73 – Accusations

"I say kill it with fire!" –Qara of Neverwinter

A knock at the door drew Skie out of the pages of her book. Reluctantly she closed the covers and placed it in her lap, though she kept a finger between the pages to keep her place. "Yes?"

She expected to hear the voice of a servant, but it was her own mother who spoke through the door, stiff and formal as always. "You've a guest dear."

Frowning, Skie rose from her chair and laid her novel aside. She had been enjoying the story; the tale of a young half-goblin unexpectedly thrust onto the throne of a fictitious elven empire. If she was ever to become a grand duchess herself it would be important to read as much on the subject of rulership as possible, fiction or not.

And now real-life 'courtly manners' might be called for. A guest? Was it another suitor? She fretted before the standing mirror, uncertain whether she was anywhere close to presentable. Adjusting her hair and straightening her dress, she shrugged. Good enough. She had looked far worse on the road, at least.

When Skie opened the door she found Lady Brilla Silvershield just beyond the threshold, and behind her stood a shorter woman with blond hair done up in a tight bun. The stranger wore a plain but elegant coat and dress, all various shades of austere grey.

Lady Brilla inclined her head. "Good afternoon, my dearest."

Skie curtsied. "Mother."

Turning, Lady Brilla gestured towards the guest. "Allow me to introduce Mrs. Kay Goldsworth, an accomplished courtier, learned scholar, and tutor to young women of noble birth. She is the new governess we spoke of."

Suddenly Skie felt a strong urge to squirm, her eyes widening and her cheeks blazing. Spoke of? She had assumed that had just been a passing barb. "A…a governess? Mother, I am not a child…" She struggled to keep her voice even, close to squeaking out the words. She also struggled not to look over at the desk where she kept Imoen's little gift in a hidden compartment.

Lady Brilla cleared her throat. "I could comment, but I shall refrain. Suffice it to say that after your recent behavior we felt it necessary to insure that you still remember how a proper lady should act."

Skie straightened. "I can assure you, mother-"

"I am not the one you need convince." Lady Brilla stepped aside and the stiff, blonde woman marched into the room, chin high. "If the term 'governess' offends you, then let us call her a 'monitor,' here to watch you walk the straight and narrow, and correct you if necessary. Understood?"

"Yes mother," Skie agreed.

Her long skirts swishing, Lady Brilla took her leave, and once she had disappeared down the hallway Mrs. Goldsworth carefully turned to the door and slid it shut. When she turned back to the Skie the stern look on her face slipped away. "Bit of a character, isn't she?" the woman asked with a slight grin.

Skie frowned. Was this some test? "Mother is quite diligent in her duties," she stated diplomatically.

Mrs. Goldsworth rolled her eyes. "You don't need to be a stiff little golem around me, dear. I'm not here to be charmed by your courtly manners, only to ensure that you know how to act the part." She gave Skie a conspiratory smile. "That's all it is, after all. Acting. I was a bit of a performer once. It's how I got into this line of work."

"Oh. I see."

"And don't worry. I won't swat you with a stick to make sure your posture's right or any of that. Hm." She strode forward and circled Skie, giving her a quick inspection. "Lovely posture in any case. And your diction seems proper. So we'll just do a little roleplaying to get started; see if you know the correct terms and curtseys to use when interacting with people of various stations. It should be simple enough." She reached out, giving Skie a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Let's be friends."

Though she felt a little overwhelmed, Skie forced a smile. "Alright."

The scrape of steel and the groan of old hinges jolted Ashura awake. She came to with a lurch that made her manacles bite into her wrists, and the disorientation –coupled with stabbing pain– had her struggling for a moment, blind and straining against the short chains.

Another lurch, and then a violent jerk. She fell back and hit the wall hard, scraping against the stone.

It took a few moments of blinking in the dim, diffuse light for everything to come back to her. Being beaten with staves, bound, and then beaten some more. Being dragged, sometimes stumbling and sometimes scraping the floor, through the halls and gardens of the citadel as consciousness faded in and out. Eventually she had found herself sitting here on straw and hardwood, stripped down to her padded tunic and leggings and chained to the wall.

