Chapter Text
An edition of Baldur's Mouth, hot off the press. One front-page article, accompanied by an illustration of a sparkling rocket, reads:
Errant Firework at Upper City Entrance Causes a Scene!
Citizens passing through the Upper City gate early yesterday morning were subjected to an unwelcome surprise.
Flashbangs and loud whistles burst from a decorative hedge on the Lower City side – the work of a hidden "wogglim" rocket, popular for its noisemaker and bright lights.
One Flaming Fist on the scene, who wishes to remain anonymous, spotted a young boy crouching near the hedges moments before the fireworks began. Eyewitnesses report the same boy fleeing the area during the disturbance. Details are limited, as the rocket temporarily blinded and disoriented those closest to the commotion.
Anton Sonshal, owner of Felogyr's Fireworks and proprietor of "wogglim" rockets, was unavailable for comment.
The suspect remains unidentified and at large. He is described as a human male, between 10 and 14 years old, about 20kg, with pale skin, shoulder-length black hair and dirty brown clothing. If you see him, please report his whereabouts to the Flaming Fists. Those with information leading to the suspect's arrest will be rewarded.
Keep running.
Slip through the iron gate bars. They're narrow enough to block out most growing boys, but a malnourished one can squeeze through just fine. Call it a benefit.
Don't listen to the screaming. Don't wonder if they saw your face. Worry about that once you find somewhere to hide.
The Flaming Fists may be hot on your heels, but you can outrun them easily, clumsy as they are. No, your only obstacle now is the common man. They gather and gasp at the commotion transpiring beyond the Gate, but they ignore you. Each and every one. Such is the gift of the street rat - forgotten as quickly as you are seen. Every stiff-collared suit instinctively keeps a wide berth from you. Disgust, plausible deniability – their reasons matter not. At this moment, they serve you well.
And that's always been what you want, isn't it, Gortash? For them to make room for you?
From his vantage point on a flat rooftop, in the cold shade of the rising sun, the young boy not yet named Gortash lays on his stomach and peers down at the streets below. He spies two Flaming Fists poking around a covered wagon. One peers through the flaps, the other engages in bored conversation with the wagon's driver. The first guard lamely scratches his face through the gap of his visor, then partially opens a nearby crate. His movements are pathetic, a half-hearted pantomime of hard work. He yawns so loudly the boy can hear it from two stories above. Then flatulates.
The boy, whose name is Enver, buries his mouth in his collar to stifle his laughter. He couldn't come up with a better caricature of incompetence if he tried. The two Fists wander off, seemingly content with their unsuccessful search – for him.
Enver draws himself up to a kneel, then climbs up an adjacent vaulted roof, precariously steep, still slick with dew, until he crests the rooftop looming far above the surrounding buildings. The dawning sun from the east warms his face, and carefully, Enver rises to his feet, holding the weathervane for balance, wind cutting through his threadbare clothes. He catches his breath. The cool breeze helps him focus.
The sun rose thirty minutes ago. An hour and a half before his parents are awake. Plenty of time to steal a nice change of clothes, shear off his matted hair, and maybe scrounge together a bath and a meal. After that, it will be no trouble at all to lift a few purses – undoubtedly heavier than any he's ever stolen in the Lower City – and hitch a ride out of Baldur's Gate to start a new life somewhere else. Anywhere else. Elturel is the closest civilization, a tenday's ride out east…
But Enver spins around the weathervane and follows the River Chionthar instead, flowing from Elturel, meandering past the southern border of Baldur's Gate, feeding into the Sword Coast far to the west. The ocean glitters pale blue and gold like scattered coins on silk. Ships dot the distant horizon. He's heard tall tales of pirates: smoking dreadnoughts, peg-legged captains scouring the open seas for whatever plunder their ships might carry, bathing in wine, sleeping between hoards of jewels and fawning women. Enver could get used to that.
