Author's Note: This is a little story about Montaron's thieving days. It contains strong language and some risqué humour for which I humbly apologise. Montaron is owned by Bioware and I take no responsibility for him whatsoever.
...
The halfling looked at his hands folded in front of him. He stretched the short yet nimble fingers, thinking his ragged fingernails weren't much cleaner than the stained table they rested on. Been a few months, maybe time for a bath. The rough chair was human-sized and his shoulders barely rose above the wood. Normally he'd have been annoyed at the situation but he didn't need to feel the cold sweat trickling off his body to know his seating arrangements weren't the worst of his problems.
How long were they going to keep him here? It'd been hours now, he reckoned, just him sitting alone in that queer little cell. They'd pulled him out from the holding tanks where he'd been munching straw for lack of any other nourishment, the big fellows already catching the rats that patrolled the place. He thought they were taking him to the gallows. He'd expected that, puffed up his bravado for the main event. But now he was here and he had no idea what to think.
...
Bloody hells, why'd he have to do it? It seemed like a good idea at the time. His 'mate' Zeke said it was a sterling job. Easy in, easy out. That noble had a coronet studded with gems, some old relic he'd pulled out of a tomb somewheres. Montaron wasn't easy about the idea of lifting something that came from some old king; what if it was cursed? Zeke just laughed though and that pissed him off. Said he reckoned the king might be happy after all for them taking it off the one what stole it in the first place. Montaron saw the sense in that argument, and he agreed.
Not that he'd admit it but he needed the coin. That damned nag tripped and fell in the last race taking all his hopes for a comeback with her. Now half the bookies in the Keep were after his oily hide, and they weren't known for their polite manner. Slitting purse-strings was a waste of time; it was either this or do a runner.
But he was always careful, was Montaron, and insisted on scoping the place beforehand. Zeke was right, it did seem easy. Them pot-bellied guards were easily distracted by a little ruse he arranged, and he snickered watching them eyeing up old Nell. That good old tart was always up for a bit of fun and she only asked for a drink in return. There didn't seem to be much else to it—slip over the garden wall, up the drainpipe and into that little window that Zeke assured him was always open.
Of course Montaron would have to do the real work. Zeke pled that bum knee he got in the army kept him from climbing, but the halfling knew it was just cause he couldn't be asked to risk his own neck even for such a prize. In truth Montaron didn't mind. He trusted himself and no one else. He'd done his share of housebreaking and despite his slightly pudgy frame he was strong and agile as a cat. He could get into that window, no problems.
Two nights later they made a go. Nell learned the noble and his wife were going to a party that night and it seemed like the ideal time. They skulked round back, keeping an eye out for guards or anyone else who might call the alarm. Montaron slid behind a barrel in the alleyway, silently cursing the yellow moon as it slipped out from behind the clouds. Somewhere a tom yowled, declaring his claim over the lady-cats to the neighbourhood. A loud coughing startled him but the old drunken cook wandered past into the night, singing a song of long ago.
At last it was quiet and Zeke hoisted him up. Montaron slipped and struggled but pulled himself over the wall, dropping down lightly into some flowers. Sorry, lady, he thought wryly. Keeping to the shadows he crept towards the house, largely dark in the night. The kitchen door was open though and light streamed out. Montaron paused, watching a fat old housekeeper flirting shamelessly with an equally ancient groomsman over a bottle of wine that didn't look like the sort servants normally drank. Good on ye, he thought, making his way to the drainpipe.
The iron pipe seemed sturdy so he shimmied his way up to the window, but not without a little grunt or two. Damn but he was getting too old for this. Zeke proved true to his word though and the window was open.
He slipped inside. The chamber was dark and it took him a moment to work out what room he'd entered. The bath chamber. Perfect. Too bad he didn't have more time, the idea of leaving a ring round the marble basin gave him a chuckle. Maybe that could be his calling card? Then take a roll in the dirt the next day—it weren't me, Captain, I swear it!
He forced himself though to focus on the task at hand. The noble was said to keep the coronet in his study on that floor, shouldn't be much of a trick to get there. Carefully he opened the door a crack and slipped out a mirror to check the hall. The coast was clear. He was about to step out when a young maid suddenly appeared into view. Montaron swore quietly and ducked back into the chamber.
He had no idea where the girl was headed but that old burglar's instinct told him to hide. A basket was his only shot and he ducked inside, covering himself up with the damp linens and pulling the lid back over his head, and not a moment too soon. The girl entered the chamber carrying a candle, humming a tune sweetly to herself. Montaron watched her through the holes in the basket. Not bad, he thought. Red hair and a nice, firm backside. He always did like redheads. She bent over with some task and Montaron grinned, forgetting his situation for a moment. Too soon she departed though and Montaron forced himself to draw a deep breath and think of Nell. He waited a minute just to be safe and was about to emerge when he heard the door open again.
