The pretty pink-haired girl entered the shop sitting squarely on the border between the Government and Temple Districts of Athkatla slightly hesitantly, as if she weren’t certain this was really the place she was searching for.
However, once in the shop, all her indecision vanished. She approached the fat shopkeeper briskly, smiled and said, “Hi!”
“Hello, miss,” Gorch said, returning the smile and internally sighing, A customer, here. “How can I help you?”
The girl smiled again, this time even wider. “I’m looking for somebody called Mae’Var,” she said, and Gorch, blinking, did a double take.
The girl was not wearing any armour, and had no weapon except for a small, childishly looking dagger at her belt; and in spite of the two nasty scars on her face, she did not really look like someone who could use it well—or, indeed, at all. Her clothes were black, trimmed with red and made of obviously high-quality material; there was an amulet half-hidden under the collar of the shirt. There was a small gem bag hanging next to the dagger, and a rather larger bag on the girl’s back, with a tube full of scrolls sticking out of it. There was only one sensible conclusion which Gorch could produce from this picture.
“Yer a wizard?” he asked, dropping the high-class accent in which he spoke to the customers. Then, because in fact the girl didn’t interest him in the slightest and all he wished was to return to his peaceful slumber, he added, “No matter. Mae’Var’s out, so ye won’ talk ter him now. Bu’ Edwin’s on top, secon’ floor. Ye can talk ter him... If ye ‘ave the papers, tha’ is,” he added, seeing that the girl was about to cheerfully walk into the second largest thieves’ guild in Athkatla completely unchecked.
The girl looked at him sheepishly and, after rummaging for a moment in the bag on her back, produced the necessary documentation. Apparently, she was a new arrival to Athkatla, and her talents were, so far, completely unverified.
Gorch shrugged and waved her in. His job was done; the girl was someone else’s problem now.
-----
Imoen found a flight of stairs which took her to the first and then to the second floor of the guild’s building. She could feel eyes watching her as she went on; but no one approached her from the shadows, and so, she did not approach anyone, either.
Athkatla was, she had been told, divided by the thieves into three territories. The south-west area, with the docks, where all the ships coming to Athkatla with their rich cargo were unloaded, and Waukeen’s Promenade, where the majority of the city’s legal trade took place, was Aran Linvail’s personal demesne, administered in his lieu by Renal Bloodscalp. The south-east, with the slums, the city gates and the bridge area—the havens of illegal entertainment—was Gaelan Bayle’s; and the north, with the rich Government and Temple Districts, was Mae’Var’s. Here, the majority of income came from three sources: first, the rich, unwary tourists who came to settle their matters with the government and the gods; second, money paid by the rich nobles to secure their mansions against burglary; and finally, the most important: the assassination contracts.
These always ultimately had to be approved by the Shadowmaster himself; but it rarely occurred that Linvail did not agree to Mae’Var’s recommendation. The master of the northern guild was cunning and powerful; and, it was rumoured, constantly plotting to achieve even more power. In fact, he had very nearly supplanted Aran Linvail five months before, when the Shadow Thieves had almost become implicated in the war between Amn and Baldur’s Gate.
That said, such rumours accompany all ambitious men in positions of power; and certainly, once that opportunity to ascend in the ranks had been lost, Mae’Var had returned to the role of a dutiful lieutenant.
-----
Imoen came up the last flight of stairs, surfaced into the bright light of the guild’s second floor, and stopped in her tracks.
Everywhere—and it was barely a hyperbole: on the floor, on a pair of massive tables, on each of the three high shelves standing in the room—there were lying books, stacks of papers and rolls of parchment: all neatly arranged with a precision bordering, if not far into, obsessive compulsion. On a third table, ordered by size, there were two rows of small glass flasks which immediately evoked very unpleasant memories in Imoen’s mind; they, and the plethora of objects on the last high shelf. These must be the odds and ends which evidently could not be arranged otherwise and, undoubtedly with a reluctant sigh, had been all gathered here so as not to disturb the empyreal harmony of the rest of the room with their unruly messiness; still, Imoen had never seen a human skull put away so neatly.
It was certainly not the type of room one expected to find in a thieves’ guild, even after learning how much of the Shadow Thieves’ functioning depended on bureaucracy. (The guild was remarkably similar to any other business in this regard, Imoen thought.) It was, in short, a wizard’s room; and, after a brief spell of fighting the sudden urge to escape, Imoen set to searching for the wizard.