More realistically, though – Baldur's Gate ships trade with countries beyond the sea. Surely they could use one more deck hand? At worst, he could sneak into a cargo hold at the Lower City docks.
No, Enver realizes, his face falling. The dockhands in the Lower City all know each other. If he's spotted running away, word might travel to the workers at Flymm Cargo, who all know him . They'll tell his parents at Flymm's Cobblers. And Enver Flymm absolutely cannot go back to Flymm's Cobblers.
She doesn't pay you as it is, he thinks. If you go back after this, she won't even let you leave the house. Then it would take twice as long to steal the gold you need to get out. You might starve by then. You will not get another chance.
A rooster's scream pierces the air, and the noise startles Enver so badly he loses his balance and nearly falls off the roof. Gripping the weathervane with both hands, he shakes the hair out of his eyes and takes a deep, wavering breath.
Better to start small. Worry about the rest later. Slowly, Enver lowers himself and skids down the roof tiles, traversing back to solid ground.
Half an hour later, Enver checks his handiwork in the reflection of a storefront window. His clothes, yanked off several clotheslines, are spotless: green linen slacks, a too-big navy tunic that droops past his knees, and a length of tweed tied into a makeshift belt. Ill-fitting and mismatching, but not completely offensive. He hadn't needed to steal a new pair of boots. If his work as a cobbler had taught him anything, it was how to make a pair of shoes last.
His hair, on the other hand, is atrocious. He'd lifted a pair of rusty shears from a refuse bin, then camped in an alleyway and cut until his scalp felt smooth. Examining it now, though, he sees uneven patches all over, the longest at the nape of his neck. Enver scowls. He twists, peering over his shoulder, then lifts the scissors to the back of his head and snips haphazardly.
His reflection stares back as he works. It's a far cry from the boy who set off that firework an hour ago, rendered anonymous by a mop of tangled hair. The now-visible blue eyes are deep-set, so dark as to appear black, and the skin underneath is lined with heavy purple bags. His jaw is a gaunt, brutish square, made wider by the lack of hair to disguise it. And his long nose brandishes a smear across the bridge that he's not sure is dirt or blood. He's twelve years old, but his face is intense, weathered as though much older.
There's movement on the other side of the window. A sign, flipping from "CLOSED" to "OPEN." Before Enver can dart away, there's something at his peripheral – the shop door swinging open, accompanied by a tiny bell.
"No loitering," a tired voice calls out.
Enver doesn't stick around to negotiate. Not worth it to get in hot water for something as minor as this. He trots away, hears the bell jingle again as the door closes. He ties the shears to his belt and sets off at a jog.
One fact crystallizes in Enver's mind as he passes through the lavish streets: if the Upper City is the full moon, then the Lower City, his home, is its choppy reflection, the discarded leftover of the centerpiece. The Upper City, artful, glittering, pristine, is the residence of politicians, artisans, philosophers, wizards, every person worth something on the Sword Coast. It surprises Enver to have so much free space when walking, distinctly untouched by passersby. There are more fully grown trees lining the pathways than Enver has ever seen in one place. His feet do not catch on uneven cobblestones. There are no streams of sewage to dodge. And there is not a beggar in sight.
A church bell tolls, and Enver counts along - seven. One more hour until his parents wake up and realize he's gone. He'll have to forgo a bath. Damn . He was really looking forward to getting clean. He catches a whiff of cinnamon from a now-open bakery, and his stomach clenches with a pang so powerful he nearly whines. But he can't get distracted. It's more important now that he steals gold and gets out of town. He considers that he should've stolen the gold before cutting his hair and changing his clothes – no use in a disguise if he's going to get in trouble anyway.
No matter. What's done is done. Besides, it's better that he's ready to leave as soon as he's got the money. If he really needs another disguise in a hurry, he can grab a new tunic.
But that won't be necessary, he reminds himself. He won't get caught. Not somewhere as busy as The Wide.
