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Dearest Readers, may good fortune and true friends await you just around the many corners in your path.
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THE HIDDEN SWORD: A TALE OF BALDUR'S GATE
Book One: From the Earth | Chapter 33: Bends and Corners
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Master Hagskins evidently prided himself on being a tight and exacting gentleman, a merchant of high standards. He thumbed his nose at the young elf, the open crate of merchandise, and the invoice she had given him.
He yapped a command at his secretary, Fadmil, a morose and twitchy man, and the latter nervously scribbled something on the paper. Peering into the invoice, Hagskins huffed and roughly snatched the paper and feather pen from his clerk, himself scratching furiously over the other man's initial writings before thrusting the parchment at Irse's face. Fighting the urge to scowl at his brusqueness, she took the invoice to read the proposed payment, eyes darting between the paper in her hand and the merchant standing in front of her.
"You're asking a fortieth of the price for a discount?" she blurted, incredulous, and read the rest of Hagskin's terms. "And to be paid after thirty days!" she nearly choked on her words. No, too much of a cut and too long a wait.
And then remembering Okami's instruction about speaking with these proud and shrewd creatures...
"I mean, Sir, I understand you prefer terms advantageous to your needs. But I can only accommodate up to a twentieth off the price, though I hope you would be so generous as to provide the payment today," she bargained in a strained voice.
Hagskins snorted with unconcealed derision, tapping at some invisible offensive dust from his laced sleeves. "Oh please, don't even attempt to swindle me out of my hard-earned wealth. I know you smiths just pick out ore of the worst quality and half-bake your labors to pass it off as it were craftsmanship of the highest art. All you do is pound at the metal and hope it comes out not too crooked."
Irse glared at the man, aware she had placed her right hand on the small of her back. As far away as she can keep it from the sword hilt. All right then, perhaps they can still absorb this much loss from the price and maybe this whole deal can be salvaged somewhat.
"I might agree to your proposal if -," she said, readying herself and hoping for the best. "You'll also settle what remains of the last job order. Pay both last and current commissions, right here and now."
A quick mental estimate affirmed that the sum of this job, though severely discounted, and the full remit of the last one should be more than enough to pay a healer for all three men.
Hagskins glared at her as if he had been offered the foulest sewer water in an unwashed chalice. "Are you out of your mind? You dare impose on me when your master and I had an agreement? I will make payment for this one at only a sixtieth of the price and after thirty days, and for the prior one, I shall decide when and at my convenience."
"The agreement was for you to pay him when he delivers the next commissioned work which is what we're negotiating now," Irse nearly snarled.
Incredible how such creatures manage to exist in this world without getting punched in the spleen through their throat!
Fadmil raised a timid finger, murmuring fearfully over his ledger. "The elf is correct, Sir. I was there when you made the pledge to the Kozakuran."
"Seal that coarse trap of yours! I'm not compensating you to take the side of fraudsters!"
"But, Sir. You haven't exactly compensated me in the last two months."
Hagskins ignored his clerk's complaint and gestured at his bodyguards, two burly fellows loitering restlessly by the horses. "You, there! Bring the crate to my carriage this instant!"
As the men moved to take the merchandise, Irse stepped in their way, hand hovering above her sword.
"Are we resorting to violence now? How barbaric. You accepted the invoice bearing my stated terms with your own hands. A change of your mind means naught to me," Hagskins sneered.
Irse wanted to scream in fury and strangle the man. But she breathed in and willfully kept her hands off the sword. "A moment here, Sir. I'm not signing off on the bill as we haven't even agreed on the price. All I ask is you pay us for both commissions this instant, and then I shall agree to receiving only a sixtieth of the price for this current one as you wish."
"I stand by my terms. You have no choice but to accept them if you wish to continue doing business with my company and every merchant in this City," Hagskins threatened, gloating as he turned his back on her and walked away.
Irse fell into a defensive crouch, left hand on the scabbard. The two men traded hesitant glances with each other.
"Oh dear," Fadmil murmured, stepping back, and clutching the ledger to his chest. "This is going to get messy again."
