Chapter Text
Wyrm’s Rock was an old fortress, but the crypt beneath looked ancient. The eastern wall of its antechamber was almost entirely collapsed, the earth behind the stone overgrown with tangles of root and moss. Somehow the western wall was preserved in its entirety, as were the three murals that covered it.
“Balduran and his bronze friend, hmm?” Jaheira looked over the painted form on the dragon’s back, flying over a walled city. “I cannot say I’ve heard this tale before.”
A smile spread over Wyll's face. “It must be true then, the legend in the book. Balduran did befriend a dragon!”
Tav shot him a look that went unnoticed. Not that the prospect of finding a slumbering dragon wasn’t exciting, but Wyll was only too eager to place the city's salvation and the party’s hopes and dreams on the back of a being whose existence they ignored until the night before. As Minthara had aptly put it during breakfast, they needed to get their heads out of storybooks, and focus on expanding their own powers while reducing their enemies’. Gale had also delivered a lengthy spiel on the benefits of low expectations and the importance of preparing for any contigency.
Gale was now staring at man and dragon amid the tempest, face alight with fascination.
“An impressive feat, if true. These creatures rarely consider mortals worthy of allegiance and will not hesitate to strike down those who do not live up to their standards.”
“Perhaps it’s best we turn back then,” said Astarion. “No offense, but I don’t see any of us being ‘worthy of allegiance’.”
Wyll ran his fingers through the city’s buildings in reverence. “That’s what the trials are for, I imagine.”
Tav looked from the paintings to the ancient statue at the end of the hall, one depiction of Balduran to the other. She couldn’t say they looked much alike.
In the last mural, the dragon stood alone, looking out to sea as a three-masted ship sailed into a peach-colored sunset.
“And that must be the Wandering Eye,” Wyll supplied. “The great hero sets out for adventure once again.”
Lae’zel eyed the ship and her perpetual scowl deepened. “So this… Balduran abandoned his own city, leaving another to guard it. A dereliction of duty at best.”
“Given the history of the place,” Minthara said, “the dragon didn’t do a very good job.”
“Leaving a dragon to look after his city,” Astarion snorted. “Lazy git.”
“Yes, Boo. Hardly the stuff of heroism.”
Tav looked at them all and smirked. “Remind me to never build a city. Because then your lot will start having expectations .”
****
Despite the unequivocal superiority of their nervous system, illithids possess no olfactory sensors. While their ability to detect psionic signature of chemical reactions in living organisms more than compensates for that inherent anosmia, the scents of the inanimate and the insentient are a sensory void. That, the Emperor is reminded every time he traverses the city's sewers, is a benefit more often than not.
He drifts out of the channel’s mouth, where filtered wastage and excess rainwater pour from the cliffs to meet the Chionthar, dissipating with a handwave the psionic shield that prevents the sewage stench from clinging to his clothes.
Humid air seeps into his skin. The night is pleasantly cool and, as most nights in the city, veiled behind heavy fog. The Emperor makes way along the wharfs of Gray Harbor at a strolling pace, until the three masts bereft of sails emerge from the white: the Low Lantern.
It is nothing short of remarkable that this wretch of a ship, unfit to leave its pier in over a century, has endured the bombarding of nautiloids and githyanki dragons, and the tsunami caused by the Elder Brain’s plunging into the sea. The Emperor was pleased to hear it stood still—the once seafaring vessel is now a place where business is conducted.
Its namesake lantern hangs from its bow, showering its frame in ghostly green, while warmer light peeks from the gaping holes along its hull. Wrapping himself in disguise, the Emperor floats up the ship’s gangway and down the ladder to below decks. There he lands, and lets his feet carry him across the planks, past the merry cacophony of music, yelling, and inebriation.
Laraela Thundreth, current owner of the Low Lantern, sits by the bar in apparel that conforms to the public’s idea of a pirate captain. She gives his disguise a cursory glance as he approaches, noting the way she carries herself on the rocking ship. The Emperor notes the fey familiar in the form of a crab on the woman’s shoulder, the kenku behind the bar, the five bouncers, the twenty-one patrons, and six Guild spies across the taproom.
“Haven’t seen you around before.”
“I’m here to see the Eleventh,” the Emperor’s disguise says.
