68 – Parallel Paths
"Even if men had never devised enchantment spells, illusions, or shape changing magic, a mob would still be easy enough to redirect. With those tools available it becomes a trivial matter. Now get to it!" –Fzoul Chembryl
Time crawled by in the dim, damp corridor far beneath the fortress and the earth. There was nowhere to sit, so the five members of Imoen's little band were forced to lean against the cold stone walls and fidget the minutes away, faces lit by nothing but faint torchlight from widely spaced sconces. It would have been an uncomfortable wait even in silence, but the howls of agony and whimpered pleas that emanated from behind the nearby door sure made it worse.
Imoen hugged her chest, head turned and chin pressed to her shoulder as she tried and failed to avoid listening, and beside her Xan just shook his head. Next to them sat Garrick, still in his 'scruffy rogue' getup, his harp out and cradled between numb fingers. Looked like he couldn't quite bring himself to start playing a tune. Screams make for poor musical accompaniment, Imoen supposed.
Since Ashura was just leaning back and being an uncaring lump, as usual, Imoen took it upon herself to squat down and pat the bard on the shoulder. He gave her one of his cute, strained smiles and she forced a smile right back. Could certainly sympathize with the fellow, sitting here dressed up like someone who'd gone to a jaunty costume party only to have it end in tragedy. We both had our heads full o' notions 'bout do-goodin' and adventure once, but the nitty-gritty of it sure can get nasty. In the tales the heroes would often drop the evildoers off with the appropriate authorities after defeatin' 'em, but the storytellers always glossed over what happened after that.
"This is so unnecessary," Xan muttered. "The man was telling the truth from the very beginning."
Imoen nodded. At least it was just the Iron Throne leader who was being interrogated. The servants had just been packed away in a holding cell without any rough business. "Bet'cha don't have torture chambers in Evereska."
Xan gave her a weary look. "We do actually. High as our chins tend to go, my people are not above such barbarity." He turned and gave Viconia a challenging, preemptive look, anticipating her snort. "Of course my training is meant to make such things unneeded."
The drow just scoffed again. "Unneeded, but oh so enjoyable. You talk as if information is the point, but the man being stretched on the rack in the room beyond is not there to inform. He is paying a price in pain for all the inconvenience and grief his captors have suffered. I've no doubt that if I were captured by your people" –a pointed look at the moon elf– "such a price would be extracted from my hide for all the sins of my race."
"Perhaps," Xan conceded, "but you would be treated far gentler than the drow treat their prisoners, if half the stories are to be believed."
"That is not something I will debate." A pause. "There…" She seemed to be considering her words. "There is a reason I am here, and no longer in Menzoberranzan."
Xan raised an eyebrow, but the priestess did not elaborate.
The screaming had quieted now, and they waited a few minutes longer in blessed –if bored– silence. Then the reinforced door to the inner dungeon lurched open and Commander Dosan (Imoen kept wondering if she should ask him what relation he was to Ess-Tee, but figured it might be best not to go prying there, 'specially if Angelo really was who she guessed he was) stepped briskly out. For a moment he seemed a little lost in thought, but then he noticed the group all huddled nearby and straightened his posture.
A swivel on his heel (boy did he put a lot of polish in those boots of his!) and the commander started down the hall, towards the stairs that led up to ground level. The gesture for them to follow seemed to come as an afterthought.
"Thaldorn spoke the truth right off," Dosan casually remarked as he led them up the stairs and through mazes of dimly lit hallways.
"I could have told you that, with no blood spilled," Xan muttered.
"Rieltar and his closest servants did indeed leave for Candlekeep, of all places," Dosan went on, ignoring the elf. "Off to seal some sort of deal with the Knights of Shield on protected ground. A wise spot to run off to, if the old snake suspected that we were after him. Those Watchers go by their own laws, and don't care a wit for outside authority."
"'Our rules…are very strict!'" Imoen proclaimed in her best deep, stuffy man-voice, imitating the old Gatewarden.
The commander just gave her an odd look, then realization came and he chuckled humorlessly as they mounted yet another staircase, moving higher and higher through the keep. "Ah yes. I had heard that some you hail from Candlekeep."
Imoen and Ashura both nodded.
"And I suppose you both know the grounds well? Hmm." They crossed an open chamber lined with racks of shields, swords and spears, and beyond that lay a nondescript room dominated by a spiral stairway. "Unfortunately," Angelo added, "the little man didn't seem to know much else. He had no idea what poison they had used on Eltan, or why it's been proving so tenacious."
"Ooo! Ooo!" Imoen exclaimed, raising a hand as if she were back in grammar class at the great library and totally knew the answer. "We might be able ta help with that too!"
Commander Dosan raised an eyebrow.