Hagskins wagged his fist impatiently. "What are you oafs waiting for? I said get the -"
His words were cut off, interrupted by the screech of wagon wheels skidding upon the pavement. A gnome, cloaked and garbed in dark leathers and a cap, jumped out and swaggered towards Hagskins.
"And who might you be?" the merchant scoffed down at the gnome.
One of the guards shrank back in terror and shouted, "By Talos! It's Sollozzo the Turnip!"
Hagskins didn't seem perturbed by the introduction for he puffed out his chest and stroked his mustache. "I've heard of you from my more regrettably uncouth acquaintances. And which rabble guild thought it acceptable to hire the likes of you to beg some pathetic middling settlement from me?"
Sollozzo sported a feral grin as he bowed. "None of it, Master Hagskins. Rather, the Rutabaglias sent me to serve you your rightful due after you swindled them out of their rightful profits in the last radish run to Darkhold."
Drawn from his cloak, the gnome pointed a wand at Hagskins and uttered an arcane word. A green ray shot out of its tip and hit the merchant in the chest.
"They dare threaten me? I, Demerott Hagskins the Third? I'll have you know, I'm –"
And those were the last words of Merchant Hagskins in this life for he crumbled into fine dust. Flesh, bone, clothes, mustache, and all.
"Holey Knickers," Irse mumbled, dumbfounded. Proud high-borns often deluded and claimed themselves to be the most refined of all people. Indeed now here lay proof, undeniably refined, even finer than cinnamon dust.
Shocked, all four of them could do nothing but stare dumbstruck as Sollozzo the Turnip wobbled back unopposed to the wagon and immediately sped away. The two bodyguards looked at each other and scrambled off for dear life, leaving behind the clerk and the blacksmith's apprentice.
"Oh dear," Fadmil whispered in the same tone. "It indeed got messy again."
Irse looked down at the pile of dust before them, then at the clerk. "Should we tell the Watch?"
Drive-by-wandings were fairly common in Iriaebor, a quick and near untraceable assassination or harassment method favored by the lower-rung guilds bent on avenging the slightest mercantile insult. Most weren't even fatal, usually simple spells which turned one into a squirrel or covered them with painful boils mercifully wearing off within the day.
However, fire and explosive magic were avoided for they also harmed innocent bystanders and caused conflagrations consuming entire city blocks of tax-paying establishments. A surefire way of catching the Council's attention. None of the merchants were keen on drawing Lord Bron into another war to end their wars.
"What's the use? They're probably in the payroll of the Rutabaglias."
Irse glanced around the empty street. Fadmil said it true for she saw none of the City Watch division of the Shield of Iriaebor patrolling this lane. Well then, she certainly didn't want to know any more about the seedy business dealings digging around in the underground root crop market.
"Say, maybe you could put in the books that Hagskins is going to pay me and then we go to whichever money merchant holds his accounts and withdraw the gold. I'll still agree to the discount if you include the last commission as well," Irse negotiated as she sidled up to the clerk and bunted shoulders with him.
Fadmil stumbled from the bump and looked about to throw up. "I wish I could pay you out of Master Hagskin's estate, but you see, you're not the only one who's owed, and certainly not the most powerful and ruthless."
He showed her the thick ledger, more like three ledgers with covers sewn together, and the unending list of creditors. Irse recognized some of the names as having enough gold and influence to hire an army of avenging wand-waggers.
With an equally heavy heart but still lighter purse, the elf watched Fadmil slunk away, wishing the poor fellow could at least pocket some backpay for himself. But now she must deal with the more pressing problem of disposing the merchandise for where would she find a generous customer willing to snatch up all these shortswords and daggers with Hagskin's signature monogram on the blades?
Nowhere else to go, Irse conceded as she stepped out on the curb to flag any passing wagon.
Hand raised against the heavens and curling into a fist, the elf let out a primal guttural cry, hoarse with frustrated rage from the deepest pit of desperation.
"Carriage!"
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"Serves yer Master right fer bein' an addled soft-heart," Kagain sniggered. "Ye can't be agreein' to every stupid demand these moneybags be clawin' out o' ye."