The maid came back in, without her candle for some reason. In the dark he heard her humming another tune, a little duskier than last time. It was throatier and he liked it. In a moment he heard the sound of running water and he began to feel sweat creeping up, worrying the owners had come home sooner than expected. His only chance was to stay still as possible and pray they didn't empty the laundry basket.
Soon though he heard the water stop and the unmistakable sound of clothing falling to the tiled floors. He peered out the holes, wishing he could see what was going on. The maid kept humming to herself and with interest he heard her slipping into the pool. Naughty maid, taking a bath in the mistress' tub? Zeke would never believe this. Light the candle, girl!
"Where's my muffin?" A voice suddenly called from the doorway.
"Right here, sweetie pie," the maid answered in a strangely thick way.
Before Montaron had time to think a light flashed into the darkness, and peeking through the holes all excitement vanished like a puff of smoke. Adorning the tub was none other than the housekeeper, bare as the day the gods made her, her old string-bean lover striding into the room like a randy knight into his lady's chamber. Montaron drew a towel over his eyes, shutting them tight and thinking he'd give his right arm for a bit of wax for his ears. His old gran always said Yondalla'd punish him for his ways but he just laughed. As years went on though he began to wonder, and now he was sure. He'd fallen off the drainpipe and landed square in the Nine Hells.
Gods...that's just—wrong.
Eventually his ordeal was over. By that point he was scared to climb out of his basket, worrying the page might come in and give the family dog a bath next. But the house stayed quiet and he forced himself once again from his hiding place.
He slipped down the hall, sliding his mirror under the doorframes to see inside the locked rooms. Finally he found the one he sought and after running a careful hand around for signs of traps he tripped the lock and stepped inside.
The study was a large room, with moonlight from the open curtains illuminating the fancy mahogany furniture and the walls covered with books. Montaron couldn't care less about the decor though, instead padding silently over the carpet towards a glass case. There, resting on a silken pillow was the coronet. Montaron paused and licked his lips, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. The jewels on the crown were the size of goose eggs, the biggest he'd come across. They glistened flirtatiously in the moonlight but he knew better than to approach. Zeke had underestimated the size of the prize, a rare thing in his circle—usually it went the other way. And Montaron knew well enough that anything that flash would be guarded by a hells lot more than glass.
Ah, well, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
The carpet was tacked down so he couldn't search underneath for traps, but he had an idea. Going to a bookcase he pulled off an armful of heavy tomes, and tossed one onto the floor near the glass case before ducking quickly behind a sofa. It landed with a thump but most of its noise was muffled by the thick carpet. Cautiously he craned his neck out. Nothing. He tried another book and another, with the same result. Carefully he approached the case, following the trail the discarded books had marked for him.
The case was locked, naturally, but he still found no signs of traps. Were these the thickest nobles in Faerun? Not his problem. Making a convenient step out of the books he took out some tiny tools from his pouch and deftly worked the fine lock, soon hearing that gratifying click.
The coronet was bare to his grasp, taunting him like a ripe bar wench. Still he hesitated, mentally adding up the weight of the various gems and metal. He pulled a sack of pebbles from his pouch, taking some out, balancing it, then thoughtfully adding a few. When he was satisfied he gradually replaced the coronet with the bag, his nervous hands shaking a little in spite of his experience. The coronet broke free from its perch and he seized it in his hands.
Hells, yes! he thought, examining the jewel and still not believing his luck. It was an awesome piece. If they managed to fence the stones him and Zeke could buy all of Zhentil Keep between them. Him and Zeke? To the hells with him! Montaron could take this and live like a king someplace where the sun was hot and the ladies were hotter.
As the greedy thoughts flowed through his mind it occurred to him just how—sparkly the thing was. The facets glowed like the stars as he moved it slightly in the moonlight. He couldn't keep his eyes off it. He was going to be a king, why not start now? He raised the coronet and placed it on his head.
Yowww!
The moment it touched his brow the coronet seized him, constricting like a viper around his skull. The metal grew hot, biting into his skin. He tugged and tugged, clawing into his flesh with his fingers but the crown wouldn't come off. He shouted and cried, rolling around on the floor in agony. In his pain he barely noticed when the door flew open and lights and excited voices came charging into the room.
...
Montaron looked up hearing the clatter and clank of heavy locks falling open. A man in black robes entered, followed by two guards. The halfling tried to put on his best surly face but even he melted seeing the symbol on the man's chest.
Oh...shite...
Suddenly it hit him—no ordinary noble would have something like that crown hanging about the place. He'd barely noticed the books at the time, but the titles came flowing back, all primers in the dark arts. He'd robbed a Zhentarim! He fought against the urge to soil himself and wished they'd taken him to the gallows instead.
