Chapter 9 - Friends
To My Dear Distinguished Colleagues:
I know not how but Veil has recently come into knowledge
of the use and creation of lock picks.
I have a fair guess, of course.
This is, after all, the greatest library in all of Faerun, if not all of
Toril, and text on the subject of lock picking surely resides somewhere within
its walls. Veil regularly chooses to
bypass the proper procedures for book acquisition, however (though she does
always graciously return books to their proper place when done with them), so I
cannot check the records to be sure. Oh
well, it is of little matter.
Ulraunt has been quick to reach all the worst conclusions
regarding Veil’s new skills (as are a few of you, I’d dare guess), the old
fool. Just as many have found honest
work picking locks as those who have not.
A great many number among my distinguished colleagues in fact; we would
be hard pressed to continue our work without such people. As for Veil, she seems more interested in
mastering the skill than actually getting at what’s behind the locks she opens
(with the notable exception of Winthrop’s missing elven chocolates, I
suspect). She is focused on the jail in
the barracks, however. She stops by at
least once a day every day to unlock and open the door. Another compulsion born from her life before
Candlekeep, I fear.
Now, if you will excuse me, I must now search Veil’s room
for an empty box of chocolates and administer appropriate discipline once it is
found.
Sincerely,
Gorion
--
Mijandra’s fingers combed again through Imoen’s hair,
slowly, deliberately. Sounds of the
louder morning preparations drifted to her ears from the inn’s bottom floor,
while birdsong could be heard clearly through the room’s half open window. Her reverie had ended a few hours ago, but
Mijandra was still quite content to lie there, Imoen asleep in her arms.
Mijandra’s hand moved from Imoen’s hair to trace the outside
edge of her ear with a finger. The
finger continued down to her chin, skipping up to move along her eyebrows, then
down her nose, gently – reverently – so as not to wake her. Every curve, every shape, every line. Mijandra had memorized them all a hundred
times over, yet never tired of refreshing her memory one more time.
A nagging itch began in the back of her mind, intruding on
the perfection of the moment. She
wished it could wait, but it had waited too long already. She’d never missed a day before, and she
certainly couldn’t miss two. Slowly,
regretfully, she let go of Imoen and rose from the bed. Moving to the window, she made her first
deliberate examination of the grounds of the Friendly Arm Inn.
Grey stone walls surrounded by a moat enclosed the area, the
near-fortress that was the inn rising in the center. Other, smaller buildings of wood rested against the walls, a few
shops and the guards’ barracks, and the squat stone temple to Garl
Glittergold. It reminded her of
Candlekeep, though Candlekeep’s stones were white. That struck her as backwards somehow; this place, a haven of
peace and safety from the dangers of the road for all and everyone who came to
its gates, seemed much more worthy of pure white stone than Candlekeep, if the
morals of bard’s tales were anything to go by.
In a far corner of the grounds, between two distant merchant
stands currently vacant, she found what she was looking for. She’d have to take a closer look to be sure,
but from where she was it seemed to be a fine tree indeed.
--
The bed was empty.
As Imoen made the slow rise to consciousness this observation sped
things up considerably. It was not too
unusual for Mijandra to be out of bed before Imoen woke up, but it was still
something Imoen never got used to.
Pushing herself up on her arms, Imoen looked around the room.
The room was empty.
That was a bit more unusual, and Imoen woke up completely. Quickly getting out of bed, she wasn’t
worried exactly. She just found
Mijandra not being within eyeshot…uncomfortable. Especially after waking up under an unfamiliar ceiling.
As she began to dress to go look for her, she became aware
of something of a commotion outside.
Walking to the window, she looked out to find a decent crowd under a
tree between two stands near the walls.
Almost two dozen people were looking up into the tree, awed tones
escaping all their mouths at once. Imoen followed their gaze and grinned. ‘Of course.’
Throwing on the rest of her clothes and almost jumping into
her boots, Imoen rushed down the stairs, out the door, and to the edge of the
crowd as fast as her sleepy legs would carry her. Shading her eyes with a hand, her grin widened as she craned her
neck with the rest of the onlookers.
