Chapter Text
Wyrm’s Rock was an old fortress, but the crypt beneath looked ancient. The eastern wall of its vestibule had almost entirely collapsed, a tangle of roots and moss growing from the earth behind the stone. The western wall was miraculously preserved, as were the three murals that covered it.
“Balduran and his bronze friend, hmm?” Jaheira looked at the painted form on the dragon’s back, flying over a walled city. “I cannot say I’ve heard this tale before.”
“It must be true then,” Wyll breathed, running his fingers through the city’s buildings in reverence, “the legend in the book.”
Tav shot him a flat look that went unnoticed. Not that the prospect of finding a slumbering dragon wasn’t exciting, but Wyll was only too eager to put the salvation of the city 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 made a speech about the benefit of low expectations and the value of having alternative plans.
“An impressive feat, if true,” he said now, looking excitedly over the mural of man and dragon standing amid a tempest. “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’.”
“That’s what the trials are for, I imagine,” Wyll said.
Tav looked from the murals to the ancient statue at the end of the hall, one depiction of city hero Balduran to the other. She wouldn’t say they looked much alike. Art was often like that.
She walked along the last mural, the dragon looking out to sea as the ship sailed into a peach-colored horizon.
“And that must be the Wandering Eye,” Wyll supplied, smiling like a child. “Balduran sets out for adventure once again.”
“Leaving the dragon to look after his city,” Astarion said as he stalked past them. “Lazy git.”
Minthara eyed the depiction, utterly unimpressed. “Given the history of the place, the dragon didn’t do a very good job.”
“This… Balduran abandoned his own city, leaving another to guard it,” Lae’zel scoffed. “A dereliction of duty at best.”
“Yes, Boo. Hardly the stuff of heroism.”
Tav grinned. “Remind me to never build a city. Because then your lot will start having expectations .”
****
Despite the illithids’ possession of an overall superior nervous system, their olfactory ability is nearly non-existent. While they more than compensate by detecting the psionic signature of brain and body chemistry in living beings, they remain oblivious to the scents of the inanimate. That, the Emperor is reminded every time he floats over the city’s sewage canals, is a benefit more often than not.
He can walk the streets in disguise, of course, but the sewers are more convenient to traverse, especially through these smaller, lightless canals that lack walkways, and pour out of steep rock across the harbor.
As the Emperor drifts on top of the wharf, he dissipates the psionic shield that prevents the sewage stench from clinging to his clothes, and lets the humid air seep into his skin. The night is pleasantly cool. Green lights peer from behind the heavy fog, indicating establishments open for business.
Donning the illusion of a female tiefling clad in what would be associated with Undercellar dealings, the Emperor makes his way across Gray Harbor.
Three masts bare of sails emerge from the gray: the Low Lantern. Its namesake lantern hangs from its bow, showering it in ghostly green, while warmer light sheds out from the gaping holes along its hull.
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.
He lands below decks and lets his feet carry him across the rocking ship, past inebriated minds and loud voices.
Laraelra Thundreth, current owner of the Low Lantern, leans against the bar in the below deck, looking over the taproom. Human, in her early fifties, dressed in what the public associates with a pirate captain. The Emperor takes note of the summoned fey 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 room.
“Haven’t seen you around before,” Laraelra says to the Emperor as he approaches, approval coming off of her at the way his disguise carries herself in the ship.
“I’m here to see the Eleventh,” the disguise tells her and she simply nods over to one of the bouncers.
The Emperor is escorted to one of the private rooms, where a man sits at a small empty temple, flanked by two heavily-armed half-orcs. Sickness radiates from behind the finery he wears or the white porcelain mask he dons; not one that is fatal, but one that is carried for life.
“Sit,” says Uktar, the Guild’s bursar. “The Guildmaster has reviewed your employer’s terms. They are rejected.”
The Emperor’s 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 only protects from magical means of mind reading.
The 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 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 man’s mind is highly structured and organized, like drawers of assorted documents. His tendency for rationalization is intertwined with a slight irritation that has become permanent, and which he wields as a weapon. Deeper than that, an underlying bitterness, a compromise.
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 buy more than three pieces.”
“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 a lantern-bearing guide, the streets are quiet at this time of night. The Emperor maintains a leisurely pace as he analyzes 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 appearance of the Stone Lord hit him the hardest, and the Guildmaster’s inability to effectively deal with matters at the time only stoked his enmity towards the kingpins of the main city.
A turf war with the eastern districts has been abound for weeks, but it seems that things have already escalated enough for Nine Fingers to be 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 seemed to still be out of Straightstick’s influence radius.
The Emperor thinks 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 and force the prices to go up.
He briefly considers the idea of a temporary alliance with him to increase the Knights’ funds, but giving the kingpin leverage will only aggravate the conflict and destabilize the city in this transitional period.
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 emerges from the fog.
She wears no disguise, relying on a cowl to conceal her true form. Her size as an illithid is below average, her form 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 pleasingly 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.
Withers’ party.
You declined the Scribe’s invitation, she remarks.
