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Caleb is not a particularly large fan of Zadash. The reason he would give if asked is that there are too many people, always jostling one another, making it easy for people to slip away. The truth is that something about the city makes the back of his neck prickle. Sometimes he will see a sign for a shop or for a pub and for a moment, there is a sick feeling in his stomach. But there is no reason for this weakness, especially since he cannot ever recall being here since Master Ikathon has sent him.
His mission is fairly drivel: extinguish the embers of a rebellion brewing beneath the streets. It is tawdry work, but Caleb understands why he was given it. He had come close to dying on an earlier mission, saved only by his wife Astrid, and had been taken out of commission while he recuperated. Caleb is finally getting his feet back underneath him, and so here he is, slipping in the shadows of Zadash, following whispers of the Knights of Requital.
Caleb ignores the Tri-Spire and the Silken Terrace, opting instead to begin in the less fortunate districts, where dissent is more likely to be sewn. His journey by the Signet Wall is quick, mostly populated by traveling adventurers. He moves more slowly through the Interstead Sprawl, watching the people that pass by. He notices a few people dressed plainly who think they are being subtle, and probably are for the passing Crownsguard, meeting in the street briefly and whispering before continuing their path.
Caleb decides to make himself stationary to watch and overhear. He stops in front of a random building and leans against it, unnoticed by most in the street. Those that do notice give him a wide berth. If Astrid could see him now, she would be laughing at him. The sooner he jumps through these hoops to prove that he is as good as he always has been, they will be working together again. To quell his rising longing, he spins the gold band around his finger as he watches the people.
Nothing about the people passing by jump out at him, and the sun is beginning to set. Not only that, but he is beginning to get that rolling feeling in his stomach. Spinning his ring is not proving to be the distraction it usually is, so he turns to observe the building that is shielding him.
The stonework of the building is a smooth and sleek off white, and there are four towers reaching out of it toward the sky. The largest one is topped by a dome like structure that comes to a point. There is intricate carving above the doors that reads Valley Archive of the Cobalt Soul.
As Caleb’s eyes trace over the beautiful carving, a female monk pushes her way through the doors. Her sash is a brilliant blue, but that is not what catches Caleb’s eye. She looks around carefully as she walks, making sure she is not being followed. Evidently, she is not very good at it, Caleb thinks as he pushes off the wall to do just that.
She leads him to a lively inn called the Song and Supper Inn. The monk enters and Caleb loses her for a moment between the bustling dinner crowd, but then sees her speaking to a male bartender. Caleb slips over to the bar, sliding into a seat and catching the tail end of their conversations. “This is risky,” the bartender is hissing.
“Clay,” the monk rolls her eyes, “there’s no greater risk now than there was before. Trust me, we’ll take care of anything that happens, alright? Okay?”
Clay reluctantly nods, but scowls at her as she descends into a basement. Caleb wonders if he has found the leader of the Knights of Requital. Clay approaches him and he orders something unforgettable, tipping the human a silver. He waits and sips at his drink and finds that he sees many of the people he had noticed before trying to make their way downstairs unnoticed.
He manages to join the back of one of these groups and follows them down and through hallways. They pass a small goblin woman at an archway, who looks them over and then nods them forward. Caleb does his best to make him unnoticeable, but her eyes still drift over him. For a moment, he thinks he has been made, but she nods them through. He ignores the prickle at the back of his neck, telling him this is for some reason very dangerous.
They come to a meeting room filled with people, including the monk he had seen earlier. She is on a raised platform, standing next to a half-orc and human man with spectacles. Caleb slides behind a blue tiefling and waits.
The human man claps his hands, and begins to speak, “Alright, let tonight’s meeting begin. I know some here have begun to question our method, and for that we will speak.”
The half-orc steps forward, and the accent the slides out of his mouth surprises Caleb. It is very posh, but the man himself seems rugged. “We know that you have been very patient, and that at time sit may seem like our plan is at a standstill. But that is not the case. We are closer than ever to toppling those who would crush you under their boot. Our operatives are reporting fear from closer in the city. They are afraid of the Knights. And they should be.”
The monk nods, her rough voice ringing out to the crowd, “I can tell you with complete certainty that phase one of our plan is working. Soon we’ll recover the key to taking this whole thing down. I promise that success is in our reach, after all this time. They likely don’t realize they’ve sent what we need right to us.”
Caleb knows that he has found his Knights, and that he could slaughter everybody here. But they would likely serve as martyrs, and there are more effective ways to disassemble a rebellion. The monk’s eyes slide over the crowd, and it feels like she is looking right at him when she says, “We’re doing everything in our power to fix things.”
That sends a jolt straight down into his stomach, leaving him confused and wary. He decides he should slip out, his earlier fear of being made returning. That will make things more difficult. The tiefling in front of him turns and smiles at him, and he can see a sadness in her eyes. For some reason, it stirs something in him. She slides past him, her fingers brushing against his coat for just a moment. He decides to follow her out, sticking his fists into his coat pocket and realizing his coin purse has been replaced by a folded piece of paper. Confused, he pulls the pamphlet out and reads about some deity called the “Traveler”. Angry at himself for not noticing, her pursues her, blasting past the goblin at the archway. They are still in the tunnels when he catches up to her and stops her. Where before he was distracted by her eyes, he notices now the same symbol hanging off of her waist as drawn on the pamphlet.
