Baldur's Gate (21 page)

He was going to say something—some last words, but he didn’t have time. The air was smashed from his lungs, and he fell back hard. The impostor Jaheira drove the big battle-axe deeply into Scar’s chest, then out the other side, pinning the man to the wood floor. Scar felt the blood bubble in his throat and saw the demonic gleam in the woman’s eyes as her face became his own, then there was only blackness and eternity.

Julius stared straight ahead and mouthed the word “corporal” three times, then offered the empty corridor a self-satisfied smile.

“Stop that grinning, corporal,” Sergeant Maerik grumbled. Julius jumped, and his face flushed. He hadn’t seen or heard the sergeant approach. Maerik stood in front of Julius and stood on his toes to stare the younger, taller corporal in the eyes. Their noses were almost touching.

“Where are you, son?” the sergeant asked quietly.

“Sir,” Julius began, then paused to force down a swallow in a dry throat. “Sir, in the ducal palace, sir.”

“Where in the ducal palace, corporal?”

“Sir, in the residence wing, sir.”

“Do you mean the place where the grand dukes live?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Where Grand Duke Eltan lives?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“The Grand Duke Eltan who’s facing a ducal election?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“The Grand Duke Eltan who has more enemies than any one man in the Gate?”

“Sir yes, s—”

“Then wake up, you idiot,” the sergeant shouted.

Julius tensed his abdomen, concentrating on holding his bladder. “S-sir,” he stammered, “y-yes, sir.”

“As you weren’t, corporal.” Maerik scoffed, then turned down the corridor and off a side passage, his boots making no sound on the cold marble floor.

Julius breathed a sigh of relief. He’d only been assigned to the ducal palace for a week now, and though he’d been in battle before, even fought wererats in the darkest part of the wharf, this was the most tense duty he’d ever pulled. He wasn’t worried that an assassin might get in, not this far into the ducal palace, but he was afraid that what just happened might happen again, and again, enough times for his newfound rank to find its way back down to footman.

He shifted the halberd over to his left side and mopped sweat from his brow. It was late—or early—and his eyes felt heavy, dry, and tired. A tiny sound made him jump, and he glanced sharply down the dimly-lit corridor to see a mouse scurry off into the darkness. He sighed, then jumped again when a heavy hand landed squarely on his shoulder.

“Heads up, soldier.”

The man was instantly familiar to Julius. Scar had led the attack on the wererats, and Julius was at the briefing he gave, then fought at the experienced warrior’s side for a few precious moments in the sewer drain.

“C-captain Scar,” Julius said, standing as straight as he could. “I—uh—I wasn’t told …”

Scar scowled at him and said, “Why would you be?”

“I—” Julius started to say. Scar held up a hand to stop him.

“Go to the stables and ready the grand duke’s steed,” Scar ordered casually, “I’m getting him out of here before dawn.”

Julius was so surprised he just stood there with his mouth hanging open. Something was going on, something big. Not on my watch, Julius thought, why on my watch?

“Are we unclear on something, corporal?”

“N-no, sir, I just—”

“Move your ass, kid.” Scar said, and the look in his eye was enough to propel Julius down the corridor as fast as his shaking knees would take him.

He ran for a while before he realized that, as he was prone to do in the labyrinthine palace, especially at night, he’d gotten himself lost. He prayed strenuously to Tymora, who answered his prayer with the luck goddess’s typical sense of humor.

“By Umberlee’s undulating bosom, boy,” Sergeant Maerik belted out, “what in the name of every other god are you doing here, you addle-pated son of a flea-bitten—!”

“I’m lost,” Julius said before he had any chance to even think how amazingly bad an idea it was to say that.

Sergeant Maerik punched him in the face.

“I’m sorry,” Julius squealed even as he fell hard on his rump. Blood tricked from his still vibrating nose, and his halberd clattered on the floor next to him.

“This is hardly the time to leave your post, you butt-sniffing dolt,” the sergeant shouted. “Captain Scar’s been murdered, and the whole company’s being called up.”

“But I just saw him,” Julius blurted.

“Saw who, you tick?”

“Scar,” Julius said, scrambling to his feet. “It was Captain Scar who told me to go to the stables and get Grand Duke Eltan’s horse—”

“Scar was here?” Maerik asked, his eyes wide. “This night?”

“Sir,” Julius said, straightening his blood-dripped tabard and scanning for his fallen polearm, “not half an hour ago, sir. He was going into the grand duke’s residence.”