"We had some problems with an assassin using some cursed poison on one of ours. Couldn't be removed by normal means. Might very well be the same dern stuff that's got the duke. But this nice apothecary named Lothander helped lift the curse." Best not to tell the whole story of course. Wouldn't want that nice young herbalist to end up in that dungeon if they found out that he was the one who had mixed the concoction in the first place.
"Ah. I've heard of the man. We'll send for him at once."
Imoen clapped. "Happy to help."
The commander led them on in silence, round and round the spiral stair 'till they popped up into a chamber that seemed to be some sort of office; a wooden desk and stuffed chair the only furnishings. Neat stacks of papers and an inkpot sat upon the desk, and narrow windows lined the western wall, overlooking the city from far above. There were two reinforced doors, leading to other rooms in the tower, and that was it.
Is this really the office of a grand duke? Seemed like there should at least be some wall-hangings with Flames and Fists and all that. Imoen certainly knew that if she were ever a duchess (or really in any position that warranted an office) there would be a lot more colorful decorations. Maybe some pink streaming banners. Some paintings of purple and emerald dragons too. And an oversized globe. Every office needs one of those! And some statues in dramatic poses. Oh! And golden gilding everywhere!
Commander Dosan approached one of the doors, pausing to straighten himself and take a deep breath. A quick wrap upon the wood followed, and a moment later the door swished open, revealing the priest of Helm who had stayed by Eltan's side throughout the raid, his eyes glassy and red-rimmed. Stepping back, the priest invited them further in.
"Rashad," Commander Dosan said by way of greeting as he entered. "How is the grand duke?"
"Awake and feisty as ever," the priest remarked. "If a bit weak of limb."
They entered what appeared to be a bedroom, slightly cozier than the office (there were carpets here at least,) but still mostly unadorned. A broad, canopied bed dominated the chamber, the curtains tied back to reveal its sole occupant. He was dressed in a nightshirt, propped up on pillows, swaddled with blankets, and quite clearly agitated. Looked a bit like Shura had when the poison had robbed her of the strength to move.
Dosan quickly hurried to the grand duke's side and began to speak in a low voice, bringing his commander up to speed from the sound of it. That took their time, leaving the mercenaries to fidget awkwardly in the back of the bedroom. Better than waiting in a dungeon, of course, but as far as Imoen was concerned this whole fortress could really use some more chairs. Eventually Eltan waved them over, and Ashura took the lead, stepped right up to the bedside.
"I take it none of you saw any sign of Moruene back at the tower?" Eltan asked in a low, weak voice. All he got in reply were headshakes, and he frowned down at his hands, fingers rubbing the bronze bracelet that he wore on his wrist. "Troubling. Though she's still alive. I know it." He shook his head, squirming in an attempt to sit up straight and wincing when even that became a chore. "Candlekeep then," he muttered, changing the subject. "Seems that's where the mastermind behind all of this has scurried off to. A pretty clever place to hide. It's one of the few spots on the Coast I'd be hesitant to storm, even in the best of health."
Ashura gave a slight nod. "Clever. Until his tenday runs out at least. The Watchers are prickly about that."
"True. You lived in the Citadel right? Ashura Adrian of Candlekeep? I believe they call you that."
"Yeah. Grew up there." She hooked a thumb in Imoen's direction. "Her too."
"You two hardly look like librarians."
That brought out a little snerk from Imoen. "I was a barmaid at the local tavern." She pointed at Ashura. "And she was a the local ratcatcher."
"Uh huh. In any case, I can't storm the Citadel, but you two know it. The place and the people. And you said that you had a reason to go after Rieltar?"
"Yeah," Ashura replied. "Pretty sure he's been sending assassins after me. So I guess I owe him. Would be nice to find out why too. Feel like we're still missing quite a few puzzle pieces here."
"I know," Eltan agreed. "We walked right into an ambush back there. A trap. My guess is that Rieltar knew that his planted doppelganger would be discovered at some point, and predicted how the Fist would react. I thought we would have the element of surprise, but I should have waited. Brought more soldiers. Planned it out." He sighed. "And not turned by back on that damn doorman."
"Yeah. Maybe."
"Or," the grand duke muttered, "they had that ambush ready because they have eyes and ears here. They stole Scar out from under our noses. There could well be other spies. Or maybe this really is an elaborate Amnish plot, and they set Rieltar up. Sadly we often have to operate in the fog of war, making our best guesses with incomplete information. And right now we know that Rieltar Anchev is hiding out in Canddlekeep. And you seem to be the perfect people to send after him."
Ashura chewed on that. "The Watchers won't-"
"True. You won't be able to attack him in the sanctuary. But you know the place. You can follow him, find out when and how he'll be leaving. And set up an ambush of your own."
