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I will tell you, Zaknafein, about humans. How I came to know them, to respect, even to love them. It was in the black years after you died, those decades when my whole world contracted inward so painfully.
Her song floated to me from across the Bazaar, wild and mournful. It drew me along the way the savory smell of sausages might draw you into a tavern. You come for the meat, but stay to drink.
Just before I reached the slave pen, it stopped. I approached the enclosure. A sea of dirty and frightened faces peered back: goblins, orcs, humans.
“Who was singing?” I enquired, using the local goblin dialect. No answer– what had I expected? One orc shifted uncomfortably and glanced at the long chain of humans.
I shifted to the common tongue of surfacers. “Whose voice was that?”
This evoked a frightful shuffling amongst the humans, as if all were trying to be the furthest from me at once. I saw several make furtive hex-signs of their various barbaric religions.
“Tinguin lal'o shrome'cak. A mushroom pasty for whomever tells me.” I produced the hand pie– my intended lunch– still warm from the bakery. They cowered, all but one. The woman at the end stepped forward to the full length of her chain. She reached out, fumbling, and I realized she could not see. “I am here,” I directed her. She extended her hand, expectant, but I held back. “Well? Who is the singer?”
“I am,” she replied, the melody of her words confirming it. Gratefully she accepted the pie, tearing into it with white and hungry teeth. When she was done, tidily thumbing the corners of her mouth, I spoke again.
“What is your name?”
“Flora.”
I was seized by an impulse. How long since I had treated myself to such spontaneity?
“Flora, what would you do if you were free?”
Without hesitation, she responded. “I would flee, back to the surface, away from this horrid place forever. It is a Hell, and your kind are its devils!” This last caught in her throat as hot tears began to gush down her cheeks anew.
“That is a pity.”
“A pity? That I should want to rejoin my people, back under the honest light of day?”
“No. It’s a pity to waste such a remarkable throat in the maw of some ugly beast. You rivvin are dark-blind, and no number of torches you could carry would last you the walk. Even if you could see, you would die well before you ever reached the surface. If you are lucky, you’ll be picked off within a few miles of the city, likely by the patrols. If you’re unlucky, you’ll starve or thirst to death, or stumble upon the haszakkin . But you will die– this is not my opinion, it is a fact.”
I paused to let it sink in.
“I will make you a deal, Flora. Come with me and you will never go hungry or thirsty again. You will wear clean garments and want for nothing. I will not strike you or force you.”
Her eyes flicked to the ground at my last statement; I guessed much.
“And what in return.” It was almost a question.
“You will sing for me when I wish, and converse with me. Teach me more of the surface world. If I find you useful and entertaining… perhaps you might see your ‘honest daylight’ again some day.”
She fixed her eyes on mine, that single red beacon in the blackness, and slowly nodded.
We wound our way eastward through the city, me leading her by the wrist like a child, until at last we approached my quarters. The men dared not snicker openly, but I won’t deny the whispers I heard, bringing a human here.
I lit the globes with faerie fire– all of them– to see her in the light, and to let her see me. To my great surprise, she was rather beautiful. She was as tall as me, but heavier by a score of pounds. Well-proportioned. Where the skin of most Northern surfacers is a clammy, pallid pink, hers was warm and pleasing brown. I wondered where she had been born, what had brought her so far from home. Her face was wide and heart-shaped, with a dainty chin. But her eyes… her eyes are what made her beautiful. They were huge and round, black as pools of ink.
The rest of her was a mess. She stank of blood, and shit, and misery. Her clothing was torn and filthy, her face smudged and streaked with sweat and tears, the matted dark curls of her hair falling about her shoulders in disarray. She turned her deep, soul-drinking eyes on me, watching me watch her.
I broke off my stare, suddenly keenly aware of my rudeness. I busied myself in my closets, gathering a loose silk blouse and an older, but serviceable pair of leggings. An ewer of hot water, clean cloths, a jar of Malice’s special wound salve– these I arranged on the wash stand beside the bowl. Then I lit a candle for her, a wealth of golden light flooding my chambers.