Maerik went pale and grabbed Julius roughly, dragging him down the corridor at a run.

“Not on my watch!” the sergeant cursed. “Why does it always have to be my watch!”

Julius and Maerik skidded to a halt at the wide double doors that led into the grand duke’s private residence. Julius had had a difficult time keeping up with the sergeant, and when they stopped Julius was panting, almost gasping for air.

The grand duke stepped out of his chambers holding a huge battle-axe the likes of which Julius had never seen— or even dreamed of. The man was dressed in a long nightgown that was soaked with blood. His eyes and hands were steady. His broad, serious face was also smeared with blood, and some of it dripped from the tip of his long handlebar mustache. His crystal-blue eyes blazed under bushy gray eyebrows that matched the short-cropped hair still disheveled from bed.

Maerik fell to one knee, and Julius followed suit, unable to take his eyes off the gold-and-mithral axe.

“M’lord,” Maerik said, “I—”

“Captain Scar has been murdered,” the grand duke said simply. Maerik stood, and Eltan reached back to push the tall door open. On the richly-carpeted floor inside lay the gray body of some inhuman thing, still leaking blood on the expensive wool.

“Aye, m’lord,” Maerik breathed. “He was found in his chamber.”

Julius gagged at the sight of the dead thing’s eyes.

Eltan’s strong, aging features were grave. “Have the captain’s body taken to the High House of Wonders,” he said, his voice low and full of import. “I will dress and meet you there.”

“Sounds like your friends are here,” Jhasso said, trying to peer through the little window in his cell.

“Or yours,” Jaheira offered.

The sound of battle was unmistakable, though far off and muffled by at least one floor. Abdel could hear the ring of steel on steel, the stomp and scuffle of feet, a body falling, then another. His arms tensed, and he tried again to pull the bars out of the window. They shifted this time but only a little. He felt like a rat in an innkeeper’s trap, and he wanted out.

“No,” Jhasso answered Jaheira. “I don’t have any friends.”

“Not if there’s been a doppelganger you making enemies all over the city for as long as you say you’ve been in there.” Jaheira agreed.

“Damn them,” Jhasso said, “I thought they were all in Waterdeep.”

The three of them, all cold, exhausted, and teetering on the edge of claustrophobic insanity, just stood there listening to the sound of battle.

A door burst in suddenly, and the sound was close. Abdel turned his head and pressed his cheek into the bars trying to see anything. There was a warm orange light at the end of the hallway, and Abdel could see twisted, flickering shadows on the stonework, shadows that danced to the tune of ringing steel, stomping feet, and desperate grunts. A body fell, and the steps rushed toward the cells. A young man wearing a blood-and sweat-stained tabard bearing the sign of the Flaming Fist stopped in front of Abdel’s cell. Blood dripped from a halberd that was easily heavier than the young soldier.

“Are you Jha-Jhasso?” the soldier asked breathlessly.

“He’s in the cell behind you, troop,” Abdel answered at the same time Jhasso called out, “Let me outta here, kid!”

The young soldier looked confused and frightened, “I have to get somebody,” he said.

“You’re not leaving us here!” Jaheira called, and the young man stopped at the sound of a woman’s voice.

“Fear not, madam,” the soldier said. “I’ll be back for you!”

With that—and followed closely by some rude remarks from all three captives—the young soldier hared off up the corridor. They could hear voices and more footsteps going up the stairs and away into the diminishing sounds of battle.

“He’s coming back for us, right?” Jhasso asked.

“He better damn well,” Abdel said. “If not, I’m going to stick my fist so far up his—”

“Listen!” Jaheira said, and Abdel and Jhasso held very still. The fight was obviously over. Abdel could hear the muffled sounds of male voices and heavy footsteps approaching. A door opened and there was the unmistakable sound of a man in heavy metal armor rapidly descending the stairs.

“Here, Gondsman,” a steady, commanding voice said. Abdel could see a sturdy older man in shining, blood-spattered plate mail. His face was unfamiliar, but his accoutrements were unmistakable. This man was a grand duke, and his crest bore the sigil of the Flaming Fist. Could this be—?

“Grand Duke Eltan,” the young soldier who first found them said, confirming Abdel’s suspicions, “I found the key, m’lord.”

“Very good, Julius,” Eltan answered. “When the priest is finished, let these people out.”

“Let us out now, for Gond’s sake,” Jhasso whined.