She was about to call out when the wizard found her. She heard a small, quickly stifled, scream of surprise behind her, followed quickly by some enraged muttering:
“(Can’t those thieving simians learn to walk a little LOUDER? One of these days, they will give me a heart attack, they will.)”
She turned around to face the speaker. The wizard was short, bearded, dressed in red and—a detail Imoen found so impractical that it was almost ridiculous—possessed of a nose ring. She was about to reply when the man raised his voice and asked, in a nasal, high-pitched voice, “Yes? What do you want?”
“Um,” Imoen started. “The man at the door—he told me to find you, because Mae’Var isn’t here.”
The wizard sized her up and down, and lied, “Yes, I thought I didn’t see you monkey here before. Still, obviously that is no excuse for taking my time. You should have applied to Zyntris or Anishai.”
“I didn’t know that,” Imoen retorted. “The man told me to come here.”
“Here?” The man’s voice couldn’t possibly sound more high-pitched and annoyed.
“Yes... He thought that I was a wizard, you see,” Imoen explained.
The man sized her up and down again; for a moment, his eyes lingered on her breasts, and she felt slightly queasy. “Are you?” he asked acerbically.
Imoen laughed. “Me? Nah.”
“But you are wearing a metaspell amulet,” the man retorted in a voice brooking no disagreement. “The aura is unmistakable.”
Imoen’s hand shot to the hidden necklace of its own accord. “It was my—friend’s,” she explained, hoping that the brief pause escaped unnoticed; from the way the wizard’s eyes narrowed, there was no chance of that happening. To cover up the mishap, she added, “Me, I could at most shoot out a magic missile or two, if I really had to, I think. Or, at least, I once knew how to. I started to learn, anyway,” she continued, increasingly aware that she was blabbering.
The man was watching her oddly. “You started to learn,” he repeated slowly.
“Yeah. Except that it got boring, so I stopped,” Imoen replied honestly, feeling the need to explain.
The man’s face twisted into a rather interesting grimace. “You simians certainly do have a peculiar attitude towards the most majestic of arts,” he snorted. “Tell me, have you perchance ever reconsidered that opinion? (No, she wouldn’t... Would she? Would she?)”
The muttering caught Imoen’s attention. “Just what are you driving at, here?” she asked suspiciously.
The man looked down on her. “What I, Edwin Odesseiron of Thay, have in mind, is an opportunity for you to correct your childish error in judgment.”
Imoen could not believe the testimony of her own ears. “Become your apprentice, you mean?” she asked, at the same time combining the multitude of small details of the man’s accent and looks into one picture: a Thayvian’s.
“Yes, yes, that too,” the wizard replied dismissively, waving a hand about, as if trying to fend off an unpleasant fly. His fingernails were long and meticulously manicured, Imoen noticed.
“And what would a Thayvian Red Wizard need an apprentice for?” she asked, adamantly impervious to the man’s histrionics.
“Why should you ask? It is not that I cannot deal with the multitude of tasks set upon me in this miserable place—” Imoen nodded, biting her lip to restrain herself from laughing. “But these minor errands simply take too much of my time, thus detracting me from my true undertaking. (Why can’t she just say yes?)”
“So, you expect me to slave for you, and, in return, you’ll throw me scraps of knowledge and call me a simian,” Imoen summed up. “No deal.” She had had far too much of that kind of treatment recently to willingly ask for more from this buffoon. Even if she wanted to study magic. Which, incidentally, she did not.
The man, now clearly offended, hissed out, “If you think that Edwin Odesseiron has nothing to offer except scraps of knowledge, then obviously you are obtuse enough not to be able to appreciate his teachings properly! (Ungrateful simian. What did I see in her? She shows no promise, obviously.)”
Imoen caught the last words as she was already descending down the stairs; on hearing them, she stopped in her tracks. “You really meant that?” she asked. “You would teach me properly?”
“Yes!” the man replied annoyed. “I told you: my current duties aren’t equal to me. To put it simply for your uncomplicated mind, they bore me. An apprentice, on the other hand, might find them challenging. And you’re the first one with the slightest potential to have ever appeared here.” Now, he was almost whining.
Imoen frowned, considering the unexpected development. To gain time, she asked, “What is a wizard doing in a thieves’ guild, anyway? I thought you people had your own organisation in Amn—?”