Ashura considered that a moment. "Yeah. There's only one road. And that narrow causeway."
"He's a mage. So be cautious. And if you can bring him back for questioning you'll be paid well. Let's say a thousand gold? Half that if you can't take him alive. Though that would be unfortunate. I know we both have reasons to want him dead, but we need to get to the bottom of this."
"Agreed," Ashura said without hesitation.
Her eyes were closed and her head was bent in concentration, fingers tapping at the ivory keys, yet try as she might Skie Silvershield could not draw out the joyful sound that she was aiming for. Rather than dancing across the ivory as the simple tune called for, her fingers lingered, pausing between each tinking note, and she found herself hovering over the minor keys and improvising more and more.
The Dance of Spring was a song she knew better than any other: first memorized as a child and then heard countless times as she practiced at the beam on the other side of this very room; pirouetting, shimmying and prancing to the swelling music and driving tempo. She could play every note blindfolded, and knew all the steps to the accompanying dance, having performed the full piece three years running at Grand Duchess Jannath's Greengrass celebrations, her and the other dancers dressed up in the customary woven-flower cloaks and lacy pastels.
But this slower version that she found herself tapping out gave nothing for dancers to leap to. Appropriate, Skie supposed, as she looked up and caught a glimpse of the gardens that the music room overlooked: the grass a withered brown and the branches gnarled and naked, stretching up to claw at a blank grey sky. No spring to dance for here.
Again she closed her eyes, drawing out yet more space between the notes. It had truly become a song of her own invention now, but her audience (of one) seemed to be enjoying it. There was a thoughtful peace to his upturned face, soaking in the melody and nodding his head here and there. Hard to tell, of course, if the boy was truly enraptured by the music or if he was simply going through the polite motions that his governess had taught him.
No matter. This song was not for him.
By now The Dance of Spring would have taken on the cadence of driving rain and crashing thunder, building to a crescendo, but instead Skie's piece drifted along, her fingers stabbing out a few jangling notes before the music softened and slowed. Gradually it wound down, quieter and quieter, ending on a long, lingering note, and when she lifted her eyes from the keys of the grand piano young Lord Gist was smiling serenely in her direction.
He then clapped, inclining his head. "You play divinely, m'lady."
She gave a perfunctory little bow of her own. "You honor me."
No further comment followed, and in the stiff silence Skie found herself looking down again and fidgeting with the sheet music that had been left on the stand. A simple children's song stood at the front of the stack of papers, likely something Elsa had been teaching her nieces in their off time.
'The Goblin Went Out to Woo.' How appropriate.
No, she chastised herself. That wasn't fair. The Gist boy was hardly a goblin. Just gawky and out of place.
Supposedly this boy –Lord Gist's eldest son– had seen seventeen autumns, but they must have been the mildest autumns imaginable. It was unclear if he had even started shaving yet, his burgundy waistcoat hung loose and awkward on his gangly frame, and his nose and ears were a bit too big for his narrow face, all contributing to give him a mousy look. Much as Skie was trying to be a proper lady and adhere to her parents' wishes from now on, this seemed entirely too much. 'But he's just a boy!' she had hissed at her mother when she had first been told who was coming to visit for the afternoon.
Lady Brilla Silvershield had just waved a dismissive hand. 'He will be of age soon enough, and if there is to be a courtship it should take time, in any case. And you did call Lord Oberan old and stuffy. I thought you would be happy entertaining someone closer to your age.'
Pish! (As Imoen would say.) This would be her twenty-first winter, coming up. If she didn't know her mother any better Skie would have guessed that this was meant to be a slight, but more likely it was just mother's usual obliviousness.
Still, even if Skie had no intention of ever marrying the young lord, it was her duty to entertain. And the silence was dragging. "Did you recognize the piece?" she asked.
A slightly pained look, and then he shook his head.
Whoops! So he's definitely not a music person. And she had gone and embarrassed the guest! Her governess would have shaken her head sharply at that. 'Never lead a man of noble blood into admitting ignorance.'
"M'lady," young Lord Gist said, obviously wanting to change the subject as well. "You appear a touch restless. Perhaps an afternoon stroll through the gardens would relieve that?"
Skie turned towards the great bay window once again. A walk through that bare and familiar yard, under a heavy sky that threatened rain at any moment. Not appealing. "The weather is…hardly ideal." She looked around. Hmm. "Though, I have found that this gymnasium room can make for a good retreat on dreary days." There were many fond memories here. Probably her favorite room in the entire manor.
Gist cocked his head, confused, so Skie gestured about. "I trained to dance from an early age in here, with that bar and mirror. And on the balance beam as well; that was always fun."
But now he just looked confused and embarrassed. Oops. She flailed along desperately, talking fast. "Of course I hardly expect you to be trained in dance, beyond the courtly steps. But do youuu…fence, perchance?"
