Realms of Mystery

Brian M. Thomsen

There were three corpses laid out on the dock before me; two of them were burnt beyond recognition, the pungent smell of charred flesh wafting up from the ashy remains.

The third corpse had miraculously avoided incineration… and it was Kitten’s.

Others knew her as Nymara Scheiron, just another tousled-haired dockyard coquette of dubious alignment (if you know what I mean), but for me she has always been Kitten. She was my oldest friend despite the fact that I’ve only known her for three months. That being the exact period of time I can claim to know anything or anyone; before that point others might know, just not me.

Don’t get me wrong or mistake me for some lunatic, liar, or lover. I’m not some bardic romantic whose life metaphorically began when he first set eyes on his lady love. Kitten and I are, I mean, were friends, not lovers, at least not as far as I can recall. Three months ago I woke up in a Waterdeep dockyard alley with my mind wiped of all knowledge concerning my past. A walking tabula rasa, you might say, perfect prey to everyone and anyone, a wandering stranger unto himself with naught to confirm his existence except a splitting headache and the scent that comes with being unwashed for longer than polite company wish to be aware. I don’t remember exactly what happened (something I say a bit too often for even my own comfort), but somehow Kitten came upon me and nursed me back to health. Not just satisfied with mending my body, she even found me a useful place in the society at hand and lined up work (of a sort) for me, to keep my belly fed and the rest of me adequately warm and comfortable until my memory returned (which it hasn’t yet).

She got me back on my feet when no one else seemed to give a damn.

Kitten was the oldest memory still in my head, and now her lifeless body was laying before me and I knew I would have to avenge her death.

I had been sleeping off a celebratory bender on a recent job’s successful completion when I was aroused from the golden slumbers of the inebriated by a dockyard lad of the streets who had been sent to fetch me. (This was the usual way I was drafted by the mysterious group who I had to look upon as being potential clients.) Throwing just enough cold water on my face to enable me to see clearly (and not enough to cause frost in my close-cropped whiskers in the pre-morning chill), I followed the boy as I knew that my potential clients usually didn’t like to be kept waiting.

As was the routine, I was led down a number of back alleys and through a few abandoned buildings (throwing off any potential tails) before the lad handed me off to a cloaked figure who tipped the boy a coin and beckoned me to follow. The cloaked figure walked briskly, his boots tapping a staccato beat against the stone streets as he raced against the ever encroaching dawn whose early light was just beginning to cast out the shadows from the dark side of Waterdeep.

The sun was just about to clear the horizon when he motioned me into a nearby warehouse and quickly closed the door behind us, sealing us into the dark while the rest of Waterdeep began to enjoy the first light of a new day.

As my guide fumbled with a torch, I mused to myself gratefully. Well, at least my first fear has been dismissed; a vampire racing against the dawn would never pause to light a torch. We must always be thankful for small blessings.

A few seconds later his efforts were rewarded and the torch ignited with a temporarily blinding blaze that quickly settled down to a reassuring illumination that provided me with my first good look at the guide who had led me here.

There wasn’t much to see.

He was about my height and build with rather expensive taste in clothes. His cloak was heavy and cowled, the hood of which he carefully rearranged so as to remove it from his head with minimal muss and bother.

The hood fell back from my guide’s head to reveal a closer, more form-fitting mask that completely obscured his face, hair, and features, leaving me with little more of a clue to his identity than I had upon the first moment of our meeting.

This wasn’t unusual really, as many of my clients seemed to prefer to keep their identities well under wraps, even from me, their humble and obedient mind-wiped servant. It almost seemed to go with the territory in the line of work to which I had become accustomed.

The masked man lead me down a set of cellar steps to a subterranean passage. I was immediately struck by a cool, moist breeze that seemed to be coming from the direction in which we were headed. The sing-songy lapping of waves grew louder as we approached a larger, well lit chamber.

A highly functional dock, receiving, and storage area (not to mention two burly stevedores, arms emblazoned with tattoos of numerous savory and unsavory ports of call from the Sword Coast to the Moonsea) lead me to believe that we had arrived at one of Waterdeep’s numerous clandestine ports of call. I began to wonder if perhaps I was being taken to a meeting by means of some underground nautical transport (to fabled Skuilport perhaps) until my guide lead me to the three waterlogged forms that appeared to have been recently dragged from the sea and set out on the docks like recently unloaded refuse.

Whatever had befallen the three sorry corpses must have happened very recently. The sodden state of their garments had not yet washed away the smoky residue of partial human incineration that must have occurred within the last two hours.

My eyes were immediately drawn to the only body that seemed to have escaped the flames, whereupon I recognized its identity. I held my breath and controlled my rage at what fate had befallen my benefactor, silently swearing an oath of vengeance.