Irse scowled at him. As if this skinflint wasn't doing the same to them. At least Kagain paid up and on time, but more so because his contracts with them were already discounted. Exclusive rights, he'd brag.
"How am I going to find the money for a healer now?" she wailed, hands flailing before nesting her face between her elbows on Kagain's office desk.
Peddle these instead in the Open Market? Possible but not feasible within the day. Even then with this month not their scheduled run for selling in the City, their stall was already being rented out temporarily to someone else. Of course, Irse could simply park herself in a corner, spread out a cloak and dump the pile on the ground, hoping for anyone to come by and purchase the weapons. But then, she'd find herself reprimanded by the Market Watch for it meant she wasn't paying rent to the lessors.
Kagain stroked his beard as he eyed the blades. "How much are ye sellin' these anyway?"
Irse told him the price.
An unmistakable glint gleamed in the dwarf's eye. "I'll take 'em off yer hands fer half."
"Less half? Uh, no. No," Irse retorted, crisscrossing her forearms in a gesture of outright rejection.
Tempting as it may be to grab the offer, obviously he was merely planning to use this batch to replace his usual pre-spring commissions with them at standard contract price. No way in the realms would she agree to such a term and pay for only half a healing.
"Less a tenth," she countered.
"Less a fortieth."
"Less fifteenth." C'mon you piece of coal, she inwardly begged. At least let them make the margin.
"Thirtieth."
"Twentieth. Final offer. Ask for a twenty-fifth cut and you pay for my midday meal on top of it."
The dwarf glowered at the elf, clearly knowing he'd be eaten out of business and home, should he dare.
"Fine. Ye got yerself a deal. Less a twentieth it be, ya fleecin' leaf-head."
Kagain inspected the blades once more, muttering about maybe asking for another price cut because of the hideous monogram, a single 'H' etched on one side of each blade. Irse rolled her eyes at him. He could just tell his mercenaries how the letter now stands for Hackmaul Protection Enterprise.
As the dwarf barked at Squard to scrape around in the company coffers, Irse patted herself for a job well done. As Okami had estimated, the money would be enough to pay for a cleric. Too bad about the uncollected commission though. At least she knew her Teacher would let it go, understanding how everything had just careened off the road, crashing straight into a burning turnip patch.
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"What do you mean this only pays for half a healing?" Irse sputtered, then remembered she was in one of the few sacred nooks of the Docks.
A small shrine to Eldath, a clean and well-maintained white-washed stone chapel rather out-of-place in the ramshackle rickety heap of warehouses and jumbled buildings. The others were a forbidding and perpetually ice-covered grove to Auril, and a column of stones and metal rods dedicated to Talos.
"I mean, Your Holiness, what do you mean this is only half of the price of your services now?" Irse said more deliberately this time, hoping it worked to conceal her outrage.
The woman acolyte explained, "Ah, right. You're asking for three persons. At the amount you're giving me, inclusive of the reservation fees per patient, two-way travel allowance, mandatory donations to the temple as required from each supplicant to be cured…"
She rubbed her chin, staring at the ceiling as she calculated mentally. "By my reckoning, our priest could only restore each of them by half. Or heal one in full, the second by half."
"And the third one?"
"May Eldath have mercy on their soul."
Fingers clawing and twitching at her sides, Irse glared at the acolyte. Knowing her Teacher, he would certainly volunteer to be the unfortunate third man.
No, she'll have to come up with something better.
"How about I give you half now, just to make sure you'll allot someone for this request. When I give the other half, your priest will accompany me to Dearg then?"
The woman paused, considering. Irse looked at her with her most pleading moony eyes. Surely Eldath wouldn't begrudge a bit of delay from buying a new holy candelabra for a sacred alcove?
"All right. I see no cause to deny an earnest petition. We will await the rest of the payment and then our priest shall accompany you to your village on the same day you fulfill the obligation in full."
"Deal!" Irse proclaimed brightly and slammed the bag of gold and silvers on the counter.
As she watched the acolyte count the coins, she inwardly counted the centuries shaved from her lifespan, no thanks to this day of all days.
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"Ye went to a Shrine of Eldath?" Kagain rumbled and snorted. "Ye coulda' just gone to the Talossans, they'll only ask fer one o' yer eyes, or maybe someone else's."