His face actually brightened at that, and his posture straightened. Oh good!
"Of course, m'lady. I have been trained to defend my honor and that of my house with steel. And in the ways of archery and the equestrian arts as well. I've been told that I excel with the longbow and rapier."
Skie clapped her hands. "Excellent then!" Maybe they could find something in common after all, though young Lord Gist was still giving her a puzzled look.
With her fist balled up and pressed against her mouth, Skie had to resist the urge to chew her knuckles, wide eyes following her father as he paced back and forth across the polished hardwood. "Of all the…" Entar Silvershield stammered. "If you disliked the boy so very much there are gentler ways to be rid of someone!"
Behind him Lady Brilla Silvershield stood ramrod straight, her posture and her black-and-silver-veiled hennin making her appear to tower over her hunched and pacing husband; his grim and disapproving shadow. From time to time her head would give a terse little shake.
"You were taught such things, surely!" Entar went on. "What did I pay that endless succession of tutors for? Some day you will be speaking on behalf of this household, and you cannot deal with the Merchant League or House Jannath or the Mercer's Guild by bopping them on the head with a blunted sword!"
"I- I- never did…I didn't intent…" Skie stammered.
"Well what in the world did you intend?" A rhetorical demand, since she wasn't given a chance to reply. "Dressing like some sailor" –Skie glanced down at the trousers and jacket she had changed into to practice fencing with the Gist boy– "and stomping about the dance floor like it was some dusty training yard? So that you could humiliate and unman the young lord you were supposed to be entertaining!"
Unman? She had never even aimed below the belt! And even after young Lord Gist's lip started quivering and he had turned and fled she was pretty sure there had been no bleeding. "I'm…I'm sorry father. I thought it might be a way to entertain him. We had nothing in common, but I realized that we both had practiced sword-fighting and…well…"
Entar Silvershield sighed and rubbed his forehead, and behind him Lady Brilla finally spoke. "Absolutely shameful," she pronounced. "Perhaps in whatever backwoods you went tramping about in during your…vacation the barbarians show their affection by bashing each other with sticks or wrestling about like animals to win a…a…mate." Another shake of her head, and her nose went even higher. "But as your father said, you were taught better. However will you find a worthy husband if you cannot show the slightest bit of deference to a man of high nobility?"
"I will next time," Skie muttered at her shoes. "I promise. I'm sorry."
But Brilla just continued to shake her head, and with a grand swish of her gown she walked out of the music room. "How did they both go wild?" Skie heard her mother grumble to herself as she glided away. "We'll have to find yet another tutor. Or at least…" And then she was gone.
Entar gave his daughter a tired look. "Sword fighting," he sighed.
"Well…I thought he'd have fun…"
Her father surprised her then, with an understanding nod. "It's something you did for fun isn't it, in that adventuring band you ran away with? Quiet times at camp spent practicing and competing with your weapons? Target practice and fencing and the like?"
Skie nodded slightly.
"You may recall that I've spent many a day in a military camp myself. I was around your age too."
Another timid nod. "I know father. The Free Coast Knights. You fought at the Winding Water and helped take the Wolf's Fort."
"Among other places. I was never quite the adventurer that your great-grandfather Daneth was, what with all the tall tales that grew up around him, but many would call the campaigns I led 'adventures.' I remember some thrilling moments too, but what stuck with me were the many friends I lost along the way." He looked off. "Little accidents most times. There was this squire boy we all teased for his breathless over-enthusiasm. 'Fetcher' the men called him. One day he poked his head up at the wrong moment during a battle and caught an arrow. Just like that. Wasn't even trying to fetch anything or be heroic; just a little twitch of curiosity at exactly the wrong time."
Entar Silvershield drew in a deep breath. "I worked hard to keep my children from a life like that. There's no need for it; all our family victories were won long ago. But your brother always insisted on taking to the road, until…"
"I know father. I'm sorry. The next suitor mother invites I…well you know I can't promise to like him, but there'll be no sword fighting."
Entar actually chuckled. "Men of high blood…well, they have to command the respect of those around them. Always putting on a face. Not to mention that with some men those around them are also commanded to show respect, even if it is never actually earned. So when some slender girl suddenly bests one of these young men at fencing, say a young man whose tutors probably overindulged him…"
"I see. I should have known better."
"Next time perhaps a game of draughts or chess? And if he seems extremely stuck-up, for Waukeen's sake just politely let him win! I won't force you to marry someone you detest, but at least don't send a guest from an important family off crying again!"
"Yes father."
The trap opened with a click and a flutter, and the last prisoner left upon the gallows dropped through. Suddenly suspended, his legs wheeled in the empty air and his bound wrists strained pointlessly behind his back. His mouth opened and closed and opened again, struggling to draw breath or shout some final curse (or likely both), but no sound emerged.
