Teel was up and pointing her sword at him immediately, about a half-step away from running him through. "There's no greater foolishness than trying to sneak up on me, little man!" she snarled.

Rather than showing fear, the little guy just gave her an annoyed frown. "It's not sneaking if the other party is just too dimwitted to notice someone," he countered in a snide voice that was gratingly high-pitched. He sounded more youthful than his long white beard and bushy eyebrows would suggest.

A gnome, Ashura realized. And with gnomes age was sometimes hard to discern, since their faces were always a little gnarled and their hair color varied wildly. Hells, for all she knew this guy could have been born with white hair. He wore a stovepipe hat atop his head, a pair of spectacles on his bulbous nose, and though he seemed to be rather round it was hard to tell with all the coats he was swaddled in.

Edwin had been as startled as the rest of them, his hand instinctively going to the pocked where he kept the dispelling wand, but the imperious look was coming back to him. "True," the red wizard agreed with the gnome, "but I'm guessing the illusions that you used to muffle your steps and hide your presence helped as well.

"Those can be useful, yes." The gnome bobbed his head. "Even if I am a mental giant, I must admit that I'm slightly deficient in the brawn department, and there are big, hungry, dangerous things out here on the road. But then I noticed your little party and thought you might be worth a word or two."

"Why?" Ashura simply asked.

"Well," the nasal voice of the gnome droned on, sounding a bit like one of the Readers of Candlekeep delivering lecture, "we've established that the road is full of perils, and we all seem to be traveling upon it." He raised a finger and wagged it about. "It's only logical that you would welcome a master of sorcery and the divine mysteries such as myself, out here away from civilization. And I've deigned you worthy of assistance."

"Uh…" Ashura grumbled, trying to determine if this was some sort of elaborate con or just straight-forward obnoxiousness.

"So what direction are you heading?" The gnome went on. "North? South? East? West?"

"West," Edwin snapped before Ashura or the others could speak.

"What a coincidence," the gnome responded immediately. "The fates are with us, for I'm heading west as well!"

"Really?" Edwin pointed. "You're heading across that creek, and into those woods beyond? Right into the dense midsection of the Wood of Sharp Teeth?"

The gnome huffed. "Well, I don't think my elaborate and –might I add– brilliant traveling plans are…are…" Edwin's satisfied smirk just grew with every stammer.

"We're going north along the Coastway, up to Baldur's Gate," Imoen announced as she shrugged her way through some saplings and onto the highway. "Should make the city by tomorrow. And if you really want to tag along, Mr. Gnome, so you don't get eaten by gibberlings or ankegs or zombies, I don't see the harm in it."

Edwin just let out a haughty snort at that.

"Bah!" Shar-Teel growled, still pointing with her sword. "I say we just kill him and be done with it."

"You can't just murder people because they annoy you," Imoen protested with a shake of her head.

"I can't?"

"Nope!"

After a few hours of travel alongside the gnome and his donkey Ashura began to think that perhaps there was some 'harm' to the little guy tagging along after all. At least to her ears. The gnome –whose name was Quayle– seemed to be locked in a running competition with Edwin to determine who could work the most condescension into every phrase, and he was completely incapable of ever shutting the Hells up. Worst of all the gnome and red wizard seemed to be embroiled in an hours-long, never ceasing argument over the value of gnomish illusions.

"Why, bolstered by the power of Baravar Cloakshadow," Quayle's voice droned on, "there is no form of wool I could not pull over the eyes of one of you big, clumsy oafs! I could trap those who threaten gnomekind in a blissful dream from which they would have no desire to wake, or surround my enemies with so much upside-down confusion that they would mistake their own heads for their tuckuses. How can primitive fireball-tossing compete with such superbly crafted magic?"

"How about I toss a fireball your way and we find out?" Edwin suggested. "(Or better yet an abishai. Let us pit your gossamer-thin illusions against the jaws of a devil and see which survives.)"

"The Thayvian has a bit of a point," Imoen interjected, prodding her horse so that he slipped between Edwin's and the donkey. "Just a teeny bit of one."

"I hardly see it," Quayle huffed.

"I'm a bit of an illusionist myself," Imoen went on, "and I'm kinda sad that you keep talking up this magic of yours but we haven't gotten a proper demonstration." She quickly added: "And I don't mean entrapping dreams or head-and-tuckus-rearrangement! (Wouldn't that technically be transmutation anyways?) How 'bout something entertaining instead?"

Quayle scoffed. "What do you take me for? Some sort of circus performer? Am I to do flips for your amusement as well?"

"You might make more friends that way," Imoen suggested, holding an open palm out. "Ya know, if you really are a master illusionist you could be a big hit in The Wide." Her next words were a short incantation, and a flash of light blossomed on her palm, rising into the air before her; a formless blob that wavered and wobbled for the moment. "With that brilliant imagination of yours I'm sure ya could come up with all sorts of stories, and illustrate them with illusions! That's always entertaining."

The blob stretched and resolved into something solid: a miniature wooden caravel that sailed through the air just above her, a hint of surf and foam surging about its hull. Out of the cabin a tiny figure strolled, her boots making a clomping sound upon the deck and the feather in her wide-brimmed hat waving in the breeze. "Like brave Selia Fairsail here!" Imoen went on. "Captain of the Stormrunner, and star of many a rollicking, swashbuckling tale!"

Quayle rolled his eyes, and with a wave of his hand he called up a great starburst that appeared above the flying ship. The flames swiftly coalesced into a great red wyrm, to scale with the illusory vessel and swooping down fast. The miniature swashbuckler on the deck looked up, startled, and had no time to react before the dragon swept her up in its jaws and chomped, the little illusionary person falling apart in a burst of glittering sparks rather than gore.

Instead of acting annoyed, Imoen actually clapped her hands with delight. "Ah ha! An illusion-battle it is then!" The flying ship broke up into several unsteady pieces, which reformed into four great griffons, mounted by knights in baroque armor. "That dragon looks fearsome, but how will it fair against these dragon hunters?!"

The war of miniaturized illusions escalated from there, and despite his huffy attitude Quayle seemed to start enjoying himself. The dragon was slain by the griffon-rider's lances, but burst into a swarm of howling demons. Imoen answered that with a battalion of righteous angels, but they became embarrassed and flummoxed when the demons turned into nude, cavorting nymphs.

The nymphs were inexplicably bested by a pack of fat (yet strangely suave and charming,) male goblins, who rapidly pantomimed wooing them and then breaking their hearts. Next, the goblins became nixies, which were impaled on the horns of evil unicorns, which in turn became great flying fish that swam though a sea of stars and galaxies. By this point the 'battle' had become an increasingly ridiculous collaboration between Imoen and the gnome, who laughed as they conspired to create stranger and stranger vistas in the air above them.

It annoyed some of the horses, who whinnied and bucked slightly from time to time, but at least it kept those two occupied.

Author's Note: Edwin's banters in Baldur's Gate 2 where he shamelessly hits on Viconia and Mazzy and then gets brutally shot down partly inspired this chapter. I still need to figure out a way to work the phrase 'erotic onslaught' in somewhere.

And we'll eventually find out who the mysterious assassin is. Or maybe it's obvious? I'm never sure when it comes to my clumsy attempts at clues and foreshadowing.

And just in case anyone's worried: No, Quayle is not going to become a regular member of the party. I've had a lot of fun trying to make difficult and underused characters interesting, but Quayle is probably best in very small doses.