Chapter Twenty-Three

"Beuros, you squirmy little piece of—" Abdel started to say but stopped when Jaheira put a hand on his arm.
"Good sir," she said, glancing at Abdel who sighed explosively and turned away from the gate, "you obviously know my companion here, you know him to be a resident of this fair city and the son of one of your own. Please understand that we have urgent business here and—"
"Go away," Beuros the gate guard said sternly. "Go away or I'll be forced to—"
"You'll be forced to what," Abdel roared, "you thrice bedamned—"
"Go away!" the guard squealed and shut the little window in the big, sturdy oaken gate.
"This is ludicrous," Jaheira said to no one in particular. "What kind of city is this?"
Abdel kicked a stone on the gravel path that ended at the gates of Candlekeep, the place that had been his home for most of his life, and watched it skip away. He sighed again and looked up at the sky, noting the increasingly graying clouds obviously heavy with rain.
"I've never been refused entrance to Candlekeep," he said. "Never in my life."
"Gorion was alive then," Jaheira said without really thinking. "He was in there to let you in."
Abdel looked at her and forced a smile. She didn't notice, being too busy examining the gates with a tactician's eye.
"It's not a city," he said.
She looked at him with a furrowed brow.
"It's not a city," he said again, "it's a monastery. A library."
She nodded and shrugged as if that fine distinction didn't matter. "The Iron Throne is gathering in there," she said, "whatever it is. We need to get in there."
"Give me a book," Beuros's voice sounded suddenly, making Jaheira jump. They looked up at the little window, a good ten feet off the ground in the tall gates. All they could see of Beuros was his pimply face and crooked yellow teeth, a graying stubble and a dense, intractable expression. Abdel had known Beuros most of his life.
"Beuros—" Abdel started to say.
"Ah," Beuros interrupted, "a book, or a scroll, or a tablet, or a... something with writing on it. Give me something of use to Candlekeep and you can come in."
Now it was Abdel's turn to furrow his brow in confusion and frustration. He regarded the little man coolly.
"Why this all of a sudden, Beuros? What's going on in there?"
"The business of Candlekeep," the guard answered haughtily. "The business of learnedness."
Jaheira smiled and said, "That's not even a word, you little—"
"A book!" Beuros interrupted again, fixing an angry gaze on the half-elf woman.
"I don't have—" Abdel started to say, then stopped when he realized he did indeed have a book, a book that terrified him but that he doubted he'd be able to part with.
"Give us a few minutes, Captain Steadfast," Jaheira said sarcastically, making a dismissive brushing away hand gesture in Beuros's general direction. The guard harrumphed and withdrew behind his little shutter.
"Abdel," Jaheira said, crossing the few feet to him just as it started to rain lightly, "you still have that book, don't you?"
Abdel looked away, tense and fearful, though he couldn't put his finger on why.
"Abdel?" she asked. "You still have it, don't you? The book that Xan found in the bandit camp, I mean."
Abdel nodded, avoiding her eyes.
"Well then just give it to Lord Peephole here, and let's get on with it. We've been on the road—again—for almost a tenday, and it's possible that the people we've gone through all Nine Hells and more to try to stop are in there right now, laughing at us."
Abdel let a long breath whistle out through his nose, then finally he looked up at Jaheira. He didn't say anything, just slipped his pack off his back and fished inside it. He didn't even glance at the book when he slid it out.
"Beuros!" Jaheira called, looking at the little door. It took a while for Beuros to finally make his presence known, and when he did Jaheira was surprised to see him genuinely curious. Jaheira figured she and Abdel had been more persistent than most.
"A book?" the guard asked, then grinned widely when his eyes lighted on the old tome in Abdel's now outstretched hand. "Well, well..."
"Let us in first," Jaheira said, easily able to read the greed in Beuros's eyes.
Beuros laughed, and it wasn't a terribly pleasant sound. "Not on your life, missy. Tell him to slide it through the slot."
Abdel could hear Beuros perfectly well without Jaheira having to relate the guard's words. The sellsword studied the space that was the peephole eight feet or more above the gravel-covered ground.
Jaheira said, "If there was a window a bit—" but stopped talking when a slot, easily able to accommodate the book, opened up on the door at Abdel's waist height. Abdel and Jaheira blinked, obviously both seeing the slot for the first time.
"Slide it in there, Abdel," Beuros said softly, finally using Abdel's name.
"I knew you knew me you bastard," Abdel grumbled, crossing the short distance to the gate with the book held out in front of him.
Jaheira's eyes narrowed, and she was about to ask Abdel if he was all right. The sellsword had stopped abruptly just as the edge of the old book touched the slot. He was obviously reluctant to let it drop.
"You can't even read the language it's written in, for Mielikki's sake," Jaheira said. "Give him the heavy old thing, and let's get in there."
"Indeed, Abdel," Beuros said, "listen to this young woman, and give me the book. I need a gesture of good faith."
Abdel couldn't let go. It was like his fingers had locked, like his fist had gone into some death grip, and the book was his last hope for life—or was it his last hope for just the opposite?
"Abdel?" Jaheira asked, her voice now carrying an edge of fear at the sellsword's sudden reluctance.
Abdel sighed once more and let go of the book, letting it drop through the slot. Beuros's face disappeared from the peephole again, and he was gone for a long time.
* * * * *
"Beuros, you squirmy little piece of—" Abdel started to say, but stopped when the strange woman put a hand on his arm.
"Good sir," the woman said, glancing at Abdel who sighed explosively and turned away from the gate, "you obviously know my companion here, you know him to be a resident of this fair city and the son of one of your own. Please understand that we have urgent business here and—"
"Go away," Beuros said sternly. "Go away or I'll be forced to—"
"You'll be forced to what," Abdel roared, "you thrice bedamned—"
"Go away!" Beuros said again and shut the little window in the big, sturdy oaken gate.
Beuros was one of many charged with defending the gates of Candlekeep, the place that had been his home for his entire life. He'd known Abdel for almost as long and never liked him. Abdel was the adopted son—foster son really—of Gorion, a priest and a scholar, one of Beuros's favorite teachers. Beuros had been pushed around by the young Abdel, as had many of Beuros's friends. When Abdel left Candlekeep, years before, to seek out his own life as a mercenary or hired thug, or whatever his slow wits and strong arms had bought him, Beuros, like many others in the monastery, was nothing but happy to see him go. He'd returns a few times, once quite recently, to visit Gorion, and that time had actually left with the old monk. That had been at least a dozen tendays ago, though it seemed shorter to Beuros. As far as he was concerned, anytime Abdel came back to Candlekeep was too soon. Now he'd returned with some woman—a half-elf, and she was dressed for battle. Beuros could believe almost anything about Abdel, up to and including the distasteful notion that the bully had somehow managed to trade the learned Gorion, a man worthy of respect and beyond reproach, for this mercenary trollop half-breed.
Beuros was a bitter man, small in the body and small in the spirit, but he was a part of something in Candlekeep. He studied, he read—and occasionally understood—and copied the texts of the greatest library on all Toril. Beuros belonged here, where everyone—including Gorion—knew Abdel was never really at home.
Now, having to take on one of his least favorite responsibilities, he sighed and looked up at the sky, noting the increasingly graying clouds obviously heavy with rain. Guarding the gate consisted almost entirely of turning away travelers. Virtually no one was welcomed at Candle-keep, and like many of the monks, scribes, priests, and scholars there, Beuros liked it that way.
"I've never been refused entrance to Candlekeep," Beuros heard Abdel say through one of the many magical means at his disposal—magic that helped guard Candlekeep from an often hostile outside world. "Never in my life."
"Gorion was alive then," the half-elf woman said, and Beuros's heart skipped a beat. "He was in there to let you in."
So Gorion was dead. Beuros wanted to weep at the loss but held back the tears with a great sniff and cleared his throat. Beuros wondered if maybe it was true what was said about Abdel when he was a child—that Gorion had adopted him as some kind of changeling. Rumors abounded about the young Abdel, that he was some kind of demon spawn, a cambion or an alu-fiend, or the son of some evil wizard, maybe descended from a long line of corrupt Netherese archwizards. It was hard for Beuros and his friends to believe this since demonology was a part of their regular studies, and Abdel failed to exhibit any of the powers normally associated with the infernal, but still. Abdel grew to enormous proportions and exhibited both a strength and a thirst for violence that didn't seem entirely human, at least not to the mild-tempered monks of Candlekeep. It certainly crossed Beuros's mind that Abdel had perhaps killed Gorion himself, and the gate guard could think of no greater offense to the law and will of Candlekeep.
The name Tethtoril came immediately to Beuros's mind, and he quickly made use of one more of the minor magic items available to him. He spoke Tethtoril's name into a cone of golden foil and trusted the device to convey the message to the aging monk. In the meantime, he had to try to stall Abdel, though he doubted it would have been easy to get rid of the man even if he tried. Abdel and the woman were still outside the gate, conversing quietly. Beuros opened the peephole.
"Give me a book," he said, obviously startling the woman, who jumped. They looked up at the little window.
"Beuros—" Abdel started to say.
"Ah," Beuros interrupted, "a book, or a scroll, or a tablet, or a... something with writing on it. Give me something of use to Candlekeep, and you can come in."
The sellsword furrowed his brow in confusion and frustration. Beuros wasn't at all surprised that Abdel didn't have any form of written record with him. It wouldn't have surprised the man to hear that Abdel had forgotten how to read.
"Why this all of a sudden, Beuros? What's going on in there?" the sellsword asked.
"The business of Candlekeep," Beuros answered directly. "The business of learnedness."
The woman smiled evilly and said, "That's not even a word, you little—"
"A book!" Beuros insisted, insulted that this half-elf by-blow would question his learnedness.
"I don't have—" Abdel started to say, then stopped, a look of dumb realization coming over his face.
"Give us a few minutes, Captain Steadfast," the woman said sarcastically, making a dismissive brushing away hand gesture in Beuros's general direction. The guard ignored her and closed the shutter.
Beuros wiped sweat from his brow and wondered what he was doing, and what was keeping Tethtoril. Abdel and the woman were talking again, and Beuros had a dreadful feeling in the pit of his stomach. What if Abdel managed to call his bluff? He heard the woman call his name, and brimming with apprehension, he opened the shutter once more.
"A book?" Beuros asked.
He saw then what Abdel was holding in his big, callused hand. It was a book all right, and the sight of it set Beuros's heart racing. It was bound, no less, in human skin, and bore on it a symbol he hadn't seen in a long time, a symbol crafted from a human skull. Whatever this tome was, it was unusual to say the least. Evil, no doubt, but certainly a subject worthy of study from a purely detached perspective. If it was some dark text, Faerun would certainly be better for having it kept safe within the walls of Candlekeep.
"Well, well..." Beuros started to say.
"Let us in first," the woman interrupted.
Beuros laughed and said, "Not on your life, missy. Tell him to slide it through the slot."
Beuros activated the trigger for the secret panel that would open the more accessible slot in the gate while the sellsword studied the space that was the peephole eight feet or more above the gravel-covered ground.
