Erin Evans - Lesser Evils

The room wasn’t empty. The locked chest that held the page and stone sat on a table pushed against one wall, and a woman-a guard, by her look-leaned against the table. Dressed in leather armor with her dark hair bound loosely off her neck, she seemed far more interested in the book she held open in one hand than the fact that she was being robbed.

She looked up, her dark eyes momentarily surprised, and Tam felt as if the world had shifted to one side and left him behind as the one secret he kept above all others lay bare to the world.

“Good evening,” she said. Then, almost as an afterthought, “Da.”

“Mira?” He stepped into the room and closed the door. It was still his daughter standing there in front of the chest. Still his little girl, armed and armored and bristling. “What … Why aren’t you in Baldur’s Gate?” he asked dumbly.

“My employer wouldn’t appreciate that,” she said. “And it’s lovely to see you, too.”

He shook his head. “I … Apologies, Mira. I just didn’t expect … Well, you understand. How could I expect?” His only daughter regarded him coolly.

Selune and her tears, why was he always startled to see she wasn’t eight years old anymore? He crossed the room and pulled his daughter into a stiff embrace. “It’s lovely to see you. What are you doing in Waterdeep?”

“Guarding Master Chansom’s treasures,” she said, stepping back. “From you, apparently.”

He chuckled. “Yes. Well. It’s rather complicated.”

“Try me,” she said.

“I need what’s in that chest.”

She smiled. “You and half of Waterdeep.”

“Half of Waterdeep isn’t your father,” he said, and her smile faltered. She folded her arms across her chest like a barrier.

“What?” she said. “Are you planning to have Mother restrict my sweets if I don’t stand aside?”

“Mira, that’s not what I meant,” he chided. “Listen to me. If you knew what you were guarding-”

“I know what I’m guarding.”

“No. That writing isn’t Draconic,” he said. “It’s-”

“It’s Loross,” she interrupted. “It’s Silver Age, well older than Chansom thinks it is. Chansom bought both from a farmer in the Silver Marches who found the page wrapped up in the bottom of a trunk his great-grandfather carted home after adventuring-he retired after his comrades didn’t make it back. Judging by the stone type, I’d say he found it somewhere in the Nether Mountains, and I’d wager well it wasn’t all he found. I know it’s speaking. Chansom doesn’t, and none of the wizards who want to buy the thing have mentioned it to him, but I’m pretty sure they’ve heard it. too. I know both pieces claim to be the property of ‘Tarchamus,’ the same name as an arcanist of Netheril who disappeared two thousand years ago, so far as anyone knows. It’s not a map to a hoard. In fact I’m willing to bet no dragon has come within leagues of these things.” She looked away, as if the outburst of knowledge embarrassed her. “So, yes,” she added. “I do know what I’m guarding.”

Ah, Lady, he thought, what a terrible time to have this argument. She’d always had a head for history, an eye for details, and he ought to have remembered that. She’d gone off to Baldur’s Gate when she was seventeen to apprentice to antiquarians hunting in the Werewoods for ruins. By now, she likely knew far better than he did what was a Netherese artifact and what was a forgery.

“My apologies,” Tam said after a moment. “I suppose, I’d forgotten-”

“How long have you been in Waterdeep?” she interrupted.

“A few days,” he said. The window rattled against its latch-Tam’s attention jumped to it. Just a breeze, he thought. Pay attention to her.

“I didn’t know to look for you,” he said. “Or that you were working as a guard. What happened to your studies?”

Mira’s mouth quirked in a sad, little smile. “There’s little enough coin in ancient history,” she said. “At least this way I can eat while I examine other people’s artifacts.”

Tam wanted to speak, to tell her this was not the life she wanted-trust him, he knew. “What does your mother think of all this?” he asked, rubbing his aching eyes. The window latch clattered with the breeze, tapping out an alarm he forced himself to ignore.

Mira shrugged. “She doesn’t much mind. Sends letters regularly. I’m to visit for …” Mira narrowed her eyes at the door. The soft click of a lockpick against a loose tumbler.

Tam stiffened. “Hrast.”

“We have company,” she said calmly.

As if they’d heard her, the intruders burst into the room: a Turmishan man by the window, sleek as a shadow and carrying two hooked scythes; a pale-skinned woman by the door, her face a mess of scars around bright black eyes. She reached back and drew her sword.

“Get out of here!” he shouted to Mira, as he moved between them and the chest, pulling at the chain he wore wrapped around his waist from the center. The spiked links unhooked and fell loose. He whispered to Selune and felt her blessing pour over his skin and light every link of the chain.

He’d expected Shadovar. He’d been waiting for echoes of the shadar-kai he’d seen in his youth. But no-a gray skull on a background of brown rays, displayed as the woman drew her sword and turned her shoulder toward him. Zhentarim. Mercenaries of the Black Network.

They might not have expected him, but that gave the thieves no pause-the pair moved at him so quickly, he only saw blades. The chain lashed out, tangling the man’s wrists and scythes together. Tam pulled, and the assassin tripped forward, crashing to his knees.

The woman with the sword took the chance to slash Tam’s forearm, leaving behind a sudden line of red. Sharp, stinging-not enough to stop him from directing a burst of holy fire at her midsection, shoving her back. The sword screamed past him once more, close enough to tear the fabric of his shirt. Tam yanked his chain back from the prone man and slung it toward his companion, the light of the moon goddess building along the links until it burst out the end with a low whoosh .

The man was on his feet again, one scythe slicing toward Tam’s throat. He threw an elbow up into the man’s forearm, pushing the blade, up, away. It nicked his cheek. The assassin’s arm shifted, hooked up under Tam’s arm, as if to pull the priest into the other scythe.

The man jerked back. Tam broke away.

There was Mira, one knife sunk in the Turmishan man’s side. The other up, high, drawing across the assassin’s throat in a sharp, swift cut. Blood poured out of the wound, blood bubbling with the assassin’s desperate breaths, and still Mira held him up on her knife’s blade.

Get her out of here! a voice shouted in Tam’s thoughts, over and over. Get her out of here! Threatening to overwhelm the focus of the Moonmaiden’s powers, threatening to take his thoughts away from the battle at hand. Mira dropped the body as the man stopped trying to breathe through the wound in his neck.

Dead, he thought forcefully. He didn’t need to save Mira from the dark-skinned man. The man was dead.

He faced the woman, back on her feet, despite the blood that poured from her wounds and between her teeth, and slashing at him with that black-bladed sword. He jerked the chain up and caught the blade between its spiked links. Too quick, she slipped it free and struck a glancing blow off the heavy leather covering his left shoulder, hard enough to bruise and he cried out with the shock of it and loosed his grip on the chain.

Mira moved toward the assassin, knives ready and he fought to speak, to tell her to get out of the way, to run from the room. His heart turned inside out as the assassin’s attention shifted, took in Mira-little Mira.