Baldur's Gate II Shadows of Amn (6 page)

“Aran Linvail,” she said, “have you heard of him?”

“No, should I have?”

“He deserves to die,” she said, “and there is a price on his head.”

“Am I an assassin now?”

She smiled, and Abdel looked away, so he wouldn’t return the smile. “You can be a bounty hunter. Linvail is the assassin—a very prolific one.”

Abdel figured he’d have to take her word for that. The shirt ripped again as he tried to put it on. It was too small for him, and now that he was wet, it didn’t seem like he’d get it over his chest. He was only half listening to her.

“I know someone who will pay thirty thousand gold pieces for his head,” she said. “They’ve got the coin, Abdel, and they will pay it.”

He stopped, gave up on the shirt, and looked at her sternly. “You want me to kill for gold?”

She smiled again, and Abdel was struck by how pretty she was. Her dress was still wet, and she wasn’t making any attempt to hide herself from him.

He turned away, moving to the door, as she said, “Can you afford not to? You’ve got a pair of my brother’s old pants and a stolen sword, Abdel, and that’s all. By your own account, you’re not even from here. I like you, but not everyone will.”

He sighed and turned away. If he hadn’t been so tired, and didn’t have somewhere to go, he might have hit her after all.

Jaheira had a vague memory of the sound of water, and there was the motion that made her think she’d been on a boat. She was outside—or had been—and it had been night, but she couldn’t see any stars.

It took her three tries before she actually regained consciousness. Her eyelids opened only with great difficulty, and one side of her face was awash in a dull, throbbing ache.

“She’s alive,” a voice said. It was a young woman’s voice, tired and unenthusiastic.

Jaheira turned toward the voice, and something hurt her neck. She winced, and that made her face hurt. She closed her eyes, which filled with tears, but tried to keep her breathing steady.

“Where am I?” Jaheira asked, her voice scratchy and uneven.

“A cave,” the voice replied.

This time Jaheira opened her eyes and saw the girl who had been dragged with her through the storm drain by the vampire woman. The girl was chained to the wall by a wide leather collar fastened tightly around her neck. The pain in Jaheira’s own neck came from an identical strap. The half-elf tugged at her bonds, but they held fast, anchored firmly into the wall.

There was a torch hanging in a crude wall sconce guttering out a smoky orange light from maybe twenty feet above Jaheira’s head. The ground she was sitting on was smooth, uneven stone. Above her hung stalactites of varying yellow, gray, and dull brown. It was a natural cavern, probably carved by an underground stream. The ceiling was high, but the walls were close on two sides. The cavern went off into the thick darkness on either side as if they were in a tunnel or natural corridor.

“My name is Jaheira,” she said to her fellow prisoner, looking up to catch the young woman’s surprisingly steady gaze.

The girl was dirty, disheveled, and tired, but still undeniably pretty. Shoulder-length auburn hair framed a smooth-skinned face with a high forehead and full lips. Her dark eyes sparkled with intelligence even as red with exhaustion as they were. Her body was slender and tightly well-proportioned. Her tattered blouse covered modest breasts and narrow hips. There was something about her that looked fast, like a gazelle, but somehow more dangerous.

“Imoen,” the girl answered. “Nice that you came around. I’m happy for someone to talk to.”

“How long have we been here?” Jaheira asked, determined to settle some facts of her situation, so she could have some chance of escaping it. The question seemed to upset Imoen.

“I have no idea,” she answered. “Hard to tell in a cave, actually. I fell asleep for a while, I think. Maybe a couple of days.”

“Since the storm drain?” Jaheira asked.

“Storm drain?”

“We need to get out of here,” Jaheira said simply, not entirely surprised that the girl hadn’t been conscious of that part of their journey.

Imoen smiled pleasantly and said, “Gee, think?”

The girl’s tone made the fine hairs behind Jaheira’s gently pointed ears stand on end.

“I am your friend,” she whispered in a voice as solid as bedrock. “We can help each other.”

Abdel tried to think of Jaheira, but this woman’s presence was overpowering. He closed his eyes and turned his head sharply to one side. She seemed sad but confident at the same time, hopeful and consumed with sorrow. He wanted to reach out to her, but he took two steps backward instead.

She took two steps toward him, keeping the distance between them constant. Her eyes were a pale gray that Abdel couldn’t possibly ignore.