The woman said, "If there was a window a bit—" but stopped talking when she finally noticed the slot—easily able to accommodate the book—open up on the door at Abdel's waist height.
"Slide it in there, Abdel," Beuros said softly, not realizing he'd used Abdel's name for the first time in years.
"I knew you knew me you bastard," Abdel grumbled, crossing the short distance to the gate with the book held out in front of him. The sellsword stopped abruptly just as the edge of the old book touched the slot. He was obviously reluctant to let it drop.
"You can't even read the language it's written in, for Mielikki's sake," the woman said, making Beuros smile. "Give him the heavy old thing, and let's get in there."
"Indeed, Abdel," Beuros said, "listen to this young woman, and give me the book. I need a gesture of good faith."
Abdel wouldn't let go
"Abdel?" the woman asked dully.
The sellsword sighed once more and let go of the book, letting it drop through the slot. Beuros climbed down and picked up the book. It was heavy, and the touch of the cover was at once ghastly and exhilarating.
"What have you got there, Beuros?" Tethtoril asked from behind him, making the guard gasp and spin to face him.
* * * * *
Less than an hour later Abdel and Jaheira were siting in TethtoriFs private chamber watching him make tea. The walk across Candlekeep's meticulously landscaped bailey brought back such a flood of emotions, Abdel had all but shut down. Tethtoril's reaction to the news of Gorion's death made Abdel live through it again. Jaheira, sensing what this visit was already doing to Abdel, clutched at his arm. She seemed impatient, but Abdel didn't think about why. All thoughts of the Iron Throne had fled his mind.
"I won't ask you where you got that book, Abdel," Teth-toril said, handing a cup of tea to Jaheira, "but I'm glad you decided to bring it here. It was the right thing to do."
Abdel waved off the cup that Tethtoril offered him, and the aging monk took a sip from it himself.
"I don't even know what it is," Abdel admitted. "I couldn't read it."
This seemed to take Tethtoril by surprise. "You tried?" he asked.
Abdel looked at him quizzically and shrugged.
"That book of yours, son," the monk said, "is one of a very, very few copies remaining of the unholy rites of Bhaal, Lord of Murder."
Abdel flushed, his head spinning. He'd been attracted to the book, wanted desperately to absorb it, understand it, but had at once been ashamed of that feeling and driven to keep his attraction to it a secret. Abdel still doubted it meant he was the son of this dead god, but the presence of Bhaal's influence must have been a factor in his life—his life before Gorion.
"Then I'm happy to be rid of it," Jaheira said, looking only at Abdel. "What I told you is true, Abdel."
Abdel sighed through his nose and forced a smile.
"Your father," Tethtoril said quickly, obviously uncomfortable with what he was about to say, "left something in my care. He told me that if he ever met an... untimely... if he died before he'd had a chance to..."
The monk held back a sob but couldn't continue.
"What is it, brother?" Abdel asked, finally looking up at Tethtoril.
"A letter," the monk said, then cleared his throat. "A letter and a pass stone—a stone that will give you free run of Candlekeep."
"A letter?" Abdel asked, and his mind spun, remembering the scrap of parchment Gorion had clutched to his body with his last bit of mortal strength. "I saw it," he said. "Gorion had it with him when he died."
"Impossible," Tethtoril said. "I have the letter right here."

Chapter Twenty-Four

Abdel read the letter aloud, and Jaheira didn't look at him almost the whole time.
" 'Hello My Son,
" 'If you are reading this it means I have met an untimely death. I would tell you not to grieve for me, but I feel much better thinking that you might. If you can, it will mean I have done the best any father could hope to do.' "
Abdel stopped reading for a moment. If Jaheira had glanced at him right then she would have seen the cords standing out in his neck, his throat was so tight. Gorion had done his job and done it well. The son of the god of murder was—if only for a moment—speechless with grief.
" 'There are things I must tell you in this letter that I should have told you before, but if my death came too soon and I have not been given the chance, you must know these things, and know them from me. I know you better than anyone on this world. You must believe what I have written here with the knowledge that, though there have been things I have not told you, I would never lie to you—not about this.'"
Abdel stopped reading again and looked at Jaheira, who didn't turn toward him. "He's going to tell me what you told me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "isn't he?"
Jaheira nodded, then Abdel sighed and read on.
" 'As you have known all your life, I am not your true father, but you have never known your sire's name. It is a name spoken only in fearful whispers, for so great was the terror of it that even though its power has fled the multi-verse, it has meaning still. You are the son of...' "
Abdel sighed again, and his face tightened into what might have passed for a smile or some tight, twisted, silent laugh. A single tear rolled down one cheek, and still Jaheira didn't look at him.
" "Your father is the entity known as Bhaal, Lord of Murder. A thing of evil, so vile it's nearly impossible to believe the multiverse itself could stand its hateful presence.
" Tou do not remember the Time of Troubles, when the gods walked Faerun. Like other great powers, Bhaal was forced into a mortal shell. As is possible, I have read, with divine beings, Bhaal was somehow forewarned of the death that awaited him during this time. He sought out women then, of every race, and forced himself upon them or seduced them. Your mother was one of these women, a mortal. . .'"
There was a silence then that hung in the air for what seemed to both of them like hours. Abdel looked at Jaheira with tear-blurred eyes and saw her cover her face with her hands. She sat on the corner of the rickety iron cot that had been Abdel's bed since he was but a toddler. The scroll he'd made in the first year of his schooling hung on the wall above her like some kind of cruel reminder of the lie that had been his human life. He continued reading, though he knew what was coming next aiid, worse than that, knew he didn't know what to do about it.
'"Your mother was one of these women... a mortal ravaged by murder incarnate.'"
He stopped this time only long enough to clench one big fist almost tight enough to draw blood under his jagged fingernails. His voice as tight as his fist, he read on.
""Your mother died in childbirth. I had been her friend and knew the paladin who brought you to me. I felt obliged, at first, to raise you as my own. As the years went by and I saw in you—every day—the promise of a life beyond some divine destiny, I came to love you as only a father can love his son. I have but one hope now, and that is that you will always think of me as your father.'"
I do, Abdel thought, hoping Gorion could hear him.
" 'The blood of the gods runs through your veins. If you make use of our extensive library you will find that our founder, Alaundo, has many prophecies concerning the coming of the spawn of Bhaal. Perhaps these prophecies will help you find your way.
" 'There are many who will want to use you for their own purposes. You had many half brothers, and nearly as many half sisters. Over the years an order of the paladins of Torm—among which I have some friends—and the Harpers, and some other individuals—I'm not even sure who—have kept track of you, and as many of your half siblings as possible. We've lost touch with some, we know some are dead, and we've rediscovered one. This one may be your half brother, and you may want to believe that he is family, that he can be a brother to you, but I beg you, do not. He means you only ill, and he was not raised in the calm, studious atmosphere of Candlekeep, but by a series of faceless cultists still clinging to the hopeless servitude of a dead god.
" 'This one calls himself Sarevok.' "
Jaheira gasped, and Abdel looked at her. She was looking at him finally. Her eyes were red, brimming with tears, and wide with confusion and surprise.
"Not Reiltar?" she whispered hoarsely.
" 'Sarevok,' " Abdel said, then looked back at the letter, then up at Jaheira again. "Do you know that name?"
She shook her head and looked away, so he read on.
" 'This one is the worst danger. He has studied here at Candlekeep and thus knows a great deal about your history and who you are. I have left you a token that will give you access to the inner libraries. You can find the secret entrance in one of the reading rooms on the ground floor. Do not tell any of the monks about your pass stone as they will take it from you. The inner libraries contain a secret route that leads out of Candlekeep. Use this only in the most pressing situations.'
"And he signed it, Tour loving father, Gorion.' "
"Abdel—" Jaheira wasn't able to finish. The door burst open and men came in. Abdel reacted, like he always did, and put his hands up fast to guard his head.
The first blow was a solid one that nearly broke Abdel's left forearm. He stood and used the strong muscles in his legs to help propel the staff he'd been struck with up and into the low ceiling. It snapped in half, sending another jolt of pain across Abdel's forearm. He ignored it and grabbed the broken end of the staff as it began to fall and returned the attack without even looking at the target. He'd been reading a letter that sent his life spiraling down a pit with very little hope at the bottom of it, a letter that presented more mysteries than it solved. The death of Gorion was a wound suddenly reopened, but Abdel didn't let himself fall all the way back. When he hit the man on the head with the broken end of his own staff, it was with enough force to stun him, but not kill him.
Jaheira was on her feet too, but she had no weapon. Abdel's broadsword was resting on an old wooden cabinet— a piece of furniture Gorion had given him and where he'd kept his clothes when he was just a boy. Abdel saw someone pick it up, and he clenched his teeth tightly. These men, maybe half a dozen of them, were dressed in the all too familiar chain mail and tabards of the guards of Candlekeep.
The man he'd hit fell heavily on the floor in front of the big sellsword, and Abdel used the broken staff like a club to parry one swipe, then another, then another, from two guards coming at him with stout oaken cudgels.
"Submit!" a commanding voice bellowed from somewhere just outside the narrow door as the guards continued to spill into the room. "Submit to the justice of Candlekeep, and it will all go that much—"
Abdel took another guard down with a fast, short jab to the temple with the rounded end of the staff.
"—easier for you both!"
Abdel heard Jaheira grunt and looked to see her doubled over. The guard who'd hit her in the stomach with a staff was smiling, and Abdel didn't like that smile one bit. Jaheira rolled her shoulder and pinched the end of the staff against her body, sending it into the leering guard's gut. The man coughed once and stepped back. Abdel was hit on the arm with a cudgel, and it felt like his whole body was shaken. He punched out at the guard, who flinched back far enough to save himself from the fist, but not the broken staff, which came in low from Abdel's other hand and crashed into the side of his knee. There was a loud pop, and the guard screamed and fell to the floor.
Jaheira pulled back on the staff still pinned to her side, and the guard let go. She staggered back half a step, and the guard punched her squarely in the side of the jaw. It was a tight-fisted, full-out punch that men rarely, if ever, threw at women, and the sight of it made Abdel's blood boil almost as much as the sight of Jaheira falling heavily to the ground, blinking, stunned, and rapidly losing consciousness.
Abdel didn't think, he stabbed. Spinning the broken staff through his fingers, he brought the pointed, splintered end to bear and grunted. The guard who'd punched Jaheira was still grinning when he turned to see Abdel coming at him. He didn't have even the split second it would have taken him to wipe the grin off his face before he was impaled on the broken staff. The sharp wedge of wood split the guard's chain mail like cotton, and the weakened wood shattered and splintered as it passed through the guard's guts and out his back, making a tent out of the unbroken chain mail behind.
One of the other guards screamed in shocked horror, and Jaheira passed out, a sad look passing briefly over her face before it went still and slack-jawed. Two men jumped Abdel from behind, and the touch of their cold chain mail sent a shiver through him. He managed to bat one away with a fast elbow that shattered the guard's teeth and sent him back on his rump, mumbling curses and beginning to cry. The other guard was stronger, and Abdel couldn't immediately shake her.