“Your thoughts?” inquired the stentorian voice of the masked man. The voice seemed vaguely familiar. (But then again all of the other masked voices I’ve dealt with in my short past sounded familiar, too.)

Obviously I had not been brought here to identify the bodies. The patrons who hired me had numerous necromancers, scryers, and other magic men specializing in the recently deceased who were easily more suited to such a task.

“Life’s cheap, unfair, and brutal, as luck would have it,” I said, “but whatever happened here, didn’t happen by chance.”

“How so?”

“Two of the bodies were burnt beyond recognition, and whoever did it was no second rate firebug. They were flamed by some blast of intense heat, probably some sort of spell-”

“Spellfire,” the masked man volunteered, interrupting my impromptu dissertation and dissection of the matters at hand.

“Whatever,” I said quickly, dismissing the interruption as irrelevant to my thought processes. If there were two mortals on all of Toni possessed of spellfire that was a lot. Any garden variety fireball would have sufficed. “All I know was that it was powerful enough so that a good dunking in the sea failed to dampen the heat left from the blast…as evidenced by the fact that the bodies and what remained of their clothing are still smoldering.” I pointed at the lifeless husk that had been my friend. “Except for this one.”

“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.

“I’m still working off my tab from last week,” Blonde! replied with a coy wink. “At this rate I’ll be paying it offal! year. I wish you’d consider some of my more expensive services.”

“I’m in no hurry,” I answered slyly. “I like to take my time.”

“I bet you do.”

Lowering my voice I asked, “What’s the price on information these days?”

“Reasonable.”

“What can you tell me about the crowd that used to hang out at the Hanging Lantern?”

Blondel furrowed her brow for a moment. “Not much,” she answered. “They did a brisk trade catering to the crowd’s wishes. More than a few of their clientele really hated it when they closed down even if it was rumored to be a den of demonic dopplegangers.”

“Any word of the survivors regrouping and re-establishing themselves elsewhere in the trade?”

“Not that I’ve heard. Things have been awfully quiet lately. Word in the alleyways is that the Unseen has left town in favor of greener pastures, and speaking of greener pastures have you considered-”

Blondel’s proposition was rudely interrupted by the boisterous boom of the thespian lout Pisspot.

“You want to know about dopplegangers, my good fellow,” the bag of wind announced to the world (or at least those who were within earshot in the room around us). “Well, allow me to be of service. A drink for me, wench, and put it on his tab.”

Blondel looked at me in gentle amusement. I nodded and she went about serving the fellow who had situated himself beside me, giving me a quick and hearty hale-and-well-met pat on the back.

The drink arrived, he drained it, and beckoned for me to draw closer as he intended to speak in a hushed tone. Secrecy is always best maintained by whispering, I thought, especially when you have already announced the subject matter to everyone in the room.

“I am an expert on dopplegangers,” he whispered pompously.

I nodded, and said, “So rye heard. You’re an associate of that Volo fellow. Pisspot’s your name.”

“That’s Passepout,” he corrected, “son of Idle and Catinflas, circumtraveler of Toni, and scourge of all dopplegangers. What would you like to know? Do you want to hear about how I uncovered a plot to replace Khelben or how I saved the heir of one of the leading families of Cormyr or how I single-handedly secured the balance of power in the Moonsea region? It’s all very hush hush you see.”

“What can you tell me about dopplegangers in Waterdeep…lately?” I inquired.

“Another drink?” he requested.

I nodded to Blondel who quickly accommodated him. The rotund fellow raised the tankard to his lips and replied, “Nothing, I’m afraid, but thanks for the refreshment. You are a gentlemen and a scholar.”

As he drained the tankard, Blondel quickly placed another in front of him, which he quaffed in similar fashion and immediately passed out.

“That settles that,” she announced, and then, pointing at the stout fellow who had just begun to snore, asked the crowd, “Know anyone looking to shanghai a crew member or two? He’ll be out for at least a day and a half, more than enough time to get persuasively out to sea.”

“I’ll send word if I hear of anyone,” I replied. “And you do the same if you hear anything new about the matters we discussed. You know how to get hold of me.”

I was swiftly back on the street and in search of information, the sound of two bouncers placing a rotund thespian in a holding sack quickly diminishing in the distance.

Word would be out in no time that I was on a doppleganger hunt. The loudmouthed Pisspot had seen to that. If I didn’t find them they would find me.

Either way I’d soon be facing Kitten’s killers.

Things didn’t move as swiftly as I had assumed.

Three days and six reports from my minions later and I was no closer to achieving my objective, and the hunger for vengeance began to consume my belly like day-old Baldur’s Gate rotgut.