Odesseiron looked at her haughtily. “And why should Edwin Odesseiron wish to ally himself with any backwater officialdom?”
Imoen decided that the man must be in Amn on some secret spying mission; and almost instantly withdrew this opinion. Perhaps he just liked it here. There was no need to be suspicious of everyone just because she had just spent a day escaping a madman’s dungeon with a psychotic murderer who had enjoyed toying with her mind. There were people who were not constantly plotting out there. Somewhere, anyway. There must be. And wasn’t she a fine one to talk about plotting?
Suddenly, she decided that she would like to hear more about this apprenticeship the man was talking about.
“Well,” she said, returning to the top-floor room and, after carefully making way around the stacks of papers, seating herself on a chair that miraculously happened to be still free. “Tell me about that job you’d have for me, Edwin Odesseiron of Thay.”
-----
The job did sound interesting—at least in theory: she was not naive enough to think that it would not entail a lot of backbreaking work—and certainly it sounded like nothing Imoen had ever done before: mixing potions and poisons, scribing spells onto scrolls, enchanting objects and, occasionally, going on missions to assist the thieves. Edwin promised her that he would teach her how to cast the spells; or, at least, the basics of the trade; later, he explained, every wizard developed his or her own technique. She would do this whenever she would not be out of the guild on her thief business, he said, if she was accepted into the guild, that is; and, within a month, he would make of her a competent spell-caster.
“...of course, you will never reach the efficiency of a true wizard,” he finished. “But the minor cantrips are easy enough to comprehend even for one without a proper Thayvian education.”
She decided not to tell him that she had had a lot of proper education in Candlekeep, which she had uniformly hated; and that she might not be in Athkatla a month from now.
“There are empty rooms down the corridor,” Edwin was saying. “Pick whichever one suits you. (They all smell.) Most thieves don’t live in the building,” he explained, evidently noticing the surprise on her face, “only those who are set to Mae’Var’s personal bodyguard. And Anishai and Zyntris, of course. You should still see the both of them as soon as you are settled in, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Imoen said, smiling. “I’ll do so. And, by the way... I’m Imoen.”
-----
She put her head on the roll of material which served as a pillow, and started to think.
Of all her things, she had sold only Sarevok’s ring—and of that, she had let go with great satisfaction. It had, by far, paid for a drink, a visit to a barber’s, and a tithe to a priest of Kelemvor she had met when, in her traipsing through Athkatla, she had stumbled across a small cemetery located against all laws of hygiene squarely in the middle of the city. She felt badly that this was the only memorial ceremony she might afford for Irene and the others; but she didn’t quite know what else she might do. The elves had their own gods, whose temples were only in their own cities; Jaheira had worshipped Silvanus, and when Imoen met some druids, she would ask them for a word for the half-elf; but Khalid she had never asked what god he had followed—and Irene? Irene? What god might wish to take care of the memory of a dead Bhaalspawn?
So, so far she had her gems, and Khalid’s helmet, of course; but these all would, in her best estimate, still barely pay for a decent bow, sword and, possibly, armour. And she had absolutely no idea what she would do later.
The previous time, the party had just... accumulated. Khalid and Jaheira had taken care of two lost girls; then, two elves had joined them, and, all united by a common goal, they had moved from a place to a place, following the trail of Sarevok and the Iron Throne. Now... she was alone. She might wish to find an adventuring party, but she didn’t even know where to search for such people in Athkatla. In an inn, she supposed; but beyond that, she had no idea. And she did not even know if she wanted to be an adventurer.
That was, ultimately, why, directionless, she had accepted Renal Bloodscalp’s offer. And got herself this strange apprenticeship with Edwin Odesseiron. If she were successful in being accepted into Mae’Var’s guild, that is.
Magic had been boring once; of course, it had long stopped being so. Instead, it grew repulsive, stomach-turning, and associated with all the worst memories of her life; and, if she allowed it to remain so, it would mean that Irenicus had won. She must remember that it was only a tool, a tool like any other, and that Irene had been a wizard, too.
Irenicus... Yes, deny it as she might, he, too, was there; hovering constantly somewhere at the edge of her consciousness. He, and Bhaal. And Sarevok.
-----
She left her room, and descended to the first floor of the building, where, in a small, unmemorable room, she had a small interview with Anishai and Zyntris.
