Baldur's Gate (18 page)

And busy it was. Abdel counted thirty big merchant vessels tethered to piers or at anchor in the deep water before he gave up counting altogether. Two ships were leaving, slowly slipping through the traffic of smaller boats with only a small portion of their sails up. At least one massive ship was slowly making its way in.

The ferry passed the southernmost tower, and Jaheira appraised it ambivalently as they passed by. Two soldiers peered over the side at them, their faces only pale dots against the gray sky. Abdel made out the hair-thin line of a spear.

The sight of the first close buildings along the waterfront made Abdel’s heart race. After what they’d been through— way beyond bis already considerable experience as a sellsword—Abdel longed for the sense of normalcy a city like this could provide. He’d find a bath here, and a bed, and a flagon of ale, and an actual meal of seasoned meat and roasted vegetables. Abdel’s mouth watered at the thought of it.

“Which is the Seven Suns?” Jaheira asked the old ferryman. Abdel had almost forgotten why they’d come to Baldur’s Gate.

“The Seven Suns?” the ferryman asked. “Yeah, I ‘eard of them. Which what’s there’s?”

“Warehouse?” Jaheira asked. “Or maybe they have a pier to themselves?”

“I think they do,” the old man answered gravelly. “See that first big pier—the one with all the little piers sticking out of it?”

Jaheira nodded.

“Well, it ain’t that one.”

Jaheira turned on the old man, and her smile was disturbingly unamused. “It was a simple enough question, ferryman.”

“I’m not a tour guide, missy,” the ferryman spat back, then turned to Abdel and said. “Steer us to that first pier, son, and let me get the womenfolk on their way.”

Jaheira sighed and surveyed the city silently for the next half an hour as Abdel helped the old man and his crew maneuver the wide boat to the edge of the pier. A set of crumbling stone steps led up to the quay, and when Abdel made to disembark the old man put up a hand to hold him back—a comic sight in itself.

“Easy there, big fella,” he said, “I want that fart-smelling cow off here first.”

Jaheira looked at the old man like she was going to kill him, then blushed when she realized he was talking about the ox.

Someone spat on Jaheira as they walked through the crowded streets from the “ferry landing to the Elfsong Tavern. The culprit was fast enough and knew the streets well enough to slip away before Abdel could kill him—and Abdel would have killed him. Jaheira took it in stride, though, and this surprised and, on some level, disappointed Abdel.

“It’s because I am Amnian,” Jaheira tried to explain. “The Iron Throne is getting their way, if slowly.”

The looks on the faces of the crowd made it clear that if there were sides to be taken, the spitter would have plenty of locals on his side. Abdel took her smooth elbow in one hand and led her more quickly through the streets. He breathed a sigh of relief when they finally crossed the threshold of the big, venerable tavern Abdel had visited so many times before.

The Elfsong was an institution in Baldur’s Gate, a place where people like Abdel could find work, and people who hired people like Abdel could find people like Abdel. Adventurers and treasure seekers came here for information, thieves came here to lie low and spend their takes, information was exchanged, pacts made, hearts broken, and noses bloodied. Abdel stood in the entryway and just breathed in the smell of it, savoring the tangible sense of community and familiarity until he noticed that Jaheira was looking at him strangely.

“It’s good to be here,” he told her, “you’ll see.”

She shrugged, not wanting to believe him. Abdel noticed the dark circles under her eyes. She hadn’t been sleeping, and though the exhaustion hardly marred her beauty, Abdel feared she’d pass out on her feet.

“We need to eat,” he said. “I’ll send for my friend, and we can wait for him over stew, fresh baked bread, and the best ale on the Sword Coast—well, the second best.” There was the Friendly Arms, after all.

Jaheira forced a smile and squeezed his hand with a casual familiarity that made Abdel’s heart race and ache at the same time. He returned her smile and saw her to a table, then crossed the crowded but not too noisy room to the long bar. He paid the bartender a gold piece—nearly the rest of the coin he’d made arm wrestling miners and Amnian soldiers—to get his message sent, ordered drinks and food, then rejoined Jaheira.

“This friend of yours,” Jaheira said, “he knows the Seven Suns?”

“If this trading coster operates in the Gate—if they wander past on occasion—Scar’ll know them.” He assured her.

“‘The Gate’?” she asked.

Abdel laughed and said, “It’s what the locals call the city. You should use it, and maybe do something about your clothes, if being from Amn will get you spit on in the street.”