Gross and Waters had both reported that the thing that was passing for Kitten seemed overly wary in her one-on-one encounters, as if she were always on her guard, but other than that nothing suspicious. (Gross postulated that it could be a “woman thing” and that she was just self-conscious.) As always I didn’t comment, just listened.

My patron sent a missive indicating that he and his associates were growing impatient, and that the fate of Faerun was probably hanging in the balance. What else was new? I had heard that all before and really didn’t care. They would get their information soon enough (and a few corpses as well, if I had my way) even if I had to beat it out of someone who looked like my best friend.

On the fourth day of my quest I almost ran into Kitten but quickly managed to remove myself from her presence before she had a chance to sense me. I’m not really sure how these doppleganger telepathic powers work, but I’m pretty sure I made it away clean. Waters included his observation of my near-miss in his daily report, but as per usual didn’t make any query about it.

A good minion doesn’t ask questions unless they are told to.

On the fifth day I received a missive from Blonde!. Someone wanted to see me. Concealing various bladed instruments on my person, I quickly set off for the rendezvous that had been arranged for me.

The meeting was set for an after-hours place a block over from the waterfront. Blondel’s missive had indicated that a well dressed fellow from the North had asked her about the Hanging Lantern and dopplegangers a night ago. A follower of synchronicity over coincidence, her feminine sixth sense told her that she should put him in touch with me.

The dockyard was my home turf and she knew I could take care of myself. I arrived at the meeting an hour early so as to have the advantage. I was about half an hour too late.

I realized this only when I felt the initial blow of a firm cudgel on the crest of my cranium. My adversaries had already laid claim to the advantage by arriving even earlier.

I came to a while later, lying on some cold and damp cellar floor, my wrists and ankles bound, Blondel and a nondescript gentleman standing over me.

“He’s coming around,” the unknown figure announced.

“It’s about time,” the creature that had become Blonde! answered. “Though I guess we really couldn’t have asked for a more cooperative opponent, walking right into our clutches and all. I probably would have let you go on living if’ you hadn’t posed a threat to our other associate.”

“The one posing as Nymara Scheiron,” I replied.

“Exactly. Your queries were getting in the way of her fulfilling her part of our mission, and our master was growing quite impatient. We never really feared that you would uncover the full extent of our plot since you had obviously chosen to settle the matters at hand before carrying out your patron’s wishes. Such arrogance and rage can only get in the way, and for what? A slim chance to avenge the death of a friend? A person of your abilities should have known better. But then again, if memory serves, experiences are the best teachers, and you seem to have forgotten most of yours. At this point I would like to add that it was quite refreshing to read such an uncluttered mind as yours.”

“I’m glad I could accommodate you,” I replied cockily. “Little did I realize that I would have to avenge the deaths of two dear friends.”

“Blondel’s crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” the thing that was passing for Blonde! explained. “Your Kitten on the other hand was very necessary for our plot. The new Kitten should be on her way here now. Too bad you won’t be around to meet her.”

“Why didn’t you just kill me and get it over with?” I asked. “It would have saved you the trouble of tying me up and all.”

“True,” it replied, “but unfortunately my nondescript colleague whose appearance was dictated by an equally unlucky nobody applied his cudgel to your skull a little too quickly. I hadn’t yet had the chance to leaf through the pages of your mind to make sure that you hadn’t informed your unknown patron of our little meeting, and unfortunately such reading of thoughts is more difficult when the subject is out cold.”

The thing that had become Blondel looked in my eyes. I sensed hunger in her thoughts.

“You have so many questions inside of your head,” it said with a sigh. “I’m afraid I can’t answer any of them for you. It’s a shame, going to your death without ever knowing your own identity, your past, or even your own name.”

“You could at least tell me the reason Kitten and Blondel had to die.”

“Beyond the simple reason that we had to take their places?” it replied, and shrugged. “Too bad you can’t read minds. Oh well, I can’t see the harm in it, and besides, Kitten should be here soon. We probably should wait for her.”

The thing leaned in close to me, and purred in the manner Blondel used to when she wanted to get me hot and bothered. The knowledge that this wasn’t the member of the gentler sex with whom I had shared a few passing evenings did little to quell my response to her seductive tones.

“Our master has engineered a new plan to reassert his influence in the fair city of Waterdeep. He has recognized the necessity of controlling the, how should I say, ‘word about town’ in order to carry out his plan. The Inn of the Hanging Lantern was brought down quite inadvertently by a busybody hack writer and a know-nothing publisher. Our job was to replace the publisher with one of our own so that such a turn of events wouldn’t happen again.”

I laughed sardonically at the black humor of it all.