Zyntris, as it turned out, was the senior cutpurse of the guild: a short, lean, nervous-looking man, he was responsible for the guild’s pickpockets and burglars. Anishai, a tall, cool-looking woman, was apparently the leader of Mae’Var’s assassins. She remained on the side, watching silently as the man spoke:
“Well, girl, it be yer lucky day. Tonight, Kretor and me’d be doin’ a nice li’l job in the All-Seein’ Eye’s own temple. A customer desp’ratly wants the new Sarles there on display, an’ we’re all set to help here.” He laughed. “Ye’ll do it with me instead. We’ll see how ye do.”
Imoen blinked. “We’re robbing the Temple of Helm?”
“Wha’? Not up fer the job, are ye?” the man laughed again.
Imoen, whose leaky memory had just supplied the fact that, as a matter of fact, she had already had a fairly successful career of robbing temples, answered briskly, “No. Why not?” and smiled.
This was thieving stuff. What she had always enjoyed. Fun. Right. Right?
-----
“They want you to steal the Sarles?” she heard in the background the nasal, high-pitched voice of the wizard. “The new Sarles? The Amnish Falcon? (The imbeciles. Losing me my apprentice even before she settles in.)”
“Yeah. What’s wrong about that?” Imoen asked. She was still contemplating the ‘Temple of Helm’ part of the night’s assignment.
“Oh, nothing,” she heard in reply. “Except that it’s near two hundred pounds of pure illithium ore. (The good thing here, I suppose, being that you can’t possibly mistake it for anything else.)”
As Imoen, slack-jawed, looked at the wizard and assured herself that he wasn’t joking, she heard an exasperated sigh. “Look, this is not as much of a problem as you might think. Illithium is dense, so the statue is really more of a statuette; and, if Zyntris doesn’t give you a strength potion, I’ll whip up one quickly for you. (And she’d better use it well. It is not often that Edwin—)”
“I have a question,” Imoen asked suddenly, breaking through the stream of muttering. “Where is the Temple of Helm?”
-----
In the end, Edwin, incessantly mumbling about losing precious time better spent studying important scrolls, took her on a walk around the richer districts of Athkatla which jointly comprised Mae’Var’s territory. Imoen saw the government buildings; the rich mansions of the nobles, watched over by guards and, habitually, paying off the thieves to avoid burglary; finally, the magnificent temples of the gods. She plotted in her mind several easy routes between the guild building and the Temple District, looked around the main hall of the Temple of Helm, identified the major traps set around the temple’s art display under the guise of appreciating the sculptures, and finally made a quick mental note of the equipment she would use to lift the Falcon from its current resting place if she were the one planning the heist.
By all rights, she ought to have at least one night of advance preparation, so that she might also assess the night rotation of guards around the temple; but she had not asked for it when she had first been assigned to accompany on the task, and she certainly would not ask for it now. She would make do with what she had, and hope that Zyntris would not call her on that point.
When she was done, she asked Edwin to take her to a tavern, where they ate a light meal together; the wizard slowly ceasing his muttering and actually becoming interested in the coming heist; and then, they returned to the guild, where Imoen went to her room for a quick nap before the night’s job.
-----
The All-Seeing Eye never sleeps; unfortunately, his priests are, for the major part, human and fallible. And of all, the most difficult hour to endure awake is that some four hours before the coming of dawn, when the human body cleanses itself in expectation of the coming day.
That was why the two acolytes assigned to watch over the temple during the shift were hugging themselves against cold and chatting frantically about almost random topics; for it simply does not behove a priest of Helm to fall asleep while on duty. And that was why, try as they might, their senses were still dulled; their resolve, great as it was, enough to win the battle against their biology and the boredom of the eventless night—but only barely so.
That was why they did not notice in time the newcomers to the temple: and so, the two swift-footed figures appeared right behind them, shedding their invisibility only as they knocked the acolytes out with their clubs. The unconscious bodies were quickly caught and helped slide gently to the ground; later, each man was jabbed on his arm with a dart covered with a dose of Edwin Odesseiron’s finest soporific. The men’s slumbering blood flow would spread the sleep-inducing potion through their bodies, and prevent either of them from waking before the thieves were finished.