“Excuse me,” he says curtly, and she turns to look at him with wide eyes.
“Yes?” She blinks up at him.
“I believe you have something of mine,” he says, glaring at her, “and perhaps that I could have excused, but galivanting around with the symbol of an unrecognized deity? Foolish. You have made yourself an enemy of the Empire.”
“Have I?” she says coyly, her tail flicking.
“Yes,” he says, and before she can do anything, he has cuffed her.
“Hey!” She protests, and flicks her fingers out, expecting something to happen. Nothing does. “Oh, crud,” she mutters.
“Crud, indeed,” Caleb nods and turns her around, “I’m taking you to Lawmaster Stonegrasp.”
He expects her to struggle, but she just slumps her shoulders. “I don’t think she likes being bothered after she goes home.”
“We shall see,” he says thinly and begins to march her up the stairs and through the inn.
“It’s a long walk,” she says, “What’s your name?”
“Bren,” he says to quiet her, even though that hasn’t been his name in a long time. He left that name behind with his traitorous parents, choosing Caleb for himself.
“Huh,” she says, “You look more like a Caleb to me.”
That almost stops him in his tracks, but she doesn’t seem to notice. A coincidence, he tells himself. But there is something about her that has his hackles raised, something more than petty thievery. She talks like she knows something he does not.
“And you? What is your name? I will it need it when I turn you in.”
“My name is Jester,” she says easily, and it seems like she’s telling the truth. Her accent is thick, vaguely familiar but he cannot place it.
“You are with the Knights of Requital?” He asks, pushing her forward.
“In a way,” she says softly, then even softer, “They are helping me.”
“I can not imagine what sort of help you would need from some rebellion scum rather than the government,” he sneers.
“The government took my friend,” she says sharply, “He escaped them a long time ago, but we weren’t careful enough and they took him back.”
Caleb doesn’t say anything, wondering who would be friends with this strange girl. She seems to simmer down again, asking, “Do you like Zadash?”
He doesn’t know why, but he answers honestly, “I have never been here before.”
She looks back at him at that, her eyes incredibly sad once more as she looks to see if he is being honest. She stops walking, forcing him to stop as well. “Are you happy, Caleb?”
His hackles raise again, “I never said my name was Caleb.”
“No, I did,” she says calmly, and raises her eyebrows at him.
The truth is, no. He is not entirely happy. Sometimes it feels like there is always something just beneath the surface that he cannot reach. Sometimes he has dreams where he is wearing a ratty coat but is happier than he has ever felt since his accident. But why would he tell his prisoner that. “I am very happy,” he snaps, “The sooner I deal with you and the knights, I can go back to my home with my wife.”
“Your wife?” she blinks and shock washes across her face, pebbled with hurt.
“Let’s go,” he says, and tries to nudge her into walking but she refuses.
“Is your wife a scourger too?” she says, and it sounds like there is anger simmering beneath her tongue.
Caleb feels his stomach drop. Nobody should know what they are. “How do you know I am a scourger?” he snarls, stepping very close to her. She does not flinch.
“A scourger was the one who took my friend,” she squares her shoulders, “Her name is Astrid. If we were smarter, we would have killed her before she had the chance.”
Anger flares through Caleb at that, and he grabs her arm, hauling her to the side of the nearest building, “I should kill you for that.”
“No,” Jester shakes her head, pressed against the stone, “You should kill me for losing you.”
“What?” he blinks, thrown off for a moment.
“You really don’t remember me, Caleb?” There is so much grief in her voice that for a moment her forgets his anger. “Not Beau? Or Fjord? Or Nott?”
Those names send those little jolts to his gut. He fights with himself: she clearly knows something about him, but she could be so dangerous. She continues, “What about the Meighty Nein? What about the Xorhouse? What about us?” Her voice breaks on the last word.
He stares at her, and against his better judgement, murmurs, “Tell me what you know.”
“I can fix you, Caleb,” she cries, “You just have to take these manacles off.”
“No,” he shakes his head, “I do not know that you would not try to escape.”
“I would never leave you behind again,” she says, her voice so full of feeling that his chest flutters. “Fine. Your favorite flavor is blueberry. You killed your parents because Trent Ikathon made you. Your name was Bren Aldric Ermendrud. Your cat’s name is Frumpkin. Caleb, I love you.”
That sickness is his gut is so strong it almost doubles him over. He doesn’t know if he’s actually controlling what he’s doing, but he removes the cuffs. Jester surges forward and kisses him, and warmth spreads from her lips and into his mind.
He remembers.
He remembers the circus. And Molly. And Zadash. And being pirates. And Xorhaus. And Yasha.
He remembers late nights spent talking around a fire and stolen kisses.
He remembers Astrid taking Jester, and the rage they had all flown into to get her back. He remembers going unconscious, Jester screaming his name. And then his life had been changed by Trent once more.
There are tears rolling down both of their cheeks, and he kisses her back. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs.
“It is alright,” he presses kisses to the freckles on her cheeks, “It is not your fault.”
“Caleb,” she sighs, and he knows. This is right, this is home. There is no where else he would rather be.