It doesn't take him long to navigate, despite having never been to the Upper City before. The major streets are laid out in such a way that they always twist back to The Wide, directing crowds to the central marketplace like tributaries feeding into a lake. Following the natural current guides him to a tightly-packed, slow-moving throng. Vendors and future customers, by the looks of it: a procession of gaggling women hauling overfull pails and carts by hand. He weaves around the edges of the foot traffic, ever forward.
When he squeezes past the threshold, it's like stepping into a jungle. Tents, stalls, and booths jam together to make a narrow aisle with no visible end, obscured by kicked-up dust and slanting sunlight and shoulder-to-shoulder crowds. Hawkers and buskers advertise their wares in raucous competition, men haggle in terse voices, and customers browse lackadaisically, brushing their fingers against wooden totems and jars of honey and dipped candles as they pass. Enver can't make out a clear path, but the press of the crowd urges him forward, so he acquiesces, trudging at a bewildered crawl, staring open-mouthed at the displays. Dragonborn fortune-tellers with iridescent scales and gold jewelry dangling from their horns and nostrils waggle their hands over crystal orbs and wink. A puff of brown spice bursts from a pie stand and sits in the air like a cloud, smelling of cloves and nutmeg as Enver ducks beneath. Shimmery glass bubbles, white lights suspended inside, bounce from awning to awning, just overhead a cooing toddler held up on her father's shoulders.
Enver feels his eyes cross at the overstimulation. He knew it'd be busy at The Wide, but he didn't anticipate this. How are there so many people here already?
He blinks hard, twice, and looks for the nearest flat surface to gather himself. He spots an opening at a long communal table between booths and dives for it. He sits across from a middle-aged dwarven man – bald, with a red braided beard, sipping from a mug. Enver instinctively runs his fingers through his hair – until he remembers that it's gone, feeling uneven patches instead. He settles for rubbing his palms together and bouncing his leg, staring at his lap, scissors tucked into his rope belt. Hunger claws at his insides. Sweat drips down his forehead.
Focus , he thinks. Find the easiest mark, get what you need, and get out.
"You good?" the dwarf across from him says. Enver whips his head up to see. Too fast – the dwarf flinches. Enver is a full head taller, looking down at him over the table.
"Yeah," Enver says, more brusquely than he'd meant. Too rude. Stay out of trouble. He clears his throat and sits up straight, employing that manner of speech he uses for customers at his parents' shop. "Fine, thank you. And you?" His voice is awkward, forced - it hasn't dropped yet, so it's treading the line between falsetto and tenor. Enver hates it.
"I'm good," the dwarf says, his eyes flickering in hesitation. He raises his mug. "You want a drink or something?"
Enver pauses for a polite amount of time, as if actually considering the offer, then shakes his head. "No, thank you, sir." His voice cracks, and he coughs.
The dwarf laughs at that, not kindly. "Lay off it, kid. Yer not applying for a loan or nothing." He takes a long sip from his mug and looks away.
Enver blinks, unsure what to say in response. Maybe he's too old now to pull off the precocious kid routine. Maybe Upper City folks aren't all as polite as he'd imagined. Or maybe this man is an outlier. No matter.
The old dwarf tilts the mug back, finishes his drink, then groans in the way old men do and slams it on the table. Enver's pretty sure the conversation is over, so he stares back out at the crowd.
A series of potential marks passes by, dissolving into the crowd as quickly as they appear. These people are prepared. Their purses aren't visible on their hips or chests, not in a place like this. It's too risky for Enver to pick someone at random and hope he slips a hand in the correct pocket. Better to wait for a target to broadcast the hiding spot – a reassuring pat-pat is all he needs – and tail them. Even better if that person is easily spotted in a crowd. Tall, bright clothing, horns if they're a tiefling.
To speed up the process, Enver pats down his empty tunic pockets and furrows his brow. "Hells," he mutters. The dwarf across the table doesn't spare him a glance. Enver leans forward and waves his hand minutely to grab his attention.