Having dealt thus with the guards inside the temple, Imoen and Zyntris moved without speaking a word to the Sarles statuette. The wizard had been correct when he had said that the Falcon was quite small for its weight: the irregular lump of metal (for, in fact, a typical representative of the recent Sarles, all the statue had in common with a real falcon was its name) measured no more than some twenty centimetres in each direction.
Still silent, Zyntris nodded to Imoen; and the girl began the demonstration of her skill.
First trap: invoking some unpleasant magic effect on the unwary, most probably some sort of a dire charm or domination; the priests would want to have the thief alive, after all. Second trap: the same, repeated, designed to catch the unwary and the arrogant who had dealt with the first trap-layer. Third trap: magic again, this time designed to hold the victim; fourth trap: for a change, a material one, a spike with a sleep-inducing potion. Then, the lock itself; the case carefully taken off and put down on the ground—
And then, finally, the pressure plate. To this, there was no remedy: it would take putting both acolytes on a plate twenty centimetres by twenty centimetres large to balance for the loss. Imoen looked to Zyntris to check that the man really had no solution to this problem, some clever piece of magic she could not have prepared herself in the scarce time she had had but which he might have had the foresight to fetch; but the senior thief only gestured for her to continue. Apparently, they would simply have to take the Falcon and run.
Imoen rolled her eyes, drank Edwin’s special strength potion and put the piece of grey, nondescript cloth they had brought with them on the statuette to cover it as best she could without actually lifting it; an oil of speed later, Zyntris and she were running out from the temple, the alarm sounding loudly behind them.
The guards in front of the temple chased them for a street or two before giving up; by which time the two thieves were almost back in the building of Mae’Var’s guild.
Imoen carefully put down the Falcon statuette on the floor, threw a scathing look at Zyntris even as the senior thief was congratulating her on a good job done well, and repaired to her room to recover the lost hours of sleep. The success of the mission had improved her humour slightly; but she could not help thinking that there had been one or two things Zyntris could have done to reduce the risk involved. The pressure plate... Especially that.
-----
“Wake up!” Even muffled by the door, the wizard’s voice sounded nervous and worried. “Mae’Var wants to see you! (I swear, this deal gets worse by the minute. Now I am being held responsible for—)”
“Um. Yeah. What?” The sleepy, tousled, pink-haired head appeared in the door, followed by the rest of Imoen. “Can you repeat that?”
The wizard frowned. “I said,” he said in a voice which left no doubt that he was now talking to an imbecile, or possibly an imbecilic simian, “that Mae’Var is downstairs and wants to see you. Do you really have nothing to wear?” he implored.
Imoen, whose red-trimmed black clothes had become utterly wrinkled by the night of sleeping in them, shook her head. “Nah,” she said, yawning. “There was no sense in buying anything before I got accepted into the guild, see?”
“Oh, you will be accepted,” Edwin replied darkly. “Zyntris won’t stop singing praises of you. (But she’d better not back off—)”
Imoen looked at him more clearly; then, she shook her head, blinked and tried again. “Nah,” she said. “Don’t you worry. I told ya I’d be apprenticing to you when I could.”
“Yes, but—” Edwin protested; but then, evidently thinking better of it, grabbed the girl by the arm and, puling her out of her room, said, “Later. You’d better not keep Mae’Var waiting.”
“Wait. Let me just pull on my boots!”
-----
Mae’Var, as it turned out, was not young. In fact, he was closer to fifty than forty, scarred, grey-haired and, as it soon turned out, no-nonsense. Imoen’s memory produced a name: Scar. She wondered for a moment to whom it belonged; she had no recollection of such a person.
Mae’Var threw a dagger at her the moment she was coming down the stairs. (Edwin, who, the girl later realised, must be aware of the old thief’s tricks, stayed in safe distance behind her.)
Imoen, still sleepy after the broken night and the later overlong sleep, did not dodge the dagger. Instead, she caught it.
Her head cleared instantly, she held the dagger for a moment, watching it dubiously. Then, deciding that, all in all, it had been a nice trick, and that no one need really know that she did not catch daggers as a matter of course, she smiled at the three figures in the room, and said, “Someone lost this?”
At which point, Zyntris let off a massive, hearty laugh. “My girl, tha’ is.”
“This is for me to decide, Zyntris,” the man who must be Mae’Var said. “Anishai still has a right to lay a claim. But even if she does not,” he turned to Imoen, “you can certainly consider yourself employed. We’re not letting go of talent here... Imoen, is it?”