The human nods to one of the bouncers and the Emperor is escorted to the back of the deck, to the third door of the narrow corridor. Once these rooms served as crew cabins; now they serve as neutral grounds for meetings that require certain discretion.
“Sit,” the man waiting for him inside says.
The Emperor takes the empty chair across the table, skimming through the thoughts of the pair of heavily-armed half-orcs that flank the human. Boredom, ease—they do not expect bloodshed tonight.
“The Guildmaster has reviewed your employer’s terms. They are rejected.”
The Emperor regards the man; Uktar, the Guild’s bursar. The finery he wears and the porcelain mask that hide his face set him apart from the establishment’s usual crowd, and yet they do nothing to mask the sickness that emanates from him; not fatal, but one that is carried for life.
His disguise leans back in her chair and inclines her head. “Then why this meeting, accountant?”
“The Guildmaster is interested in your product. But five pieces per sack is reason enough to send you back to Scornubel with your front teeth missing.”
Uktar has a nondetection spell cast on him; neither he nor his goons have affinity for the Weave so it must be one of the guild’s casters. Of course, the spell protects him exclusively from arcane means of mind-reading.
The Emperor’s disguise shrugs. “What do you expect? You ask us to get the goods all the way to the Cliff Gate. Should we deliver it to the Guildmaster’s bedchamber while we’re at it?”
“Dock in the Riverveins. Your deckhands won’t even have to set foot on dry land.”
“You think our problem is the stroll through your filthy country road? It’s Wyrm’s Cross that’s a bitch to get past.”
The human’s mind is highly structured and organized, like drawers of assorted documents. His penchant for cold rationality is intertwined with deep-rooted bitterness that has grown permanent, and which he seems to wield as a weapon.
The Emperor does not delve in. A creature with Uktar’s self-awareness will notice the probing.
“If you want to dock upstream, the Guild won’t give more than three gold a piece.”
“Four,” the Emperor’s disguise counters. “And we drop the cargo at the caves in Twin Song.”
“West Rivington.”
Uktar expects this to be declined. He’s only trying to affirm his suspicions.
“West Rivington,” he repeats when the Emperor hesitates, “ and twenty percent for your additional shipments.”
“What additional shipments?”
Behind the mask, his lip curls. “The smokespowder you want to smuggle to Waterdeep on the Guild’s back.”
A logical deduction—the Emperor has been trying to set the delivery point northside of Chionthar. And certain circles in Waterdeep do find themselves short of smokespowder as of late.
“Fine,” his disguise says with a sigh. “Four golden pieces. And twenty percent cut for additional shipments. We can drop outside of Sow’s Foot or Whitkeep. That’s all I can authorize.”
The proposition is profitable enough to be considered. The Guild’s smuggling routes from Sow’s Foot and Whitkeep to Tumbledown, all through the Dusthawk Hill, formulate in Uktar’s structured mind. He considers the routes which have been compromised, and his irritation grows that he’s unable to strike a deal.
“We are done here,” he finally says. “You have until midday to disappear from the city.”
The Emperor rises. “We are done here, indeed.”
Save for the occasional patrol, or the late-coming traveler scurrying after their lantern-bearing guide, Baldur’s Gate’s streets are quiet at this time of night. The Emperor maintains a leisurely pace as he considers the information gained from his exchange.
Rumors tracing back to four-and-a-half years before the rise of the Absolute spoke of Twin Songs’ kingpin, a human under the alias of Straightstick , growing discontent with his exclusion from the Inner City—unsurprising, as the Guild owed most of its terrestrial smuggling to him and his late wife. The rise of Gortash and the Stone Lord’s emergence hit Straightstick the hardest, and the Guildmaster’s inability to effectively deal with matters at the time only stoked his enmity towards the kingpins of the city proper.
A turf war with the eastern districts has been abound for weeks, but it seems that things have already escalated enough that Nine Fingers is affected. Judging from the information Uktar provided, the Outer City is largely compromised. This includes the three out of five smuggling trails on Dusthawk, while Tumbletown and the Riverveins seem to still be out of Straightstick’s influence radius.
This will be a good time to invest in leather. Most of the city’s tanneries are in Sow’s Foot, which Straightstick will heavily boycott from the city, causing a rise in demand.
The Emperor entertains the idea of a temporary alliance with him to increase the Knights’ pool of funds, but giving the kingpin leverage will only aggravate the conflict and destabilize the city in this crucial period of transition.