"Sorry to bother," Enver says, wincing as apologetically as he can manage. "But I think I've misplaced my bag."
The dwarf quirks an eyebrow. "Oh. Damn."
"It's a little leather drawstring, big as my fist. You haven't seen it, have you? Maybe on the ground here?"
Enver listens halfheartedly as the dwarf peers under the table, tugs at his beard and responds, No, I ain't seen it , and Where'd ya last have it? Enver gives him hurried, anxious answers as he pretends to search as well, but his real focus is the crowd to his left. Enver hasn't lost anything. He doesn't even have a bag. But the mere mention of lost possessions, just loud enough over the din of the marketplace, is enough to subconsciously remind passersby to check on their belongings, just in case.
He spares a quick glance over, and – yes. An elf woman with brown skin, in a frilly pink-and-white dress that just skims the ground, an obnoxious wide-brim hat to match. She fidgets with her bodice at the hip, and her hand presses over a fold of fabric, which, if Enver is right, conceals her purse.
And Enver is almost always right.
He bolts up, then stops short. Enver offers the red-bearded dwarf a rushed bow.
"I'll retrace my steps," Enver says. The dwarf half-nods, but Enver turns away without acknowledging it. He's being suspicious, but he doesn't care. He'll be out of here soon.
Soon. Play your cards right and you'll be free.
Enver slides through the crowd unblinking, razor-focused on his prey, his instincts filling in where his sight might fail. The woman's pink hat lulls up and down as she walks, like a bobber in a river. Enver simply has to follow its wake.
The woman stops at a booth. Transfixed, she picks up a palm-sized orrery from the table and nods hello at the shopkeeper. She flicks the machine, grinning as it sets off furiously on interlocking orbits, the little planet Toril whirring circles in her hand.
Keep looking. I'm not even here. Enver elongates his stride. He hears her speak through the hubbub.
"How much?" she asks. Her voice is piercing, mousy, eyes wide like a child's. Black curls fall over her shoulders like curtains, blocking out all but a round-cheeked face.
"For you? Two hundred," the shopkeeper responds with a wink. The woman gasps politely.
Two hundred gold. That's more than he's seen in one place in his life. She must have even more in her purse alone. Enver feels his breath quicken. Five steps away now. Dust cakes his tongue, and he swallows thickly.
You'll be free.
His eyes deliberately pointed away, Enver steps on the back of the woman's dress, pulls it taut, and trips. She lurches backward and flails; the orrery goes flying. The shopkeeper bolts forward in horror, arm outstretched.
But Enver has already caught the orrery in one hand, the other holding up the woman by the small of her back. He's shorter than her by half, so it's an effort to keep her upright.
"Pardon me!" Enver gasps. "My deepest apologies, my mind was elsewhere. Are you quite alright?"
The woman straightens up and twists to see him. She looks him up and down, mouth open like a dead fish, and Enver gets a better look at her face. Her curls are stiff and shiny with product, and her black eyes possess an otherworldly, doll-like quality that unsettles him.
"Yes, fine," she says with a blink. Then, curtly, "Thank you." She dusts herself off and readjusts her hat with a wince. A bit much, considering she didn't even touch the ground.
Enver peels himself away from her, then places the undamaged orrery on the shopkeeper's table. "I believe this belongs to you," he says. Then, without giving either a chance to respond, he strides away.
His ears burn hot, and he swallows again. The woman's coinpurse, snipped away from its drawstring with the shears on his belt, lies heavy in his tunic pocket.
It weighs a ton. She'll notice it's gone. You should've gone for a smaller bag. She's going to scream for the guards, and they'll throw you in jail. Or send you back home.
The act of walking forward takes years off Enver's life. His leg knocks against the bag with each step – he's sure everyone can hear the coins jangling. He swears his knees are going to buckle beneath him, and he can barely register the crowd as he passes by – they flatten into swaths of multicolored fabric and sweating bodies. His ragged heartbeat thunders in his ears.