“Yes,” Imoen replied.
A grimace passed through Mae’Var’s face; however, it disappeared quickly as the man turned to his two deputies. “News,” he said curtly. “First. The Falcon is to be returned.”
“Returned?” two disconsolate voices asked in chorus. Imoen realised that one of the voices was hers; the other, unsurprisingly, belonged to Zyntris.
Mae’Var cast a cold look at the man. “Yes. The Shadowmaster’s orders. From now on, we play nice with the temples and the paladins. No stealing from the pilgrims—or the gods. The Falcon will be returned, and you will deal with this personally, Zyntris.”
The guild-master made a brief pause, which Imoen filled with the contemplation of what the orders really meant; she was sure she was not the only one. After a moment, Mae’Var continued:
“Anishai,” he turned to the woman. “Meet Anarg and... explain to him that, profitable as our association used to be, it is being dissolved this instant. I suggest that you take... Imoen... with you for the meeting. That is all for now. By the way,” he added casually, “the dagger is mine.”
For the slightest moment, Imoen found herself considering throwing the dagger at the man, just to see if he would dodge it in time, perhaps. Then, she shook her head. What was she thinking?
The meeting with Anarg, Anishai told her when Imoen returned the dagger and Mae’Var, tagged by Zyntris asking for explanation why he was to let such an important contract left unfulfilled, left the room, would be later that day, around sunset. The rest of the day, Imoen had for herself.
She spent it re-learning how to cast a magic missile and buying herself a change of clothes, a spell-book and assorted bits and bobs on Waukeen’s Promenade; the place she recognised as the spot where Irenicus’ laboratory and his battle with the Cowled Wizards and the Shadow Thieves had been. Edwin had not been present during the fight, he said; but this brought to his mind an important detail he had forgotten to tell Imoen before: he may teach her magic, but, unless she bought a license, she had better not cast it on the streets. (That was why he would teach her under a roof. Simians.)
They ate another dinner together, discussing—softly, so as not to be heard by any outsider—Mae’Var’s, or, better said, Aran Linvail’s, peculiar orders. By now, Imoen silently partook in the opinion that it was Sarevok’s influence being felt; but, as a newcomer to the guild could not possibly know of Sarevok’s influence, or, indeed, his existence, she kept that opinion to herself. She wondered, however, how long it would take Aran Linvail to share Rieltar Anchev’s eventual fate.
-----
The assassin Anishai gave her an armour, graphite-grey and enchanted to help its wearer hide in shadows; and, followed by an escort of three others, the two thieves plunged into the labyrinth of streets and lanes which criss-crossed the northern bank of the river flowing through Athkatla.
“Anarg and his people are all former paladins,” Anishai explained; laughing unpleasantly, she added, “They have all certainly fallen low from their lofty perch, though! Still,” she continued, now serious again and casting an approving look at Imoen’s newly acquired short sword and her old dagger, “they can fight, and fight well. I do not expect any trouble—they know who rules the city; but be prepared. Anarg can be... impetuous.”
Imoen digested the information. A trained paladin—or worse yet, a group of them—would, certainly, be a dangerous enemy, especially if he came to the meeting armoured. Slow and sluggish, certainly; but strong and well-protected by the metal plates. The best spots to strike would be—
A group of six men approached her and Anishai; they were all wearing plate armour, and Imoen’s eyes darted to the shadows to assure her that their bow-wielding escort were all positioned in their places. She did not notice anything.
“Anishai,” the man in front, indistinguishable from the others under the helmets they all wore (she must strike in the narrow gap between the helmet and the breast armour, Imoen thought) said in a pleasant baritone voice containing just the slightest note of threat. “Why did you call for this meeting? I thought—”
“The circumstances have changed, Anarg,” the assassin interrupted. “I’m sorry, but my orders are to tell you that you are not allowed to continue your current line of business now in this city.”
“What?” The armoured man was now clearly confused.
Anishai continued in her cool voice, “Our cooperation is over; and, of course, the Thieves cannot allow you to act without our supervision. Therefore, you are to cease and desist your current activity, and, preferably, leave Athkatla altogether.”
He won’t like it, Imoen thought, forcefully preventing herself from reaching for her weapon just yet.