She had been aching then, but it was even worse now that she had awakened. Gods were her arms and legs stiff, and every shift or twitch brought on more pain. Her pulse hammered at her temples and eardrums when she forced herself to hold still, head too heavy for her body and aching like Loviator's favorite chew toy.

The barracks house. That's where they had taken her. The broad building where beds and storage chests lined the wall and some of the Watchers slept in shifts, with the mess table in the center and the single prison cell nestled in the back. In all her time in Candlekeep Ashura had never seen the cell occupied.

Garrick had been there too, when they had first chained her up, sitting on the straw and giving her a forlorn look. He had not been roughed up or bound in any way. Now he sat in about the same spot, facing the cell door and watching a figure in pink and violet stumble in.

"Alright, alright," Imoen complained. "I'm goin'!" Xan entered close behind her without any fuss. The Greycloak's outer robes were gone, along with his scabbard and moonblade, and Imoen was missing her boots, belt and pouches. Seemed the Watchers had been meticulous in removing their weapons, enchanted items, and any other equipment that might be considered dangerous.

Imoen and Xan turned and backed further into the cell, watching the guards haul the last prisoner through the doorway. Viconia's wrists and ankles were bound, and a stream of drow curses were flying from her lips as she tumbled in and toppled over, hitting the floor with a snarl of pain and fury followed by more curses. She wriggled franticly, stirring the straw, and Imoen rushed in and knelt at her side to steady her.

"Should gag her too," the Watcher who had tossed Viconia in complained. "Damn drow tried to bite my face off." A much older man in heavy plate had stepped into the doorway beside the guard, and now he placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"No need to," the Gatewarden stated calmly, shaking his head. "And don't judge her too harshly. Among her kind imprisonment means a fate you do not want to imagine." Taking a step further into the cell, the captain of the Candlekeep Guard surveyed them all, his staff planted against the floor. "Unlike the Underdark, this is a civilized place. We do not torture or execute prisoners." He met Viconia's eyes. "And provided you cause no further trouble we will treat you as well as we can. Given the circumstances."

Now he looked to Ashura, and she found her eyes shifting down and away from his sad gaze. "You realize that you are only in those chains because you resisted arrest?"

"Yeah," she admitted. "Sorry." Damn. 'I don't want to disappoint the old man.' And here we are. Steadying herself, Ashura forced her gaze to meet the Gatewarden's and stay level. "But that man I was fighting. He killed my father."

That took the Gatewarden by surprise. "That's…quite an accusation. Koveras? The scholar? You believe he…murdered Gorion?"

"Sarevok Anchev," she corrected him, tone defiant. "That's his real name. Rieltar Anchev's son and the heir to the Iron Throne merchant coster. And I saw him kill Gorion."

She had hoped the conviction in her voice and gaze would have some effect, but the odd look the Gatewarden gave her was unexpected. He seemed puzzled, and then almost…angry. "Is this some sort of game you're playing?" When she furrowed her brow at him his voice just rose. "Some intrigue you've brought to our door? I never thought you would be capable of something like that."

"What are you talking about?"

"You do realize that the two of you," he glanced at Imoen as he spoke, "stand accused of the murders of Rieltar Anchev and Brunos Costak, don't you? Their bodies were found in the grand hall moments after your capture, and Koveras claims that you attacked him because he witnessed you fleeing the scene."

Now it was Ashura's turn to be taken aback.

"Oh. I get it," Imoen groaned. "'Koveras' is just 'Sarevok' spelled backwards. How stupid is that?"

She was still examining the steel box that covered the lock to their prison, though it had become obvious that she couldn't simply pick it. At first glance the holding cell looked dingy and simple, but Candlekeep had been built on magic and ingenuity. There was some sort of anti-magic effect placed upon the whole interior of the cell, and the only lock was a Gondish clockwork-contraption, sealed in a glyphed box that would only respond to the wardstones the Watchers carried. Quite a few layers of security, both magical and mundane.

"The pseudonym worked well enough for him," Ashura pointed out. She was leaning against the bars now, wrists free and the aches starting to abate. In her arms at least.

