Baldur's Gate II Shadows of Amn (5 page)

“Boo says to ask if I can work for some food too,” Minsc said.

Abdel said, “Minsc …” but stopped when he wasn’t sure how to chastise the madman. When he turned back to where Yoshimo had been standing, the Kozakuran was gone.

“What have you got there?” the woman asked and stepped forward toward Minsc. Abdel caught a glimpse of her before he turned away again to keep his back to her. She was a tall, thin young woman with a serious face that clashed with her revealing, almost silly dress. Her pale face and flaxen hair were clean, and Abdel couldn’t help thinking she was older than she was trying to look.

“This is Boo,” Minsc told her. “He helps me.”

“Does he now,” she cooed, humoring him. “Is he a mouse?”

“Boo is a hamster,” Minsc said. Abdel sighed at having at least one question answered.

“Where did you find him?” Bodhi asked.

“Oh, Boo found me. Didn’t you, Boo?” Minsc answered.

“He comes from space. His kind are actually quite large, but he is smaller than most.”

“Space?” the woman asked, obviously never having heard the word before.

“The place of the crystal spheres,” Minsc explained conversationally, “up in the air beyond the heavens.”

Bodhi laughed lightly and said, “Well, Boo, so you’re a miniature giant space… ?”

“Hamster,” Minsc provided.

“A miniature giant space hamster,” she said, “and a cute one at that.”

“Boo likes you,” Minsc said dully. “Can we work here for food and stuff?”

“Oh, for—” Abdel started to say, but stopped in order to spend all his energy trying to turn around. Bodhi had stepped in front of him. Her eyes were cast down, and a knowing smile curved her lips.

“Well, now …” she whispered.

“Excuse me,” Gaelan said. Abdel hadn’t heard him come back behind the bar. He tossed Abdel some dirty, ragged clothes, which the sellsword caught happily.

“We could use a busboy,” Bodhi said.

“I can’t stay here,” Abdel told her, ripping his way into the too-tight trousers. “I left someone behind. I need to—”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Bodhi said.

Abdel looked up at her, and she nodded to Minsc.

“Oh, come now, Bodhi,” Gaelan objected, but she cut him short with a disapproving glare. “Fine, then, he can start by throwing out the captain.”

“The captain?” Abdel asked, for some reason thinking Gaelan was referring to him.

Gaelan tipped his head to the old drunk and said, “Captain Bavarian.”

“One of the more notorious pirates of the Sword Coast,” Bodhi said with a laugh in her voice.

Two men stepped through the door and paused at the scene in front of them. Abdel was dressed now, though he was still hardly an ordinary sight. Minsc was cradling Boo in one hand and reaching for the now loudly snoring pirate with the other.

“Evening, good sirs,” Gaelan said to the newcomers, “step right in.”

The men moved to the bar, and Abdel turned to watch Minsc trying to pull the deadweight old man out of his chair with one hand.

“You’d make a better bouncer,” Bodhi said to Abdel.

The sellsword looked at her, forced a smile, and said, “I’m not mad.”

“I know,” she told him, and he believed her, which surprised and worried him. Any normal person would have thought him mad.

Irenicus let the smile drop off his face and slid his iron-cold gaze along the length of steel chain that strung him to the prisoner in front of him. The chain was attached to a heavy manacle around his left ankle. The manacle around his right ankle held a chain that strung back along the floor like a coiling snake, ending at the ankle of another prisoner. Behind him was a third, then a fourth, a fifth, and a sixth.

Irenicus shuffled along with the rest of them and kept silent. He didn’t give the guards an excuse to strike him. If he had given them an excuse, and they had struck him, he would have had no choice but to destroy them in a blaze of power and indignation that would have revealed him too early and thrown his plan, at least temporarily, awry. Still, part of him hoped it would go that way, hoped he could just start killing and not stop until they were all dead. That would be satisfying on some level—on some level important to who Irenicus was—but it would have only brought him farther away from what he really wanted. Irenicus didn’t always remain focused, but this time he forced himself.