The man did not like it. “If you think that I will let—”
“Be reasonable,” Anishai interrupted him coldly before he had the chance to finish the threat. “You will live.”
Anarg did not take kindly to this blunt threat. “To arms, men! The thieves have betrayed us!” he cried out, reaching to his belt for his own long sword.
The next moment, Anishai disappeared; and Imoen, cursing herself for letting herself get caught in the scene, followed her example, turning on her finger the small ring she had bought earlier that day on Waukeen’s Promenade. The purchase had made a large dent in her finances, but the expense certainly paid off: the ring’s enchantment would now afford her momentary invisibility.
She would wonder how Anishai would have dealt with the matter if Imoen did not have the ring—but it was obvious: the thieves expected one to be intelligent enough to take care of one’s own skin and not require help. Instead, the girl quickly ran away from the fallen paladins. Arrows did not know that one could not hit invisible targets.
Her plan to put some distance between herself and the attacked men almost worked: all but one of the fallen paladins had dispersed in the opposite direction, searching for the hidden archers. One, however, followed her—almost unerringly, as if he could still see her. Or, perhaps, he had simply decided to hide himself in the same place Imoen had chosen.
Whichever it was, the man was close on her heels; and in the tight alley in which they now were, this meant that Imoen would soon be discovered. Still, this did not mean, of course, that she should kill him; especially if he was only trying to escape.
This was why she herself was more than a bit surprised when her hand coordinated with her eyes, and struck precisely in the thin gap between the man’s breast plate and his helmet, tearing through the artery and inflicting an—eventually—mortal wound.
-----
Anishai cooed over her all the way back into the guild. “This girl is a born assassin!” she told Mae’Var proudly as soon as she saw the guild-master. “She couldn’t have turned out better if I had taught her!”
“Ah.” The man, not stopping playing catch-and-throw with his dagger, eyed Imoen curiously. “So, lass, you are both a burglar and an assassin; and, by the look of it, both my hard-hearted lieutenants and my pet wizard have veritably fallen in love with you. How odd. I don’t remember that ever happening before... Well, what shall we do with you?”
He was silent for a moment. Then, apparently having come to a decision, he spoke up again, “Given that this is a precedent—how about you choose for yourself? Whom do you want to work for? Anishai, or Zyntris? You will earn much more working for Anishai, of course, whether in the extortion rackets or performing assassinations.”
Imoen gulped. “I—I think I’d rather work for Zyntris,” she said cautiously, looking from the cool, self-possessed woman to the nervous, ratty man; and then, because she’d much rather not make an enemy of an assassin, she added, “For now, at least.”
“Just as I thought,” Mae’Var said, as if Imoen had just confirmed some his pre-formed opinion of her. “Well, I did say that it was your choice. Zyntris, she’s yours.”
-----
That night, Imoen dreamt.
In her dream, she was walking through a garden made of blood and tears; bones crunched under her feet, and over her, where the sky should be, there was only a great darkness.
She noticed a familiar figure in the distance, and walked up to it; the figure turned to face her.
“Hello, Imoen,” said Irene; and Imoen replied, “Hello, Irene.”
Her sister’s hair and beard, lush chestnut brown when she had been still alive, were now blood-red, Imoen saw; and her skin was deathly grey. “What are we doing here?” she asked.
“Shh,” her sister smiled, and Imoen noticed that her eyes and her mouth were nothing but three empty holes. “We are waiting for someone.”
Then, because Imoen realised that she was in a dream, and because dreams have a logic of their own, she asked, “Who? Sarevok?”
Irene smiled at Imoen her toothless, lipless smile. “No, silly,” she said. “Why should we be waiting for the wayward one? It is Father we are waiting for, of course.”
Then, musingly, she added, “He used to be an assassin, too; did you know that?”
Imoen wanted to run; but running would not achieve anything, of course. She would simply take the garden of blood, tears and bone with her. After all, it was a part of her, she understood with the merciless clarity of dream-logic.
Someone was screaming, far away, and Imoen could not utter a word.
So, mute, she waited next to the silent dwarven ghost clad in shadow; waited, and waited, and then waited still; until, after some indeterminate time, Irene spoke up, desolate, “He will not come. He will not come tonight, yet.”
Then, her dead sister turned to her again, and smiled one more depraved smile; and said, “But don’t worry, Imoen. He will come. Soon.”
She awoke, suddenly and painfully.