The Gatewarden had kept his promise and tried to be accommodating. Some blankets had been spared for the floor, everyone was now untied, and there was a covered clay pot in the corner of the cell in case they needed to relieve themselves. Not much, but better than the open buckets and filthy straw that Ashura had seen in the Flaming Fist dungeons. Better still, they had been given a midday meal from the Watchers' own stewpots.

Still, nothing could change how tightly packed they were inside the tiny cage of steel and brick. It was obvious –in this place where troublemakers were rare and usually dealt with by simply being exiled– that the Watchers were completely unprepared to deal with an entire magic-wielding party accused of murdering two noblemen.

Imoen tapped the box again with her fingertip, then began to feel around the bars. There was a Watcher sitting out front, of course, but he currently had his back turned. Didn't look like she was making a serious effort anyway. Just fidgeting. "Well what I mean is," she continued, "we can point out this whole Koveras/Sarevok thing at the trial. And there's all sorts-a other holes in this cheap frame-up case of his. Minsc and Edwin can testify to the fact that I was with 'em at the time of the murder too! Not to mention what Reevor and the rest will have ta say!"

Viconia scoffed. "A trial? Really?"

"Well yeah. Really! The Watchers are as fair as they get, and-"

"This Sarevok will not play fair. And we have been attacked by doppelgangers in this place."

"Ack. Yeah…" Imoen's hand unconsciously slipped up to her front of her neck. "But they can't…they can't just replace everyone or…how many can there be anyways? And we've killed one…" Her voice trailed off and they all fell silent for a good long while.

Eventually Imoen sat down in front of the bars, hugging her knees. "Wish my dad would come visit," she said abruptly.

"Yeah," Ashura had to agree. Would be good to see that smiling rapscallion again, especially since-

"Those doppels can pluck the face of someone you care about right out of yer mind, right? And pretend to be them. That's probably what the one that tried to kill me did."

"Yeah," Ashura repeated. "One attacked me wearing your face, when we all got separated in the Seven Suns' house."

"There was another that did that to Xan," Imoen said, turning to the elf, "right?"

He nodded.

"Not surprising." Ashura patted her sister's shoulder. "When they go probing for 'loved ones' your face is the first that shows up in everyone's mind, huh?"

"Aw, now yer embarrassing me." Imoen continued to sit there watching out through the bars of the door, but no visitors appeared, jolly or otherwise.

The hours crawled by and the shadows began to lengthen, small groups of Watchers occasionally passing through their field of vision or sitting down to unwind at the mess table. As the prisoners watched and waited Ashura found her eyes drifting to Imoen from time to time.

Should I just tell her? But how would she even go about that? It would be easier to just give Imoen the letter, but it had been stuffed in Ashura's belt when she had been captured, along with Alianna's cloak. Gone now, with the rest of her equipment. Best not to tell her right now, in any case. She has a lot on her mind.

They all did. Ashura kept peering through the bars along with her sister –her true sister, at that– searching for Hull as the guards drifted in and out of view. Would be nice to see a friendly face out there. Every Watcher was familiar, of course, but they were all staying stony and keeping their distance.

Soon lamps were lit and their first evening in the Candlekeep jail began.

The hay crinkled somewhere beside Imoen, and suddenly she was aware of a warm presence right next to her in the dark. At first she wasn't sure who had slipped in close to her. (Closer. The tiny cell had them bumping into each other as is. Add one or two more prisoners and they'd be stacked like cordwood.) Then Viconia whispered. "We need a plan of escape." She was using the drow tongue.

Her. Should'a known. "Probably," Imoen agreed. Her drow was very iffy, and she filled in the blanks with Chondathan words as she went. "I'm still hoping–" (funny, she didn't know the drow word for hope. Is there one?) "–that our friends in the Watchers will pull through. And if not I've got the picks we made. Just need to lift a stone off a guard, and then maybe we can slip out."

"That is what I was thinking," Viconia whispered. "And I've an idea on how to do the lifting. We are three of us women, after all, and these guards are almost exclusively males."

Oh, I see where this is going. "Uh. I grew up with most of these 'males,'" Imoen protested.

"Then you know them well. Perhaps you know some of their weaknesses and proclivities?"