And 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 the potential of her new mind and vanished without a trace. And that was the last of her until a tenday ago, the Emperor received an invitation to a celebratory feast in honor of the savior of Baldur’s Gate, signed by none other than the undead Scribe.
I enjoyed reading your letter.
I enjoyed writing it.
Truth be told he had found it almost insulting at first, to rely on scripture when they could be communicating mind-to-mind by remaining in the same plane of existence. But as he started to put words on paper, he found it pleasant. 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, she says noncommittally.
He inquires about them.
He has often found his mind reaching for that tentative bond they shared, the lack of it a phantom limb.
Tav opens her mind as she summons memories from the night of the party. Shadowheart has taken to traveling, although she has plans to return to the city. Minthara is amassing power in the Underdark. Minsc, who until recently had been patronizing Nine-Fingers, got tangled up in some other world ending threat up north.
That is pleasing news, the Emperor says. The brute’s presence near the Guildmaster would have an effect equivalent to a smokesbomb near 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, but this particular chain of thought is kept private from the Emperor.
Despite her former companions’ apprehension towards Tav, he sees their desire for connection. That isn’t entirely unexpected. The bonds forged in the battle 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 reply, each disconcerting reaction.
But Tav’s mind has 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.
The wizard managed to become a god, the Emperor says, watching her vision.
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 or the last mortal to ascend to godhood. He might as well try his hand.
The wizard has the Emperor’s admiration, even if the ambition of becoming the God of Ambition seems rather self-indulgent to the Emperor. Although — Tav’s mind flares in amusement, repeating the word Emperor — he concurs that he has little room to judge.
It was as you said , Tav says after a silence. 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’s own exhilaration echoes Tav’s at the vastness of the shared experience.
I find it odd that you returned, she says, when you can be anywhere.
The Emperor regards her as the imagery fades, and they 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.
He feels it, sees through her eyes as she bends dimensions, opening a black hole in front of them. The archers cry out as they are sucked in, suspended for a blink before it dissipates. They fall.
The Emperor releases a mind blast at the pair of knife-wielders. They flinch, but it does not stun them.
He moves out of the blade’s path. His mind instinctively reaches for the assassin’s, despite knowing he will only find a blank spot. The second swing of the blade is harder to dodge. The third severs his skin and grazes muscle.
Tav spins back, staff in hand, its orb coming to life. The eruption of fire blinds the Emperor. Flames dance past him, their heat a distant brush on his skin, and they vanish, leaving behind steaming cobblestone.
The assassins should have been incinerated yet they stand, skin and armor smoldering but unburned.
Annoyance flashes in Tav’s mind.
The assassins lunge. The Emperor and Tav synchronize two chains of lightning.
That does the job. 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 unremarkable, the kind that one can buy from any shop in Lower City. The only noteworthy object on her person is an enchanted 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 senses flare 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 towards her mouth.
We need to leave, he warns her.
Tav does not heed. She is wrapping her tentacles around the human’s head.
The darkened silhouettes of the Flaming Fist surface from inside the fog.
NOW, the Emperor thunders into her mind.
She flings herself backwards, still cradling the body, and he teleports them away.
As he does, he hears the Flaming Fist shout mind flayer .
It is only after they have reached Elfsong and made certain that the locks and traps are all intact, that the Emperor allows himself to divert part of his attention from their surroundings.
Uncharacteristic Flaming Fist behavior, Tav remarks, dumping the dead archer on the floor. They do not typically give chase. Not in Eastway at least.
Morale has been high after recent events .
Following the Absolute’s defeat, the city guard and adventuring parties have been eager to claim their share of heroism by rooting out remaining cultists and mind flayers in the city.
It will be temporary, no doubt. Eat him.
Tav turns to the body. He has felt her hunger since she arrived (for a party thrown in her honor, it seems that the Scribe has done nothing to cater to her palette). Much of her usual grace is lost as she grabs the body and sinks her maw into its skull, but in their months apart she has learned to feed cleanly.
Bliss, contentment, satisfaction flows in the Emperor’s mind. A void filled with sensations, with memories, feelings.
Images flow from Tav to him: busy city streets, lively campfires, hours upon hours of practicing the bow on rooftops or on horseback. Battles with monsters for coin. A reprieve in the city, a new employer — a man with a charming aura, highborn even though he tries to hide it. His face strangely unmemorable. A fat reward for providing support to the noble’s hunters, equipment provided. 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. They match in shape and making. Some sort of transmutation enchanting process is responsible for their mind-shielding effect.
Seize the illithid. Not kill.
Interesting. Concerning.
He is the likelier target, and he must have been severely underestimated if the hunters decided to strike in spite of Tav’s appearance. Perhaps their would-be assassins thought the two of them no more powerful than the young mind flayers the Elder Brain had spawned around the city.
Tav is having several unflattering thoughts about the city, and estimates the average time between her respective arrivals to the city and a street assault to be 11.85 hours.
Tonight’s assault significantly lowers the average, 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.
He will never again become hunted in his own city.