“I don’t hide who I am,” she said, not managing to sound appropriately offended.

Abdel grinned and asked, “No?”

“Abdel, I…” Jaheira blushed, and when Abdel put the back of his hand gently to her cheek she leaned in to the touch and smiled. “Khalid and I are… were—”

She stopped when Abdel put a hand to her mouth. She stopped more from surprise than anything, then she realized the general tenor of the place had changed. It was almost dead quiet, save for the rattling of a shutter in the wind, and a woman’s singing. Jaheira gently drew Abdel’s hand from her mouth and held it. She scanned the room for the source of the ethereal voice, but no woman stood among the quiet, suddenly thoughtful patrons.

“Who—?” she started to ask, and Abdel’s hand was on her mouth again. She furrowed her eyebrows at him this time, but when he smiled gently and glanced up at the featureless wooden ceiling of the place, she realized what was happening.

The voice was the most beautiful sound Jaheira had ever heard. It was a lone woman, singing a tune that played not with notes and sound but with the rhythms of heart and soul. The language was Elvish, but a dialect Jaheira couldn’t identify if she tried, and she didn’t try. There was a sense that putting words to this song, grounding this perfect play of tone and quaver, into the base, brutal bludgeoning of spoken language would be nothing short of a crime.

Surely this unseen woman—ghost, if that’s what she was—couldn’t know Jaheira, but the song had Khalid in it, the way he looked at her when they’d first met, the words he’d spoken to her on their wedding night, and the sad times too, the affairs and the lies and the subtle humiliations. A tear ran down Jaheira’s cheek, then another, and Abdel wiped each away in turn with a big, gentle, callused fingertip.

The song evaporated into the nothingness from which it came, and Jaheira sagged in her chair. Conversation started to spatter through the room, and by the time the tavern had returned to as close to normal as it ever would, the bartender stood at their table with a fine silver wineglass.

He offered the glass to Jaheira with a knowing smile, glanced pointedly at her ears and said, “A tallglass of elverquisst, on the house.”

Abdel nodded to the bartender, and Jaheira just reached out and took hold of the glass. She looked at it, letting the tears come as they may.

“It’s a tradition,” Abdel said, “when an elf hears the lady sing for the first time.”

“I’m only—” she said, stopping herself with a loud sniff.

“It doesn’t matter,” Abdel told her as she sipped the sweet elven wine.

Abdel was frankly amazed at how quickly Scar made it to the Elfsong. It was as if his friend had been expecting him.

It didn’t take a seasoned warrior to see that Scar was just that. Everything about the strong man showed that he had many a battle, and many a command, under his belt. He and Abdel embraced, and though when he entered Jaheira thought Scar was an enormous, imposing man, next to Abdel, he was merely a man. Scar seemed happy to see Abdel, happy and relieved.

“Abdel, you old pirate,” the man said, “where have you been?”

Abdel’s smile faded quickly, and he said, “I buried Gorion.”

Scar’s own smile faded. “I’m sorry to hear that, my friend. Gorion was… well…” Jaheira was amazed that a shrug from Scar seemed to make Abdel feel better.

“Sit,” Abdel said, motioning Scar to a chair at their table, now cluttered with empty stew bowls, wineglasses, and pewter flagons.

“Been travelling long?” Scar asked facetiously, eyeing the mess instead of sitting.

“A lifetime,” Abdel answered. “Jaheira, this is my good friend, who goes by the name Scar. If he asks you if you want to see what gave him that name, please refuse, or he won’t be my friend anymore.” It was Abdel’s ham-handed way of telling Scar that Jaheira was more than a travelling companion or fellow soldier.

“Scar,” Jaheira said. She wanted to stand, knew it would be impolite not to, but she just couldn’t. She was exhausted. “Please join us.”

“Actually, I thought we might go upstairs,” Scar said, turning to Abdel.

“Will a candle do it?” Abdel asked, referring to the Elfsong’s policy of renting their private upstairs rooms by the length of time it took for one candle to burn down.

“I’ve made the arrangements,” Scar said, motioning them to one of the dark, twisted staircases Jaheira had mistaken for pillars. Abdel helped her stand, and they followed Scar up the tight, treacherous steps. They sat at a small table surrounded by a richly embroidered curtain. A small oil lamp sat in the center of the table, casting a dim red glow that made Jaheira look a bit less pale. Scar grew serious the moment he sat down.

“Your message said you needed information, and my help.”