"Yeah, maybe. But I'd prefer not to…"

"Having preferences in dire circumstances will get you killed," Viconia stated, harsh and flat. "But if I need provide all of the distractions I can. Just take advantage if one of the males falls for it, and make sure you are ready to slip behind and strangle him."

Imoen gulped, cringing and clenching the muscles of her neck, and again her hand instinctively reached up to there. "Nuh…no. No! No one's getting strangled around here." I've had quite enough of that! "Especially not some guy who gave me Midwinter cookies when I was little."

There was an irritated sigh from the darkness. "At some point you will need to-"

"Yeah, but sometimes you don't need to. There's other ways. Always. Look, I like yer idea. Get the guy guarding us to drop his pants and I'll swipe the stone and keys right off him, easy peasy. No need for murder when quick fingers will do just the same."

"We shall see."

Indeed we shall. Viconia didn't know the Watchers the way that she did. Some of them were monks from various sects that had taken vows against 'carnal distractions' and the like. And the rest weren't stupid

It was midmorning on the next day when a visitor finally showed. And not a visitor Ashura particularly wanted to see. As always he was dressed in impeccable white, chin high, strides quick and steady. Ulraunt was flanked by one of the robed priests of Oghma and a guard in heavy mail, and the priest carried an object wrapped in fine cloth under his arm.

"I knew you two would bring murder to my house," Ulraunt announced by way of greeting, stopping just short of the bars and crossing his arms at his chest. His eyes surveyed them all, narrowing with a sharp glint when they fell upon Ashura. "Just through your existence you can't help but invite such things." A snort. "And we've all heard the rumors about the mess you've been causing up and down the coast, collecting bounties and fighting armies. But now it seems that you've graduated to full-fledged assassination! How fitting. Wasn't your mother an assassin?"

Ashura had taken to her feet, and now she stepped up to the bars, facing the old buzzard. "I never knew my mother." She put it simply, with a shrug. "And I didn't kill anyone here." Not recently at least.

To her surprise Ulraunt chose not to be pedantic and bring up the bunkhouse all those months ago. Instead he rolled his eyes, dismissive. "Yes, yes. They all say that. It's why we have the divination wards in place. A strict rule of no aggression is best enforced by detecting and throwing out the aggressor. And need I remind you that I am a diviner. I carefully examined the goings-on in the great hall myself. I witnessed the murder you two commited!"

"You couldn't have!" Imoen squeaked. "Or you saw it wrong."

Another derisive snort. "See for yourself." Ulraunt held out an expectant hand. The priest beside him reached into his cloth bag and withdrew a small mirror that was about the size of a hand-shield, the polished glass ringed in bronze and studded with opals. Carefully taking the object, the Keeper of the Tomes thrust it forward and barked out a single word, the glinting surface of the glass instantly going smoky. Soon it resolved into a bright, blurred scene.

It was hard for Ashura to really discern the details playing out in the mirror; likely diviners were meant to hold such objects right up to the eye and peer in. Ulraunt was happy to point and provide narration, however. "There you are," he proclaimed, tapping a black blur that had some pearly white dots. "Slipping behind Rieltar Anchev and wrapping something around his neck. I see that you whispered something in his ear. What was it?"

Ashura said nothing. Explaining that she had never managed to sneak up on anyone in her life seemed a little pointless. 'I kill people in an entirely different way, so that can't be me' likely wouldn't work as an excuse.

"And there," Ulraunt added, pointing to a bobbing violet blur that was topped with red. His eyes shifted to Imoen. "There you are slipping behind Brunos Costak when he rushed to help his master, and then stabbing him repeatedly in the back."

Imoen squinted, puzzled, and then she shook her head. "No, that can't…oh!" Realization entered her voice. "It's doppelgangers. Sarevok's been using them as henchmen. He must have sent doppelgangers disguised as us to kill those two."

Ulraunt laughed bitterly as he pulled the scrying mirror back, the images suddenly winking out. "Doppelgangers? Really?"

"Really."

He laughed again. "That's a brilliant excuse. I'm surprised more criminals don't think it up. 'That wasn't me. It was a doppelganger that did it!'"