A probing in the back of his mind interrupts several channels of thought. A shadowed street, the surge of magic, a familiar mindscape. An inquiry.
The Emperor communicates his location. Seconds later, Tav materializes from the fog.
She wears no disguise, relying instead on a cowl to conceal her true form. Her size as an illithid is below average, her stature easily passing for humanoid. The Emperor always found her transformation odd, when every other Netherese-affected tadpole resulted in mind flayers of considerable size, regardless of former race. The Emperor remembers how there was a particular focus to them, uncharacteristic for newborns. As if bred and programmed for a single purpose, with little consideration for long-term existence.
Tav’s mind chimes pleasantly as she joins his stroll.
Information is exchanged:
Her journey to the Gate.
The adjustments in the chambers beneath the Elfsong Tavern.
The latest affairs of the Guild.
The Scribe’s party.
You did not attend, she remarks.
Yet you returned for it.
Unknowingly. A portal opened and I followed the pull from the other side.
Two months after her transformation, Tav declared that she wanted to test her new mind’s limits and vanished into the Planes. And that was the last of her until, a tenday ago, the Emperor received an invitation to a celebratory feast in honor of Baldur’s Gate’s savior, signed by none other than the undead Scribe.
Ah yes, I enjoyed reading your letter.
I enjoyed writing it.
Relying on scripture when they could be communicating by merely existing within telepathic range in the same Plane—it was almost insulting, at first. But as the Emperor began to put words into parchment, he gained a certain appreciation for the act. The letter became his own invitation; Tav was, after all, planning to return.
The joyful wave that pulses off from her confirms the Emperor’s choice of words as correct.
Still, I expected you to attend. Amusingly, her displeasure comes more from her calculations being wrong than his lack of attendance.
It was unwise to leave the city unattended. Besides, my presence would not have a positive effect on your companions’ perception of you.
Perhaps.
The Emperor inquires after them. He has often found his mind reaching for that tentative bond they shared, the lack of it a phantom limb; silence where once was a song.
Tav opens her mind, summoning memories of the night party to the forefront of her brain. Shadowheart has taken to traveling, although she has plans to return to the city. Minthara is playing a dangerous game in the Underdark. Minsc, who until recently had been patronizing Nine-Fingers, got tangled up in some other world ending threat up north.
Was that your doing? she asks.
No, but it is pleasing news to hear. Allowing the mad ranger near the Guildmaster in these trying times was akin to storing smokesbombs by the fire. And what of Lae’zel?
Distracted enough with her new-found friends and their quests. She aids the rebel faction by destroying Gith settlements throughout the continent, but she has not officially joined them.
Tav’s mind lingers on the githyanki warrior for a moment longer, but this particular train of thought is kept private.
Despite her former companions’ apprehension towards Tav, the Emperor sees their desire for connection. That isn’t entirely unexpected. The bonds forged in the race for survival, the gratitude for coming to their aid in their greatest time of need, all too fresh in their minds. Her new form, a sacrifice. It will all fade, eventually—with each disturbing statement, each disconcerting reaction.
But Tav’s thoughts have moved on to Gale, viewed through the prism of her new senses, a fractal of divine power unraveling beyond the confines of the material plane.
So the wizard succeeded in becoming a god .
Are you surprised?
Perhaps I shouldn’t be. I always admired his ambition, almost as much as I feared its consequences.
He’s far from the first mortal to ascend to godhood. He might as well try his hand. Or is the ambition of becoming a god of ambition too self-indulgent for you, ‘the Emperor’?
I suppose I have little room to judge.
It was as you said , Tav says after a pause. The journey beyond the Planes.
Image, sound, sensation flows into the Emperor’s mind. The Not Planes, in-between Eternity. The cogs of the world, the scaffolding of the universe. The path of conduits. Infinity. The Far Realms, close enough to touch.
The Emperor has long forgone such ventures, yet Tav’s exhilaration, the sheer vastness of the experience, stirs something inside him.
I find it odd that you returned, she says, when you can be anywhere.
The Emperor regards her as infinity fades, and the two are back in the foggy night and the dusty streets where cutthroats lurk in the shadows, poised to strike.
This is my city. It needs authority.
He releases a repulsing blast.