The string of prisoners was led through a wide doorway, and Irenicus examined the rusted iron spikes that made up the bottom of the portcullis bars they passed under. Someone screamed loudly from down the long, wide corridor, and another person laughed loudly in answer. A voice clearly called out “Stop me!” from some space many walls away. A low sound of moaning that sometimes became a melodic hum pervaded every nook. Irenicus didn’t recognize the tune, but he took note of it.

The prisoner behind him said, “Please,” in a voice so pitiful Irenicus wanted to kill him. The guards didn’t respond in any way, though Irenicus expected at least one of them to at least sigh impatiently. Irenicus would have.

The trip down the corridor took a long time, and though Irenicus didn’t relish it, he made as much use of it as he could. He noted the way the bricks were mortared together, the iron banding on the doors that occasionally led off from the wide corridor. He noticed the straw scattered on the floor and the stains on the flagstones that might have been blood, or food. He saw a spider in its web in the corner ignoring what was going on around it, waiting for its web to quiver with fresh food.

At the end of the corridor, he counted the clicks as the guard turned the big iron key in the elaborate lock, heard another lock click open on the other side of the door, memorized the squeak of the tired old hinges, saw the way the double doors pulled apart from each other, opening inward. These doors were meant to keep people in, not out. They were sturdy but not sturdy enough. He knew he would have to do something about that eventually.

One of the prisoners behind him hesitated when the guards prodded them though the doors, and a flash of anger crossed Irenicus’s otherwise passive face. He resisted the temptation to speak or strike out, but one of the guards noticed his expression. He looked at Irenicus curiously, his body tensing in blind anticipation, like a squirrel caught in the middle of a yard by the neighbor’s cat.

Irenicus smiled and said, “Three buckets of hot water, Momma. Three buckets of hot water,” just so the man would think he was an idiot.

It worked. The guard looked away, prodding the man in front of Irenicus with the rounded end of his slim oaken cudgel. As they crossed from the straw-strewn flagstones to an expanse of polished marble, one of the prisoners started to weep openly, inconsolably, with the wild abandon of madness and despair. The sound made Irenicus smile at the same time it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Welcome, tortured souls,” the man standing in the middle of the otherwise empty room said in a voice of practiced calm. “This will be your home for a very long time. You will be treated well. You will not be allowed to harm yourselves or others. You will rest, you will meditate, you will heal, or you will not.”

Irenicus didn’t smile. He kept his face blank and stared hard at the man, who didn’t seem to see any of them.

“I am the coordinator here,” the man continued. “You will refer to me simply as ‘Sir.’ Is that understood?” None of the prisoners responded except one, who said, “This is madness,” in a voice full of insult.

The coordinator smiled in a condescending, fatherly way, and said, “Quite.”

Irenicus continued to stare at the coordinator, who was looking each of the ragged prisoners up and down in turn. When he got to Irenicus, their eyes finally met. The coordinator seemed surprised by Irenicus, by the look in his eyes, or the color, or the depth, or something. The coordinator didn’t look away.

Irenicus said, “I am very happy to be here,” in a slow, careful way.

“I’m…” the coordinator started. He seemed confused—was confused—by the look in this prisoner’s eyes. Irenicus knew the man was looking for what he always saw, either madness or fear. Irenicus knew the coordinator saw neither of those things in his eyes.

“I want us to talk,” Irenicus told him, “you and me.”

The coordinator smiled feebly, and a drop of sweat started a slow crawl down the side of one high, bald temple. A small man, round from years of inactivity, the coordinator dressed well but simply and carried no weapons but what he obviously thought to be a superior will.

“We can,” the coordinator said, matching Irenicus’s cadence and tone. “We will.”

“Coordinator?” one of the guards said. Irenicus was surprised at the guard’s perception and felt a passing reluctance to kill the man.

“He’s fine,” Irenicus said, not looking at the guard but keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the coordinator. “Aren’t you, Sir?”

“I’m fine,” the coordinator said, his voice creaking. The drop of sweat made it to his softly rounded jaw and hung there, catching light from the four torches that lit the room.

Someone far away screamed three times in exactly the same way each time.

Irenicus smiled and said, “Everything is going to be just fine here.”

Of course he was going to go back for them. What else could he do?