But no one screams. No guards rush in at his flank. He walks for a minute, then another, and only then does he give himself permission to think that he, actually, impossibly, pulled this off. At the revelation, it takes every ounce of his self-control to not bolt for the hills or punch the air cheering. His muscles ache with the effort, but he manages to imitate a normal child meandering through the market. To anyone else, he could be grocery shopping. Browsing for a bouquet of flowers for mother. Sweet boy.
Enver wonders at the novelty of such simple luxuries. How many of the people surrounding him would think nothing of dropping hundreds on a mere decoration? Is his new fortune even a remarkable amount to them? This money can – will – give him a new life. What more could these people buy that they don't already have? Suddenly nauseated, Enver takes in his surroundings to form an exit plan.
Cutting past the long tables would lead to other aisles of the market, but Enver is anxious to leave The Wide without wandering any further. So he bides his time. He walks forward patiently, waiting for the aisle to end and the city street to begin, where he'll flee to an alleyway and count out his prize. The procession is already thinning out – he must be close. Enver poises on his toes to see past the crowd, and there it is. The marketplace border, emptying out into the street.
A Watcher posted on either side of the aisle.
Enver's vision swims with a wave of heat. The Watch, unlike the mercenary Flaming Fist native to the Lower City, is a legitimate military unit, employed by the Upper City to protect their own and only their own. To them, he'd stand out like a weed in a garden. Enver sneers. Who are they to say he doesn't belong here? For all they know, he's just an unfortunate-looking Upper City kid who's had a rough day. Remembering the unseemly smear of – something – on his nose, he pulls up his collar and rubs his face with it. Maybe that'll hide him long enough to slip past.
"Nothing catch your eye today?" one Watcher asks with a friendly wave. Her tiefling horns curl out from under her helmet, which muffles her voice. Enver ducks his face deeper into his tunic and ignores her.
A firm hand grips his left arm. "Might want to answer her, son." A familiar, gravelly voice, low with thinly-veiled malice. Enver drops his collar and looks down at the remarkably strong dwarf holding him in place. Middle-aged, bald, red braided beard. Hells.
"Oh! Hello there, Bailiff," the guard says. She nods to the dwarf, who returns a curt nod of his own.
Enver's ears start ringing, the world muffled. Of all the people in this godforsaken place, Enver just had to take a seat next to the Bailiff . Eyes and ears of The Wide, coordinator of all the vendors and stalls here. Of course he'd notice anything out of place. Especially something as obvious as a jumpy, dirt-caked fish out of water like Enver. Especially one with shears on his belt . Why didn't he put them in his pocket?
"Well?" The Bailiff urges him with a shake, and Enver remembers he's supposed to answer the guard.
Enver chokes down the bile rising in his throat. "Nothing was in my price range," he offers with a shrug and a grin.
"Is that why you pickpocketed good Lady Olaise?" the Bailiff sneers. "If you wanted to retrace your steps, lad, you shoulda gone back the way you came." Enver frowns. Stupid, reckless.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Enver says.
"Bullshit. I saw it myself, kid. Lady confirmed it. Not very subtle, are ya?"
"Caught a thief?" the guard asks. "Don't make this hard, child," she adds, a gentleness to her voice. It is more infuriating than if she'd struck him. "Come with us quietly."
As she says it, Enver notices the people around him moving more slowly. They're staring at him. Gossipers holding gloved hands to their mouths and giggling. Portly men sneering over frilled collars. The second Watcher waves them on, but it doesn't discourage the crowd from staring at Enver like he's some exhibit, another ware on display.
Enver trembles through waves of choking, dizzying anger. There is no way out of this. The two heavily-armored guards and the Bailiff would overpower him in a second if he tried to run now. The Bailiff circles Enver, yanks his arms behind his back and holds them by the wrist. Tears prick at his eyes, his throat closes, and as the Bailiff and Watcher seal his fate, all Enver can do is look down at his leather boots.