"It's murder now, for certain," the guard growled into Abdel's ear, as if justifying to herself that she would have to kill this man she'd known all her life.
"Pilten!" Abdel gasped "What—?"
"Sleep!" the voice from the corridor shouted, and Abdel's head spun.
He was trying to say, "No," as he fell, but all that came out was a grunt. He could feel something rattle his throat that might have been a snore, but he didn't feel his head hit the floorboards.
* * * * *
He was unconscious for a matter of minutes — long enough to be chained securely at the wrists and the ankles. He came to when they were dragging him down the corridor, the guards taking pleasure in the occasional retributive shot with the blunt staves and cudgels they carried. Abdel realized he'd killed one of the guards and let his neck go limp. Something in him wanted to take the punishment the guards were meting out, but that something was very new in him.
* * * * *
". . . and the guard makes nine," Tethtoril said from the other side of the barred door. Once again Abdel and Jaheira were caged like animals. They were together this time — unusual even for the more humane dungeons of Candle-keep — and unchained. The bruise on Jaheira's face was already starting to fade. Tethtoril had called on the power of Oghma to heal her as they were dragged to the dungeons. She was awake, horrified, and bemused.
"We didn't kill those men," she said, her voice betraying her growing anger. "We came here to prevent — "
"Is this yours?" Tethtoril interrupted. She gasped when she saw the bracelet he was holding. If she'd allowed herself time to think, she might not have said what she said next.
"Yes, where did you find it?"
It was the bracelet that Xan had dropped in the bandit encampment, the same camp in which he found that most unholy tome of Bhaal. The look on Tethtoril's face made Abdel's heart sink. The man was disappointed in him. Abdel admired Tethtoril, had admired him all his life, and though he had no idea who these other eight men were he was accused of killing, he did kill the guard who'd struck Jaheira. Not even Tethtoril could save him from that.
"The guard . . ." Abdel asked weakly, with very little hope. "Is there any chance?"
Tethtoril put a hand to his forehead and pretended to be thinking about the question. He obviously didn't want the guards to see him cry. When he'd gathered himself, he pulled from the same leather bag from which he'd produced Jaheira's bracelet a wide-bladed dagger. The blade sparkled in the lamplight, and the blood drying on it glistened around the edges where it met the shiny silver.
"Before I was shown this," the old monk said, fixing a stern, hurt, disapproving stare on Abdel, "I might have thought so."
"Tethtoril," Abdel said, "you can't think..."
Abdel didn't finish the thought because he understood that of course Tethtoril could think him capable of killing any number of men. He knew Tethtoril recognized the dagger—he'd been in the room when Gorion had made a great show of presenting it to him. Abdel only now recognized the voice that had put him to sleep as Tethtoril's. The old monk had seen him disembowel a guard for striking Jaheira a hard but recoverable blow. Of course Tethtoril could think him capable. He was capable.
"Pilten," Tethtoril said, and the guard Abdel had known when they were both children stepped forward. "Take these and... all of this... and secure it."
Pilten nodded once in acknowledgment, spared Abdel a disappointed look, then took the bundle that included Abdel's sword, the letter from Gorion, the pass stone—Tethtoril made a point of showing Abdel that he'd put it in the leather bag—and the incriminating evidence and walked away.
"Go with her," Tethtoril said to the others, "all of you."
The other guards were reluctant to leave the old monk.
"I will be quite all right," he said, lifting his chin in an expression of simple authority. The other guards shuffled off, and there was the sound of many doors closing.
"I will do what I can," Tethtoril said to Abdel, sparing a glance at Jaheira, "but you've left me little to work with."
"Send word to Baldur's Gate, perhaps," Abdel said, "to Eltan?"
Tethtoril nodded, though there was very little hope showing in the old monk's face.
"I've disappointed you," Abdel said quietly.
Tethtoril forced a weak smile and nodded.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Abdel touched his nose and, like the rest of him, it had turned to glass. The surface was smooth and cold, and there was a distinct tinkling sound when he opened his eyes. His head reeled at first. He wasn't used to being so high up. The horizon was wider and deeper. There was a huge, dark-green blanket of forest stretching for what must have been miles.
The forest was filled with people in rough black robes. At first it sounded to Abdel like the people were humming, but then he realized they were chanting—they were chanting his name.
"Ab-del, Ab-del, Ab-del," over and over again in a steady cadence that melded together into a single voice, a voice that was familiar to Abdel, a voice that repelled him.
He took a step back and was surprised when it seemed like whatever structure he was standing on moved back with him. This made his head spin all the more, and a sigh escaped his crystal lips. He put one foot forward to try to balance himself but couldn't. It was then that he realized he wasn't standing on a tower—he was the tower.
He fell forward, unable to move his cut glass body, which must have weighed thousands of tons, either quickly or gracefully. He must have been a hundred feet tall or more, and it took him a long time to fall, the trees rushing up at him. When his center of gravity shifted enough, his shins started to crack. The sound of it was loud and would still have been disturbing even if it wasn't his legs. As his face rushed toward the ground and he came closer and closer to her, he saw Jaheira.
She was looking up at him, her eyes bulging in abject horror. He was falling on her—a shattering glass titan that would crush her at the same time it ripped her to shreds. He couldn't stop himself from falling, and she didn't seem able to run. She screamed his name, and it sounded as angry and frustrated as it did fearful. She held up her hands, and Abdel tried to scream out her name, but his voice caught in his glass throat and shattered it. His head fell off and hit Jaheira hard enough to drive her into the ground as it shattered into a trillion screeching fragments.
* * * * *
Abdel came awake with a start, and Jaheira was holding his shoulders, her face close to his. She looked angry and smelled awful.
Memory flooded back to him in torrents, and he remembered being put to sleep by Tethtoril—was it Tethtoril?— and being dragged to the dungeons under Candlekeep and thrown into a cell with Jaheira. He remembered Tethtoril promising to help, then himself telling Jaheira to be patient. He remembered curling up on a surprisingly comfortable cot and watching Jaheira do the same on the other side of the room. He remembered a guard blowing out the little oil lamp, then he was asleep and dreaming he was a hundred-foot-tall god shattering over the woman he loved.
"You don't smell very good," he said, forcing a weak smile.
Jaheira sighed impatiently and said, "It's not me."
She turned to the bars, and there was the ghoul, Korak.
"Abdel," he said in the voice of the chanting people of Abdel's nightmare. "Abdel, I help you."
The reeking undead thing held up a heavy iron ring hung with a dozen or more big keys. Clinging to the ring was a severed hand already turning gray, its knuckles still white in its death grip.
"He's been following us," Jaheira said, backing off so Abdel could stand. He brushed straw from his bliaut and rolled his shoulders, hearing them pop and grind from a cold night on the dungeon cot.
"You killed the guard?" Abdel asked the ghoul directly. Korak smiled, held up the ring again, and said, "I help you. I want to help you."
"Go away," Abdel said, even as the ghoul started trying keys in the big lock.
"I'm not convinced this is a good idea either, Abdel," Jaheira said, "but I'm not sure we have much choice. Murderers are executed here like everywhere else, aren't they?" There was a loud clank and a squeak. Abdel looked over to see Korak swing the gate open.
The ghoul smiled a black-toothed smile and said, "Come."
"If you step one foot in here, Korak," Abdel said, "I will kill you with my bare hands."
"Abdel," Jaheira said, ignoring the ghoul, "if they could get to Scar—with doppelgangers—if they could get into the ducal palace in Baldur's Gate... they could get in here."
"Tethtoril will help us," Abdel protested. "I've known him all my life. He's a good man, and he won't hang either of us." "If he isn't already dead," Jaheira said sternly. Korak hovered in the open doorway and said, "Coming now?"
"That was Tethtoril who locked us in here last night," Abdel assured her. "If it was a doppelganger why wouldn't he just kill us?"
"Would Tethtoril?" Jaheira asked. Abdel's only answer was a confused look, so she continued. "If that was a doppelganger it would have to behave the way Tethtoril would behave. It could be up there right now, gathering more false evidence against us—evidence of crimes committed by doppelgangers who look just like us—evidence that it'll use to convict us and execute us. To everyone else it'll all seem perfectly rational, perfectly just. We'll be blamed for everything... the Iron Throne, Reiltar or Sarevok, or whoever is behind this will have won."
Abdel didn't want to believe that possibility, but he had to at least consider it. He turned away and breathed too deeply of the air now fouled by the presence of the rotting ghoul. He coughed and looked up in time to see Korak hold up one finger then skip away, taking the oil lamp he was holding with him. The cell was plunged into darkness, and the absence of light helped to clear Abdel's mind.
"So we can't trust anyone," he said simply.
"I don't think we can," she replied as simply. "We can trust Gorion's letter, though. You have a half brother named Sarevok, who I'm guessing is Reiltar's—the Iron Throne's— 'man' in Baldur's Gate."
The light came back quickly with Korak, and the ghoul dropped the precarious load he was carrying, letting it clatter on the flagstones outside the cell. Their armor was there, Abdel's broadsword, and the pass stone. Abdel was happy when he realized Korak had used a key to open the cell, so the ghoul didn't know the power of the stone. It would be their ticket out.
The last item Abdel pulled from the sack was his dagger, the wide-bladed silver dagger Gorion had given him so long ago. It felt good in his grip, not because it could rip any man's guts out, but because it was given to him by someone he cared about, and who cared about him.
"You lost your sword," he said to Jaheira. She looked up at him and nodded. He turned the dagger around in his hand and offered her the handle.
"Thank you," she whispered, taking the weapon. "I'll take good care of it."
They stood, and Abdel took Jaheira lightly by the elbow and whispered into her ear, "Didn't we decide this ghoul was working for the Iron Throne?"
Jaheira shrugged and whispered, "I haven't the slightest idea, but we can always kill him later."
Abdel smiled sadly and guided her to the open cell door.
* * * * *
Even in the most curious summer afternoons of Abdel's youth, he'd never seen this side of Candlekeep. Under the monastery, for what seemed like endless layer upon endless layer, was a series of catacombs and sewers that was like an infinite labyrinth. It didn't take Abdel long, who didn't have much of a sense of direction underground, to get lost completely, and he and Jaheira soon found themselves in a position they'd both promised themselves and each other they'd never be in again. They were blindly following the vile-smelling Korak.
"This one must have been important," Jaheira whispered. The sound of her soft voice echoed through the narrow passageway like a drawn-out hiss. She motioned with the dagger to a niche in the catacomb wherein sat an ornately carved mahogany casket. There was a brass plaque carefully nailed to the side but tarnish and cobwebs made it illegible. Above the niche was a shield on which was painted an elaborate coat of arms that Abdel didn't recognize.
"Eventually this should lead out to the sea," Abdel said, ignoring her observation.
She smiled at him in the flickering torchlight and was about to say something when the ghoul's voice echoed back at them, "No time to stop." Korak sounded nervous. "No time at all!"
The zombies fell on him from all sides at once.