Did she have any choice? No surprise that the Green Goddess commanded more chapels in the City, given how the current ruler of Iriaebor had been a paladin of Eldath. She did try looking for an Ilmatari chapel first, but with how almost every establishment in this City were as permanently entrenched as the windblown desert sands, the homely though derelict shrine to the Crying God no longer stood in the corner where she last saw them. For in that particular spot, the chapel had now been replaced by a cheap corner festhall, or rather... a festcorner.
Irse sat slumped upon the dwarf's office desk. She raised her head and bemoaned this new predicament. "How am I going to cough up that much gold in such short notice? I don't think I can wash enough plates and sharpen enough kitchen knives in a tankard house to afford the other half."
"Ya mean yer wantin' to take on another job just fer that? Why don't ye give up, go home. Just be doin' more o' his work if he ends up a feebled sap fer the rest o' his life."
Out of the question. She cannot endure another day of seeing her Teacher in such state. And he would likely know how to pick at the bedpost chains anyway for after all, he made them for the Watch, except they suddenly decided they needed one less pair of those.
Not only Okami, but Nalwin and Andor depended on the healing so they could provide for their families, especially with winter peeking around the corner.
"You know of any other immediate job I could take on? I'm pretty handy with a lot of chores." Only never ask her to sing and dance for not even a high priest could undo what damage she might inflict on anyone's ears and eyes.
"Yer willin' to take on any kind o' employment, ye say?" Kagain said and paused, rubbing his thumb and forefinger. He hummed a tad too casually and glanced around, as if making sure no shadow had sneaked in to eavesdrop upon them.
Irse nodded pathetically.
"Well I might know a job fer ye."
"I'm listening."
And so the dwarf told her of an acquaintance of his who needed at least one or a few extra men for temporary protection work. Kagain would've gladly foisted any of his mercenaries, even the jelly bellied Squard, except all of his men had already been assigned in other jobs.
"How much?" Irse dared to ask.
Kagain told her. The elf nearly fell out of her seat.
"And you couldn't even spare a single one of your men? That's the easiest pile of gold you'll ever make."
The dwarf glared at her, surprisingly slighted at the suggestion. "I may be a havin' a good fist fer money, but I be no double-worded swindler to go back on my other clients."
For as the days of Autumn faded like the leaves in the trees, merchant caravans hasted to complete their final trips before the rotting rains and snow make the roads dangerous for travel. All of Kagain's mercenaries have already been hired, whether sent out or presently stationed in the shop and awaiting deployment.
That, and said acquaintance already required the extra body too soon – specifically tonight.
Tonight? Irse pondered. This seemed so sudden, but undeniably a good break. Perhaps the gods might be smiling down, if not frowning less on her this instant. Who knows, fate itself might have brought her here, and how could she possibly turn down an opportunity after nearly dismembering the last one right before it got disintegrated?
"I'll take it."
He eyed the elf doubtfully. "Ye sure? Not askin' yer Master fer permission first, eh? But since yer willin' then who am I to stop ye?"
Kagain had one of his guards fetch a messenger to inform his acquaintance that a suitable warm body had been found for the job. Within the hour, the messenger returned and whispered something to the dwarf. Kagain nodded and scribbled something on a piece of parchment which he folded and handed to Irse.
"Here, the man agreed to hire ye, greater fool than I expected him to be. This be his name, the place, and hour o' yer meetin' later, right before dusk. Now ye best keep this t' yerself fer the job's to be a secret."
"Oh, good," Irse mumbled, taking the note, and pocketing it.
"An' yer payin' me a referral fee."
Irse crinkled her lip. Of course, as expected. "I hope you've put your finder's fee on top of your friend's payment."
"Bah! Am no friend o' his! And no, I be takin' it out o' yer compensation from him."
Irse glared abyssal daggers at Kagain, though the dwarf seemed too pleased with his business prowess to notice. The elf asked the courier to wait while she composed a brief letter for Okami.