While she readied herself, I set out a small plate of cheese and dry sausages, and poured a measure of watered wine into an earthen mug. I reclined on the couch with two fingers of mushroom brandy in my favorite cut crystal tumbler. She took her time. I imagined her in there, turning her face about in the small mirror to daub the filth from her jawline.
I smelled the wick of the candle and knew she was done. When she emerged, her eyes were almost calm, her bearing much straighter, less wretched. I saw her supple grace beneath the light ripple of the blouse as she moved past me to sit in the chair. Her gaze flicked to the paring knife on the tray of food. I sprawled on the couch and yawned, reassuring her that nothing she could do was a threat to me. She ate.
After, I brought the conversation sharply to bear on the question that had consumed me from the first wafting notes. “That song you were singing–it was in Halfling, yes? Teach me the words, in Common.”
“No.” Her eyes did not waver, though she tensed as if daring me to break my promise not to harm her.
Instead, I leaned back, crossing my ankles on the arm of the couch.
“Why?” I asked mildly.
“The words are not for you.” She was resolute, defiant.
“Who are they for, then, to sing them openly in a slave market?”
Now her gaze did drop, like a goblet shattering on a stone floor. A tremor took her by the shoulders then, and she turned from me.
I did not inquire further.
Over the next tendays, she mostly kept to my quarters, though I could tell the boredom chafed at her. To my great surprise, I discovered she had some small magical talents– she could draw up a bright white light in her palm when needed, cast her voice so that it seemed to come from elsewhere, or mend a chipped mug with a touch. I recalled her blindness in the dark slave pen. Clever not to tip her hand all at once.
In the evenings, we often took supper together. Afterward, she would sing for me, or recite epics, or tell me of the great cities she had visited: Waterdeep, Luskan, Neverwinter, Silverymoon, even Baldur’s Gate, far to the south. She had avoided Calimshan with deliberate purpose, though she wouldn’t say why. I taught her sava ; she was terrible at it, but laughed each time she lost. She did not come to my bed; I didn’t expect it.
One day I brought her a small bone flute, after hearing how she mourned the loss of her wooden one, and her eyes brimmed with joy. I took to surprising her with a strange new instrument every tenday or so. A tiny mandolin, a clay ocarina, a drum with a pleasing tone– each she could play with some proficiency.
One month turned into three. She improved at sava , a little. We juggled together, standing opposite each other and tossing the balls between us. When this ceased to entertain us, we stood side by side, or back to back. Once, I levitated up and turned a somersault to sit against the ceiling. She laughed and laughed, but did not falter in the rhythm of her throws.
I instructed her in swordplay, and in return, she tutored me in the halfling tongue, in which she was quite fluent. Her favorite method of teaching the language involved keeping up a stream of banter while we fenced, asking ridiculous, impossible questions. I would fumble with my inadequate vocabulary, attempting to answer. Jarlaxle, where does the green of grass go in winter? What is the nature of time? Where do the colors of a sunset come from? Why does a rich man care less for a chest of gold than a poor man for a bowl of stew? Why is a good man good and an evil one evil? Are we born or made? Where does music go once it’s played?
On and on she would patter, hurling query after query so that my attention was ever divided. She was passable with a foil already, now she grew more competent at my expense. Once, she scored a hit, the blunted tip snagging in my loose shirt and tearing it. At home, she called for a bone needle. With a gesture from her, I stripped off the torn garment and surrendered it. The flare of light she summoned stung me, but I saw that she seemed not to be troubled in the least. Advantage , I reckoned, squinting my watering eyes. They are not the lesser, at least in the world of light.
I watched her pluck a few strands of her lustrous black hair and roll the ends together before poking them through the needle’s eye. Her fingers flew and danced along the gash, white needle glinting in the light. I was keenly aware of the sweat beginning to chill on my flanks, of the dampness of the shirt in her hands. I hoped she hadn’t noticed.
“Done,” she pronounced, flourishing her handiwork so I could examine the seam. Flawless.
“Where did you learn to sew like this?”
She shrugged. “I am not helpless.”
It was only later that I realized she could have worked her magic, mending the cloth with a whisper and a rub of her fingers. Why then?
She sang or played her flute almost every evening. For me, the songs were always merry, the folk tales full of adventure and hard-won treasure.