Jaheira breathed in sharply as if she were about to scream, and Abdel's heart skipped a beat at the sight of the ghoul being torn to pieces by a good half-dozen walking corpses who each looked worse off than even the rotting ghoul. Korak screamed a pitiful, thin wail that bounced around in the tunnel along with the sound of tearing and shuffling and splashing and cracking. The zombies were as silent as the dead they were.
One of the undead things turned slowly and looked at the half-god and the half-elf. The thing's ashen face betrayed no sign of life, let alone emotion, but it recognized their presence and came forward. When the pieces of Korak stopped twitching, the rest of them followed suit, and they advanced on Abdel and Jaheira as one.
"We need to go," Jaheira, already backing up, said.
Abdel thought about it for a long time—two steps of the zombies—then said, "Yeah, I think so."
More zombies appeared from side passages. Abdel stopped counting at eight and just turned tail to run, following closely behind Jaheira. They turned a corner in the dark, damp, musty, narrow corridor, and their way was blocked by a rusted iron gate. Abdel swore loudly, and the echoes momentarily drowned out the loud, reverberating hiss of the zombies dragging their desiccated feet along the stone floor.
"Break it open," Jaheira suggested weakly. Abdel grabbed the bars and felt big flakes of rust powder in his grip. He pulled hard on the gate and it gave a little, sending a hundred different echoes cascading through the passageway. The first zombie rounded the corner.
In a panicked voice Jaheira whispered, "Abdel..."
He turned at the same time he drew his sword, bringing it around close to his body to avoid cutting Jaheira. The zombie came in slow, tangled in the tatters of the long robe it was wearing. This one had been a woman, maybe centuries before it became this shuffling, undead thing.
Jaheira stabbed at it with the silver dagger, and a big chunk of its midsection just fell away. It staggered back, never making eye contact with either of its living prey and then came back again. When it was within arm's length it reached its rotting claws up and took a slow, clumsy, but strong swipe at Jaheira with its hands. Abdel took its head off easily, but Jaheira had to jump out of the way to avoid being cut herself, and she dodged directly into the next zombie in line.
It grabbed at her forearm in what looked like an attempt to keep itself from falling, but the zombie wasn't capable of that kind of high-level decision making. It meant to claw her, and using the weight of its fall as much as the strength in its dead, reanimated arm, it took three deep gouges out of Jaheira's shoulder. The half-elf screamed and pushed back with both legs, coming into the rusted gate hard in an attempt to avoid the zombie's second scraping set of claws. The zombie fell away as Jaheira hit the gate and continued through when the bars, which had rusted through after centuries of neglect, gave way behind her.
Jaheira had expected the gate to hold her so was surprised enough at finding herself landing rump-first on the damp stone floor that she didn't see Abdel cut in half the zombie that had scratched her. Abdel kept his sword in his right hand and fumbled in his belt pouch with his left hand. He pulled out the pass stone and turned, moving past the prone Jaheira, even as another zombie appeared around the corner. Jaheira stood up, turned, and ran.
"Follow me!" Abdel said and didn't look back. He could hear her staying close behind him. He held the stone in his left hand and let it pass an inch or two from the wall.
"Do you know . . ." Jaheira panted, ". . . where we're . . . going?"
Abdel answered, "No, but I know Candlekeep."
He knew this wouldn't make sense to Jaheira, who didn't respond.
"The whole thing," Abdel said as he ran, "is full of secret doors. It's practically made of secret doors. I've never been down here, but I see no reason why—"
He stopped at the sound of grinding stone, and Jaheira collided with his back with a grunt. A doorway slid open in the stone wall to their left. Abdel winked and stepped through into the soft, damp breeze that carried on it the scent of the sea.

Chapter Twenty-Six

"Candlekeep will take care of them for you," Duke Angelo said, handing the semicircular glass to Sarevok. "They will never be seen again."
Sarevok smiled, and Angelo looked away. As one of the dukes of Baldur's Gate, an experienced mercenary commander, and a half-elf who'd already lived longer than most humans would ever dream of, Angelo had met all kinds—but no one like Sarevok. This imposing man made the air in his apartment in the ducal palace heavy with—what? Angelo couldn't put his finger on the word: malice? avarice? destiny?
"What do you call this?" Sarevok asked, his voice even in casual conversation was deep, resonating, and commanding.
"Brandy," Angelo answered. "It's quite new. I think you'll find it to your liking."
Sarevok smiled, and Angelo managed to look away casually, as if he weren't terrified of that grin. He crossed the big room to the fireplace, his feet whispering over the rug he'd had brought to him from Shou Lung at the cost of so many gold pieces they had to be conveyed east by magical means. The decorations and furnishings in this room could buy a small city, and Angelo took great pride in his varied collection of artifacts from the four corners of Toril. He took the poker from next to the fire—heavy mithral from the dwarven mines of the Great Rift—and prodded the fire absentmindedly.
"Interesting," Sarevok said, and Angelo looked up to find him holding an empty glass. "Cherries?"
"I believe so," Angelo answered, then changed the subject abruptly in an effort to hurry Sarevok's departure from his home. "My command of the Flaming Fist is secure. This Abdel of yours, and his woman, are known and wanted in this city. I don't suppose you can tell me how you got this information?"
"Oh," Sarevok laughed, "of course not, but I assure you they are indeed working in the employ of the Shadow Thieves."
"And this... what is it... cabal?"
"Guild, really," Sarevok replied.
"This thieves guild is Amnian in origin," Angelo said, studying the fire. "Surely they're outlaws in Amn as well, then."
Sarevok put down his glass with a hollow clink. "Think of them as privateers," he said. "Outlaws in the service of Amn."
"This is not to be tolerated," Angelo said, as if looking for agreement from Sarevok.
"Indeed," the imposing man said, "it is not."
"So what does it mean?" Angelo asked. "War with Amn, then?"
"Do you fear war?"
Angelo looked at Sarevok sharply, and a cold sweat broke out under his fine clothing. He thought for the briefest moment that Sarevok's eyes flashed an inhuman yellow, as if lit from within, then his guest smiled again.
"I fear needless war, yes," Angelo replied. He turned away and looked at the portrait of himself that hung above the fireplace. The artist had done an admirable job with Angelo's long, thin, vertical features. The duke kept his goatee trimmed to match the portrait, though current fashions were passing it by. The painting, unlike the man, still showed a trace of the warrior he once was. He met his own stare and felt like withering from it as much as from Sarevok's.
"If men are asked to fight, and no good reason is given them, they don't fight with their hearts."
"Their hearts do not concern me, Angelo. I need arms and legs."
Angelo took three steps and sank heavily onto a divan near the fire. He touched the calfskin cushion. It felt like a baby's skin and had cost him enough to buy a hundred children. Suddenly it didn't seem as impressive as when he'd purchased it in Waterdeep.
"Will your men fight?" Sarevok asked, his voice as loaded as the question.
Angelo nodded, hoping to reassure himself.
"Then tell them it is because Amn wants this war," Sarevok said calmly. "They poison our iron mines, try to strangle our neighbors to the south, they mean to have Baldur's Gate, the river, the mines... all of it. Is that enough?"
Angelo smiled and said, "More than enough, my friend. Add to that these Shadow Thieves working their mischief here in the Gate herself..."
"When I am named grand duke," Sarevok said, "there will be no more Amnian cutthroats defiling our great city... if we have to kill every man, woman, and child in that cursed realm to ensure it."
Angelo swallowed in a throat turned dry.
* * * * *
It wasn't even a whole shadow that caught Abdel's eye but the edge of a shadow. It was the third time he'd caught a glimpse of it since they'd returned to Baldur's Gate, sneaking into the city at night, unsure of their status in that city or any other on the Sword Coast. They were considered murderers in Candlekeep. Now they were being followed.
"You're sure?" Jaheira said softly. She'd noticed him tense at the glimpse of shadow.
Abdel nodded and said, "Just keep walking. We need to see Eltan."
"He might be the one following us," Jaheira said, "or having us followed."
Abdel didn't say anything. He was going over the options in his mind, and he made a decision quickly. Jaheira grunted in protest when he pulled her into a narrow, light-less alley.
"Shortcut?" she quipped.
He drew his sword in answer, and Jaheira grew as serious as he.
"If I have to kill whoever—or whatever—is following us, I don't want to do it in the street."
It took them an hour or more to reach the ducal palace, staying in the shadowy alleys the whole way. They heard footsteps once, saw another shadow, then another, before they reached their destination. Most of the time Abdel was the one who noticed their tail. He couldn't explain it even to himself, but it was as if he could smell her. Her? Abdel shook the thoughts out of his head, sheathed his sword and, Jaheira at his side, approached the guards at the gates of the ducal palace.
"Halt," one of them called, his voice conveying the growing tension in the city both Abdel and Jaheira had felt in the air this time. There was a heaviness about Baldur's Gate. "Who goes there?"
Abdel held his hands out next to him and walked up the little incline to the gate slowly. "I seek an audience with Grand Duke Eltan," he said simply.
The guard who stepped forward was a stocky young man who filled out his chain mail well. He held a well-polished halberd in a way that told Abdel he knew how to use it. Torches lit the area around the gate, and Abdel could see at least five more guards.
"And who are you?" the guard asked.
"A friend," Abdel answered.
"Eltan—" Jaheira said, "Grand Duke Eltan knows us. He sent us to... on a mission, and we need to report back."
"The grand duke is dying," the guard said. "You can make your report to the captain of the watch in the morning."
Jaheira looked pointedly at Abdel who closed his eyes and sighed, clenching his fists tightly. One of the other guards moved timidly out of the shadows, and the sound of his feet on the gravel made Abdel look up.
"Abdel?" the approaching guard asked, "Jaheira? Is that you?"
The first guard tensed visibly and shifted the weight of his halberd.
"Julius?" Jaheira said, her half-elf eyes allowing her to see the second guard's face.
"Torm save us," the first guard exclaimed, "it's the Shadow Thieves!"
"No—" Jaheira started to say, but Julius rushed at her with his halberd out in front of him. Now even Abdel could see his angry, frightened face as he charged. The first guard came at Abdel, and the sellsword stepped lightly to one side and grabbed the pole of the halberd in a tight grip. The guard let go of the polearm and drew a sword so quickly Abdel realized he must have practiced it. Only Abdel's chain mail saved him from a quick disemboweling.
Abdel spun the polearm around and was surprised by the thoughts that seemed to explode in his head. These guards thought they were Shadow Thieves—a group Abdel knew to be Amnian. Whatever story the Iron Throne had managed to create about them in Candlekeep had obviously stretched to Baldur's Gate—and in strange ways. In Candlekeep he had proven the Iron Throne right when he killed the guard. Abdel, even as he swung the halberd at the guard, decided not to make it that easy for the Iron Throne again.
Jaheira was ready for Julius's clumsy charge and stepped past the head of the polearm too. She punched Julius square in the nose, his own momentum compounding the blow. There was a sharp, snapping sound and a warm wetness over Jaheira's fist, and Julius went down.