The man bent over him, regarding him in a queer fashion while Montaron mentally ran through the list of tortures he'd heard of the Zhents using on those unlucky enough to cross them. Since coming to the Keep Montaron'd done everything he could to avoid crossing those bastards; he generally had enough trouble on his hands as it was.
"So you are the little thief who thought to remove the crown of King Waleden from my possession? Hurmph," the man snorted. "I take it you have never read of its curse, that all who hold it and are judged unworthy shall be punished accordingly? No? Well, never mind. As it happens, I can make use of you, thief..."
Hells, here it comes...
The man towered over him, fingering his amulet and staring at Montaron with a black expression. Unexpectedly though he sat down at the table and rubbed his temple with a sigh.
"Listen to me, thief, and listen well. I have a certain...problem, of a delicate nature. Normally I would not consider using a strange rogue in such a way—no, I'd have you fed bit by bit to the otyughs, but this is different. You see..."
He paused again as if trying to find the best way to explain his situation. Montaron just stared at the man, mouth slightly agape.
"It is...my mother."
"I ain't laid a finger on yer mam, gov'nor," Montaron said anxiously, raising his hands.
"Do you think I would be sitting here talking with you if you had?" the man said with a glare. "Be silent. No, more accurately it is my brother. Not long ago, you see, he made a rather foolish mistake of combining essence of dragon breath with powdered rubies and grave dust—and every fool knows you cannot mix dragon's breath with grave dust! He must have thought the rubies would neutralise the poison which occurs when those ingredients are combined, but clearly he thought wrong. Needless to say, ever since he was pulled from the mist he has been...a little mad. We tolerated it at first, but since he turned my mother's beloved little dog into an undead monstrosity the situation has become unbearable. Mind you, that dog was an unholy creature before, but still..."
Montaron stared at the man with wide eyes, and he coughed and continued.
"Yes, in such situations the poor unfortunate would normally be locked away or disposed of, but my mother cannot bear the idea of her darling boy coming to such an end and she pled her case to the highest levels of our organisation. She has some influence and they heeded her pleas, but my brother is still a problem that must be dealt with."
"You want me to stick 'im?" Montaron spoke hopefully, thinking in the only direction he knew.
"No, you fool!" the man bellowed, and the halfling jumped. "Just the opposite. I want you to take care of him."
Montaron cocked his head and the man sighed irritably.
"Protect him, look after him, you contracted idiot. I've developed a potion that will keep his sanity intact, but unfortunately it only lasts for a few hours. I need someone on hand to make sure he takes the draught at regular intervals."
"Right...but why not—"
"You're asking why not just have a servant do it. A fair question. Unfortunately, when my brother doesn't get his medicine he can be rather...difficult, and neither my mother nor myself wish to risk sacrificing any of our own households. Not after what happened to her footman, ugh. Did he truly have to choose necromancy? Regardless, an outsider is clearly needed. For you see, his madness has become enough of an embarrassment that the powers that be have decided that he needs to disappear for awhile in the hopes he may recover some of his faculties. As such he has been reassigned, and he must have a keeper to travel with him."
"Right," Montaron said again. He could still barely believe his ears, but maybe this wasn't such a bad gig after all. It could get him out of the city at least. "Where's he got to go?"
The man paused.
"Baldur's Gate."
"Bal—" Montaron began, his mouth falling open again. "Ain't that near Waterdeep? That's on the other side of the bleedin' world! It's all frontier out there!"
"Quite," the man replied, "which is precisely why it has been chosen. Of course, if you prefer you can stay here. I'm certain we might be able to make you a little—taller."
Montaron gulped, knowing well enough what he meant.
"Nope, I'm good."
"Excellent. Now, you might be thinking that once you are on the road it might be more convenient to leave my brother at the wayside. I would reconsider any such plans, for know this—whatever fate befalls my brother, you will experience threefold. Although I am certain you seem like the...trustworthy sort, I will still need something of a guarantee. Before you step out this door, you will swear a geas of fealty to my brother. Do you understand what a geas is?"
"Yeah," Montaron said, taken aback. The sweat was starting to flow again.
"Good. Now, would you like to meet your future travelling companion?"
He snapped his fingers and a guard ventured outside, returning with a tall, middle-aged wizard who smiled strangely at Montaron.
"Xzar," the man spoke clearly, "I'd like you to meet your new friend, Montaron."
"Monty!" the wizard exclaimed happily. "Positively delightful. And he practically fits in my pocket! How convenient. This holiday is going to be such fun!"
He clapped his hands and did a little dance right there in the cell. Montaron stared at him, then lowered his head and groaned.