Philip Athans - Realms of Mystery

“Kitten’s,” the masked man volunteered in an emotionless tone.

“Right,” I said quickly, trying not to dwell on the consuming wave of grief and rage that was beginning to tangle in my gut (emotions that did not seem evident in the monotone of my client’s voice). “She hasn’t been burnt at all. The other two were probably incinerated to forestall identification. Maybe they wanted someone, us, to know that Kitten has been killed.”

“Not likely,” the masked man volunteered.

“Then perhaps the fellows with the hot hands were interrupted before they could finish their flaming handiwork,” I offered, and quickly inquired, “But why isn’t my initial scenario likely?”

“Because at this moment, in the pub known as the Bloody Fist, a woman going by the name of Nymara Scheiron-also known as Kitten-is drinking on the tab of a recently acquired friend.”

“An impostor?”

“A doppleganger,” the masked man answered.

“Go on,” I demanded, impatient to be brought up to speed. I felt no necessity to confess my ignorance of such matters to the patron. Personal experience of the past few weeks had already clued me in that these hooded guys always knew a lot more about me than I knew of them. (That was why, after all, I agreed to work for them.)

“Dopplegangers,” the masked man elaborated in a tone more than colored by a tint of condescension, “are creatures that have the ability to shapeshift and take on the appearance of any other creature. Their exceptional mental powers allow them the ability to read the mind of anyone in their close proximity, thus providing them with the details and data to effectively masquerade as anyone, even when they are in the presence of that individual’s loved ones. Needless to say, once an individual has been removed from sight, kidnapped, enchanted or killed, there is nothing to prevent this unholy creature from taking their place in society. Over the past few years we have been troubled by a crime ring known as the Unseen under the leadership of one of those devils, a criminal genius who goes by the name Hiavin who aspires to replace key figures of our community with his unholy minions and thus bring all Waterdeep secretly under his thumb.”

“And as goes Waterdeep,” I said, “all Faerun does follow.”

“A few years ago he operated out of a local festhall called the Inn of the Hanging Lantern hoping to get its surprisingly upper class clientele under his spell, but his operational cover was blown by some journalist by the name of Volothamp Geddarm.”

“The name’s familiar,” I volunteered, remembering his connection to a certain Waterdhavian publishing concern.

“He’s not important,” the masked man stated. “Somehow Hiavin has implemented some new, fiendish plan. He’s already replaced this sorry threesome, and we need to know his next move.”

“Who are the other two?” I asked, gesturing at the two soggy victims.

“That’s the problem. All three bodies are ensorcelled, and the best wizards in Waterdeep can’t crack the spell.”

“So no deathbed interrogation or revelation.”

“Exactly,” he concurred. “Which has forced us to utilize much more mundane methods in our search for the truth.”

“Namely me.”

“Your charge,” he ordered with the authority of some pompous magistrate, “is to follow the doppleganger that is passing as Kitten and uncover the identities of her two associates who have taken the place of these poor bastards.”

“I accept,” I answered quickly, eager to get to work, and avenge the death of my friend.

“Not so fast,” his lordship ordered. “Remember, dopplegangers are telepathic. They can read minds. This Kitten can’t see you or she will know what you’re doing.”

“Don’t call that thing Kitten,” I said defiantly, adding, “and once I’ve found the other two, I assume I can deal with them with the extreme prejudice that all three deserve.”

“No,” he ordered, “you will report back your findings, and accept your payment. You are solely to gather information, and no direct contact is to be instigated. After your… shall we say research… is complete, the matter will then be turned over to the proper authorities.”

“I want to be there when their heads are removed from their shoulders.”

“That is not for you to concern yourself with.”

I was taken aback for a moment.

“They will be executed, won’t they?” I demanded. “Last I heard, cold-blooded murder was still a capital offense here in Waterdeep.”

“Again,” the patron said without hiding his tone of condescension, “that is not your concern. I assure you, cool and competent minds will handle the matter.”

I nodded to concede the patron’s point so that I could expedite the matters at hand and get on with the case, all along knowing that I would not rest until I had personally laid Kitten’s killer to rest, no matter who I angered while doing it.

The masked man snapped his fingers and one of the burly boys escorted me back to the surface. Messages and updates were to be left in the usual clandestine places, and I was to go about fulfilling my assignment as I saw fit. The instructions on leaving the resolution of the matter to others was considered to be more than enough of a warning not to proceed with any plans for vengeance, but I was out for blood.

Kitten deserved no less.

My assignment wasn’t by any means an easy one. The creature that had killed and was now posing as Kitten would obviously pick up my thoughts once we made contact. The only one deceived by the thoughts of a mind is it’s own possessor.

Tailing her undetected wasn’t a problem. The Dock Ward was filled with urchins willing to do anything for a gold piece or two. In the short time of my memory I had recruited a sturdy stable of cast-off minions whose effectiveness at following orders was only surpassed by their greed and fear of my displeasure.

Gross and Waters would be perfect for the job. Both were used to doing my background dirty work and neither knew Kitten personally. The two would spell each other and report back to me twice daily at dusk and dawn. Though neither could read or write worth a damn, they nevertheless always turned in comprehensive reports on their day’s (or night’s, as the case may be) observations.

I knew Kitten’s usual routine like the back of my hand and hoped that I might observe some discrepancy in my two lads’ reports that might lead me to the identities of that hellion’s accomplices. Newfound friends, secrets, rendezvous, and such would no doubt provide me with an avenue worth pursuing.

Minions dispatched, I decided to spend the rest of the day avoiding the target of their tails, and do a little research on the dastardly dopplegangers myself.

My patron had mentioned a certain Geddarm who broke up the ring that operated out of the Hanging Lantern. I seemed to recall a loutish would-be actor (Pisspot, or some such name) who was always bragging about his great comrade Volo with whom he had shared many an adventure. As I recall, the thespian hung out at an after-hours place frequented by actresses and their patrons. The hostess was a bosomy wench named Blonde! who owed me a favor or two for services rendered. As luck would have it, the actor in question was engaged in a discussion with the lady of the house as I entered the establishment.

“But Blondie,” the rotund fellow persisted, “I assure you it would be wonderful.”

“For who?” Blondel replied with a tolerant grin. She patted his hand firmly before moving on to another patron.

I scanned the rest of the crowd, a scant lot not unusual for the daylight hours, and turned back to take a seat at the bar. A glass of my midday usual was already in place before mc. I reached in my purse for a silver piece, but my hostess wouldn’t hear of it.