Baldur's Gate II Shadows of Amn (8 page)

“Where is this place?” he asked Bodhi.

“One of my brothers is there,” she said.

“What does that have to do with me?” he asked. “Should I kill him too?”

“No,” answered Bodhi, “he’s on our side. His name is Jon Irenicus.”

“He’s mad?” Abdel asked, not bothering to point out that he wasn’t sure he and Bodhi could ever be on the same “side.”

She looked at him sharply this time and turned away just as fast, but Abdel could see the unmistakable flash of anger in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. He needed to know what she knew.

Bodhi’s shoulders slumped, and she said, “He was falsely accused—manipulated by the Shadow Thieves, who control the asylum. They took him there to get him out of the way, to torture him, to make him witness the great evil they’re going to make.”

Abdel swallowed in a throat suddenly dry.

“They’ve got Jaheira and Imoen there too,” Bodhi said. “I can get you there and get you in.” Bodhi looked up at the ceiling, not looking at him. “It must be near dawn up there.”

Abdel glanced up at the ceiling himself and found no answers there.

“I have to go,” she said.

“If Jaheira and Imoen are being kept at this madhouse as you say,” Abdel told her, “nothing could keep me from going there.”

“And will you help my brother?” she asked.

Abdel sighed. He’d been manipulated into all of this but… “Of course,” he promised.

“I have to go,” she whispered, tracing something into a scatter of sawdust on the floor. “You will see this mark on a wall at the base of the tallest tower on the island. As quickly as you can, say the word ‘nchasme’ or you will be burned to cinders. A way in will be opened for you.”

“Wait,” he said, an edge he didn’t like still playing havoc with his voice. “Stay with me—I mean … go with me.”

She moved slowly to the stairs and put one foot on the bottom step. He took a step toward her but knew he couldn’t go any closer.

“I can’t,” she said simply. “It’s almost…”

“Bodhi,” he said.

“The captain can get you there,” she said, her voice loud and clear. “There’s only one madhouse. It’s on an island. You’ll need a boat. I beg you … I beg you to go there. And remember the word—”

“Nchasme,” he repeated, glancing down at the sawdust. She’d traced two wavy, parallel lines like water, with something that might have been an eye between them on the right-hand side.

Her eyes red and her face drawn and weary, she looked back at him. With a tight, forced smile, she ascended the steps, opened the door, and passed quickly through it.

Having taken the form of a bat, Bodhi flew with all her still considerable strength to race the lightening sky to the asylum’s jagged, unforgiving towers.

She alighted on a high minaret and turned her face to the east. The sky was a deep blue that became both lighter and more blue as she transformed into a woman again. Hanging sixty feet from the ground in a slim, shuttered window, Bodhi sneered at the patch of crinkled gray-brown horizon that would soon enough explode into a light that would fry her to ashes with its first tentative reawakening. Bodhi hated the sun, despised the light. Every day mocked her, showed her that as long as she lived—through century after century of supreme immortality—she still had a weakness.

She looked down at the waves crashing over the rocks below and thought of Abdel. A surge of power, riding on the god’s blood even now coursing through her own brittle veins, passed over her, and she smiled, letting her long, graceful canine teeth slip from the protective wrap of her gums. She hissed at the sun as the first sliver of it broke the line of the horizon.

The light touched her hand as—still hissing her impotent defiance—she backed into the window and went to draw the shutter behind her. Where the light touched her there was an uncomfortable heat, just on the edge of pain. Bodhi drew the shutter closed all the way and held her singed hand in her other, examining it closely. The sun’s light had touched it. It should have all but burned off, but instead it was barely kissed with red.

She smiled and drew in a breath, almost considering throwing wide the shutters to spit her challenge at the hated sun. Instead, she moved to the door leading to the stairs down, which led to more stairs down, which led to a little locked room where sat an old, weathered casket. Abdel, she thought, Son of Bhaal.

In the days since Minsc started working at the Copper Coronet, the place had never been so clean. After a full night of working, the red-haired madman always stayed through the morning to clean up and wouldn’t go to sleep until the miniature giant space hamster he carried with him told him it was all right. No one was happier about this than Abdel, who returned to the tavern exhausted, still crammed into his borrowed trousers, and in need of a boat.