Near the top of the tree was Mijandra, doing a handstand on
a branch just sturdy enough to support her weight without breaking, though not
without rocking a fair bit. Even as it
rocked Mijandra barely wavered, her legs remaining straight up and feet pointed
even as she "walked" two feet down and then back up the branch, then down and
back again. The crowd erupted in awe
once again, a half-hearted call from a guard to get down mixed in and followed
by an old woman demanding to know if Mijandra was crazy.
Imoen herself could only laugh. She’d seen this routine a hundred times before, as had everyone
else in Candlekeep; Mijandra did it every day.
But now she performed in front of a new crowd, and Imoen found their
reaction infectious. Normally she
couldn’t help feeling jealous watching Mijandra’s exercises. It never seemed fair, after all. She wanted to be the most agile and
dexterous one, like she used to be, before Candlekeep.
Imoen’s mind suddenly froze with fear. Then just as suddenly the fear vanished,
leaving no memory of its presence.
Imoen shook her head and laughed mentally. What a strange thought.
There was no before Candlekeep.
She’d always been there. Always.
Dismissing the thought, Imoen returned her concentration to
Mijandra. She’d begun the "dancing"
phase as Imoen called it, smoothly shifting her weight from one hand to the
other, lifting the free hand from the branch for a second each time before
swinging back down again. A light sheen
of sweat was beginning to show on her face, and Imoen was reminded of how much
better it was when Mijandra exercised in the summer. She wore a sleeveless shirt, then, the play of muscles along her
arms and shoulders captivating Imoen beyond her understanding. She thought she could watch it for hours.
Today she was buried in one of Gorion’s shirts, as
usual. Seventeen years old and they
still didn’t come close to fitting her.
She was coming close to the end of the exercise, now. The changes from hand to hand became less
frequent, Mijandra holding herself up by one hand for several seconds at a
time. Very dangerous if the crowd’s
tense silence was anything to go by.
"What in the hells do you think you’re doing,
child?!" was the sound of the silence’s gruesome death. ‘Jaheira can be loud,’ Imoen thought
crossly, followed by a blush as she turned to look at the irate woman
approaching them. ‘And she’s pretty
when she’s mad.’ If others in the
crowd were thinking the same thing it didn’t stop them from giving the woman a
wide berth.
Imoen quickly looked back up the tree, and saw Jaheira’s
outburst hadn’t disturbed Mijandra in the least, or even so much as gained her
attention by appearances. She continued
her exercise as if nothing had happened.
Jaheira would probably not be satisfied with that in the least, so Imoen
answered, "She’s exercising."
"Exercising?!
Upside-down thirty feet in the air?
Does she want to get herself killed?"
Imoen’s eyes never left Mijandra, watching her movements
closely as she answered. "Aw, c’mon,"
she grinned, "she does this all the time."
Jaheira snorted.
"All the more foolish!" she responded, now shouting up into the
tree. "It is only a matter of time
until her overconfidence proves to be just that!"
Imoen snorted back.
"You worry to much," she said, her grin now threatening to devour her
face. Slowly and with great conviction
she declared, "She’ll never fall."
The moment the words were out of her mouth Mijandra’s hand
slipped and she fell from the branch, tumbling through the air. Jaheira chocked on a half-gasp, half-scream,
the rest of the crowd doing a good job of imitating her. Mijandra hit the ground a second later, feet
first, in an almost soundless crouch. She
straightened up shortly after and casually wiped her hands on her shirt,
completely unharmed.
Imoen glanced over the stunned crowd and proceeded to laugh
hysterically. This quickened Jaheira’s
recovery, allowing her to almost scream, "Just what is so funny about your
sister nearly breaking her neck?!"
Imoen only laughed louder.
Catching Mijandra’s eye as she reeled, she saw their shared amusement in
the subtle grin on her face and laughed even more.
After several seconds and nearly as many angry demands for
answers from Jaheira, Imoen finally gasped out, "She…did…that…on…purpose!"
"What?"
"She…does that every time," Imoen said as she leaned against
Mijandra, slowly closing in on control of her laughter. "She always ends her exercises…like that."
Imoen erupted into laughter again at the look on Jaheira’s
face. "Are you mad?"
"Like you said," Mijandra finally spoke. "It’s only a matter of time until strength
or balance fail me. I practice falling,
too."