Finally silent. That came as a relief to Sarevok at least. The Flaming Fist soldiers had kept the man gagged on the march to his execution, but once final rites had been given by a stern priest of Tyr custom had demanded that the prisoner have one last opportunity to speak. Thaldorn Tenhevich had sure used it: screaming, begging, and pleading for his life. All over now. The hempen rope had silenced the man for good.
Not that the fool would have had much of use to say, even in the hands of a true interrogator like that Evereskan Greycloak who continued to sniff about. Thaldorn had always been quite content in his role as the public and legitimate face of the Iron Throne, minding the books and making the more mundane deals while leaving the unsavory business (which filled his coffers well enough) to those in the shadows. Thus when he had shouted 'I don't know anything about any plots!' he had meant it.
A bruised grey sky hung heavy over the gallows square, threatening rain but never quite delivering. Perfect weather for this sort of show, and Commander Dosan had made sure it was just that. By custom and by the writ of execution the prisoners were supposed to be hanged at dawn, but Angelo had dragged the preparations out well past the seventh bell, ensuring that a sizable crowd had gathered. There was a sea of faces out there now, some shouting or booing the prisoners, while others exchanged uncertain murmurs.
For extra drama Angelo had also held off on hanging all the prisoners at once, first having the sentences of the captured Iron Throne servants (a fat bartender, two maids, a shriveled little clerk, and a manservant) read aloud (treason, spying for a foreign nation, and every legalistic-sounding variation on those terms that they could tack on), and then executing them en masse as a sort of first act. It was only after that that their 'ringleader' was frogwalked up onto the stage.
It was almost a shame about the servants: that manservant had always been the picture of attentiveness, and one of the maids had been most kind to Sarevok on a few occasions. But this sacrifice was a tiny drop compared to what was to come, and the path that he was on would demand the blood of friends as well as foes.
Now all six bodies swayed beneath the horizontal pole above the platform, hands tied behind their backs, mouths agape, and dressed in uniform roughspun rags; the placards against their chests proclaiming their crimes. And Thaldorn was going through his last twitches. Pushing away from the wall he had been leaning against, Sarevok straightened, brushing off his doublet and neatly pleated trousers. Time for his part in the show.
The pair of guards at the scaffolding steps gave him incredulous looks as he approached, but he brushed right by and they made no move to stop him. He was nobility here after all, and nobles go where they wish. Especially when they're over six-and-a-half feet tall and broad as a bull.
Mounting the steps, he looked out over the crowd. It was mostly the sort you'd see out and about on a dreary morning in the merchant quarter: craftsmen on their way to work, servants and greengrocers out running their endless cycle of errands, hauling crews, a few clumps of filthy street children, and several brightly dressed well-to-dos. All had been drawn here by the unexpected spectacle, and mixed in were a few men and women with sharp clothing and blank, unreadable faces. Faces that Sarevok recognized, even though he knew that each one of them could have shifted into something different at any moment.
Uncertain murmurs ran through the crowd, the words 'Iron Throne' hissed between many lips.
"…fought the Fist didn't they?"
"…hear it's some sort of guild war. Seven Suns are cleaned out and…"
"Can't'cha read? Was an Amnish attack! They're getting bloody blatant…"
"..that's young Lord Anchev ain't it?"
Raising an open hand, Sarevok addressed the mob. "If I may have your attention!" His voice boomed over theirs, but hardly anyone fell silent.
No matter. He pressed on. His words would carry.
"I am Lord Sarevok Anchev, active leader of the Iron Throne until my father's return." His hand swept in the direction of the guards, dressed in red and white and standing around the scaffolding. "And I wish to personally thank these brave soldiers for bringing this…" –venom entered his voice as he jabbed a finger at Thaldorn's dangling corpse– "snake in our midst to justice! Imagine! An Amnish agent and his pack of turncoat spies, poised at the very heart of my organization to stab me, and all of us, in the back!"
Voices rose: more murmuring and a lot of contradictory shouts. Sarevok just barreled on. "As all of you know the plague of broken iron that has devastated both our farms and our army this past year was a plot conceived in the heart of the Land of Intrigue, in alliance with agents of the Black Network. Our good men in the Flaming Fist managed to foil their plans in both the bandit's forest and the Amnish base of operations in the Cloakwood, and between the restored flow of ore and the stockpile of weapons that my house has personally gifted the city we shall be well-prepared when their forces make their move. Despite their best efforts.
