What had happened? A warning voice amplified the alarm he had sensed before.
Keane heard voices then, coming up the hill behind him. It occurred to him that if a foul deed had occurred, it might not be good for him to be discovered here. A swiftly murmured incantation rendered him invisible, and he stepped close to the trunk of a tree where he could remain out of the way.
'Patriarch? Patriarch Dalsoritan?' called a reedy voice, emerging tremulously from the shadows below the knoll. Several young men dressed in plain robes came into sight, tentatively approaching the scene. These must be the shrine's apprentices, Keane deduced.
'What happened?' asked one of the young fellows trailing to the rear of the group.
'The patriarch came up here for his evening meditation, just like always,' said the first and apparently boldest of the apprentices, pressing onto the hilltop as his companions hesitated. 'Patriarch?' he called again, more loudly this time.
'He's gone!' said another in an awestruck whisper.
'But that commotion! Something was wrong up here!' suggested an apprentice.
'Very much,' said the first one, walking carefully around the hilltop. He came very near to Keane, but the invisible wizard remained completely silent, and the fellow, continuing his inspection, moved past
'Our master has met with some kind of disaster,' the acolyte finally concluded, his voice nearly breaking in despair. 'There's no sign of him anywhere!'
'Perhaps we should go back to the shrine,' suggested one, to the murmured assent of his fellows. 'We can pray for enlightenment, and perhaps the patriarch will return in his own good time.'
'No!' insisted the leader. 'Spread out and comb the ground. See if you can find something, anything, to tell us what happened here!'
Keane remained silent and observant as the acolytes searched. Finally, fearful and unsuccessful, they started back down the hill, declaring their intention to return when the sun had risen and they could fully inspect the grounds. Keane, in the meantime, had formed his own conclusion: To wit, Bakar Dalsoritan had been murdered.
Turning away in anger, the mage tried to collect his thoughts. What was the reason for the killing? Of course, rival factions exist in any hierarchy, and churches were no exception. Such brutality was an excessive tactic, yet it had happened before and would doubtless happen again: A wary official desires the offices and power of a rival and destroys him to open the path. Or perhaps, he considered, an entrenched ruler might have feared the devout followers and steady advance of a younger rival. Bakar could have fit into either of these categories so far as Keane knew.
But was either role enough to cause him to be killed?
Too agitated to be aware of his fatigue, Keane made his way down to the highway and started walking toward Baldur's Gate. Like any other spell, his teleportation enchantment had been used up when he traveled to the shrine. He wouldn't be able to employ it again until he had studied his spellbook. Still, he uttered no complaints about the mundane travel. If anything, it gave him time to think about the confusing questions whirling through his mind.
He slept in a ditch for a few hours, and then in the morning was fortunate enough to catch a ride from a carter hauling a load of fabric to the markets in Baldur's Gate.
Keane tipped the driver well, for his silence as much as the ride. The mage climbed into the back and rested on the rolls of silk and cotton while he pondered the mystery-who had killed the cleric, and why?
Indeed, the murder of a powerful patriarch was no easy task to accomplish. Whoever would attempt such a thing must have considerable resources at his own disposal, be willing to take great risks in the accomplishment of his evil deed.
Keane's speculations didn't answer why the murder had been committed, but they helped him to accept its truth and its implications to his own mission. By the time the carter reached Baldur's Gate, it was nearing sunset. Thanking the man for the ride, he returned to the Eagle's Nest Inn, finally having decided on a course of action.
For once, the mage didn't feel like hiding out in his room. Instead, he entered the common room and sat down at the bar. Confusion and questions gnawed at him, but he found it pointless-and deeply frustrating-to worry about issues he couldn't address with any accuracy. Instead, he focused on practicality. Namely, what should he do now? The notion of returning to his king with a report of complete failure had absolutely no appeal. Instead, he'd have to think of something else.
The innkeeper, Miles, waddled up to him on the raised platform behind the bar. Miles had installed the walkway so that the bar remained waist-high to humans on the one side, and at a proportional height to the halflings on the other. Most of his barmaids and cooks, Keane knew, came from the ranks of the Small Folk.
'You look like a farmer who just planted his beans in the wrong field,' observed Miles wryly. 'What'll it be?'
'Make it an ale,' Keane said, feeling the truth of the halfling's words. Yet even in his disappointment, his mind had begun to move forward. His original mission remained: to find a cleric who could heal his king. If he couldn't gain the services of his original target, he would have to go about finding somebody else.
'On the house,' replied Miles. 'Sophtie tells me you're all right, though we wouldn't know that down here, as much as you've kept to yourself.'
Sophtie, Keane knew, was the young barmaid who had kept him supplied with tea. He was suddenly glad that he had tipped her well for each trip up and down the flights of stairs.
'Your rooms are just too comfortable,' Keane gibed, gratefully accepting a tall, foaming mug. 'But tonight perhaps I can share the pleasure of your company.'
Miles looked around. The rest of the bar was quiet, the few customers readily handled by two diminutive barmaids. 'I'm yours until the dinner rush,' noted the halfling, drawing himself a small glass and settling across the bar from Keane.
'Tell me,' asked the mage, 'what are the major temples in Baldur's Gate?'
Miles sipped at his ale, wiping the foam from his lip while he thought. 'Well, there's two big shrines-temples, really-to Oghma and Helm. Right in the center of the Upper City, they are, across the square from each other. Lots of little shrines, too. Seems that just about every god this side of the Trackless Sea has a few followers in Baldur's Gate.'
'Oghma and Helm, eh?' Keane knew of both gods-the former, patron of bards, lover of music and knowledge; the latter, hailed as an alert guardian and stern arbiter of justice.
Both of them valued the forces of virtue over evil, and thus a cleric of either faith might fulfill the minimum requirements of Keane's mission.
'Does either have a patriarch-a high priest or priestess?' he inquired.
Here Miles shook his head sympathetically. 'None so mighty as Bakar Dalsoritan. Weren't you trying to get in touch with him?'
A tingle of alarm alerted Keane. 'How did you know that?' he inquired, trying to keep his voice level.
If Miles thought anything was out of the ordinary, he didn't display it in his manner. 'Everyone did,' he said with a shrug. 'Three nights ago, after you hired that fellow Gapsar to ride out to the shrine, he came in here to spend some of his advance payment. Didn't leave until the morning, you know. From what I understand, he visited half the taverns in the Lower City. Made no secret about your generosity, either. I'd think you'd be flattered.'
'No … not really.' Keane strained to keep his voice neutral as he silently cursed his own stupidity. He'd been obligated to pay the man an advance, but he could have offered it in the morning, before his departure! Instead, he had given it to him as they closed the deal, just after sunset. Apparently Gapsar had wasted no time in spreading the word of his good fortune.
'You tell me there's no high priest at either temple. Do you know of any of the smaller shrines that might have a cleric of note in attendance?'
Miles screwed up his plump face in thought, sipping long and deep from his glass in an apparent attempt to jog his memory. 'Nope-but there's one thing, though.'
'What?' asked Keane, trying not to snap in his desperation.
'I seem to recall there was an Exalted Inquisitor of Helm touring the temples on the Sword Coast, what with the new trade routes opening up-to Maztica and the like. Some of the clerks were arrested-failure to pay import duties to the church or something. I guess they needed a high-ranking churchman to conduct the trial.'