One night after we retired, I could hear her in the sitting room, softly singing the song from the marketplace. My command of Halfling had improved, and my curious ear could not resist.
“– tall and fair; Wee Maeve, just three, with golden hair; Brugo the brave, first to die; His wife, with child, called Delphini; Green fields receive you from the bloody plain–”
I crushed my ears with the palms of my hands. The raid. Weeping gods. What had I expected?
One night, when her eyes were far away, I asked her again.
“Flora, what would you do if you were free?”
She seemed taken aback by this, as if I had snatched her thoughts from the air.
“Don’t worry, dear. No need to read your mind when it’s written on your face.”
She paused, as if at a threshold.
“I-I don’t know.” Her dark eyes cast downward, away from me. I let the half-truth stand between us, a gate that might be opened.
When she departed, I escorted her to Silverymoon myself. I would stay for a tenday, helping her furnish the flat and putting her in contact with the right people. It was two bare rooms with a small window at one end, half as impressive as I’d hoped, and twice as expensive. But then, the Gem of the North has always been expensive. I took her shopping while the movers carried furniture up.
We lingered late on the town, sipping ciders in the cool autumn evening. She broke the comfortable silence between us, speaking so softly at first I wasn’t sure if it was me she addressed.
“You’ve asked me twice now what I would do if I were free. This. ” She gestured broadly. “This is what I would do. Yet still, I am not free to do it.”
“You are free.” I was confused, wrong-footed by her quiet anger.
“And the brand?”
My mouth went dry. I had forgotten about it, but she could not. By the time I had found her, she’d already been claimed by the Jewel Box . It was Nym I had settled with, only hours before the evening’s entertainment had been set to begin.
A wretched place to die, on that night or any other.
“Tomorrow. We will find the best healer that generosity may entice.”
When it was time, I returned to Menzoberranzan with my retinue, alone. My solace was a carved white sending stone in my pocket. I had folded its mate into her hand after a parting embrace. Keep in touch.
My chambers were bereft of her, all except an ivory comb carelessly forgotten in a drawer. A few strands of her hair still clung there. I rubbed the seam of my shirt, where she had sewn it.
Months passed, her missives steady but mostly impersonal. Mundane news.
In Mirtul of the following year, a message came, brimming with excitement:
Come for Midsummer Riverfest, on Kythorn 20.
Just that. When have I ever been able to resist such temptation?
The first two days, we wandered the festival amongst the other musicians as she sang or played her flute. We delighted ourselves with honey cakes and ice wine sipped from pewter cups. Once, she cajoled me into an impromptu juggling demonstration on the green. Soon, we were surrounded by clapping children and cheering men and smiling young women who danced with each other around us. What world is this, the surface?
On the last night of the festival, there was a grand banquet, held by Lady Silverhand herself. As we moved through the crowd, the eyes of gentlemen and ladies alike were upon her, in a gown of pale gold. In her ears sparkled a pair of svirfneblin ruby studs, princess-cut and of the deepest blood red. My gift to her.
Later, we walked the riverside market, our backs to the setting sun. A flock of sparrows settled noisily into a tree for the night. She turned, the fading light painting her in shades of violet. Her eyes had changed, softened to me. Was it the disguise, this human-suit, that she saw?
“The concert will begin soon. Let’s go find a good spot to watch the show.” She smiled and grabbed my hand, pulling me along.
I bid her goodnight at her doorstep, but she tugged at my wrist, persistent. Just a drink.
I came up. She produced wine, and a lute. We drank, and sang, and played. It was like the old days, but happier. She brought out sava.
Just one game.
Another bottle of wine appeared. We soon abandoned sava in favor of conversation. She carried on about her life in Silverymoon, her love of the city. I listened, rapt.
When the conversation lulled, I made to rise but she reached for me.
“It’s late, you needn’t walk all the way to the inn.”
“It is late, which is exactly why I should be going.” I did not meet her eyes.
Swiftly she bridged the gap between us, our lips touching with a tiny zap of static electricity.
She flinched back, eyes wide. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I said, already seeking her mouth again.
She touched my false face, my disguise.