Abdel had found pity at the Copper Coronet—clothes, food, and a place to part ways with Minsc—but when he allowed himself the minutes it took to eat the chicken they gave him and drink some water, he could feel his mind clear. He came into the tavern exhausted, still reeling from what had been a long period of unconsciousness. He’d demanded to see Captain Orhotek, and though it seemed perfectly reasonable at the time, now he had to admit to himself that he didn’t actually know the man, had heard of him but had never met him. Abdel looked mad and told stories that were difficult to believe at best. He knew he’d left Jaheira behind, and he wasn’t even sure if she was alive or dead, but he wasn’t so sure anymore that Imoen had been there too. It sounded like her, looked like her, but how could it be her?

Abdel put his head in his hands and felt the grease coating his fingers mingle with the dried sweat and grime that covered him. His head lolled, and he almost fell asleep. Knowing he couldn’t possibly leave Jaheira to the Shadow Thieves—or whoever their captors were— for as long as he knew he’d sleep if he let himself, Abdel struggled to stand. His head spun, but when he got to his feet, he actually started to feel better. Minsc walked by, holding a tray full of empty flagons and dirty dishes. He caught Abdel’s eye and smiled. The little hamster peered at the sellsword from a pocket in Minsc’s already dirty apron.

Abdel tried to return the man’s smile but couldn’t. He turned and went through the door in the back wall of the barroom he’d seen several of the patrons pass through. It led into a space off the alley where two barrels of water stood open to the warm night. Abdel went to one of the barrels, and after splashing a handful of water over his face, he grew frustrated and simply dunked his head into the lukewarm water.

He scrubbed at his face and hair, scratching his itchy scalp, then pulled off the too-tight shirt he’d borrowed from the barkeep and let it drop onto the alley floor. Abdel washed himself aggressively, using the action to wake himself up. He had no plan and still wasn’t thinking well enough to try to form one. All he knew was that he didn’t want to fight with the light long sword he’d taken from the soldier. He had one of the swords, and so did Minsc. The red-haired man seemed to have found a place to settle, so Abdel figured the madman wouldn’t be needing his sword. Maybe Abdel could trade the two blades for one decent broadsword, but he knew he’d have to wait at least until morning to do that.

His own weapon and armor might have been left in Baldur’s Gate for all he knew, but they might also be down somewhere under that warehouse with Jaheira. Before he did anything else, he’d have to go back there. “You should sleep,” a voice behind him said, and he didn’t bother spinning. He turned slowly and saw Bodhi standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorframe.

“I have to go back there,” he told her and turned back to the barrel.

“To find your wife?” she asked. He heard her light footsteps approaching him from behind.

“She’s not my wife,” Abdel told her simply. “I don’t care if you don’t believe me.”

She came up next to him, and from the corner of his eye, he saw her smile. “In the morning I can take you to see someone from the militia or someone from the council, maybe.”

He knew she was trying to humor him, and he only grunted. She smiled again in answer to that and stepped up to the barrel. She dunked her head into the water and came back up quickly, letting it cascade over her shoulders and onto the light fabric of her dress.

“That does feel good,” she said quietly, running her fingers through her hair, her eyes closed.

The wet dress began to stick to her, outlining small details of her body that drew Abdel’s eyes as they would any man’s. She noticed him noticing her and glanced down. Abdel was too tired and too worried about Jaheira but most of all too disappointed in himself to blush.

“You can touch me,” she said. “I want you to.”

He sighed and took one step back. “I have to go.”

“In the morning,” she said, stepping toward him, stopping less than an inch away from his bare chest. “Please.”

“I love her,” he told her.

“She could be dead,” Bodhi said too bluntly, and Abdel restrained himself from backhanding her across the alley.

“That’s why I have to go,” he said instead.

Bodhi didn’t follow him when he took three steps away from her and bent to pick up his shirt.

“She must be very beautiful,” she said.

Abdel didn’t feel the need to answer.

“I can help you.” He looked at her with a wrinkled brow, and she continued, “You need gold, don’t you? Gaelan knows where she is. He knows things like that, but he’s serious about the gold. You can kill him if you want to, but he won’t tell you anything unless you pay him first. It’s what he does.”

“What are you asking me to do?” he asked her.