Abdel dodged a slice from the first guard's sword and heard the other four running up rapidly even as a hollow horn blew in the otherwise quiet night. They'd have the whole palace down on them soon enough. Abdel spun the halberd around again and faked a jab at the guard's head. The guard dodged the attack, but put his head in line for a sideswipe that knocked him down—and out—with a solid clunk. Abdel threw the halberd sideways at the approaching guards and turned to see Jaheira already running for the safety of the dark alleys. The guards chased him only halfheartedly, and Abdel wondered if it was that they didn't want to abandon the gates, or if the dark alleys of their own city frightened them. Maybe it was a bit of both.
* * * * *
Abdel passed rats, garbage in piles, sleeping houses, and shops closed for the night. At intervals he would whisper-shout Jaheira's name into the darkness. A few times he thought he heard her footsteps or saw her shadow. He passed through an alley between two expensive looking townhouses. There was a beggar asleep in the alley who looked like nothing more than a pile of rags, snoring softly. Abdel held his breath, as he'd learned to do when passing beggars. He'd been walking a long time though, and he breathed in just slightly as he passed. The smell wasn't right. It wasn't a beggar's smell, and Abdel recognized it right away. He kept walking though, forcing himself not to hesitate. When he got to the end of the alley he stepped to the side and stopped, pressing his back against the wall and looking to his left at the alley entrance. Afraid of making any noise, he didn't pull his sword.
The face of the person who'd been following them since they'd returned to Baldur's Gate came around the corner slowly, eyes like slits in the darkness. Abdel spun around and grabbed for the stranger. He caught half a handful of smooth, cool fabric then his arm was batted away, the blow making his wrist tingle though it came so quickly he didn't see it. He felt something on his shoulder, and his vision went dark for the briefest moment. He stepped back and spun around at the sound of a voice from above.
"I am not your enemy."
The voice was quiet, precise, and the accent was unrecognizable.
"Abdel," Jaheira whispered behind him, and the sell-sword gasped and spun, going half for his sword. Jaheira squeaked in surprise and jumped back.
"Don't do that!" she said, too loudly, then flinched again when Abdel put a hand up to silence her. He turned around and looked up at the balcony. The stranger moved up onto the stone rail and stepped off. falling what must have been fifteen feet and landing as softly as if it had been an inch. It was a woman, short and thin of frame, dressed in a close-fitting black garment unlike any Abdel had ever seen. Her face was hidden behind a mask that showed only her eyes, eyes the sellsword thought must have been eastern—Shou, or maybe Kozakuran.
"Who's that?" Jaheira asked. The stranger stepped back into the darkness of the alley, motioning Abdel to follow. The sellsword tipped his head to one side, but didn't follow her.
"My name is Tamoko," the woman said from the shadows.
"Why are you following us?" Abdel asked.
Jaheira drew her blade but didn't move forward.
"I know you are not Shadow Thieves," Tamoko said quietly. "I know you are not attempting to start this war, but avoid it."
"What war?" Jaheira asked. "War with Amn?"
"Grand Duke Eltan is dying," Tamoko said, still ignoring Jaheira. "The healer is not what he seems."
With that Tamoko stepped back into the shadows. Abdel rushed forward with Jaheira at his side and though they were at the entrance to the alley in less than a second, the dark woman was gone.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

If they hadn't spent as much time in the company of the festering ghoul Korak, Abdel and Jaheira wouldn't have been able to stand being in the alley as long as it took the guards to finish searching the place for them. The fish stew that filled the rusting metal bins they were hiding next to couldn't have been very good, even before it was thrown away. Abdel looked at Jaheira's face and in the predawn darkness of the alley he could see she was almost gagging with every breath.
"What's keeping them?" Jaheira asked in a voice dripping venom and impatience.
"It's a big place," Abdel answered. "The Blushing Mermaid goes on forever . . . almost, with wings attached to wings attached to wings. If they really think we're in there, it could take a long time."
Jaheira held a hand over her mouth, but Abdel could still hear her say, "Well, I guess the longer they're in there, the more thorough a search they give the place, the less likely they'll be to think they missed us and come back again. Besides, the reek is the only thing keeping me awake right now."
Abdel nodded and looked up at the sky, which had turned a dark blue with the approaching dawn.
They didn't have much longer to wait, and when the guards came out it was hard to miss them. They were a noisy, boisterous lot who seemed to have spent more time in the Blushing Mermaid drinking than searching. Abdel and Jaheira forced themselves to be patient until the guards' voices faded down the maze of crooked streets.
They slipped into a side door and got only a passing, disinterested glance from a halfling cook who was standing on a little wooden stool, stirring a huge black caldron full of that vile fish stew. They made their way out of the kitchens and into the tavern proper. Abdel held back behind a greasy curtain, letting Jaheira slip into the common room alone. He watched her cross the dark, low-ceilinged barroom inhabited by only a scattering of wee hour drinkers. A few of them were passed out on or under tables. One table was occupied by a group of nearly a dozen sailors, still singing some sea shanty and clapping while a woman, who looked so tired she might have been the Goddess of Tired, danced for their amusement and the odd tossed silver piece.
Not even the sailors noticed Jaheira slip into the room, so Abdel followed her to a table far away from the loud group. When he passed the bar a young man in loose-fitting ring mail looked up at Abdel with bleary eyes.
"Julius," Abdel said, stopping abruptly enough to draw the momentary attention of a couple of the sailors. Abdel looked back at them, and they turned away from his steely gaze. He reached out and took the young guardsman by the shoulder.
" 'Ey," Julius slurred weakly. He reeked of stale beer and sweat.
Abdel dragged Julius to the table where Jaheira was staring at them both expectantly. Julius sat down heavily— was sat down actually—on one of the little stools, and his head bobbed loosely on his neck.
"Finish me off, why don't you?" he murmured, making passing eye contact with Jaheira. His nose was swollen and purple and big bruises were forming under both his eyes. He had jammed bits of blood-soaked cloth up both nostrils, which only made his voice weaker, comical.
"Julius," Abdel said gravely, "we need some time. You're not going to turn us in, are you?"
Julius sat swaying gently for a few moments, trying to choose one of the Abdels he saw. Abdel glanced over his own right shoulder to try to see what Julius was looking at.
"To the Abyss with 'em all, my big, giant friend. They busted me, d'you believe that? They busted me to footman," the young guard said.
"Julius," Jaheira said, having to just hope he could understand her. "The guard at the palace told us Eltan is dying. What's been going on here?"
"Eltan Schmeltan . . ." Julius murmured. "He can kiss my—"
"Julius," Abdel said roughly, and the young guard laughed sloppily and tried to sock Abdel in the arm playfully but just waved impotently in the air.
"Yeah... yeah... Eltan," Julius said around sudden, violent hiccups. "He's taken... he's taken... he's taken..."
"Ill?" Jaheira provided.
"Yes," Julius said, scratching at his hair like a dog. "That too."
"Julius," Abdel said, but the young guard didn't look up, he just snored loudly. "Julius!" Abdel shouted, and the sailors all looked at him. The dancing woman sat down and sighed.
"Hey, swabby," one of the sailors called, "keep it down."
Abdel ignored the sailor and shook Julius awake.
The guard smiled and said, "They busted me to footman, so now I gotta wear this damned ring mail. I hate ring mail. It—"
The door to the street burst open, and an enormously fat woman surged into the tavern, panting and sweating.
"Whoa," Julius said and nearly fell off his chair. The woman crossed to the bartender and told him something Abdel couldn't hear, though the woman's face told him the news was urgent and grave. Even the sailors were looking at the bartender in anticipation.
"Hey up!" the bartender shouted, sliding to the center of the long bar. "Hey up!"
Even some of the passed-out drunks, whose eyes were growing red and puffy, looked up at the bartender.
"Dawn breaks over a sad city," the bartender said, his voice gravelly and loud, "for Grand Duke Eltan is dead!"
The woman who'd been dancing for the sailors gasped and began to cry. The sailors regarded her for a few seconds, some seeming legitimately worried, then they all shrugged in turn and started talking about what a bastard their first mate was.
Abdel turned to look at Jaheira. Her face was a stone mask—as hopeless as he'd ever seen her.
"Angelo," Julius murmured. "I have to take orders from Angelo."
"Angelo?" Abdel asked, "The half-elf?"
Julius nodded loosely and said, "Aye, sir. He's taken over the Flaming Fist. Now there'll be nobody to stop the ducal election from going to whatsisname."
"Who?" Jaheira asked.
"Sarevok," Julius said sluggishly. "It'll be Grand Duke Sarevok."
* * * * *
Abdel was hesitant to follow Julius's stammered, mumbled directions, but had little choice. As another day dawned over Baldur's Gate, Abdel and Jaheira stole cloaks off a wash line and went through the waking streets with hoods drawn over their faces. They kept to opposite sides of the street, assuming the guards would be looking for a couple, but kept each other in the corner of their vision all the way.
They followed Julius's directions and came around the back of the ducal palace, keeping to the still shadowy alley facing the rear gate from which Julius claimed the ducal healer would eventually emerge. There was something about the healer—Kendal was his name—that Abdel didn't like the first time they'd met him. Now they had this strange eastern woman tell them there was something amiss with the healer the very night that Eltan, under Kendal's care, died of some mysterious ailment. Abdel only hoped Julius, who was passed out in the Blushing Mermaid when they left him, wouldn't remember telling them where to go, or even remember meeting them at all, and tell his superiors.
Abdel forced himself not to think about what else Julius had to say. If it was true that his half brother Sarevok was here in Baldur's Gate, was Reiltar's man on the Sword Coast, was responsible for the whole bloody mess, what was he going to do? If Sarevok became grand duke, if Eltan was dead and even Tethtoril had turned against him, what could the two of them do against—
The door opened, and Abdel and Jaheira stepped silently back into the shadowy alley and watched Kendal stride quickly, casually, out into the street. The sellsword and the half-elf glanced at each other and followed the healer into the maze of slowly waking streets. Kendal took what could only have been a purposefully meandering path through the streets. Though it wasn't difficult to follow him, both Abdel and Jaheira were becoming more and more wary of being caught out in the open. It was with some relief that they saw Kendal ditch into a dark, thin alleyway. They followed him into the shadows and stopped when they saw him change.
By the time Kendal reached the end of the alley—less than a dozen yards at most—he'd blurred around the edges and faded into a new form altogether. What came out the other end of the alley was a young woman, carrying not a bag of medicines, potions, and such but a basket of fresh cut flowers.
Jaheira breathed out through her nose, and Abdel took her by the elbow and nudged her gently forward. The doppelganger continued on its way—actually paused twice to sell flowers to passersby—then slipped into another alley without ever looking behind it. Abdel and Jaheira circled around quickly and were at the other end of the alley before the doppelganger emerged, this time in the form of a burly laborer in mud-stained coveralls.
Abdel and Jaheira hid behind an apple cart and watched the doppelganger disappear down another side street. They moved quickly along the next block, hoping to cut the doppelganger off, but when they cut through an alley, back to the street they'd seen the creature turn down, there was no sign of the laborer. The street was all but empty. The sun had barely peeked over the city wall.