They're coated in dust. His mother will force him to lick them clean.
The tiefling guard kneels and reaches for Enver. He doesn't resist; his strength wanes simply keeping himself upright. She unties the shears from his belt and lays them on the ground. He sees her irises glowing orange through the slit of her helm, never looking him in the eye. She pats down his pockets and instantly produces Lady Olaise's purse. The Bailiff grabs the purse, shakes it, and stares at Enver.
He could beg. He could tell them they don't understand what they're doing, that his mother will kill him. He could cry that he's starving and cold and just needs to catch a wagon to Elturel – hell, he'll go on foot. He'll return the money; he'll wash dishes for a year; he'll remake their soles and polish every Watcher's boots until they're sparkling.
But they won't hear him. There's a reason there are no beggars on the streets. There is no recourse for the unfortunate in the Upper City.
Enver's vision swims with sparkling dots as a shard of nausea ripples through him. He buckles under what feels like the weight of an iron collar, and, suddenly limp, falls forward.
I'll let you in on a secret, Gortash. It was your eyes. Clever, scheming, shrewd. There is a spark behind them. I saw that same spark the day I met you, my boy. I see it in the eyes of all my dutiful servants. They yearn for purpose. You yearn for purpose, and I provide. I simply cannot let all that potential waste away. You are meant for so much more.
But you are recalcitrant. Understandable. This house is rife with unfamiliarity. It may not be what you imagined, to live out your days here, but I hope that you'll come to see this place as a home. It is for your own sake that you acclimate with the others. You understand.
On that note, do try to get along with Nubaldin. Your personal grievances aside, it is of utmost importance that you two keep the prison secure. I would simply hate to have to… reassign you.
He is in the state between dreaming and waking, unable to move beneath the quilt of exhaustion that envelops him from toe to chin. There is a horrific pounding in his head, a sailor's knot tying up his guts. Waves of muffled sound worsen the head-pounding and the gut-tying, and he dives deeper into the black comfort of sleep – not to rest, but to shut out the threat.
Frigid water splashes Enver's face. His eyes snap open as he gasps for air, and it is a cacophony of shrieking pain: ice-cold and head aching and sun blinding and men barking and dust choking.
"What'd you do that for?" someone cries, miles away.
"She told me to!" another responds.
Enver registers that he's lying face-up on the ground. A blessed shadow blocks out the light, and he nearly sinks under the blanket of unconsciousness again.
"Stay wit' me, now." A different woman's voice, older, her words colored with a lilting accent. A soft, plush hand cups his head, lifting it off the ground. Enver's eyes barely stay open. The woman thumbs a drop of water off his cheek. Her other hand grabs his wrist, checking his pulse.
"Ma'am, step aside." Gruff, male. The Bailiff, not far. He's standing over his body. "Yer interfering with the arrest of a crim–"
" Arrest ? In this state? Ought to send him straight to the morgue, save on paperwork. The lot of you, I swear."
"It ain't our job to nurse thieves back to health," the Bailiff says.
"What'd he steal?"
"That's Watcher business."
"It's everyone's business. You're the ones kicking a fuss in the most crowded place this side of the Chionthar. You don't look like a Watcher anyhow."
"He took my bag," a familiar, mousy voice interjects. Lady Olaise. "He bumped into me and ripped my dress and stole my bag! The Bailiff helped me get it back."
The older woman sighs. "Fine morning to wear a ballgown to The Wide, yeah?" she mutters.
Enver blinks, his vision straightens. Easier to do with the sun out of his eyes. He can't place the old woman's accent, although from the silhouette he can make out, she appears dark-skinned and human. Her timbre is deep, authoritative and confident with age, a balm against the ringing in his ears. Whatever she's doing is keeping the Watchers and the Bailiff at bay, so he's not keen to interrupt. He instead focuses on the bun on top of her head. It sways as she hovers over him.
The Bailiff takes a heavy step forward. The woman drops Enver's wrist and stands with tremendous effort.