Teacher, don't fret! I am not writing from a jail cell nor the bench of a trade settlement court. Something has come up and I can only collect the money in full by tomorrow. In other words, I'm returning tomorrow. Don't know what hour yet. But Safe. And without guards chasing after me. I promise. And I've secured the services of a cleric of Eldath who will be coming with me. Mister Kagain says a priest of Talos should've been cheaper, but I'm not sure. In the meantime, if I have to, I'll be staying at the Blackmaul barracks for the night, so don't worry about me.
Irse signed her name and looked up at the ceiling, recalling anything else she needed to add. The elf snapped her fingers and hastily scribbled at the bottom of the paper.
By the way, don't let anyone else in the house unless it's Kerda, or Thadd, or Wisewoman Daserah, or Cook Tucky, or Headman Prappin, or Kerda and Thadd's parents…
And she proceeded to list nearly every villager's name except for the flirty vultures likely to be undeterred by the prospect of catching the ailment themselves if such opportunity would allow them to sink their tricky painted talons on her too-trusting Teacher.
"Yer bunkin' in my place o' business? Ye think this be some charity house fer homeless frolickers?" Kagain roared over her shoulder.
"And yer handwritin' seems awfully ugly even fer an elf," he added, rubbing his nose in judgment.
Irse slammed a covering hand above the parchment and glowered at the dwarf who didn't even conceal his peeking. She folded the parchment, borrowing a dot of sealing wax and handed it to the courier along with the fee, drumming her fingers until the man left the office.
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Already past noon, the thousand spires on the Tor cast an imposing shadow upon the plains. Irse wandered the streets of Iriaebor's Lower City for there be little else to do while waiting for sundown. However, she couldn't help but feel a sense of trepidation. Maybe she should've come home first and asked Okami about it, but it would mean paying another carriage ride back to Dearg. More importantly, furthering the illness risked impairing him and the others permanently, and she didn't want to burden the villagers with having to raise the rest of the cleric's fee.
Besides, with the payment from this job, they could buy more new materials with the surplus. Maybe this coming winter solstice, she could even get two chicken buckets from Old Cook Tucky instead of the usual single bucket!
Don't get too excited, she cautioned herself. As they always say back in the village, don't count your hatchlings until they've laid the eggs.
Now to find a tankard house serving cheap but decent meals. She jaunted absently into a street, passing by a soot-painted door with a singed wooden placard. Irse paused, stepped back a few paces, knocked on the door, wiped the ash from her knuckle, and went inside.
"Oh, it's you, sweetie! Have some pie," the old gnomish woman chirped, holding out a full tin pan.
"Thanks, Missus Wolb," the elf replied, taking the whole plate for herself. Molasses pie, praise Tethrin.
She looked around for any chair still standing, found the least unstable candidate with just one armrest blown off, pulled it to herself with one foot, puffing on the ashes, before sitting down and digging into the pie. She watched the gnome couple as they pottered about in the store; still wary, but an empty stomach can brave more dangers than the fretting mind.
"Mister Wolb, what's the matter? You don't seem too chipper today, " Irse called out before swallowing another piece.
The old gnome wrung his hands in distress. "Oh, it's just terrible, lass! Terrible! Someone broke into our shop not a tenday ago and stole a few of our potions, the most volatile ones too." From behind the counter he reached down and produced a slender vial unlike their standard rounded bottles, the contents a pale shade of purple instead of the usual honey-gold.
"But they missed this one because I used it to bookmark the pages of last year's ledger. Why, silly me, I had almost forgotten about it too!"
Irse stared at the vial in the old man's trembling hand. And he must have fished that ledger from the floor, underneath a pile of other neglected tomes as well.
Missus Wolb paused from her chore of wiping a blackened spot on the table with a dusty rag. "Dear, didn't you already tell the Watch about it?"
"I did. Says they're looking into it, but I doubt they will, unless we grease their halberds with good coin."
Irse sighed. Ah, what she and her fellow common folk often had to deal with. The elf took another slice and chewed on it.
Missus Wolb harrumphed. "We polish their halberds anymore and they're going to shine brighter than the sun itself!"
Irse glanced around at the store. Surely there must be some clue left in some corner of this place that hasn't been blown up yet. An idea struck her.