"But in retaliation the Iltarch of Amn has attempted to undermine us once again, this time from within! I have been informed by the leaders of the Flaming Fist that this man, whom I once trusted, has been secretly working for the Iltarch, using my own mercantile network to smuggle southern agents and intelligence in and out of the city. And after the blows the Fist recently dealt them these agents chose to take direct action, going so far as to kill Commander Scar and make an attempt on Grand Duke Eltan's life! But thankfully justice has been served."
"These spies were right under your nose!" an angry voice shouted from the throng. "How can we trust you?!"
"Yong Lord Anchev's always played me true."
"Yeah! Supplied my family through the trade stoppage. And at a pittance!"
"He's always given us Vichins a good deal. Helped my sister with those moneylending sharks from Scornubel too!"
"Bah! The Iron Throne's a den of thieves!"
"Could say that for every merchant company."
Through all of this Sarevok worked to keep his face grim, though it was hard not to smile at the boldfaced lies that the doppelgangers were telling. Having thugs planted in a crowd is always useful, but faceshifters posing as members of prominent families work even better.
"I understand your concerns," he shouted over the arguing voices. "Those questions you ask? I've asked them to myself a thousand times on the ride here. How did I not realize that there was something off about Thaldorn? Why did I not question the new faces he was bringing in, though they seemed to be simple and amiable servants? Where did I go wrong?"
"When you joined a gang of criminals!" someone shouted.
Sarevok snorted. "Ha! Yes. The Iron Thone is a cutthroat band when it needs to be. I'll not deny that. We did not achieve our wealth and position by gently petting lambs or sitting by the hearthfire and knitting. I think all of us here know how the world works. And we all pay our dues to Ravenscar. And our tithes to Umberlee."
With a gesture he brought things back to the dead man swaying behind him. "And we all, people of my city, were stabbed in the back when these interlopers from the south slipped in, attempting to fragment and weaken us up for the coming assault." He slapped his chest with an open palm. "They caught me, in my own house, unaware! And let me tell you, my friends, that made me mad! Furious. Ready to open up all the hidden stocks and arm and armor every levy in the city in a manner befitting the way we've outfitted the Fist!"
He paused to chuckle. "Of course my father will urge calm and patience. And he has the final word in the Iron Throne, not I. But, if nothing else, I am here to tell you, people of my city, that this affront has angered me! And I will do everything in my power to strike back at the sniveling merchant lords who did this to my house!"
With that he whirled around and marched for the steps, turning his back to the shouts and the jostling of the mob at the gallows. There were cheers, but many arguments as well. Hard to tell if he had truly won over the crowd.
No matter. One task down, and there were many more ahead this day. His carriage awaited nearby, though the mage who reclined within would provide his true mode of transport. He had an appointment to keep, in a distant citadel to the south.
Ashura couldn't help but smirk as she stowed the book away in her pack. 'Instructions on Obtaining Clear and Unobstructed Thought, and Other Meditation Techniques.' Imoen had also snickered, earlier, when a Flaming Fist Corporal had handed the book to them during breakfast in the barracks, explaining that it had been one of many treasures salvaged from the recent fire at a wizard's tower. Thankfully the guardsman had not been inquisitive.
"We all set?" Ashura asked as she straightened and glanced around. They appeared to be fully packed up, armored, and armed, so when no one objected she turned and set a brisk pace out of the little bunkroom the Fists had been kind enough to let them stay in.
Sleep had not come easily for her that evening on the foreign, narrow cot beneath Imoen's bunk. If it had even come at all. One of those nights where she shifted endlessly from one side to the other, too much adrenaline and strangeness to ever settle, drifting a bit and then giving up when the light of morning invaded through the window.
There had been no dreams at least. Most mornings now she found herself awakened by the feeling that she was choking on smoke, as if she had wandered all night through the inferno surrounded by hisses and alien whispers. Of course having no dreams was a good sign that she hadn't slept at all. Still, Ashura found that she had energy enough, and breakfast in the soldier's hall had been surprisingly hearty: apple sausages with whipped eggs and fried bread, dripping with grease and crackling with each bite.
They had a ways to go now, if they were to catch up with Rieltar at Candlekeep. First to the stables where they were renting space for their horses, and then the long ride south, to the Friendly Arm and beyond. Hopefully their quarry was planning to stay the full time he would be allotted at the Citadel, and would be traveling slow, the way noble entourages tended to.
She had pondered taking a detour to look up Coran and Shar-Teel, but figured it wasn't worth the bother. The elf had seemed happy and preoccupied with his newfound family, not going out to seek 'adventure or nothing' anytime recently, and Shar-Teel had still been bedridden last time they had checked. The five companions left in their company would have to do, and they had made a good team so far.
Beyond the thick stone of the fortress the morning sky as overcast and starting to mist ever so slightly. Ugh. Hope we won't be riding through Leaffall rains.