"No need for that, you old fool," she says with a wave of her hand, and she whirls around, her skirts brushing Enver's leg. "You, young lady – that's the bag you're holding now? What's in it?"
"Money. It's my purse," Lady Olaise says, her usually pronounced voice shrinking.
"You overstep, Amafrey," the Bailiff warns. He steps around Enver's feet and approaches the old woman.
She takes a breath before facing the Bailiff. "If you know my name, then you know the forgotten children of Baldur's Gate are my responsibility," Amafrey says, voice low and steady as a knife-point to the neck. "And I'd say it's important to know what you're accusing the lad of stealing, yeah?"
"It's gold. The lady just said so herself."
"You checked?"
"Don't need to. Theft's a crime, doesn't matter what."
"So if I kick your ankle or your sack it's no difference at all? Young lady, go open your purse and we'll be done with this whole affair."
"Lady Olaise, don't do anything she says," the Bailiff interrupts, putting himself between her and Amafrey. "You ain't got no authority here, ma'am. The boy is fine, yer job is done. Leave, or I'll kick you out myself."
Enver sits up groggily, head still pounding. He sees that he and the three adults are surrounded by a small crowd of onlookers, including the tiefling Watcher, whose hand is half-raised, hesitant, tail curled between her legs. The adults and their audience are wholly caught up in the exchange – he could slip away while they're distracted. He scooches backward, but his head lances with pain and he hisses through his teeth. Hearing that, Amafrey turns to glance at him. He can finally see her more clearly: her back is hunched like a cane, and her dark face is marked through with deep wrinkles like rivers on a map. Her frizzy grey hair is swept into a loose bun on top, making it look like a tied-up burlap sack. The bun lolls to the side as she tilts her head.
"Fine," she says to the Bailiff. "I'll get out of your hair."
The Bailiff and Olaise visibly relax. Amafrey bows her head, then turns and walks with a hobble towards Enver. He pulls his knees up to his chest, preparing to stand. But Amafrey stops him with a hand on his shoulder and a gentle squeeze.
"And I'll be leaving with him," Amafrey says.
The Bailiff throws up his hands. "Oh, for the love of – no! Yer not!"
Enver looks up at the old woman and begins to ask who she is, but a hard squeeze on his shoulder stops him short. Amafrey doesn't look down at him when she speaks.
"Seeing how reluctant you are to open your purse, Lady – which I'm sure you'd want to do, to check nothing's out of place – I'm guessing its contents aren't strictly legal. Would land you in trouble with The Watch were it discovered. I cannae fathom why you'd turn a blind eye to this, dwarf. Maybe she asked you nicely. Pretty face, perhaps? Promise of gold? Not so lawful as your title would suggest, Bailiff. In any case, I say we either let this poor Watcher do her job and see what's in the bag to judge the boy's crime. Or, we forget this nonsense altogether, and me and the boy leave. I'll even pay for the damage to the lady's dress. Does that sound fair?"
Lady Olaise clutches her still-tied purse to her chest, supporting the bottom as though it were an infant. Enver frowns. If it's not gold in that bag, what else would it be? The Bailiff simmers, a deep sneer marring his face. "Yer not leaving," he says. "Both of you are going to jail. Watchers!"
The tiefling Watcher steps forward hesitantly. Behind her visor, her orange eyes flicker back and forth between Amafrey and the Bailiff. She finally looks at Enver and, taking a long breath, tenses, choosing her words carefully.
"Well, she hasn't done anything wrong, Bailiff," she says. "I think she has a point. We should take a look and make sure nothing is missing, at least."
The Bailiff snorts like a bull. "He's a thief! Stop stalling!"
But Lady Olaise's face loses its color, her eyes wide and frantic. She clutches the purse even tighter, and Enver knows Amafrey has her pegged.