Arrows fly backwards; two knife-wielders turn visible as they are swept off their feet.
The Emperor moves back-to-back with Tav, who spins to face the direction of the arrows.
They can’t sense the archers’ presence, but Tav spots them as they dart out of cover for a second assault. Dimensions bend—their enemies cry out as they are sucked into Tav’s rift, suspended for a blink before the black hole dissipates. They fall.
The Emperor mind blasts the knife-wielders. They barely flinch. He moves out of the blade’s path, mind instinctively reaching out despite knowing he will find a void. The second swing of the blade is harder to dodge. The third severs his skin and grazes muscle.
Tav spins back, the orb of her staff flaring to life.
The eruption of fire blinds the Emperor. Flames dance past him, their heat a distant lick of warmth on his skin, and then they vanish, leaving behind scorched cobbles.
The assassins should have been incinerated; yet they stand, smoldering but unburned.
Annoyance flashes in Tav’s mind.
The assassins lunge. The Emperor and Tav synchronize two chains of lightning.
That does it. Screams rise and the assassins’ bodies jerk and burn. And then they dissipate into black smoke, leaving nothing but silence behind.
Devils.
The Emperor and Tav exchange a glance. As one, they fly to the fallen archers.
The woman who stares up lifelessly at the Emperor is unmistakably human. Her equipment is cheap and unremarkable, the kind that is mass-imported from Waterdeep or Yartar, and sold all over the Lower City. The only noteworthy object on her person is a silver ring that seems responsible for hiding her psionic trace.
The Emperor rolls the body on its front and the human’s neck bends audibly at an unnatural angle. The skull is fractured, but the brain inside is mostly intact. It has only been two weeks since he last fed, but the Emperor’s hypothalamus rouses at the prospect of more substance.
Armored steps against the cobblestone break the silence. Mindscapes drawing closer.
The Emperor rises. Tav is still knelt over the second archer, tilting the back of his head to her mouth.
We need to leave, the Emperor warns.
She does not heed. Her tentacles slither around the human’s head.
The darkened silhouettes of the Flaming Fist begin to surface from the fog.
NOW.
Tav flings herself backwards, still cradling the assassin’s body, and the Emperor teleports them away. As he does, he hears the Flaming Fist shout, “Mind flayer!”
It is only after they reach the Elfsong hideout and ascertained that all locks and wards are intact that the Emperor allows himself to divert part of his attention from their surroundings.
Strange.
Yes, Tav dumps the dead archer on the floor. Very uncharacteristic Flaming Fist behavior. . They do not typically give chase. Not in Eastway at least.
Morale has been high after recent events. Following the Absolute’s defeat, both city guard and adventuring companies have been competing to stake a claim in the Gate’s heroic saving by rooting out leftover cultists and mind flayers. It will be temporary, no doubt. Assimilate him.
Tav turns to the assassin.
Her hunger, apparent from the moment she arrived, edges on starvation (for a party thrown in her honor, it seems that the Scribe has done nothing to cater to her illithid palate). Much of her usual grace is lost as she wraps herself around the body and sinks her maw into its skull, but in their months apart it seems that she has learned to feed cleanly.
Bliss, contentment, satisfaction. A void filled with sensations, with memories, feelings: busy city streets, lively campfires, practice targets, the string of the bow drawn and released again, again, again. Monsters slain, coin exchanged. A reprieve in the city, a new employer—a man with a charming aura, highborn even though he means to hide it. His face… strangely unmemorable. A generous reward for supporting the employer’s hunters. The objective, simple. Seize the illithid.
Tav removes the ring from the man’s finger and lets it levitate over her palm. The Emperor sends the one he looted from the second archer in orbit.
Seize the illithid. Not kill.
Interesting. Concerning.
He is the likelier target, and he must have been severely underestimated if the hunters chose to strike in spite of Tav’s appearance. Perhaps they had been thought as no more of a threat than the fledgling illithids the Netherbrain had spawned around the city six months ago.
Tav is currently having several unflattering thoughts about the city, and estimates the mean time between her respective arrivals to the city and a street assault to be 11.85 hours.
Tonight’s assault significantly lowers the mean, she notes.
The Emperor levels her a withering glare, which has the effect it always has, or lack of thereof. He adds this matter to the list of issues that need to be addressed and makes it a priority.
Never again will he become hunted in his own city.