"Of all the…"
Jaheira closed her eyes and breathed deeply before continuing. "Alright, so there is some reason to your
stupidity, child." At this she grabbed
Mijandra’s shoulder and began to hiss.
"But I wonder if it’s occurred to either of you that you just made a
spectacle of yourselves when there’s a price on your head!"
Imoen’s good humor ended then, more than replaced by
worry. If Mijandra felt the same she
did not show it, merely staring at Jaheira for a few moments before rolling her
shoulder to dislodge Jaheira’s hand and quietly walking back to the inn. Jaheira remained behind, looking like she
still wanted to shout some more. She
found satisfaction with the milling crowd.
"Be gone, all of you! There is
nothing more to gawk at, here!" The
crowd was quick to oblige.
Jaheira levied a final scowl at Imoen before turning to
return to the inn. Before she could
take more than a few steps Imoen spoke.
"You called her child."
Jaheira faced Imoen with a glare. "And? She was a
child. You both were!"
Imoen’s face twitched briefly into a pout but she managed to
stay focused. "That doesn’t
matter. If you want her to listen to
you at all you shouldn’t call her that.
Or anything else but her name."
Jaheira rolled her eyes.
"I’ll not waste time with such childish foolishness—"
"It’s not foolishness!" Imoen interrupted angrily, and
Jaheira raised an eyebrow. "Mijandra’s
sensitive, alright?" Calming down,
Imoen moved closer to Jaheira and continued in hushed tones, "She feels like if
someone doesn’t use her name it means they don’t care about her, especially
if they call her child. If you care
about her, or if you want to care about her, don’t do that. Only use her name."
"Ridiculous. She’s
better off being rid of such nonsense, I’ll not coddle the child."
Imoen growled, finally snapping. “She was kept in a cage without a name for three years,
IT’S NOT HER DAMN FAULT, and it’s not coddling her to just call her by her FELDURKING name!!”
her voice echoed across the yard - earning no small number of frowns from those nearby.
"W…what?" Jaheira asked just above a whisper.
Imoen scowled as she crossed her arms and repeated more
quietly, "Mijandra was raised in a cage by Ogmha-knows-what-bastards until
Gorion rescued her when she was three."
"He…he never told us this."
"He didn’t tell you a lot," Imoen responded, fighting a pang
of guilt at Jaheira’s almost hurt look.
"He told me, though. And so did
Mijandra."
"Did he say who held her captive?"
"Slavers, but me and Mijandra both think that’s bullocks,
especially lately."
"Yes, I can see why you would. And I assume then that he has not told either of you who
Mijandra’s parents are?"
Imoen shook her head.
"Nope. He knew, though. Would always tell Mijandra he would tell her
when she was older." Imoen looked away,
all her fire suddenly gone and replaced with melancholy. "So much for that, huh?"
Jaheira was silent a moment, considering. "Would Mijandra rather I did not know all
this about her?" she finally asked.
Imoen turned back, drumming her fingers once against her arm
before shaking her head. "No, Mijandra
doesn’t mind too much what people know about her, so long as she doesn’t have
to tell them herself."
"I see," Jaheira said quietly. "You are very protective of her.
It does you credit."
Part of Imoen wanted to laugh. Part of her wanted to demand a better apology. Part of her just wanted to put all this
moody crap behind her. Ultimately, only
one could be the victor. "Well, I’m
starvin’! Let’s see what kind of breakfast
this dump has to offer!"
--
"Needs salt," Imoen said as she swallowed a bite of
Mijandra’s eggs.
"I don’t want salt," Mijandra responded.
"Yeah, you always say that," Imoen said, shaking her
head. "But you know what? You’re wrong. You do."
Mijandra moved her fork to her left hand, leaving her right
free to defend her eggs from any attacks Imoen was likely to make with the
saltshaker.
Mijandra and Imoen looked up as Jaheira cleared her throat
loudly. "Now that I have your
attention, it is as good a time as any to discuss our plans. As I said last night, Khalid and I are
investigating the iron crisis. We have
an arrangement with the mayor of Nashkel to enter the mines and find the cause
of their problems there; and put an end to them if at all possible."