"Say, when you folks found this place broken into, did you find any footprints?"
A long toss in the dark, but they needed to start at something.
"Or maybe a blown-off thumb?"
Perhaps one of the temples had to heal someone with pulverized hands and they'd remember what the perpetrator looked like.
"Unfortunately, the thieves made a great mess. Hard to find any clue in all of that, if only they'd been more neat with their dirty work," Mister Wolb said defeatedly.
The old gnome pointed at the disarray attributed to the burglars - cluttered cobwebbed crates and scattered mounds of bottles, haphazardly lined vats of components, and piles of paperwork occupying the floor and shelves, if not strewn all over the place. The young elf looked around at the glorious muddle around them, stretched her mouth in a wry line and scarfed down another morsel of the pie.
"Though they left all the money in the till. Bless them for letting us poor hardworking gnomes keep our little earnings!" Missus Wolb said cheerily.
"Yes, they did. So kind of them I must say," Mister Wolb agreed.
Irse scratched the back of her ear, baffled. Why would those thieves make off with the explosive potions instead of the money? Or why not take both?
"So you reported only the potions being stolen?" she quizzed them, unsure of what to make of the situation.
"Why yes of course. We're honest folk, you know," Mister Wolb said, straightening his collar with pride, stamping his sooty thumbmarks on the fabric.
Irse shrugged her shoulders and resumed eating her pie, polishing off the last piece. Something solid and definitely not molasses grazed her tongue. The elf fished it out and found a tiny piece of wood. Probably a fragment of this chair's former armrest.
Irse held up the now spotless tin pan. "Lovely pie, Missus Wolb. Got any more?"
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"The Slippery Snakeherd," Irse recited the name of the tavern as she walked to the place where she must present herself to Kagain's acquaintance. What in the realms is even a snakeherd?
Though she had read the instructions many times, memorizing the details, the elf unfolded the note once more. She glared at the dwarf's handwriting – the letters perfectly formed, graceful strokes, curls elegant and fine-tipped, the lines sharp and firm, penned with the steady and artful hand of a master scribe.
Irse scowled. Life is so unfair and yes, he has the right to judge her chicken scratchings. She glanced at the note again.
Be at the Slippery Snakeherd before dusk, it read.
Seek ye out the man called E.K.
Irse absently rubbed the parchment between her fingers. What kind of job required so much secrecy that this person didn't mind meeting a new and uninformed recruit just hours before the job? Perhaps work much too easy and needed no great effort to accomplish.
More importantly, what does E.K. stand for? And why the need for anonymity before their meeting? The elf pondered on the many possibilities of this most enigmatic moniker.
Engelbert Krumpledink? Nope, too highborn-sounding. Eugene Kritz? Nope, too ordinary, not befitting a dark and mysterious stranger with a covert purpose and hiding behind an inscrutable alias. In her mind she scribed down all the likely combinations of names she could think of with the letters. At the forty-fifth candidate in the list, it was then that she finally arrived at the steps of the Snakeherd, and under the watchful eyes of the tavern enforcer.
The man, an imposing Chultan giant, ever garbed himself in black tunic and trousers with sleeves purposely tight-fitting to showcase the colossal arms allotted by the gods for no other purpose than to administer order in the one of most raucous pubs in the Lower City.
"Heya, Mandla! How are your sisters?" Irse hailed him with an affable wave.
Brother to a squadron of women running an inn and, as they claimed, a more family-friendly tankard house, the Chultan always bought their knives in bulk. Though the blacksmith and apprentice suspected his sisters' knives weren't simply getting lost in the kitchen.
Mandla looked down at the young elf and grinned. "Irse! A fine day to glimpse a friendly face. How is Mister Okami doing?"
"Not well, I'm afraid. Teacher and some of our folk fell ill. I've come here to see about a job for extra coin to pay for their healing."
"I am sorry to hear that. Chauntea bring them health soon," he murmured with sympathy, then jerked up, clearly appalled at the elf's other words.
"A job in the Snakeherd? What kind of business are you seeking here?" Mandla questioned her, evidently disturbed.
Irse blinked up at him. "Truth be told, I don't know yet. I'm supposed to meet someone."