"But it was!" Ulraunt had begun to turn. "There's doppelgangers on the loose here! Ask Reevor! And Hull and Fuller and Jondalar! They went hunting for them in the crypts. Ask Minsc the Rashemi! His witch was replaced by a doppelganger. Ask Edwin the Thayan! He nearly got killed by-"

"We have investigated!" Ulraunt snapped over his shoulder. "And if these farcical tales of…shapeshifter attacks were true I certainly would have heard of it!" Now he marched away, his assistants scurrying behind him as his voice receded. "There shall be no stalling or trickery: the lot of you are to be carted north to Baldur's Gate, where the authorities there shall deal with you. I have given the order, and you will depart as soon as there are Watchers equipped for the journey." And with that he was gone.

"Can we do things as I suggested now, khal'abbil?" Viconia asked in a cold voice.

Imoen didn't look at her, mouth hanging open as she stared out through the bars. Eventually she gave the drow a forlorn look and shook her head.

Ashura could certainly sympathize. Out at the table a human man and a half-elven woman in padded shirts were quaffing down bowls of porridge and drinking from steaming mugs of tea. The man's name was Canderous; a closed, quiet sort of fellow who liked books near as much as the Readers. He had served in some army in Tethyr before seeking Candlekeep out as a sort of peaceful semi-retirement.

The woman was named Osprey, one of just five women out of the sixty-five Watchers. She had once been a sailor, and had taught Ashura a few interesting knots. She also knew a bit of battle-magic, which Imoen had pressed her on a few times as a kid ('Teach me burning hands!')

If they were to attempt an escape they would likely have to fight the Watchers. Kill some of them. And she knew all of their names and faces, even if she didn't know them all that well. Not a pleasant proposition.

By late that afternoon they were no closer to escape than they had been that morning. Viconia had sent all sorts of looks and even sultry calls in the direction of the Watchers that passed into view, but all had kept their faces stony or even rolled their eyes. The lock and the bars remained firm and impenetrable, and when the midday meal had arrived the guard had ordered them all –in no uncertain terms– to stand against the back wall with their hands on their heads before he even entered. He had kept an especially close eye on Imoen.

The hours ground along in bored silence. Garrick had asked a few times if he could be given back his harp, offering to serenade the whole barracks, but the Watchers had assumed it was some trick. A shame. Ashura found herself missing the duets he and Imoen often got up to on the road.

No visitors. No progress. Nothing but sullen tedium as the shadows once again stretched through the bars and dust moats wheeled and bobbed. They had attempted a few times to huddle and whisper, but the man guarding them this afternoon was keen on that. 'I can hear every word, you know,' he had said at one point. 'That's a good idea though, faking a fight amongst yourselves so we'll open the door. Maybe it'll work.'

So much for that plan.

Still, they would have to try something. Perhaps when the evening meal was delivered…although at meal time there were always far more Watchers in the barracks, pressed in around the table. Damn. Hm.

A clink of platemail and a little scraping drew Ashura's attention. Their afternoon guard was finally moving, stretching his arms high and then wriggling up and off of his seat. From there he waved in greeting at the group of armored men who were making their way around the mess table.

"You're relieved son," the shortest of the four newcomers barked, in a voice that had Ashura and Imoen both scrambling up and to the door, looking out expectantly.

Yep. It was Sergent Reevor, and sure enough Hull, Fuller and Jondalar were walking along with him. Their armor lacked its typical polish –it looked downright scuffed up, in fact– but each still carried his enchanted staff. Ashura's heart raced with something like hope. She doubted she had ever been happier to see Hull.

The afternoon guard nodded with gratitude and made his way stiffly towards the far door, leaving the area empty beyond Reevor and his little crew – likely until the upcoming shift-change and the gaggle of Watchers who would come streaming in to prepare the evening meal.

"Sooo good to see you four!" Imoen exclaimed, pushing her face between the bars. Beside her Ashura nodded in agreement. "You need to talk to the Gatewarden if you haven't! No one seems to know about the-"

"Oh yes," said Fuller.

"We gave him a full report," Jondalar added.

Ashura's fists tightened around the bars. The four Watchers were marching up in lock-step, and Hull hadn't spared her a glance. His face was blank.

"The Gatewarden sent us, in fact," Reevor put in. "We're to escort you to the Gate, to face justice." Stopping just short of the door, he planted his staff.