Ashura tightened her cloak and started down the western street beyond the gates of the fort, but her companions lingered, gazing in the opposite direction. Following their looks, she noticed that there were more people than usual in the great city square where the mad gnome liked to preach; clumps milling about or wandering off.
"Sweet Seldarine!" Xan gasped, and then Ashura noticed it too, beyond the parting crowd. The gallows platform had always been there when they had passed, but this was the first time it was occupied, six figures dangling from the ropes.
She would have just shrugged and turned away, but Xan was marching forward now, eyes fixed on the bodies. Ashura shook her head and followed. "I guess they caught some thieves or…"
"Do you not have eyes?" the Greycloak grumbled, pointing as they reached the foot of the platform. "That man at the far end."
His face was contorted, and he was dressed differently, but there was something familiar about him. Oh. The prisoner from the Iron Throne tower. The one Commander Dosan had been wringing a confession from.
A strange twitch and a sudden chill came over Ashura, but it's source was not the dead bodies. She whirled around, gooseflesh rising and ears drawn to the rumble of wheels and the clomp of heavy hooves on a nearby street. For some inexplicable reason her pulse raced as her eyes fixed on the four-horse carriage, even though it was moving away, and she found herself glaring at the coach's slitted window, her hand gripping Varscona's hilt. There was something about that vehicle: dark, polished wood, white and grey draft horses, an old bearded coachman, and…
Ah. The emblem stamped across the door. A stylized throne!
"That doesn't make any sense," Imoen was saying. "It says 'Amnish Spy' on the placard, but we know he never said nothin' 'bout that. We should go tell the grand duke!"
"Silly," Viconia scoffed. "Eltan likely gave the execution order, for political reasons. And he has sent us out on a mission. He might consider it foot-dragging if we were to return to him."
The coach rumbled past a row of houses and out of view, and Ashura's sudden sense of danger evaporated, though for some reason she now felt a strong urge to give chase. The Iron Throne. Her enemy was in that carriage. But it couldn't have been Rieltar, could it?
"Yeah," Ashura muttered, eyes still on the distant buildings. "We should get going. Maybe, if we're far luckier than usual, Rieltar will be the one to finally have some real answers. There don't seem to be any here."
Just more and more questions, the deeper they delved.
Eltan!
Huh? Peeling back his eyelids took tremendous effort. He gave up after a few tries.
Eltan! By all the gods, you'd better answer me!
That voice...it had been prodding him for some time now, hadn't it? And it was a voice he knew well. Words formed on his lips; something like 'Can't it wait?' and tried to roll over and away from her, but he just couldn't find the strength to actually speak or move.
Where was he anyway? What had happened? His head was in a fog, and there was a stabbing, permanent ache at his temple that became acute whenever he shifted. And of course any motion reminded him that his body seemed to be made of bricks.
Gods. It felt as if he needed at least another week of sleep, and at the same time that he had been sleeping for a month or more. Had he been out with Saerth and Jonal? That seemed most likely. They'd been drinking till the sun came up once again, the fools-
No. He pinched his eyes tightly shut and tried to force his head to clear. Saerth and Jonal were in the ground, going on thirty years now. And Eltan had never touched more than a cup of wince since those days as a junior officer with the Waterdeep Guard. He'd never really cared for drink, even back then when laughing young men were throwing it back all around and he had to keep up to be social.
And Moruene…that was her voice that had been prodding him. But that wasn't right. He was the early riser, and often it took a lot of jostling to get the dragoness going in the morning.
With a deep intake of breath and a sudden burst of strength Eltan shook himself awake, eyes fluttering open and stomach lurching. Moruene, he called back, focusing his bracelet. That's where her voice had come from. What's going on?
The voice that replied through the telepathic link was weak and raspy, but sounded relieved. Oh thank the Weave. Feels like I've been trying to reach you for hours. Now that he was more aware, he noticed that she sounded completely exhausted. Still, Moruene persisted. I could sense that you were still there on the other side, but…
Was unconscious, or going in and out. He remembered now. I think I've been in this bed for about a day…but it's hard to tell. They poisoned me at the tower, and it's something magical. Rashad's curative spells just suppress it for a time. But they're looking for-
No! You're still in danger! Listen. Angelo Dosan is a traitor. He blindsided me; nearly killed me. I'm in a bed too, in the Nether Mountains, held together by a lot of Karsa and Borda's bandages.
Tempus' Shield! We need to-
And listen! There's more! It's Sarevok Anchev who's behind all of this. He's a Bhaalspawn! A bloody Bhaalspawn!
The boy? I thought that Rieltar-
I don't know the whole story, but Sarevok is the biggest threat. He had an ambush waiting for me when I chased the assassin down, and he was wearing the armor of a Deathbringer and wielding some sort of power like a bloody demigod. He shrugged off every one of my spells.