“Take it off.”
I did.
I shared her quarters for the rest of my tenday’s stay, the first real vacation I’d had in decades. From morning to late afternoon, we lolled in her bed, dozing, making love, eating fresh fruit and ripe cheese. At night, I accompanied her to shows in taverns and fest halls all around the city. She was quite well-known by now, and drew a full crowd nearly every night. Evenings without shows, we would enjoy coffee and currant buns in the shop downstairs before heading to the night markets.
The story of her childhood emerged as well, in snippets at first. Then one night after wine, it all poured forth at once. I listened as she recounted her early privations in Calimport, hiding from her unstable and violent mother, stealing food to survive. When she was six, she had stowed away in the wagon of a halfling circus troupe. They had not found her for a whole day, and by then Calimport was far behind. In the end, her skinny legs and bruised arms had convinced them to keep her.
At the end of that tenday, she entreated me to stay another. The allure of her, the soft scent of her hair, and her way of glancing covertly at me and then shyly away– irresistible. Half, I promised. I spent the mornings watching her sleep for hours. Each afternoon, she drew me from reverie, light hands tracing a different part of my body.
I had to go back to Menzoberranzan, to my real life.
I began to hear from her less and less often. Once, in the first year, I heard nothing for six months. I would have sent an agent to watch her, but the very next day her message came: All is well. No relevant news.
Strange, I thought, that she should qualify the statement. Then, with a fleeting sting: Perhaps she is distracted by a lover. And why not? Often enough, I was myself.
Five more years slipped by before I made my way to the surface again.
I will surprise her. The idea pleased me, and I mused on a gift I might bring, something to make her dark eyes sparkle with joy. Something she could not forget.
When at last I arrived, the shock on her face spoke volumes. She stood in the doorway, blocking my view.
“Can we do supper instead? Usual place, just after sunset.” She made to close the door, but I placed my hand on its edge, resisting.
“Don’t be ridiculous, I am weary. Where is your hospitality?”
“I-it’s just that–” she stammered. “It’s not a good time.”
I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I am not the jealous type. Call me your uncle or something. Besides, I quite literally own the place.”
Her hand dropped from the door, and I slipped past her into the sitting room. Taking my customary place on the couch, I watched her intently. Her whole frame was taut with fearful expectation. On the cushion beside me, a silver tabby cat unfurled itself from sleep, regarding me with impassive yellow eyes. I scratched it on the head and received a light purr in response.
I heard a rustle from the bedchamber, a soft yawn, and bare feet on the floor. The door creaked open. A little girl peeked around the frame, her hair a mass of tawny-gold ringlets set aglow in the afternoon’s slanting light. Curious dark eyes regarded me, and I noted the cat-like lift at their corners, the sharp sweep of the girl’s eartips. Her warm brown complexion.
A little sing-song voice: “Mama? Who’s this?”
My composure fled in a cold rush; I was on my feet. At the door, she barred my way.
“ You ,” she drove the word into me like a rail-spike, “will stay. You do not even know her name, and you would slink away like a dog with a hambone.”
“How did this happen?” It was an insane question, laughable. A city full of apothecaries, and she’d chosen a midwife.
“In the usual way.” She was not laughing. “Outside.”
I stepped through and she quietly shut the door behind us.
“But she is half–” human. I drew up short of that irretrievable precipice.
“She is half-elf. That is how they see her.” Her eyes were hard, glittering chips of obsidian.
“When were you planning to tell me?” As soon as I said it, I could read the answer on her face. I wasn’t.
“When will you tell her?” She retorted, her expression shrewd.
A fair point.
“Her name is Maeve.” Maeve, with the golden hair. “Go and speak to her.”
I squatted before her, eye-to-eye. “Hello Maeve. I am the Baron de Villalobos. But you may call me Jay.” I extended one hand to her. Solemnly, she placed her soft little palm on mine and I brushed my lips against her knuckles. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Nice to meet you, Mister Jay.” She regarded me with bold curiosity. “Why do you have so many bracelets on?”