"Who might it be? Perhaps I know of the person," the Chultan offered.
Irse guessed, poking a finger at her temple as she looked up in recollection. "I have a name right here. Mister- uh… Eggplant King?"
Mandla stared at her, confused.
Irse hastly pulled out the note from her pocket and uncrumpled the paper for a quick glance.
"Sorry. I meant E.K.," she muttered, rolling her eyes at having to peek at the note once more.
The puzzled look on Mandla's face morphed into unconcealed disgust.
"Oh. Him," he almost spat.
The Chultan opened the door to peek inside, bawdy laughter and riotous shouts spilling out into the street. His eyes roved over the patrons within until the massive shoulders dropped in disappointment. Irse wrinkled her lip in worry.
"He's not in there?" she asked, anxious.
"Unfortunately, he is," Mandla sighed before turning back to the elf. "You may go in. Twelfth table to your right. Be careful of the floor. If it is slick, walk slowly. If it is sticky, dip your shoes in vinegar when you get home. On second thought, perhaps you should douse yourself with vinegar first before entering."
Irse laughed awkwardly. "Come now, surely things aren't bad in there. And I'll be quick. In and out. But I thank you anyway."
Gingerly she filed through the maze of carelessly strewn benches, dodged the drunken swing of patrons scuffling in every other table, and narrowly avoided getting drenched with ale by an angry serving wench. Irse winced. One of those rare times when the elf wished she couldn't see that well in dim light. She had to pause to number the tables from the entrance, wondering if an overturned one halfway through the room counted as the fifth, before moving on. This had to be the longest walk in her life.
"Ah, so the lady elf finally graces my day with her presence!"
Irse turned to her right, at a booth where a man sat alone. Fetching in a raffish kind of way, he looked every bit the strutting swashbuckler with his dark hair slicked back, trimmed goatee and pierced ears, silk shirt rakishly unbuttoned at the chest beneath a fine velvet jacket trimmed with silver thread. Beside him at the couch rested a gilded lute case and curved sword, a scimitar. By his bearing, he should appear out of place here at the Snakeherd, and yet something about his aura made him fit right in with the rabble.
"Mister E.K.?" she ventured.
The man eyed her from head to toe, his lips curling into a smile as if he just thought of a secret he wished to tease her with.
"Please, my dear, dispense with the formalities. Simply Eldoth. Eldoth Kron at your service," he announced, rising from his seat. He bowed with dramatic flourish, extending a hand.
Irse stared awkwardly at the man's open palm before grasping it. Eldoth tugged at her, pulling her to him, but in a split moment, Irse pulled back, gripping his hand and wagging it in a firm but nervous handshake.
"I'm Irse. Glad to make your acquaintance, Sir," she blurted out.
Eldoth seemed startled out of his usual confidence, the facade breaking in a flicker. But he smoothed his features once more with a dripping smirk as he disengaged from her grasp.
"What a solid grip. Perhaps a bit too firm. We might have to teach that hand of yours to handle some things a little more delicately," he remarked with a simper.
Irse raised an eyebrow as she stared at her palm. The man said it quite right – Teacher used to admonish her for gripping her weapon as if she were strangling the life out of the hilt. Be firm that you may guide the path of the blade, yet comfortable that you communicate your confidence and surety, he'd say then smack the tip of her bokken with his own, aiming to demonstrate the effect particularly if he could knock it out of her hands with the least amount of effort in his part.
Eldoth motioned to the empty seat across him. As Irse settled herself, pulling the katana out of her sash to rest it comfortably on her lap, the man leaned back, swirling a bottle of ale.
"I expected the dwarf to send me his unwashed ruffians or worse, his churlish cousins or even a bearded niece. I didn't think he'd manage to gather a flower out of this savorless wasteland of stone," he drawled, his accent pleasant to the ears yet clipped with a haughty note.
Must be a man of Ruathym, for his manners and speech reminded her of the rather colorful islanders she and her Teacher often observed bobbing among the passing stream of humanity at the Docks.
"Uhm yeah, flower," Irse stammered, suddenly at a loss for words, though not for the flattery.