When the big sellsword came up the stairs from the cellar, Minsc greeted him with a smile and said, “The big man, Boo, it’s the big man!”

“Minsc,” Abdel said, “I need your help.”

Minsc smiled and looked down at the little animal sitting contentedly on his shoulder, nodded, and said, “Anything you want, if you help me move the captain.”

Abdel stepped into the common room, a dark space that smelled noticeably better now than it did the last time Abdel was here. There were no windows, and though the sun was bright outside, Minsc was working by the light of a single candle. In a particularly dark corner was a grizzled old man, passed out and snoring loudly.

“The captain?” Abdel asked, vaguely recognizing the old drunk.

Minsc nodded, still smiling, and crossed to the old man. “Let’s go, Captain Havarian! Closing time!”

Abdel smiled for the first time in a long time and tried to think of a god to thank. “This man has a ship?” he asked Minsc.

Minsc shrugged, lightly tapping the old man’s face, and said, “He’s supposed to be some kind of big pirate captain, but he’s been here—alone—every night since I’ve been here.”

“I need him awake,” Abdel said, glancing around the tavern until his eyes stopped on Minsc’s wash bucket. “I need a ship.”

Abdel picked up the bucket and threw the full load of water square into the old man’s face. Havarian burst into blustering consciousness, roaring a word that made even Abdel blush before barking out, “We’re scuttled, lads, we’re hard aground!”

Minsc laughed loudly, and Abdel put a hand on the delirious pirate’s shoulder in a futile attempt to steady him.

“What in the name of blue-green Sekolah …” the pirate sputtered, then finally fixed blurry eyes on Abdel.

“I need a ship,” the sellsword said, close in to Havarian’s face.

The captain laughed—a gravelly, almost choking sound—and said, “Passage costs, lad, but I can take ye as far as Luskan, if yer need be.”

“I won’t need to go that far,” Abdel said.

“Good,” the old man said, “but it’ll cost ye wherever ye’re goin’.”

“I have nothing to pay you with, old man,” he admitted, “but perhaps we can work something—”

The old man coughed out a laugh and managed to stagger to his feet. “Poor son of a…” Havarian growled. “I’m going home.”

“I can lend you some coin,” Minsc said. Both Abdel and the captain whirled on him. The act of whirling made the old sailor fall heavily on his rump, eliciting another grumbled curse. “How much do you need?”

Abdel looked at Havarian for an answer. Rubbing his bruised rear, the old pirate asked, “How much ye got?”

“I thought you had a ship,” Abdel said, scowling at the still-drunk captain and against the glare of the sun from the sea.

From where he sat sprawled in the bow of the little dinghy, Captain Havarian belched resoundingly and said, “Yer friend with the mouse couldn’t afford a ship. Besides, I didn’t charge ye for the clothes.”

Abdel grunted and let the subject lie. He concentrated on rowing, keeping to the course the captain had set for them. Havarian seemed to know all about the island asylum, though he wouldn’t tell Abdel any specifics about it. He just kept saying, “Bad port, that one, bad port.”

The captain had given him clothes that fit reasonably well. Abdel wore a simple white sailor’s blouse and sturdy though short trousers under the chain mail tunic Bodhi had arranged for him. The heavy broadsword hung from a simple thong sling he’d made himself waiting for Havarian to get the boat. He felt awake, alert, and ready for battle for the first time in a while. He hadn’t slept, but it didn’t matter. His finger and other wounds, including the nasty puncture to his gut, had healed completely.

Havarian fished around in the bottom of the boat and smiled when he came up with a stout earthenware bottle sealed with a cork. He popped the cork out between his ragged, gray-yellow teeth and downed a huge swallow of whatever was contained inside. When he took the bottle from his lips his eyes bulged dangerously, as if they were going to pop out of his head, and he seemed to be either trying to take a deep breath in, or scream.

“Havarian?” Abdel asked, momentarily concerned.

The old pirate finally let loose a huge, phlegmy cough. Spittle and mucus trailed off his chin, and his body convulsed through a series of deep gags.

“Are you all right?” Abdel asked.

Havarian managed a laugh and said, “Smooth…”

Abdel sighed and threw his back into the rowing. He couldn’t get there fast enough.