"One hundred and fifty gold," Olaise interrupts. She clears her throat and steps beside the Bailiff. The clack of her heels against the cobblestone is the only noise in otherwise complete silence. "That's how much I paid for the dress." A blink, then, "Thank you."
The Bailiff glares at her, his mouth drawn in a grimace. Amafrey immediately roots around her own shoulder bag and produces a small drawstring pouch.
"Repairing it would cost less," she says, and drops the pouch into Olaise's outstretched hand. "Now. The goods are returned, and the lady's been paid for her distress. Is this matter settled?"
Lady Olaise nods rapidly. She clutches both her purse and the pouch tightly and takes a step back. The nervous Watcher starts to speak, but the Bailiff cuts her off.
"It's settled," he says. "Now leave ." The word is fierce and resonant, like the ring of a hammer on an anvil. The Bailiff throws a look of pure, rancid poison at Enver, then Amafrey. "He's yer trash to burn now."
"One man's trash, Bailiff," Amafrey says, her voice humorless.
Enver stares wide-eyed from his place on the ground. Amafrey's posture is rigid, and she stands taller than the Bailiff despite her crooked back. He scowls, but makes no move to challenge her again. All eyes are on Amafrey: some contemptuous, some awed, most disbelieving. The Watcher looks to her partner at her side, who simply shrugs and begins dispersing the crowd. The spell is broken – Lady Olaise turns to leave, and the Bailiff, radiating indignance, huffs and follows suit, throwing one last look at Enver.
Amafrey exhales, then turns to Enver and offers a hand. "Come on. Up with ye."
Enver studies her face. Her expression isn't unkind, but it's far from inviting. Rather, she looks at him as one would a sickly stray cat, sympathetic yet wary. Enver gets to his feet on his own, rejecting Amafrey's hand; she doesn't appear offended. He brushes off his pants and dismisses his head spinning from standing up too fast. He starts squeezing the remaining ice water out of his tunic collar.
"Amafrey," the tiefling Watcher says, her voice stern. Enver sees the tip of her serpentine tail flick in irritation.
"Most call me Dame Amafrey, dear."
"Dame Amafrey, then. You've put me in an unusual position. He's right, this boy is a thief. I really should bring him to the station, but it seems the victim and the Bailiff have agreed to let him off the hook. And the Bailiff's not exactly…" She trails off, then sucks her teeth. "Do I need to worry that this boy will turn around and try this again?"
Yes, you should , Enver thinks.
"Of course not," Amafrey responds. "Wasn't cheap, that lady's dress. He'll work it off at the orphanage."
Before he can stop himself, Enver lurches in front of Amafrey. "What? No. No, I need to go." Despite Amafrey's interference, nothing's changed. His parents will wake up any minute and start searching for him. If he stays with Amafrey, she'll surely ask about his parents, where he's from, and she'll deliver him right back to them. He needs to put as much distance between himself and Baldur's Gate as possible.
Amafrey raises her eyebrows. "Lad. You're standing in front of someone who could toss you in jail, but she's kindly turning the other cheek. Try again."
Sullen, Enver closes his mouth and bites his tongue. The orphanage. He didn't know there was an orphanage in Baldur's Gate. Is that what she meant by her responsibility to "forgotten children"? Does she think he's a forgotten child? An orphan?
The solution to his problem clarifies in an instant. An orphan .
"Say 'thank you,' child," the Watcher suggests, growing impatient.
Enver looks at Dame Amafrey and offers a small smile. "Thank you," he says without irony. He's just a few inches shorter than her. He's glad not to have to crane his neck anymore.
Amafrey's expression softens. "You're welcome, lad." She smiles, and her brown eyes glitter with something conspiratorial, approving. "Seems today's your lucky day, yeah? Who are you to be so lucky?" she says with a wink.
It is very rare, so rare as to be impossible, that any adult looks upon Enver with delight. He immediately breaks eye contact and stares at the ground. For the first time that day, his stomach twists with something other than hunger.
"Um. Enver," he responds, looking at his shoes. "My name's Enver."