“All of this for one lousy publisher who would probably have been open to a bribe anyway,” I said in ironic resignation.

“Indeed,” it replied, “but the master didn’t want to take that chance. Bribes don’t usually instill loyalty, and most publishers seem to relish the idea of renegotiation even after a deal and price have been set provided that the matters at hand seem to be in their favor. It was to be the first cautious step in his great new plan… but I am afraid that we can’t wait any longer. Kitten or no Kitten.”

It withdrew a poisoned black blade dagger from it’s bodice and began to place it beneath my chin, ready to insinuate its deadly edge into the fleshy part of my neck.

“Good-bye, man without a past. Give my best to your Blondel. She should be happy to see you, if I recall correctly,” it purred.

The poisoned tip of the deadly dagger had furthered its insinuation into my flesh and was about to penetrate and seal my fate when the sound of the whistle of flying steel breezed through the cellar.

The thing that had become Blonde! slumped to the side, quite dead, the poisoned blade barely missing my throat with nary a nick, as her associate also crumpled to the floor.

A familiar face stepped out of the shadows pausing momentarily to retrieve her blades from their well aimed destinations deep in the dopplegangers’ backs before turning her attention to me.

“Now that wasn’t too hard,” the familiar voice of Kitten exclaimed. “There’s a whining tub of lard in the other room. He’s in a large sack labeled ‘bad actor for shanghai’, but I don’t think he’ll mind if I tend to you first.”

My oldest friend explained the matters at hand as she undid my bonds.

“Sorry that you had to be kept in the dark about all of this,” she said, “but it was the will of the Lords. When the doppleganger tried to remove me and take my place, it woefully underestimated me.”

“A common mistake…“ I interjected.

Out of the corner of my eye I discerned a movement from the direction of the supposedly dead doppleganger accomplice of Blondel, and with my recently freed hand extracted a throwing knife from one of my secret harnesses and let it fly in the direction of the noise, hitting home in the forehead of the now really dead doppleganger. It seems Kitten’s dagger had lost most of its killing power when its mortal flight had been interrupted by some well placed chainmail.

“…and common mistakes do have a way of continuing to crop up,” I added.

“Point well taken,” Kitten conceded.

“I immediately sent word to Khelben Arunsun, who alerted the Lords. It was they who concocted this plot to uncover this latest conspiracy of the Unseen. We needed to know who the others were and what they were doing. Given their exceptional mental powers, the Lords knew I would never be able to pass myself off as one of them. We therefore needed a reason that I would cease interacting with the others in the plot, namely that I was being followed by one of the Lord’s men.”

“Me,” I offered, mentally making a note that my current patron was one of the Lords, confirming a suspicion that I had been harboring of all of my so-called benefactors, “the perfect blank slate.”

“Exactly,” she replied. “Your well intentioned quest for vengeance-yes, the Lords knew what you intended to do-made you the perfect judas goat to draw them out while providing me with the perfect cover.”

“I was the bait, and you were the trap.”

“Exactly.”

With her help I stood up and rubbed the circulation back into my wrists and hands. “Blondel is still dead.”

“I’m afraid so,” Kitten replied, a supportive hand placed on my shoulder, “but her killers are now dead also.”

“All to protect a stupid publisher whom the Lords have had numerous problems with.”

“Indeed, Justin Tyme is no friend of the Lords,” Kitten answered apologetically, “but we didn’t know that he was their target at the time. And we could rule out the usual suspects like Khelben, Danilo Thann, Myrt the Moneylender, and others. If we had known, maybe things would have been different. Maybe we would have taken a different tact.”

I secretly made a second note of her use of the word “we.”

“Blondel would still be dead. Some things don’t change.”

Kitten looked down at the toes of her boots as if to avert my stare.

“It’s a small consolation, but the Lords’ plan worked as well as it needed to. A new Unseen plan nipped in the bud.” Kitten raised her head, and looked me in the eye. “Let’s get out of here. It’s time for you to claim your payment for services rendered. But first we should free the hapless actor… unless of course you think we could fetch a good price for him on the seagoing market.”

“Not likely,” I replied, still distracted by the new revelations at hand. I quickly regained my wits and, not wishing to alert my feminine benefactor to my realization, I added, “It wouldn’t be worth the effort.”

It took bare minutes to free the terrified Pisspot from the very large sack that imprisoned him and an interminable few minutes more to get him to stop groveling.

We quickly gained the streets of Waterdeep at which point the rotund thespian sped off in search of a bar where he would no doubt soon be bragging about his latest adventure. Kitten and I set off to claim a new piece of the puzzle that was my past, the taste of unnecessary death still fresh in my mind as well as new suspicions about whom I could really trust.