Ashura began to back away, eyes shifting from waxy-blank face to waxy-blank face, her mind racing. Damnit damnit damnit!

Imoen, on the other hand, gave the four a disbelieving look. "What'da'ya mean?!" she demanded. "You know I couldn't have been involved in no murder: I was with you guys. And you were chasing Dynaheir. You know, the doppelganger disguised as a mage that blasted her way through half the keep and…"

The heads of the four guards all swiveled, one to the next to the next. "Dynaheir?" Hull asked.

"Never heard of 'em," Reevor replied, shrugging.

As one their heads all turned towards the cage and as one they gave the prisoners a predatory smile. "Now come quietly please," Fuller ordered, his tone soft and almost sing-song.

Ashura had retreated another step. "Ims. Back away."

It would be five against four, but those four were wearing platemail and armed with enchanted staves. The weapons were not suited for the close quarters of the cell, however. It would be cramped and hectic, and maybe she could knock some of these heavily armored…things over – create enough of a break for the spell-casters to barrel their way out of the field of anti-magic and put their talents to use.

Very dicey, but what else could they do? She planted her feet, knees bent, palms open and ready to grab at the closest staff and legs ready to spring.

But it never came to that.

Somewhere out of sight the door to the barracks house creaked open. Reevor turned his head slightly. "Go away. We're dealing with the prisoners and we need some-"

He was cut off by a low whoosh and the bright flash of something streaking in towards them. It skimmed the surface of the mess table and sent up twin trails of smoke and sparks where it touched the wood, and then it was between the four armored men, where it exploded in a blinding burst of white and yellow that had Ashura turning and covering her eyes.

She quickly pushed her arms fully over her face and hair as the roar of the fireburst sounded in her ears, fully expecting to be struck by a scalding blast.

But it never arrived. She didn't even feel heat, and after a beat she peaked between her arms. A wall of curling flames roiled just beyond the prison bars, smoke and fire seeming to press and compact against a transparent barrier. The smell of scorched wood and charcoal had begun to waft in, mixed with a strange scent that Ashura could not quite place; burnt but with a briny tang.

The billowing flames dimmed a little, then a little more, and through the smoke the stick-figure silhouettes of bodies could be seen. Not human; they were floppy and elongated, writhing in a manner that made their disjointed limbs wave every-which-way. Even their heads stretched and twisted, curling round and round or bending sideways as if they were owls. They shuddered through their pained, panicked jig, still on fire even as the surrounding flames started to wink out, and then one by one they fell with a clink of blackened armor and a toneless, inhuman scream. There on the floor they continued to jiggle and convulse, though with each passing beat the tremor of their boneless limbs grew more and more listless. Death-throws, obviously.

Now the fire faded down to embers and a few lingering flames amongst the black scorch marks, and through the smoke and ashes Edwin strode forward, glancing down at the four dying shapeshifters disdainfully. Behind him Minsc rushed in, his greatsword bobbing and nearly scraping the ceiling. "We come to rescue you!" the Rashemi berserker announced.

Edwin just rolled his eyes at that, kneeling down beside the charred remains of the shapeshifters to rifle through their pockets and pouches.

Minsc gave the bodies a disappointed glance, searching briefly for a place to use his sword but finding none. Then he straightened and proudly jogged the last few paces to the prison door, trampling the burnt remains of the mess table. Once there he promptly set his blade aside, gripped the bars, and started tugging. When there was no budge he closed his eyes and dug his heels in, pulling harder and harder.

"You might need a key for that," Imoen pointed out. "And a wardstone. That's a magic lock."

With a grimace Minsc just continued to try and rip the door off its hinges. "It will…budge…any moment…" he grunted.

In the meantime Edwin had risen, several polished rocks clicking together in his hands. "('Only so many wardstones to go around,' that stupid dwarf said. If he had been wise enough to spare me one and solicit my assistance then that conniving creature in the undercroft would already be-)"

"Uh, Edwin!" Imoen called. "Can you open the door?"