Damn. Glad you're alright.
There was a bitter little laugh through their connection. Not the word I'd use. I'm a mess. But I had to…Angelo… On the other side it sounded like she was winching. Maybe catching her breath.
We'll get that snake. He had managed to wriggle his way up in bed, wedging his back against the headboard so that he could better turn towards the doorway and call for the priest. "Rashad!" The shout came as more of a wheeze.
"Master?"
Eltan started at the voice, right there beside him. Turning, he tried to blink back the mist from his eyes and resolve the blurred form of the man hovering over the bed. Had he been there all along? "Ah. Good," Eltan rasped through a papery throat. "We need to get to the barracks. To gather…" He winced, trying to swallow.
"You need water, my duke?"
Eltan shook his head. "This is urgent. Angelo Dosan is a traitor. We need to get to the barracks, gather all the soldiers we can –preferably some warmages– and arrest the man immediately."
It was still hard for Eltan to focus his eyes, but Rashad's face became clearer now as the healer stooped in close. Rashad's long, lanky hair bobbed a bit as he shook his head. "No. We do not." A strangely reassuring tone, like a parent trying to calm a frantic child. He leaned in further now, stretching out a gentle hand.
"What in Tempus' name are you talking ab..?" Eltan's blood froze when the priest's fingers gently brushed against the polished bronze surface of his bracelet.
"We have no need to do any of that, my duke." A gentle pat, and then the priest took Eltan's hand in his, lifting it up. There was something strangely smooth about that hand, more a squid's flesh than a human's. With a wince Eltan tried to pull away, but then the seemingly squishy fingers were gripping tight as a vice. "And you will not be needing that."
With that last word Rashad's voice changed, the deep baritone and Tethyrian inflections suddenly losing tone and becoming genderless. And…dear gods! Those fingers were starting to coil, wrapping round Eltan's wrist like tendrils; jointless and longer than they had any right to be.
Eltan tried to struggle; tried to slither back on the bed. To kick -to punch- to do something! But every muscle failed him, and all that came were little twitches and a painfully clenching in his stomach that made him want to scream.
A yank and Rashad had slipped the bracelet from Eltan's wrist. There seemed to be something like a smile pulling at the edges of the priest's lips, but then it twisted and blurred, along with the rest of his face. Putty rearranging, then that face stretched and smoothed out, blank and inhuman.
Inhuman, but familiar enough. Eltan knew his bestiaries. And he had killed one of these damn things just yesterday.
Balling his fists and tensing his limbs, the commander of the Flaming Fist took a deep breath and tried to summon up all of his anger and frustration. This would not be how it ended: done in by treachery in his own featherbed, weak as a kitten and replaced by some faceshifter!
Tempus! Hear your loyal servant's single, ardent prayer! Give me the strength to fight this thing. Grant me a true battle death. One shoulder tilted back slightly as he readied himself to spring.
"Do not worry," the creature stated in that toneless voice of its, and with that Eltan twisted and launched himself forward, putting all his will into a left hook aimed squarely at the thing's milky face.
The doppelganger dressed as Rashad easily caught the fist, its grip once again as firm as stone. There was no sign of effort in its voice as it continued. "Despite what you think you are not to be killed, my duke. I am here to tend to you." A little shove and Eltan was slammed back against the headboard, where he sank into the nest of pillows.
"I am to give you curing draughts to keep the poison from fully consuming your body. And I shall care for you: wash and water you and keep you safely tucked away in this bed."
Eltan was wheezing hard from the effort of the useless punch, sweat beading his brow. Blast! Even if his little act of defiance had been strong enough to hurt the thing, it could still anticipate his every move. These creatures were mind readers, after all. That's how it had caught on to the communication he was having with Moruene and put a stop to it.
He tried to gulp down a few deep breaths, then tilted his head back. A different tactic. "He…Help!" It was meant to be a scream, but it came out as a whisper.
"This is good," the doppelganger stated. "Your dosage seems perfect at the moment. Balanced in a manner that will keep you alive, yet you'll never be strong enough to do anything but gasp. Please stay just like that, little primate. Any sign of true strength and…" It lifted a hand with claw-like fingers and swatted the air just in front of Eltan's face, buffeting him with wind. "…I will have to be less gentle."
Then it sat back, making ready to slide off the bed and go about its business. "Oh. And please try not to die. Until we need you to, of course."
Author's Note: The line about Skie's great-grandfather Daneth Silvershield is meant as a little nod to Nonnahswriter's fic, Baldur's Gate: A Novelization, which opens with Gorion reading the protagonist a bedtime story about the mighty adventurer 'Dan Silvershield.' I now really like the idea of the Silvershield fortune having been built by some legendary adventure named Dan.