“Because,” I raised my arm and theatrically jangled them, “they can do this– ” with a snap of my fingers, I silenced them. It was a cantrip, really, but she clapped her hands to her mouth and gasped, then let out a peal of delighted laughter. My heart, my smile like splitting granite. I chuckled in spite of myself. How could you do this, you miserable old bastard?
“You have pretty earrings.” She ran her finger along the row of gold hoops there. I saw a knot form in her brow, a likeness of my own. “Why do your ears look funny?”
She sees. I jerked to my feet and gave her a courteous bow. “It was very nice to meet you, Miss Maeve. I hope we may get to know each other better.”
I did not see her again for thirty years.
The messenger arrived at the inn early the next morning, as I was finishing a plate of eggs and sausage in the quiet common room. She strode up to me and spoke in a clear voice.
“Baron Jaxen de Villalobos, your immediate presence is requested by Lady Alustriel Silverhand at her palace. You are to return with me at once.”
I knew. “Give me a moment to gather my belongings.”
“Of course, sir.”
When I descended the stairs once more, she was waiting in the exact same spot. The walk to the palace was silent, just shy of uncomfortable.
She kept me waiting in her anteroom an appropriate amount of time– long enough to allow worries to blossom, but not anger or frustration.
She was tall, taller than many human men, and by turns beautiful and terrifying. With a gesture she dismissed her entire retinue, her guards, everyone. We were alone together in the echoing silence of her hall. A golden-eyed tabby wound itself between her ankles, blinking smugly up at me.
“Show me your face.”
I looked up at her, plainly confused. “My lady?”
“Show me.” Her command coursed through me, my hand leaping up to my hat to sweep it from my head. I might have resisted, or at least tried, but I knew better.
She circled me, inspecting. “You are Jarlaxle, no doubt.”
I gave a little nod.
“ Jarlaxle, ” she threw my name back at me, “Understand that I’ve tolerated your games in my city for so long precisely because you are discreet. You bring trade and information to Silverymoon. You cause no trouble and do little harm. And most importantly of all, you never, ever reveal yourself.”
“Unless I am commanded, that is,” I retorted with a wicked smile.
“Yes, you are quite good at following commands. And I have another: Remove yourself from my city. Do not try to pass my gates again in this–” she gestured at my outfit– “or any other guise. I will know. The child and her mother are citizens of Silverymoon, and it is my sworn duty to protect them from malign influences.”
I have a tell. A subtle, amused twitch in the corner of my mouth when I am boiling.
“And you consider me a malign influence? What have I done to earn such a reputation with you, good lady?” My words were polite, a supple entreaty.
“Nothing. Please understand this is not personal.” Her demeanor softened, a deliberate sea change of her powerful charisma. “The child cannot grow up in your shadow. There must not be a breath of rumor, lest the court of public opinion hang her. And perhaps you as well, if you entangle yourself too deeply.”
I had considered this already, the liability of it. Just carrying the knowledge back to Menzoberranzan in my own head had its risks.
“Did you forbid her from telling me all these years?” The pieces snapped into place.
“I requested it, yes. As soon as I suspected. I have known about you for a long time, Jarlaxle. I saw her on your arm that night at the banquet, saw how she gazed at you. And her heavy belly so soon after. Many were surprised the child was a half-elf. I was not.”
You would know about half-elves, I thought, but did not say.
“And so you would deny me this? Cut me off from my business in your city, from–” I fought the anger welling in my chest, threatening to creep into my voice.
“Yes, for her own good. For the good of all.” She was resolute, immovable.
I gave a deep bow and held it, forcing her to dismiss me. Then I snapped my hat– my disguise– back onto my head and strode from her hall.
What did I do? What I do best, Zak. I put it from my mind. The wonderful thing about work is that it’s always there for you.
When we met again, it was as strangers. I got to know her some, in her adulthood. You are right to wonder whether I told her. In the end, I did not. A true showman never reveals his tricks.
She had her mother’s gift of music and a knack for illusion magic. She was fierce with her rapier, and true with a bow. And oh, if only you could have heard her sing! With just her voice and her lute she could hold a busy tavern spellbound. Her charm and good nature were infectious; to know her was to love her.
But Zak, that was ages ago.
I am old now, and you were gone so very, very long.
All I have left are memories– and ash.