The red wizard glanced over at her absently, still sorting through his pilfered wardstones. "Hm? Yes, I suppose your assistance could be useful." Picking out a particular stone, he threw it in the general direction of the prison cell, keeping his hand up as it flew and shifting his fingers into an arcane gesture. Rather than falling to the floor the wardstone wobbled and then drifted along through the air, passing over Minsc's shoulder to hover just in front of the box that housed the lock. With a flash and a click the box flew open, and then –still distracted with his sorting– Edwin gestured a bit more, guiding a keyring up from the belt of one of the dead doppelgangers.

Showoff.

With one key pointed forward and the rest jangling along, the ring streaked like a missile past Minsc. The leading key stabbed home into the lock and then turned with a click, and the barred door flew open violently, carrying Minsc along and slamming him into the masonry. He let out a grunt, but it was swiftly followed by a joyous laugh. "You are free!" Minsc announced, as if it had been his doing all along.

Imoen dashed out of the cell with Ashura and the rest right behind, taking a sharp right towards the pile of lidded boxes where the Watchers had apparently stowed their confiscated gear. Thankfully the scorch marks did not reach that corner of the room.

Side by side Imoen and Ashura both flung boxes open, bending and sorting fast as they could. It was all piled together in a jumble, but the weapons, wands, pouches, spellbooks, armor, quivers, potions, and even a pair of alchemical grenades Imoen had been carrying all seemed to be there somewhere – even a few bags that clinked with coins and gems. Thank the honest stuffiness of the Watchers for that!

Of course enchanted equipment and weapons took top priority. With her armor strapped in place and her swordbelt cinched, Ashura lifted and unfurled Alianna's cloak, giving the grinning, golden skull a long look. Might as well. She swung it over her shoulders and began tie it into place, the faint gleam of enchantments shivering around her and then fading from view. There was a sensation of solid protection about her shoulders, though it hardly felt like a mother's warm embrace.

Solid, and bone-cold. The blessing of the god of killing. Good. There's a lot of people ahead who need killing.

While they put on their equipment and readied their weapons Edwin faced away from the group, his eyes on the door and fingers impatiently drumming against his arms. "As I see it," he began, "we are at a slight impasse. There are four dead doppelgangers in this room, carrying the wardstones which we shall need to enter the undercroft and exterminate all of these irritating creatures (especially that elder-thing that impersonated the witch and attempted to make a fool of me.) Yet there are seven of us."

Finishing with the last of their straps, the companions arrayed in the corner glanced at each other, and Imoen started to open her mouth, but Edwin cut her off before she could speak. "Fortunately," he continued "it is nearing the time for a large contingent of Watchers to file into this room and prepare their evening meal. And, on top of that, the giant imbecile with the hamster for a brain has triggered the alarms that lined your holding cell. So a large number of guardsmen carrying more wardstones than we could possibly use are about to burst through that door." He gave them a backwards glance. "Enchanter! I suggest you get to work."

As if on cue (or as if Edwin had placed some spell outside to alert him so that he could time his little speech perfectly) the door flew open and several armored men rushed in, two by two and fanning out quick as they could, with the Gatewarden himself just a bit behind the first wave. All were armed with steel-tipped staves, and all leveled them at Edwin and the rest.

The Watchers paused once they were properly lined up in their drilled formation, eyes wide and shifting from the charred bodies to the armed escapees, and then back to the bodies again.

The Watchers paused, but Xan, Viconia and Garrick did not. Instead the moon elf and the drow thrust their hands forward and launched into incantations that rapidly became a storm of wavering air in front of them, while the bard aimed his wand and sang out the command-word. The roiling heat-shimmer of magic that the three of them threw forward flew across the room and filled the entire far side with flashing lights and flickering distortions; a wall of enchantment. It found focus around the bodies of the Watchers, pressing in and locking all ten of them into place, paralyzed.

Then everything was nearly silent, save the sound of breathing and the faint hum of the lingering magic. Eventually Edwin let out an impatient growl. "Well! Take their wardstones and keys then! A set for each of us should do. Then we'd best move quickly."

A silent glance between the companions, then Ashura shrugged and went to search one of the charred shapeshifters. They all fanned out from there, gathering what they needed, but as they were doing that Imoen stepped right up to the Gatewarden, looking into his glaring eyes. "We were telling the truth!" she insisted. "There really were doppelgangers and we didn't murder no one! Just examine those four burnt bodies over there that are dressed in Watcher armor and you'll see that they aren't human at all."