"Damn them all," Abdel whispered.
"I hate those damned doppelgangers," Jaheira said.
"As do I," replied a voice from behind them.
They turned and saw what could only be the slight eastern woman from the night before. She was dressed in shimmering black silk that Abdel thought must have cost her a king's ransom. The sword that hung loosely from a cord around her neck was thin and curved gracefully. The hand guard was a simple oval with a cloth-of-gold-wrapped pommel long enough for two hands. Abdel had never seen a sword like it.
"It is a katana,"Tamoko said, noticing Abdel noticing her weapon.
Abdel nodded once and said, "And you're a doppelganger."
Tamoko smiled sadly. "I understand that that possibility would exist," she said, "but I am not."
"Who are you?" Jaheira asked, her brow furrowed.
Tamoko nodded in the direction of an alley and stepped in, this time making no attempt to hide herself. Abdel and Jaheira reluctantly followed. Jaheira drew the silver dagger, and this elicited a tiny, knowing smile from Tamoko. Abdel almost returned the smile. This strange woman's face was not unlike Jaheira's. Her ears showed no trace of elf blood, but her features were strangely sylvan.
"I can take you to the Iron Throne," Tamoko said simply.
Jaheira laughed in response and said, "Can you really? And will they wait to kill us there or pounce on us in the street?"
"They will not expect anyone to be coming in from this entrance. You will be able to kill them all and—"
"This is ludicrous," Jaheira interrupted. "Abdel..."
The sellsword held up a hand, and Jaheira's look all but burned into his flesh.
"My friend is right," Abdel said to Tamoko. "We have no reason to trust you... or anyone in this pit of shapeshifters."
"I am your brother's lover," she said, locking her eyes onto his. Abdel felt the truth radiate from them. She was speaking so simply, so plainly, and never wavering. He had no real reason to, but he believed her.
"Sarevok?" Abdel asked, the name almost tripping on his tongue.
Tamoko nodded once. "I can help you, but you must not kill him."
"This is madness," Jaheira scoffed. "This lover of yours is going to start a war. Thousands of people are going to die. He's already killed two of the most powerful men in Baldur's Gate, and others..." Jaheira stepped forward and bent the elbow of her sword arm just slightly. Tamoko fixed her gaze on the tip of Jaheira's blade. Abdel could feel what was about to happen and didn't like the feeling one bit.
"No one believes us," Abdel said then, just letting the words pour out. "They've accused us of murder, of being Shadow Thieves, of being Amnian spies, of the gods only know what else. They've killed all of our friends, all of our contacts. We're alone against this man—my brother if that's what he is—who by nightfall will be the next grand duke. There might be people left who can help us, but they will need proof." Abdel spared a long, telling glance at Jaheira and added, "They will need written proof."
Jaheira looked at him and sighed. He wasn't sure if she was angry at him for dealing with this strange woman who might be a doppelganger or worse, or if she realized that he meant to return to Candlekeep with some evidence, some way to garner Tethtoril's forgiveness. Abdel himself felt silly and weak for thinking the latter, but he was happy to feel that way.
"If the Iron Throne is revealed," Tamoko said, her gaze coming off Jaheira's blade and over to Abdel's eyes, "Sarevok will have to flee the city. I will go with him. We will..."
"Abdel..." Jaheira said. He couldn't read her tone.
"The threat of war will be at an end," Tamoko said.
"And you will reform this brother of mine?" Abdel asked. "You'll turn him away from... from our father's .
. ."
"I will," Tamoko said flatly.
"Abdel," Jaheira said, "he's not you."
Abdel looked at her and smiled, "No," he said, "Sarevok is not me. I had a chance. I had you."
Jaheira sighed and turned away, unable to argue though she knew he was making a mistake big enough to kill them all.
"I will not kill Sarevok," Abdel said to Tamoko.
The assassin bowed deeply, forming nearly a ninety-degree angle at her waist.
She stood and said, "You will have your evidence."

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Abdel stood over the doppelganger he'd just killed and watched Tamoko fight. He was in awe of her skill, her speed, her agility, and her detached, pristine calm. He couldn't imagine having to fight the woman. Abdel knew he was good—knew now that a god's blood ran in his veins even—but he was a bumbling novice next to this woman.
She sliced open the neck of a city guardsman and dark blood pumped from the wound. It transformed back into its gray, inhuman form as it fell. Its comrade fought on, knowing it had no choice but to at least attempt to save its own miserable life. It went for her eyes, then tried for her knees, it fought with desperation and panic and a complete lack of sportsmanship. Tamoko, who seemed so studied, took it all in stride and met each attack, however cheap, with strong, unhesitating, calm.
She batted away the doppelganger's short sword so hard it spun from the creature's grasp.
It stopped, put its hands to its side and said, in the voice of its Amnian soldier form, "I yield."
Tamoko took its head off so fast the doppelganger had time to blink once or twice at its own headless corpse.
"That is all that we will find here," she said, sparing the transforming doppelganger not the slightest emotion. "The rest are elsewhere in the city."
"Where?" Jaheira said, wiping doppelganger blood from her own blade.
"You wanted proof," Tamoko said.
"I don't want to leave any more of these things alive in the Gate," Abdel replied, waiting for the location of the other doppelgangers.
Tamoko stood firm and said, "There will always be doppelgangers in this city," Tamoko obviously took no joy in her opinion. "There will always be doppelgangers in every city. It is how they live."
"Great," Jaheira muttered, "that's just—"
Abdel put a hand on her arm, and Jaheira sighed.
"She's right," he said. "We came here for evidence."
Jaheira looked up at Tamoko and raised her eyebrows. The assassin bowed and gestured to a corner of the cellar. This particular cell of doppelgangers—all in the employ of Sarevok and the Iron Throne—made their home in the cellar of an abandoned manor house on Windspell Street. The cellar was dark, smelled bad, and was crowded with old crates and stacks of rotten firewood. There were six cots and four dead doppelgangers. Abdel looked in the corner Tamoko indicated and saw a stout wooden chest. Jaheira insisted on staring at Tamoko while Abdel dragged the chest into the feeble light of the doppelgangers' oil lamp.
Tamoko knelt next to one of the dead creatures, and Jaheira winced when the assassin stuck her finger into the doppelganger's bloody mouth. She obviously didn't find what she was looking for, so she knelt next to another one.
"What are you doing?" Jaheira asked her.
Tamoko fished about in the doppelganger's mouth for a moment and produced a wet, slimy iron key. Jaheira shook her head in amazement, and Tamoko flashed an almost imperceptible smile.
The assassin tossed the key to Abdel, who used it to open the chest.
"What is it?" Jaheira asked him, still keeping her eyes on Tamoko. "What's in there?"
"Scrolls," Abdel replied.
Jaheira looked at him. He was kneeling in front of the chest, his back to her.
"Scrolls?" she asked.
"Evidence," he answered, turning to face her. He looked at her and smiled, but his smile quickly faded as he looked past her, then turned his head to scan the room. Jaheira followed his gaze to nothing. Tamoko was gone.
* * * * *
The chest was heavy, and Abdel was tired. He carried it a long way through the streets of Baldur's Gate and brushed aside Jaheira's offers to help. They had decided their course of action in the cellar, and they were both more than a little nervous. Abdel got the feeling Jaheira wanted to say something to him, and he felt like he should say something to her. They settled on small talk.
"She's something, isn't she?" Jaheira asked conversationally, watching the midday crowds go by as they walked.
"Tamoko?" Abdel asked unnecessarily.
Jaheira nodded and said, "I've never seen a fighting style like that before. It was... beautiful."
"I think she's from Kozakura," Abdel offered.
"She's beautiful," Jaheira said, her voice quavering ever so slightly.
Abdel got that feeling from her that told him to stop. He set the chest down gently next to a sweet-smelling bakery. An old woman harrumphed as she passed, having to walk around the big chest.
"She might be able to..." Abdel started to say, but Jaheira just tipped her head to one side and smiled, knowing what he was going to say.
"I hope so, Abdel," she said. "I really do, but I find it hard to believe."
"She has no hope?" he asked, wanting to draw something out of her but not sure what.
Jaheira smiled and put a hand on his heaving chest. He was sweating from carrying the evidence, but she didn't care. "She might love him," Jaheira said. "If she does, that might..."
She stopped talking and just stood there, looking at him.
"I love you," he said, not sure why he thought he needed to say that just then, but he needed to.
She smiled a strangely sad smile, but her eyes sparkled. "I love you," she said.
He smiled, but not at her. He smiled at the feeling that washed over him then. It was like the feeling he used to get before a particularly threatening fight or just before a kill. It wasn't as long ago as it seemed, but once Abdel was afraid that the feelings he had for Jaheira came from what he now knew to be his father's side, the part of him that was a murderer. Now, he realized that feeling wasn't the same, that the love he felt for her was pushing the Bhaal out of him, replacing his need to kill with his need for her.
Jaheira's expression changed, and she laughed lightly at the sight of all this thinking. He didn't realize it, but his face had betrayed his inner dialog all too well.
"Pick up that chest," she said playfully, "we have people to see."
"Yes ma'am," he replied. "Let's go turn ourselves in."
"Oh no," Julius breathed. "Get away from me!" The young footman waved his halberd weakly at Abdel and Jaheira. The bruises under his eyes were a livid purple, but he'd taken the cloth out of his nose. His eyes were bright red, and his face was pale. He didn't look well, and now he was scared on top of it all.
"Why," he asked the heavens, "on my watch?" "Julius," Abdel said as he put the chest down on the gravel path leading to the gates of the ducal palace, "we've come to turn ourselves in."
Jaheira slid her sheathed blade out of the loop on her belt and tossed it casually to the ground in front of Julius's feet. Attracted to the odd confrontation, the other guards started to gather around.
"You're going to kill me this time, aren't you?" Julius asked, his voice as serious as it was weak.
Abdel removed the broadsword from his back and tossed it to land on top of Jaheira's weapon on the ground in front of Julius. The young footman jumped back.
One of the other guards asked, "You know these people?"
Julius ignored his comrade and said to Jaheira, "You might as well kill me. They can't bust me any further down . . ." he turned his gaze to Abdel and finished, ". . . except maybe the dungeon."
Abdel put his hands on top of his head, smiled, and fell to his knees.
"Footman Julius," he called in a voice loud enough for everyone within a block of the palace to hear, "I, outlaw Abdel, surrender to you."
Jaheira followed suit, saying, "And I, outlaw Jaheira, do the same."
"Why," Julius asked the other guards, "is it always my watch?"
* * * * *
Julius, with a parade of other guards to back him up, led Abdel and Jaheira through the wide, high-ceilinged corridors of the ducal palace. He stopped at a set of tall double doors on either side of which stood two nervous halberdiers.
Julius nodded at them and said, "Duke Angelo is expecting us."
They pulled open the doors, and Jaheira gasped at the sight of the chamber within. It was an enormous room filled with ornate furnishings and artifacts that simply oozed wealth. It was like some exotic museum. Abdel had seen some things similar to the pieces here inside Candlekeep but not all in one room.