Abdel didn’t study the island asylum very carefully at all. He could spot the tallest tower easily enough and made straight for it. The building did generate a kind of dull foreboding, and Abdel had to work to keep it out of his mind. He didn’t want to think too much about what he was doing. He didn’t want to think that he was intentionally breaking into a place that no one would ever want to see the inside of.

Abdel shook his head and rowed faster.

“Ease up, kid,” the old pirate grumbled. Havarian looked up at the towers and battlements of the fortress-like asylum and went pale. “Ye sure yer’ll wantin’ to be in such a hurry?”

“I need to get to that wall, there,” Abdel said, ignoring the old man’s question, “below the tallest tower.”

Havarian scanned the rocky shoreline and pointed at a collection of boulders that made something like a miniature harbor. Waves crashed all around, but there was a small place of relative calm no more than a few yards from the base of the tower. The smooth brick wall rose up from the jumble of boulders, just at the edge of the island.

“I can get yer in there nice enough,” Havarian said, taking the oars, “but I won’t be hangin’ around this rock, boy. Yer passage was one way, hear?”

Abdel smirked and nodded impatiently. Havarian turned the dinghy into the shelter of the boulders and nodded once to Abdel when he thought it was shallow enough for the sellsword to get out of the boat.

“Don’t die in a place like this, boy,” Captain Havarian called after Abdel, who was wading toward the boulders at the foot of the wall. “It’s a bad place to let yer soul loose in.”

Abdel nodded again, only glancing at the old man long enough to see him already rowing quickly away from the island.

It took Abdel only a few minutes to find the odd glyph Bodhi had traced for him.

He said “Nchasme,” in a loud, confident voice and was rewarded with the sound of stone grinding on stone.

A cluster of bricks pulled back into the wall slowly, shedding dust as they moved. A door barely big enough for Abdel to squeeze through opened into darkness. Abdel thought he heard a man screaming from somewhere far away, and he looked back at the little harbor. There was no sign of Captain Havarian.

Abdel forced a smile and ducked into the opening.

The man was missing both his legs, but that wasn’t his most obvious handicap. Abdel took another small step toward him, the big sellsword biting his bottom lip in puzzled indecision. The madman with no legs was weeping inconsolably and occasionally barking out a strangled, desperate, “Where are you going?”

Unfortunately for Abdel, he was doing this in the open doorway that was the only exit out of the straw-littered room. The place smelled so strongly of urine it was all Abdel could do to hold his stomach down. He could have simply pulled the man away and passed, but there was something about the grimy, crawling skin and the gnashing, ground-flat teeth, the flying spittle, the crawling lice, the smell, and the insane, unpredictable nature of the man that made even Abdel more than a little reluctant to touch him.

Abdel cleared his throat, but the madman gave no sign that he noticed the sellsword or any one of the handful of asylum inmates in the room.

“I need to pass,” Abdel said, in a clear, unwavering voice that still sounded weak somehow.

The madman didn’t look up, but he did sob loudly once and squeak out, “Come back, come back, come …”

“Oh, ‘e ain’t movin’, swab,” one of the other inmates, a vile-smelling man in the garb of a sailor, drawled with a wink and a smirk.

Abdel looked at the sailor and sighed. Looking at him made it clear to Abdel that it wasn’t the straw on the floor that smelled so bad—it was the sailor.

“That one ain’t moved since …” the sailor said, obviously not sure how long the crippled madman had occupied this inconvenient resting place.

“I need to get through there,” Abdel told the sailor, as if that would help.

The sailor laughed, showing more empty space than teeth, and said, “Why’d ye e’er set that course, swab? That away leads in.”

“In?” Abdel asked.

The sailor nodded, smiling broadly.

“I need to go farther in,” Abdel told the sailor. “I need to go all the way in.”

“Ye’re mad, then,” the sailor said.

“So I’ve come to the right place,” Abdel replied, drawing his broadsword and taking three confident steps toward the man in the doorway.

” ‘E won’t like that,” the sailor warned. “The coordinator, ‘e don’t want nobody to kill nobody.”

Abdel stopped and turned, glancing at the blade and realizing he didn’t want to kill this poor wretch anyway. “What are you talking about?”

“The coordinator,” the sailor said, his tone at once condescending and afraid. “The captain o’ this nut house. Big time lord mage type, this one. ‘E’ll rip ye apart… seen that one do it, too, I ‘ave.”