As Imoen slipped away Ashura stepped up to the old guard captain herself. The end of his staff was quivering a bit already. Looked like he'd be the first to break the enchantment, and likely soon. "Sorry," was all she could think to say. Then she headed for the doorway and the dimming light beyond.

Once they were outside and well onto the path of compacted dirt Edwin swung around and pointed a finger at the open doorway of the barracks. Before he could utter a word Imoen's bow creaked nearby, an arrow already knocked and aimed right at him. "If you throw a fireball or something at those paralyzed guards," she snapped, "I'll kill ya."

Following her sister's lead, Ashura drew her longsword and pointed it as well.

Drawing in a deep breath and then letting it out, Edwin gave them a disdainful look. Then he launched into his spell. A tiny piece of wood seemed to appear briefly in his hands, and he made it dance between his fingers before it vanished in a puff at the last word of the incantation. At the same instant there was a groaning sound as something solid stretched and grew to fill the entire space of the doorway, pressing against the frame and straining it.

"There," Edwin muttered. "A wall of wood will not discourage them nearly as much as a wall of fire, but it will take them a little time to chop through. And your precious guards will remain safe." With a flutter of red robes he whirled and began marching, hanging close to the inner wall. Minsc hurried behind him, hoisting his greatsword and stomping along.

"I appreciate that you rescued us," Imoen said as she rushed to follow, "but uh…"

"Why are we to follow you," Viconia growled, "and to where? I demand to at least be told, male!"

Edwin did not slow, though he did speak. "As I mentioned, the doppelgangers seem to layer in the crypts beneath the keep. Twice now the barbarian and I have uncovered one of the creatures in disguise –first the stable master and then some sniveling scholar– and they both managed to elude us by somehow slipping past the warded door."

"Dreppin…" Imoen muttered. "Really? That poor sod…damn." They slipped around one of the inner gates, making their way through the twilight gardens.

"I surmised," Edwin went on, ignoring her, "that your party would wish to seek revenge for the slight the doppelgangers have dealt you. Surely I was correct?"

"Hm," Ashura grunted, pondering as they went. "Yeah. We need to stop these things. And there are escape tunnels down there too. Might be a better way for us to get out of the Keep than trying the front gate where there's a portcullis and a heavy guard."

"Perfect then," Edwin said, rubbing his hands together and continuing the lead them through the rows of fountains. They came to an abrupt halt, however, when he stumbled around a corner and right into the sights of a patrolling Watcher, who was just passing by the steps of the inner keep.

Everyone froze, the guard included, and his eyes went wide. "You…" he stammered. "You're the prisoners!"

"We can't be," Garrick countered immediately, "because we're walking around free."

The Watcher cocked his head, raised a finger, and tried to point. "You're…" he stammered, confused, "walking…f-fr-" A titter ran through him. "Fr-free-" Another titter, louder, and then he threw his head back and laughed.

And laughed.

And laughed some more. In a moment his armor clanged against the walkway as he tumbled onto his back and rolled with laughter, a few sputtering words managing to make their way out between the fits. "F-free! Haha! Walking fr-fee!"

Garrick rushed for the steps and gestured for the rest to follow. "Come on. The effect won't last long."

"Is it a requirement of the spell," Edwin asked with disdain, "that your joke be absurdly stupid?"

"Sadly yes." Garrick's voice was solemn even as the cackling echoed behind him. "If they actually get the joke and find it funny the magic doesn't work."

"Bah," Edwin grumbled. "Enchantments."

They hurried up and into the keep.

Author's Note: The spell Edwin used back there to block the door was actually Minor Creation, as I don't think that there's a Wall of Wood spell in any addition of D&D. And if there were it definitely doesn't sound like a spell that Edwin would keep prepared. Wall of Stone would have worked even better, but hey, this is Edwin! He totally has Cloudkill taking up that important slot.

And an addendum: After a reviewer pointed out that Skie's scene here felt out of place I decided to rearrange this chapter slightly. I'm not sure if the change *actually* addresses what the reviewer was talking about, but regardless I'm really grateful for the feedback.