“I can get you weapons,” she said quietly, “armor maybe, too, but you’ll have to kill him. You just have no choice.”

Abdel’s brow knitted, and he sighed.

“You’ve killed for gold before, Abdel,” she said, even quieter now. “I can see that on your face, in the lines of your arms, on the backs of your hands. You can do this. You can get the gold you need to pay Gaelan to tell you where your—”

“That’s enough,” he said, turning away.

She stepped closer still and touched his shoulder. Her fingers were cold, but soft. He wanted to flinch away from her touch, but he didn’t.

“He’s a Shadow Thief,” she said. “Aran Linvail. He’s an assassin for the Shadow Thieves. He kills for gold every day. Shouldn’t he die that way too?”

“I don’t do that anymore,” Abdel said, not turning around. “I’ve changed.”

“You can change back,” Bodhi whispered, “if you love her enough.”

Abdel knew what Jaheira would say if she were there. She would remind him of how far he’d come since he watched Gorion die. He wasn’t a hired thug anymore. He didn’t kill out of anger anymore.

But Jaheira wasn’t there.

She was being held prisoner, was being tortured maybe, or worse. Abdel didn’t know what was happening to her. If it was the Shadow Thieves who’d taken them in Baldur’s Gate—and that seemed easy enough to believe—then maybe killing this Aran Linvail was a form of justice after all.

Abdel knew he was fooling himself, but he had no choice. He could beat the information out of Gaelan Bayle, but would that be better than killing a Shadow Thief assassin? If he knew where Jaheira was, wouldn’t he gladly kill any number of Shadow Thieves to rescue her? So, Aran Linvail would be one of those.

“I’ll need a broadsword,” he said quietly to Bodhi, “and chain mail, but nothing fancy.”

She smiled. “You’re doing the right thing, Abdel,” she said reassuringly. “You don’t seem to believe it, but when this is all done, you’ll know you did what you had to do to save her and left the world a better place-without Aran Linvail—in the process.”

“A broadsword,” he repeated, “as heavy as you can find.”

She knew everything. She was right about everything. Every door. The sliding panel behind the bed in the third room at the left at the top of the stairs. She knew where the key was hidden behind the loose mortar. (Could a professional assassin be that stupidly naive? Apparently.) She knew exactly how to get him in there.

Abdel had been set up before. As a sellsword, he spent most of his life being set up in one way or another. He was paid to do the dirty work for this merchant, that trade guild, or the other petty principality…. This was a setup, this assassination of the assassin Aran Linvail, and Abdel knew it, but he had no choice.

There was no part of his body that hurt anymore. Only a few hours had passed since he’d been tortured, beaten, burned, shot with arrows, and he was fine now, but he was broke. He was in the middle of a city that didn’t give a sewer rat’s ass about anyone, especially him. Hours ago he’d been wandering around naked with two perfect strangers. He hadn’t slept except that period of time he’d been unconscious. His head felt heavy and thin at the same time.

He took a deep breath and exhaled with a whisper, “One more time.”

The air in the closet smelled of perfume and moth powder. It wasn’t as cramped as most closets. This Aran Linvail had made a lot of coin killing people—more than Abdel ever had. The closet was full of expensive Kara Turan silks, wool from the highlands of the Spine of the World, and soft cotton from exotic Maztica. There was a suit of leather armor hanging in there that was so perfect, so flawless in its execution and upkeep that it must have been magical.

Somewhere outside the closet, outside the townhouse’s tight bricks walls, the sun must have been coming up over Athkatla. In the bedroom beyond where Abdel stood ready, Aran Linvail was making frivolous love with a girl who was obviously no stranger to frivolous lovemaking. She called him “honey,” which made Abdel wince. She was insincere, but Linvail didn’t seem to care. To the assassin’s credit, the play went on for what seemed to Abdel to be hours on end. He was hiding in the closet because he didn’t want to kill the girl. He wanted Aran Linvail alone.

Abdel settled down in a squat and tried to stretch his muscles as best he could. He tried to clear his mind and found that he could a bit more easily than he’d expected. He didn’t want to be where he was, didn’t want to do what he was going to do, but at least he was doing something.

Some time later they finally stopped, and Abdel heard Linvail say, “Just move.”