There were six people already there, but only one man— a half-elf actually—stood when Julius led Abdel and Jaheira in. Abdel had heard of Duke Angelo only in passing. He was said to be a good man. Not as good as Scar, maybe, but if he hadn't been replaced by a doppelganger, a man who would listen to reason. Two guards put the heavy chest down a few paces into the room. Abdel and Jaheira followed Julius and the other guards' lead and bowed to the duke.
"These are the..." Julius said, "... them, m'lord."
Angelo smiled at Julius and said, "Footman..."
"Julius, m'lord."
"Julius," Angelo said, nodding, "you'll make corporal for this."
Julius looked relieved, but didn't smile. "Th-tha-thank you, m'lord," he stammered.
"Abdel Adrian," Angelo said, "I have heard a great deal about you."
"Duke Angelo," Abdel said with a nod.
While the two guards who'd brought in the chest opened it, Abdel studied the other occupants of the room. There were two women, both tall and dark and impeccably dressed, dripping with gold and dazzling gems. They both regarded Abdel as if he were a specimen to be studied. Two of the men were middle-aged bureaucrats—politicians— common even in cities like Baldur's Gate. They looked at Abdel as if he was an entirely different kind of specimen.
The third man was obviously one of the mercenaries who'd made Baldur's Gate his home. He was dressed in simple, utilitarian clothes, and there was no sign of jewelry. His face was serious, expectant, and well chiseled. Though he was seated, Abdel could tell this man was tall, easily as tall as Abdel himself, and solidly muscled. His eyes were dark but gleamed oddly in the daylight streaming through the windows. This man never looked at anyone or anything but Abdel.
"I am told you have brought with you your reason for turning yourselves in," Angelo said, his voice alive with curiosity. "I have it on good authority"—and he glanced at the big man—"that you are both members of the Shadow Thieves, and spies of Amn here to incite war through sabotage and—"
"We're none of those things," Abdel said, "and the contents of this chest will prove that."
The big man stood and approached slowly, still keeping his eyes on Abdel. The sellsword almost thought the big man's eyes flashed yellow, but—
"A chest full of scrolls?" Angelo asked.
"Yes, m'lord," Abdel answered.
Jaheira cleared her throat and added, "M'lord, on these scrolls you will find plans for mines both familiar and unfamiliar to you. You will find an alchemical recipe for a potion designed to ruin iron ore. You will find—"
"Evidence of a Faerun-spanning conspiracy," Duke Angelo finished for her, "that only you two Amnian agents are aware of, is that it? Did I get that right?"
"We have surrendered ourselves," Abdel said, fighting to keep still, fighting not to betray his nervousness. "We are at your mercy for as long as it takes you to study the contents of this chest. There is a man in Baldur's Gate who is working for an organization called the Iron Throne." Abdel stepped forward, in front of Jaheira. "The Iron Throne is responsible for the troubles with the iron supply, not Amn. These men, if men they are, use doppelgangers to kill the very best of us—Captain Scar and Grand Duke Eltan among them."
Angelo seemed ready with another quip, but he couldn't pull his eyes away from Abdel's.
"And this man in Baldur's Gate?" he asked.
"This man is named Sarevok," Abdel answered.
Then things started happening too quickly for all but two of the people in the room to really follow.
Angelo looked sharply over his shoulder at the big mercenary, whose eyes did flash with a distinct yellow light. Duke Angelo said, "Sarevok?" at the same time that the mercenary's hand flashed forward, and there was a lightning bolt of energy, thin and blue-white. It cracked in the air of the room, and Abdel twitched to the side faster than even he thought he was capable of. The electricity flashed past him. The eyes of the fancy women and the stuffed men bulged, and one of them spilled his drink.
There was a scream behind Abdel, followed quickly by a thud and Angelo's voice asking, "Sarevok?" again.
Abdel reached for his sword, but of course it wasn't there. The big man twisted his fingers and muttered something Abdel couldn't understand, and Abdel realized two things at the same instant: This man was Sarevok, and he was casting a spell.
Abdel leaped forward and brushed Sarevok's hands aside as he went for his half brother's neck. The spell spoiled, Sarevok bellowed in rage and brought his hands up to break Abdel's stranglehold. Abdel answered that with a head-butt that bounced the back of Sarevok's skull against the wall. Neither of them had remembered Sarevok falling backward, with Abdel on top of him.
Abdel thought of Jaheira, then his promise to Tamoko, and his fingers relaxed just enough that Sarevok managed to push him away and to the side, almost breaking Abdel's neck in the process. As he rolled onto his back, Abdel could see two guards—one of them Julius—rushing to put out a fire. The fire was burning on Jaheira's chest.
"Jaheira!" Abdel screamed, and he spun at the movement next to him, though at that instant he cared about nothing more than the half-elf woman who lay sprawled and burning on the floor. Sarevok stood and bounded toward the big glass window. Abdel let him go.
Angelo shouted, "Sarevok!"
Abdel slid across the polished floor to Jaheira's side. There was an enormous crash as Sarevok leaped through the window. Duke Angelo slid to the floor next to Jaheira, and Abdel reached out to grab him.
Angelo called out, "Get a priest!" but Abdel didn't hear him. He was too busy screaming into the lifeless eyes of the woman he loved.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Abdel stabbed the doppelganger so hard his hand followed his broadsword through the creature's body. He could feel the thing transform while his arm was still inside it, but even that sensation wasn't shocking enough to distract Abdel from what he'd come here to do. Thanks to Sarevok's own, nearly compulsive, record-keeping they'd been able to find the entrance to the subterranean labyrinth of old sewers and catacombs the doppelgangers had been using to infiltrate nearly every corner of the city of Baldur's Gate. All the tunnels led in one direction. As Abdel tossed aside the dead doppelganger, he peered into the murky darkness and somehow knew they were close, but didn't know exactly what they were close to.
"This way?" Duke Angelo asked Abdel, his voice clipped and professional. The press of soldiers from Angelo's Flaming Fist, men who fought in the memory of Scar and Eltan, almost pushed the half-elf forward.
"This way?" Abdel said finally, "Yes, I think so, but I can't be sure."
"Maerik," Angelo called.
The stocky sergeant pressed through his comrades, nodding expectantly.
"Take your men and Ferran's," Angelo ordered, "back to the last side passage. Err to your left."
Maerik said, "Yes, sir," and was off faster than even Angelo expected. These men were fighting for their homes now.
"Temil," Angelo said to a short, thin, gray-haired woman in flowing satin robes, "you and your men go left up there and try to circle around. I'm going with Abdel and taking Julius's men with me."
The mage smiled and swept her robe around in a flourish. Her men followed her warily, obviously not used to taking orders from a sorceress, but knowing their duty.
Abdel didn't wait for Angelo to catch up. He was off down the passage fast, stepping lightly on his toes, ready for anything. Angelo followed more cautiously, and his men slowed him down. Abdel heard their voices and their footsteps growing more distant as he moved on, but he just couldn't wait for them.
When Tamoko stepped out in front of him he slid to a halt, and he realized who she was before he killed her.
"Tamoko," he said, "where is—"
She drew her strange curved sword as fast as anyone Abdel had ever seen draw steel. Her eyes blazed at him, but Abdel couldn't tell what she felt at that moment. She was injured. Her black silk clothes were stained a darker black. Abdel knew as much by the smell as anything that she was bleeding, and bleeding badly. A trickle of blood was running down the right side of her face from under her black hood. She was breathing heavily, and Abdel saw her fighting not to stagger as she advanced on him, one pained step at a time.
"Tamoko..." he said, and she shook her head. Abdel saw a tear trace a line down her left cheek.
"I was . . . orokashii," she said, "I was disloyal... I was disloyal."
Abdel put his sword up, ready to defend, but not to kill.
"He killed Jaheira," he told her, though he wasn't sure exactly why.
"I know," Tamoko whispered. "Of course he did."
"He needs you," Abdel told her, "but he doesn't deserve you."
"It is I who does not deserve him," she said and attacked.
Abdel was staggered at his own ability to block her Z-shaped assault. It was fast—for any other swordsman but her. She stumbled at the end of it, throwing herself off balance in what must have been the first time in years, maybe ever.
"I won't kill you," he told her.
"I have to kill you," she replied and attacked again, this time taking a nick out of Abdel's side. He roared more with frustration than pain. She stepped back quickly, and her knees gave out all at once. Her chin hit the flagstone floor, and Abdel heard her teeth clack together. She put her arm out to stop her fall a good second after she'd already hit the floor.
"He killed you too," Abdel asked her as she lay there on the floor trying to move, then just trying to breathe. "Didn't he? For helping us?"
Angelo came up behind Abdel and asked, "What is this—" but Abdel stopped him with a hand to his chest.
"Tamoko?" Abdel asked the dying woman.
From the floor, she said, "I release you... from your vow. I cannot... he must... shiizumaru... he must die."
"Tamoko," Abdel said, but by the time he finished saying her name, she was dead.
It wasn't absolutely necessary, for the completion of the ritual, for the other sixteen priests in the inner sanctum of the High House of Wonders to be chanting. It was an aid in concentration for High Artificer Thalamond Albaier, though, and a chance for the lesser priests to see the greatest of all Gond's miracles.
The fact that the woman lying sprawled and lifeless across the marble altar had elf blood in her veins didn't help, but the high artificer had been asked to perform this ceremony at the request of the new leader of the Flaming Fist, so he was doing everything in his substantial power to see that it happened. The candles that burned in the room were blessed of Gond, the air was scented with incense grown in the greenhouses of Wonderhome itself, and the artificers and acolytes gathered there chanted in disbelief at seeing this ritual performed three times in as many ten-days. The first two times, the outcome had been Gond's will but had gone against the wishes of the high artificer and his secular friends.
This time, perhaps it was the wavering in the high artificer's own faith that made the difference. Gond might have thought a demonstration was due.
A sharp, jagged breath was drawn in, followed by a hollow wail that made every hair in the chamber stand on end.
"Abdel!" Jaheira screamed as she was born once more onto the face of Toril.
* * * * *
Abdel had no idea how far underground he was. He followed the passageway, leaving Tamoko's body behind, with Angelo and an increasingly anxious group of Flaming Fists. They were good men, but this was a bad situation, and all Abdel could do was trust in Angelo's ability to lead them. A lot of people—all of Baldur's Gate—would have to start doing that.
The passageway ended in a small, low-ceilinged chamber with one other exit. A wide archway opened to a much larger chamber, and the unmistakable orange glow of torchlight lit the space beyond.
Abdel took a deep breath. Through that archway, he knew, he would find his half brother, a man he'd seen only once before, and only for the length of time it took his brother to kill the woman he loved. Abdel didn't want to kill anymore, had even naively hoped that Tamoko would be able to show Sarevok that there was human blood in his veins too, but now he'd come here for one reason and one reason only.
He stepped through the archway with sword in hand, and a sizzle of cold electricity passed through his body at the sight of the chamber beyond.