Abdel, sensing it was time for straight, serious talk said, “We need to know about a trading coster that we think is operating out of the Gate. They call themselves the Seven Suns.”

Scar just stared at his friend, saying nothing for the longest time. When Abdel crinkled his brow to urge his friend on, Scar sighed and asked, “Why?”

“We think they’re involved with some group—maybe a splinter of the Zhentarim,” Jaheira broke in, “maybe some merchant cabal from Sembia—that calls itself the Iron Throne.”

“This Iron Throne,” Abdel picked up, “is sabotaging the iron mines at Nashkel and other places, and Jaheira and the Harpers think they mean to start a war.”

Jaheira looked at him sharply, and he returned her look with a confident smile. He’d been around awhile and knew a Harper when he fell in love with one.

“By Torm’s hairy—” Scar said. He rubbed his face with his hands, his expression at least as worn as Jaheira’s. “The Seven Suns is not just some merchant troupe that “might” work out of the Gate. They’re a serious force in the power structure here. This is the first I’ve heard of this Iron Throne of yours, but I’ve been worried about the Seven Suns—very worried—over the last tenday.” “What have you heard?” Abdel asked. “The Seven Suns are the same as any merchant company either of us has ever been hired to guard, my friend. They’re in it—whatever it might be today—for the gold. That doesn’t make them terribly altruistic, but it certainly makes them predictable. Over the last … well, I’m not really sure how long … they’ve been neglecting too many of their usual trade ventures—routes that always gave them steady profits. We’ve asked them, through proper channels and all very up front, if anything’s wrong. Jhasso—that’s the man behind the Seven Suns and a well known local—told us, in no uncertain terms, to mind our own business.”

“But the business of the Gate is your business, no?” Abdel asked.

“Indeed,” Scar agreed, “but try telling that to Jhasso. It’s like the man has lost his ability to play the game—you know the game we hate so much?”

“Politics,” Abdel answered with a sigh. “Well,” Scar continued, “I’ve learned that the dreaded ‘P’ word does have its place, but in this case it’s getting in the way. I can’t find anything that Jhasso’s doing that’s openly contrary to the interests of the dukes, or the Flaming Fist, or the citizens of the Gate. My hands are tied. I can’t launch an official investigation … unless you two have brought proof of this sabotaging of the mines?”

The warrior looked at them both hopefully, and Jaheira had to look away. Abdel sighed, then pounded his fist loudly on the tabletop.

“Well,” Scar said, understanding the answer to his question, “there are always alternatives.”

“Just tell me where they are,” Abdel said, a crafty smile spreading across his lips.

“Wait, wait,” Jaheira said weakly, holding up a hand, “I didn’t come here to end up in somebody’s dungeon. If this Jhasso is as connected as you say, sneaking around looking for… whatever we might go looking for, well, if we can’t prove it now, who’s to say we won’t end up behind bars?”

Abdel laughed, and Scar just looked embarrassed.

“The Flaming Fist,” Abdel said to Jaheira, “is a mercenary company with a long and well-respected history. They’ve taken on the role of… well, everything in the Gate: city watch, army… jailers.”

“And?” Jaheira prompted.

“And,” Abdel said, gesturing to Scar, “meet their second-in-command.”

“That’s it,” Jaheira said, “the sigil I recognized on the crates and wagons.”

Abdel nodded and looked carefully at the big warehouse in the rapidly dimming light. Scar told them where to find the place, and they waited across the busy street as the crowds diminished with the setting sun. Their conversation, their planning, consisted mostly of Jaheira trying to talk Abdel out of simply storming the place.

“Your friend Scar wanted information,” she said, “information he can use to bring the Iron Throne down. I don’t think he wanted dead bodies all over this beautiful city of his.”

Abdel grunted and touched her arm, then pointed to a side door of the warehouse, visible from where they stood. A small group of sweaty teamsters emerged from the building, talking and laughing amongst themselves. They stayed together, probably on their way to one of the many dockside taverns, and eventually wandered out of sight.

The Seven Suns warehouse was built onto a long, wide stone pier and was only one of a dozen similar buildings, though by all accounts it was the biggest. The mark Jaheira recognized was emblazoned in red paint on the short end of the roughly rectangular brick structure. The sigil was eight feet tall, and Abdel couldn’t help being a bit embarrassed that they’d had to ask Scar where to find the place. The Iron Throne may have been some kind of secret organization, but the Seven Suns trading coster certainly wasn’t.