The girl said something Abdel couldn’t hear, but her tone was gruff and insulting. Her response was answered by a loud slap. She squealed, and there was the sound of something heavy falling and the dull squeak of furniture being shoved across a wood floor. That was all Abdel had to hear.

The closet door came off its hinges, and Abdel stepped out, bringing his broadsword out and in front of him in a fluid motion. Aran Linvail looked up at him, and so did the girl. She was young—not too young but young enough. She was pretty. Her hair was a dull red color, and her skin was freckled all over her slim body. She was holding the left side of her face, but she wasn’t bleeding. She looked surprised.

Aran Linvail had suffered a terrible injury some years before. His face was horribly scarred—it was a mass of scars. One eye was closed, gone all together. He looked up at Abdel with his one good eye from where he stood crouched over the girl. He was wearing loose-fitting breeches and nothing else. There were other scars on his chest, stomach, and sides. Abdel charged at him, the girl squealed, and Aran Linvail turned and ran.

Abdel actually missed a step. The assassin didn’t just evade the first attack, he flat out ran away, and he ran fast. The girl was confused. Abdel spared her a glance, and for some reason he would never be able to figure out, she shrugged.

Abdel followed Aran Linvail out an ornately carved mahogany door and into the townhouse’s upstairs hallway.

“Who are you?” the retreating assassin called over his shoulder.

Abdel didn’t answer. Linvail got to the top of the stairs still three or four steps ahead of the tip of Abdel’s broadsword. The assassin let himself fall down the stairs as much as he ran. Abdel followed at a slightly more controlled pace.

“Who sent you?” Linvail called back again.

Abdel ignored him again and kept on coming. Linvail hit the floor at the bottom of the long, narrow staircase and spun around with one hand on the knob at the end of the banister. The foyer was tastefully decorated, and Abdel grunted in frustration. The front door was only steps away. If Linvail made it outside, Abdel would have to withdraw back into the house and sneak out the way he came as Aran Linvail raised whatever hue and cry he might be inclined to raise in the surely busy morning street outside.

Oddly, though, the assassin made no move toward the door.

“Are you just going to kill me, then?” Linvail called over his shoulder as he ran down a short hall parallel to the stairway.

Abdel followed, finally gaining a step on the fleeing man. Linvail passed through a swinging door at the end of the hall, and Abdel burst through behind him. The knife slipped between two of Abdel’s ribs and tore through flesh, muscle, and some soft tissue the big sellsword might have needed to survive.

Linvail had made it to his kitchen, and as Abdel sagged into the knife, he had to acknowledge Linvail’s speed in not only getting to the kitchen but also in grabbing a large knife with such a quick, fluid motion that he could thrust it into the blindly pursuing sellsword without missing a step. This assassin was good after all. As fast as Linvail was, Abdel was at least as fast. He clenched his tight stomach muscles around the blade and bent forward, drawing the knife painfully farther into his guts even as he pulled the handle out of Aran Linvail’s hand.

“Who are you?” the assassin asked again. Abdel grunted in pain and brought his sword up. Linvail slid under the attack, and Abdel could see the assassin’s good eye register the reverse and anticipate Abdel’s following attack.

Avoiding a slash that should have taken his head off, Linvail ducked in and grabbed the knife still sticking out of Abdel’s abdomen. The blade came out with no little blood and even more pain. Abdel let himself curse loudly, but the assassin wasn’t stupid enough to take the time to gloat. He tried to stab Abdel again right away, but the big sellsword managed to get his new broadsword in and down fast enough to swat the blade away. It was a good knife and didn’t break, but Linvail grunted as the force of the parry obviously sent a painful vibration up his arm.

He hacked down at Abdel’s hand—a cowardly sort of attack Abdel should have expected from this man.

From upstairs the girl called “Aran? Aran, are you all right?”

Linvail brought the knife down hard, and Abdel stepped to one side, avoiding it even as he stabbed hard and low at the assassin. Linvail proved faster again, though, and not only avoided the big broadsword, but hacked down again with the big knife, taking off the first finger of Abdel’s left hand with a sickening snap.

Abdel roared in rage and pain, more embarrassed than injured really. The finger hit the wood floor of the cramped kitchen with an almost inaudible splat!

“You can’t kill me, big man,” the assassin mocked, obviously happy with his petty dismemberment. “I’ve killed more—”