The space was enormous, and though Abdel was no engineer or miner, he couldn't imagine what was keeping the ceiling—and what must have been two hundred feet or more of earth and bedrock above it—from falling in. The rows of stone pillars that lined each of the long sides of the rectangular chamber looked more ornamental than practical. Carved into the stone of the pillars and the walls alike were scenes of unimaginable horror. Screaming faces of men, women, children, and beasts leered out at Abdel, their faces frozen in a moment of pure agony—the moment of traumatic death. Only an artist who had visited the deepest pits of the Abyss could have carved such faces.
The far end of the room was dominated by a stepped dais, several yards on a side, that rose perhaps twenty feet off the flagstone floor. An altar fit for sacrifices and carved with the same tormented faces dominated the top of the dais. Torches set into wall sconces fashioned from hideous wrought-iron gargoyles lit the chamber with an unsteady illumination. Candles dripped blood-red wax onto the floor of the dais, candles set in golden candelabra twisted into the forms of dying women.
Sarevok was waiting for him. He stood behind the hideous altar, and a semicircle of figures stood around him, men in black robes, their hands poised in front of them in odd gestures that might have been some attitude of prayer.
Sarevok's armor reflected every nuance of their father's evil. Fashioned from what must have been iron—iron as black as midnight—the plates covered every inch of the tall man. Blades whose razor edges gleamed in the dancing light rose from exaggerated randers like miniature wings and flared from his vambraces like the raking claws of some clockwork raptor.
Set into the center of this cruel suit was a sigil Abdel recognized from the cover of the cursed book: a skull ringed by drops of blood. Sarevok looked like some huge, black iron beetle.
This time Abdel couldn't attribute the eerie glow in his half brother's eyes to any trick of the light. They blazed yellow from behind a mask of jagged teeth-like ribbons of steel. Horns that must have been ripped from the skull of a demon curved from the sides of the otherwise impenetrable helmet.
"Abdel Adrian," Sarevok said, his voice rolling through the chamber.
Abdel expected him to say something more, but Sarevok only laughed. The sound set the robed figures off, and they rushed headlong at the mercenaries coming timidly into the room behind Abdel.
"To arms!" Angelo screamed, and a wild, incoherent battle cry rose up from the throats of the mercenaries.
The black-robed cultists chanted and murmured. Waves of darkness, blue glowing missiles, and bursts of flame scattered the first rank of Flaming Fists.
The men quickly regrouped, and a few of the cultists went down to ordinary steel. Then it was just all-out havoc. Abdel thrilled to it. He let himself have that feeling—just this once more. Sarevok still stood in place and none of the cultists would come within ten feet of Abdel. The brothers locked eyes, and Abdel brought his sword up in a salute he didn't think his brother deserved. He offered the salute to the memory of the people in his life that Sarevok had killed: his true father, Gorion; his only love, Jaheira; and his friends Khalid, Xan, and Scar.
Sarevok smiled a wolfs grin, and they came at each other.
Abdel advanced quickly and made it more than halfway across the room before he had to slash through a robed figure that had stumbled in front of him. Sarevok came down the steps of the dais two at a time and brought a huge, black, two-handed sword up and over his head as Abdel leaped over the fallen cultist.
The sound their swords made when they smashed together made Abdel's ears ring. There was a momentary flash of what might have been respect in Sarevok's eyes when his brother's sword took the full force of his strike.
The sound of steel on steel echoed through the giant room. Men screamed, women screamed, dozens died. There was a dull, rumbling sound, searing heat, and red-orange light— a fireball going off close to Abdel and Sarevok. Neither of the sons of Bhaal let it distract them.
Sarevok whirled his sword down and to the left, and Abdel nearly didn't meet it with his own blade in time to keep from being sliced in half. Abdel batted his brother's sword away, getting the distinct impression that Sarevok wanted just that. He couldn't stop himself from stepping in close, but Abdel realized he'd been seduced into the move in time to crouch, his tired knees creaking in protest. Sarevok let one hand come off his sword, and his blade-lined forearm whistled over Abdel's head.
In too close, Abdel had to roll on his rump to get out of the way. Sarevok tried to step on him once while he was still on the ground, and Abdel swiped at the armored leg as it came down. His broadsword spanked off Sarevok's black-iron jamb with a shower of sparks and a sound that made Abdel's gums curl. He hit his brother's leg hard enough that Abdel realized the armor had to be enchanted. He'd taken the leg off armored men with the same attack in the past.
Abdel was on the ground and vulnerable, but Sarevok took three long steps backward, bringing his sword up in front of him in the guard position.
He can't bend down, Abdel thought. That armor might help me.
Springing to his feet, Abdel grunted and went at his brother again. Abdel intended to rush in, drawing Sarevok's defenses high, then slide down between his brother's legs and attack him from below, where he was vulnerable. In the din of battle, though, Abdel didn't hear his brother's quickly mumbled incantation. Sarevok's hands had come off his sword, which hung straight in the air in front of him as if suspended from above. His fingers worked a complex pattern in the air in front of him.
Instinctively, Abdel ducked and covered his face with one powerful arm. Clenching tightly to his sword, he rolled on the floor and spun to the side as the space between him and his brother burst into a bright rainbow of multicolored light. The magical effect fanned out in front of Sarevok and held itself in a triangular pattern, almost three-dimensional, that sliced through the air just above Abdel's head. There were screams, and sounds like popping, and a wave of the smell of burning flesh that seemed too closely timed to the spell not to be a result of it. Cultists and Flaming Fists alike were dying. Pain flared across Abdel's back, then burned into his side when he stood and ran, cutting a wide semicircle around to his brother's left. There was an eerie sizzling sound coming from his chain mail tunic, but Abdel knew he would die if he didn't force himself to ignore the sound, the pain, and the injury, however serious it was.
Abdel didn't know any spells and had no tricks up his sleeve. If he was going to kill Sarevok—and he was determined to do just that—he would have to hack him to death. When he came at Sarevok again, Abdel got the feeling his brother was surprised that he'd survived the burning spell. Abdel took advantage of the half-second's hesitation and slashed strong and hard at Sarevok's neck, hoping to end the fight quickly and decisively.
Sarevok's hands found his floating sword, and he turned into Abdel's attack. Abdel braced himself for the force of the two blades coming together and grunted in surprise and pain when it was their hands, not their blades, that met in the middle. The force of the blow drove one of the half-inch spikes lining Sarevok's gauntlets into the back of Abdel's left hand, then ripped through skin and bone as the attack followed through.
Both Abdel's and Sarevok's swords flew into the dense air of the battle-filled chamber. Sarevok swore and took several steps back, sparing a glance up at his tumbling sword. He held out a hand to catch it, and Abdel was about to do the same, when, without really making the conscious decision to do it, he flung himself at his brother and hit him, body to body with force sufficient to drop a rothe.
Abdel could hear Sarevok's breath punch out of him, and they hit the floor together. Sarevok almost seemed like he wanted to fall on his back. He spun Abdel up and over himself in a single fluid motion that launched the big sellsword into the air. Sarevok's sword hit the flagstones several paces to his right, at the feet of a Flaming Fist footman who was watching the two brothers' fight in wide-eyed horror.
Abdel's hand found the pommel of his own sword after it had bounced once on the flagstones with an alarming clang, but before he hit the ground. He landed on his knees and brought the sword up in time to block a hard, fast punch from a still rolling Sarevok.
Abdel stood and, panting, sword in front of him and ready for anything, slid two steps away from his brother, who did the same.
Sarevok glanced to the side and ran at the footman, who met the charge with a frozen, terrified stare. Abdel screamed at him to run, but the man just stood there. Sarevok scooped his sword up from the ground and spilled the footman's guts in a single motion and was already coming back at Abdel before the soldier's body hit the ground.
Abdel recognized many of his own instincts in the way Sarevok fought. The thought that they'd both inherited common traits from their infernal sire unnerved Abdel enough that Sarevok had the opportunity to cut the tip of his right ear off. The pain was like a splash of searing hot water in Abdel's face, and it was as effective as cold water in snapping Abdel back into the fight. He answered Sarevok's cut with a flurry of slashing attacks—across, back, up, down, across, and back again—and Sarevok took a defensive step backward.
It went on like that for what seemed to Abdel to be the rest of his life. He never felt tired, was past exhaustion—he was fighting for his life, and it wasn't in him to let himself waver in the slightest in order to rest. That would be as alien to him now as the thought of letting Sarevok live would be. Abdel pressed again, and Sarevok fought back out of desperation, but Abdel never connected. Sarevok got in another lucky cut, but it was superficial, most of its force spent on Abdel's blood-spattered chain mail.
The sound of the melee around them started to diminish, but neither Abdel nor Sarevok took notice. There was a flash of blue-white light from somewhere, the impossible sound of a thunderclap, and the smell of ozone, then a chorus of screams. Abdel had to sidestep quickly to avoid treading on a severed head that rolled into his path.
"Kill me!" Sarevok screamed. "Kill me if you can, brother! One more death in the glory of our father, who shall rise again on the blood of the murdered!"
"No!" a voice from behind Abdel screamed.
It was Angelo. Abdel saw a man in the tabard of the Flaming Fist, who had begun to advance, hesitate, looking back at Angelo. The duke knew. He understood it was between the brothers now.
Abdel knew the Iron Throne had been defeated, the war avoided—the war that never seemed like a war, won. That gave him the strength he needed—just that little bit of strength—and his next blow came in not too hard for Sarevok, but too hard for his brother's blade.
Sarevok's sword burst into shards of glittering black steel, and Abdel didn't waste a heartbeat. He brought his foot up high into his half brother's chest and stomped him down like a bug. Sarevok bounced when he hit the floor, his armor clattering in protest. As he came down on top of Sarevok, Abdel spun his broadsword in his right hand and reversed the blade, so he was stabbing down with it. The tip of the blade plunged through Sarevok's armor. Abdel twisted it up to gouge the man's neck and almost punctured the skin before he hesitated, sweating, panting, bleeding. All the anger, and all the emotion, and all the regret, and all the uncertainty rushed out of Abdel in a torrent.
"You may not have accepted our father's gift, brother, but there are others—like me—who are willing."
"I will find them too then, brother" Abdel spat, making that promise in the memory of Jaheira.
"And murder them?" Sarevok asked, the yellow light already fading from his eyes, as if in anticipation of death.
"Like you'll murder me now? Enough deaths, and Bhaal will be reborn. I won't bring him back with my war, but maybe you will with yours. Our father's blood runs true in your veins."
"Yes," Abdel said softly, "just this once more." He leaned all his weight onto the blade and held it down until Sarevok was dead.

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About the Author
An evil genius bent on world domination, Philip Athans enjoys spending time with his family, playing miniatures war games, watching airplanes fly around, trying to dominate the world through one nefarious scheme after another, and at least thirty-seven other things. He is the author of everything he's ever written, including this book. Not having had much luck at dominating the world, he is now just pretty much obsessed with destroying Captain Impressive® and the rest of the Super Crew™ once and for all!