"Kagain must have already informed you that this work is only for one night. But we still have some time to pass before I take you to where we must go. Enough time to cultivate a more rewarding relationship beyond –"
"Oi, Kron! Quit plinkin' yer prick under the tables an' start pluckin' yer damned lute up the stage, ya overweenin' prat," hollered a greasy aproned halfling from the bar.
The playful grin crumpled into a bitter grimace as Eldoth halted mid-talk. He curled his hand into a fist and roughly grabbed the lute case at his side. He exhaled, pressing at his hair despite its unruffled immaculateness, his face once more a cloak of self-assurance.
"The things we do for our dreams, the heights we blindly reach at, and the depths to which we willingly plunge," he murmured darkly before rising from the couch and sauntering towards a makeshift stage.
Eldoth seated himself on a lone stool, taking his instrument out of its case with practiced display. Ignoring the boisterous crowd before him, he held the lute to his ear, taking time with each string, plucking, and adjusting the pegs. Someone yelled at him to get on with it, and though Eldoth made no move to respond, the look on his face betrayed irritation.
Done with tuning his instrument, he breathed in and introduced himself, his speech taking on more emphasis than his earlier manner of conversation. Master Eldoth Kron, a humble lutenist and product of the famed musical college of New Olamn in Waterdeep. No one applauded but a few cat-called and jeered. Irse squirmed in her seat.
Glaring at the unappreciative mob, Eldoth bowed once and took to the strings. He began with a familiar ballad, the usual about lovers torn apart by the near-uncrossable chasm that is their widely gapped social status. It was followed by a somber chant, this time about a lady pining for her betrothed who had gone to war. Then he switched to something more lighthearted, a folksy ditty about a cuckolded old wizard and his shrewish young wife.
Irse listened but fidgeted in her seat. Eldoth proved undeniably skilled, his slender fingers plucking at the strings smoothly yet nuanced, his voice a rich and expressive tenor. Thadd and Kerda would've enjoyed this show, but Irse couldn't help but catch her mind drifting elsewhere.
Admittedly not having a good ear for tunes herself, the elf had long ceased even trying her hand at understanding or appreciating the intricate art of song and performance. Though they always say that music is the language of the soul, but with what hymns did her own ear and heart sang to?
The purest silence draped upon the world in that ephemeral moment hovering between night and dawn.
The cheerful bubbling of porridge in the pot as he stirred the gruel and charted their chores for the day while she yawned her sleepy acknowledgment.
The sharp crack of wood against wood beneath the trees, leathered soles or sometimes bare feet skimming crisp across the grass in rapid footwork, breeze whispering through the leaves in concert with breath and blood swift and heavy at the effort.
The clang of iron upon steel echoing in the smithy, the roar of fires kindled in the forge as sparks gleamed and floated like golden motes in the air around and between them.
Irse suddenly regained awareness, the corner of her lip arcing from the smile it had intuitively formed itself into.
"This next piece is one I have penned myself. I titled it 'The Sailor's Son'."
Eldoth repositioned the lute on his lap and began. He sang the tale of a young man in a rustic island, how he carried his dream of fame and glory through the hardships of laboring in fishing boats and the harbor, until he finally forsook his home to cross the seas and pursue his desires, throwing his heart and soul to his craft for many years yet scorned and looked down by the prideful nobles, and how in a cruel game of fate, wrongfully thrust out of society and made to wander, a broken soul, bitter and aggrieved. A cautionary parable about reaching for the stars and finding oneself mercilessly burned and hurled back to the ground.
Throughout the song, Eldoth belted out this lament, his face and voice earnest as if for a moment stripped of their earlier swagger. Yet Irse wondered if this in itself was a rehearsed execution as well. Eventually he concluded the song, taking an extended pause as if to gather his emotions once more. A few along with the elf granted him some muted obligatory applause and the audience resumed its rowdy chatter and brawling. Eldoth alighted from the stage and strode through the crowd, chin held high and no longer caring of any jeers thrown his way.
"Forgive the interruption, my dear," he said to her.
A dashing smile plastered itself on Eldoth's face once more as he took his seat at their booth.
"Shall we proceed to the business at hand?"