"Hah! That’s quite a
coincidence," Imoen said around a mouthful of pancakes. Flinching reflexively from a few grains of
salt flying into her face from a narrow deflection by Mijandra, she neglected
to elaborate.
"Why is that?" Jaheira asked stiffly.
"We met two others on the road with the same goal. A human mage and a halfling sneak named Xzar
and Montaron. Mean guys, though. I think they were Zhentarim."
"Zhentarim?" Jaheira and Khalid started at the same time.
"Yeah. We had an
encounter with some iron bandits. These
two showed up in the nick of time to save our butts, and then the mage went around
spelling all the dead bodies to answer questions. They kept saying they worked for the Zhentarim, and the mage just
wouldn’t believe it. Then they both
disappeared real fast when we said we were meeting up with Harpers. Putting it all together…" Imoen finished
with a shrug before taking another oversized bite of pancakes, followed by
another failed attempt to salt Mijandra’s eggs.
Jaheira grabbed the saltshaker from Imoen’s hand before
responding. "Interesting. Perhaps we shall run into them ourselves."
Imoen shivered slightly.
"I hope not. If I never see them
again it’ll be too soon."
Jaheira raised an eyebrow.
"So you will be coming with us then?
That is what I mean to find out."
Imoen opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again and turned
to Mijandra.
Mijandra was looking directly at Jaheira, stopping to
swallow her food before speaking. "We
shouldn’t make a spectacle of ourselves, right? Investigating a crisis would not be laying low."
Jaheira picked at her own food a moment before
answering. "That is true. But the life of thief would not hide you
very well, either. In fact, I imagine
it would only bring you closer to the scum who hunt you, and without
trustworthy friends to watch your back."
Mijandra froze with her spoon in her mouth, Imoen with the
saltshaker poised near Mijandra’s plate.
Jaheira frowned, glancing down to where she had left the saltshaker on
her side of the table. Of course, it
was no longer there. "Case in point,"
Jaheira said as she looked back up frowning.
"Not to mention calling yourselves master thieves evening last. Your intended profession is hardly a
secret."
"W-w-we owe Gorion m-much," Khalid interjected. "And h-he was a g-good friend. Kn-know that if you c-come with us you will
h-have t-two comp-p-panions willing to lay down their lives f-for you."
"My husband speaks true," Jaheira added, "though they will
also be two very skilled companions not likely to have to lay down their lives
any time soon."
Mijandra turned to Imoen, the glance all that was needed to
convey the question.
"I want to go with them," Imoen answered. "Those bandits…those bandits were evil,
terrible men. And there’s more of them
out there, lots more. Someone has to
put a stop to it all."
"Does it have to be you?" Mijandra asked.
"No," Imoen answered, "but I want to." She grinned. "You know me, Imoen the Humble.
I wanna do good things. Great
things."
"Even if it means killing people?"
Imoen looked down, focusing intently on her pancakes and
giving them a few pokes with her fork before answering, "If they’re bad
people. I can get used to that."
Mijandra breathed deeply as her gaze returned to
Jaheira. "I won’t find the strength to
avenge my father living as a thief. And
trustworthy f…friends watching our back will be a great help. We will go with you."
"I am g-glad to h-hear it," Khalid beamed. "T-t-truth be told I b-believe your skills
w-will be of g-g-great help t-to us asw-w-well. C-certainly if w-what I hear of y-your p-performance in the
t-t-tree is t-true."
"Khalid, we should not be encouraging such behavior,"
Jaheira spoke flatly.
"Y-y-yes, dear," Khalid responded.
With that everyone’s attention returned to their food. Or someone’s food, anyway, as Imoen once
again tried to sneak the saltshaker over Mijandra’s eggs. Mijandra responded with a swift disarming
followed by a counter-attack on Imoen’s pancakes. Imoen darted her right hand under the shaker just in time, her left
hand taking its place as she went back on the offensive, releasing the salt in
her right hand over Mijandra’s plate.
Mijandra slid her plate away at the last second and Imoen watched as the
salt hit the table. "Buttons and barn
doors!" she exclaimed loudly in frustration.
Khalid quickly quelled his laughter at the sight of Jaheira’s
glare. "S-sorry, dear."
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