Abdel saw a stout man in saffron robes stop at the door of Jhasso’s cell and peer in. The priest went to each of the three doors in turn. Abdel met his gaze when the priest came to his door, but couldn’t make eye contact. The man’s eyes were strangely out of focus, like he was looking at a point somewhere in front of or behind Abdel.

“The men are human,” the priest said to Eltan, “and the woman is a half-elf.”

“Open them,” Eltan said, and in seconds the three of them were free.

When Abdel stepped out of his cell Julius looked up at him and swallowed. “S-sorry,” the young soldier said.

“No need to be sorry, corporal,” Abdel said with a smile, “there’re doppelgangers about.”

“Indeed there are,” the grand duke agreed, looking Abdel up and down suspiciously. “Two of them killed Scar.”

“No,” Jaheira breathed.

“And at least one has taken my place,” Jhasso said. “I hope I still have a business to run, Eltan.”

The grand duke looked at Jhasso impatiently and said, “You’ll answer only for what you’re responsible for, Jhasso. For now, just stay out of the way.”

Jhasso nodded, obviously content to be let out of whatever was going to happen next.

‘Tour … duke-ness …” Abdel stammered, exhaustion and grief making his mind muddy.

“My name is Eltan,” the grand duke said sternly. “You must be Abdel.”

“I am,” Abdel answered. “Scar was my friend. I’d like the opportunity to kill the things that took his life.”

“Scar beat you to one,” Eltan answered, “and I had the pleasure of disemboweling the second, but something tells me there’s more killing to be done, my good man, if you’ve a mind to kill.”

Abdel nodded. He had a mind to kill.

Abdel and Jaheira were given very little time to clean up, and Abdel spent most of that time eating. He was given back his sword and chain mail, neither the worse for wear. They met in the foyer of Grand Duke Eltan’s residence in the ducal palace. Abdel smiled at Jaheira, who was wearing a simple but flattering black gown lent to her by Grand Duchess Liia Jannath herself. Abdel felt bad then that he hadn’t changed himself. He hoped at least he wasn’t offensive in look or smell.

A sleepy butler showed them into the grand duke’s study, and Abdel knew no one there would spare the time to smell him. The air in the room was serious, like a general’s tent on the eve of battle.

“Abdel,” Eltan said motioning them into the richly-appointed room, “Jaheira, enter.”

Eltan was sitting at his desk with his arm resting on the wide mahogany surface. A thin man with wiry gray hair and strange glass disks in wire frames resting on his nose, was bent over the grand duke’s arm, carefully stitching a nasty cut. Eltan winced when the healer pulled the thread tight and cut off the end.

“You were wounded,” Abdel said unnecessarily.

“Aye,” Eltan said, smiling, “my two hundredth cut in battle. I should throw a party.”

Abdel smiled and stood quietly next to Jaheira while Eltan gave orders in hushed tones to three Flaming Fist officers who stood on the other side of the big desk. Finished, he sent them off to the temple of Gond where they were to elicit the aid of priests who apparently had the ability to recognize a doppelganger when they saw one.

As the officers filed out and the healer collected his implements into a leather satchel, the grand duke motioned Abdel and Jaheira forward.

“I understand,” Eltan said, “that you fought beside my friend Harold Loggerson more than once.”

Abdel looked confused. “M’lord?”

“Scar,” Eltan said, his voice full of emotion. “You never knew his real name?”

“No,” Abdel said. He glanced at Jaheira, embarrassed but not sure why. “No, m’lord. Perhaps we were not such good—”

Eltan stopped him with a hand and said, “No, no. You can count on the fingers of one hand the people who know that name. Sit, we have much to discuss.”

Eltan looked tired. His eyes were circled by gray marks that were turning almost purple. His cheeks were sunken and his eyes red. He was still wearing most of his armor as if he were too exhausted to remove it, or knew he would have need of it soon. Jaheira sat first, then Abdel, and both of them couldn’t help but admire the soft leather of the big chairs with a gentle touch.

“Not quite the general’s tent, eh sellsword?” Eltan remarked, winking once at Jaheira.

“You—” Abdel started to say, before he realized no response was necessary.

“This city is blessed with a number of fine temples,” Eltan said, “and cursed with a number more, I suppose. When word of Scar’s death came to me I had him brought to the High House of Wonders in hopes that my good friend Thalamond might be able to breathe life back into the old war dog’s lungs.”