The brigands came at me one at a time, which didn't make much sense if they wanted to kill me. The first had a mace, the second a garrote, the third a dagger, and the fourth a short sword. In each case, I eluded my attacker with relative ease, surprising myself at my own agility and expertise. Having dispatched the fourth with the hilt of his own short sword, I seized the initiative.
I threw myself at the one I assumed would be the fifth. The heel of one hand smashed his forehead while the fingertips of the other extricated two carefully concealed throwing stars from the inner folds of his tunic. I propelled myself to the side and forward so that I was now situated on the lap of my host, deadly star poised against his jugular vein.
Before I could issue an ultimatum, the tub of lard hailed, "Enough!"
The brigands withdrew to the shadows.
Holding the star still in deadly place, I observed their retreat, and also noticed the tip of a dagger an inch from my own jugular. Its hilt was held steadfast by my own kittenish guide.
Murph saw my concern. He said carefully, "No need for that, Kitten. I think I can now trust this fellow."
Kitten withdrew the dagger and relaxed. In accordance, I did the same with the star.
Murph sighed, and then belched. A grin of satisfaction crossed his lips. "Does it want to know what I know?" he asked coyly.
"What do you know?" I demanded, my stance of bravado resumed.
"It is an exceptional fighter of uncommon training. Despite a certain hardness to its features and its bearing, its breeding and body show few signs of the devastations of poverty or abuse. Fast reflexes, keen senses, good instincts. If I was a bit more confident, I would say it was either a royal assassin or a master thief. Oddly, though, it avoids lethality in its moves. It doesn't kill unless it has to."
"So?" I demanded.
Murph looked to Kitten, smiled, and replied, "So, Murph might have use for it. Kitten can show you to a room I have on retainer. I'll deduct the rent from your first job."
Kitten left his side, opened a previously indiscernible door, and gestured for me to follow. As I passed the tub of lard, who had obviously been entertained by the combat, he volunteered one more observation.
"That mark on its hand. It's a brand, all right, but not of the slave variety. It wasn't burned in. It's of magical origin. Perhaps a marking of some secret society. I wouldn't worry about it if I was it."
The door closed behind me, and I followed Kitten up stairs.
"Quite the job interview," I mused aloud.
"He only brokers the best," she replied noncommit-tally, and showed me to a room where a meal had been laid out. With nary a kiss or a good-bye, she left me to regain the strength I had not even realized I had taxed.
After a few mouthfuls, I retreated to the bed and was soon fast asleep.
For the first time in my short memory, I dreamt.
I was in a subterranean chamber. My hands were manacled and my eyes downcast. The weight of some unpardonable crime pressed down upon my very being. I tried to raise my head to look around, but succeeded only in seeing numerous robed figures surrounding me. They were talking to each other, but I could not hear any of their words.
The sharp rap of knuckles on a door brought a curtain of darkness to the dream, and myself back to consciousness.
Sitting up, my legs already over the bedside, I answered, "Come in."
I looked up at my visitor and was quietly disappointed. It was not Kitten, but a young lad not quite in his teens.
"Kitten said I should bring this to you," the lad instructed. "She said I should wake you up so you could start earning your keep."
I nodded absently, not quite awake, took the note from the lad's hand, broke the seal, and read the missive.
It,
A client of mine desires a certain manuscript that is currently sitting on a desk at the offices of Tyme Waterdeep, Ltd. It is in a traveling folder in the top office overlooking the street, and the publisher returns this evening. Fetch it discreetly. An emissary of mine will take it off your hands later.
You will be ivell compensated should you succeed.
Murph
P.S. The traveling folder should have the monogram VG on it. Let me reiterate, discretion is desired.
I looked up, and the lad was still standing there.
"Kitten said I should lend you any assistance I could, provided I don't have to break the law or anything," he offered.
"Of course," I replied, then thought, I guess that's my job.
Dawn was still an hour or two away, and with no time like the present, I set off for the offices of Tyme Water-deep, Ltd. The lad showed me the way, and scurried home once I was firmly ensconced in the shadows of Faerun's most powerful publishing firm.
Not wishing to overlook the easiest and most obvious course of action, I tried the door. It was bolted from within. I would have to find another way.
My eyes were accustomed to the predawn light, and I scanned both sides of the street for another entry.
The buildings here were high and overhanging, as if to create a sheltered promenade on each side of the street. The top offices had huge, multipaned windows with sumptuous views, letting executives look down on their inferiors both metaphorically and physically. Every other building shared an external wall.
Walking up and down the street a few times, I noticed an occasional alley between buildings, some narrowed by sagging structures. One such alley was barely a body width.
Perhaps a point of access could be afforded from above. I scurried upward, left hand on one building and right hand on the other. It was hand and foot to brick and crack, upward, until I had reached the roof.
None the worse for wear, I crept forward until I was situated over the publisher's offices. My efforts were rewarded with a skylight.
Though it was obviously latched from within, I was quickly able to remove the pins from its hinges and shift it forward on the latch.
Silently I lowered myself inside, and came to rest on the publisher's desk itself. My steps were cushioned by various mounds of paper, one of which was crowned by a traveling folder bearing the monogram VG.
Securing the object of my quest beneath my belt and behind my cloak, I regained the roof. I quickly closed the skylight and replaced its errant pins. Creeping to the eaves, I descended a drainpipe that led to an alley at the end of the street.
Confident I was still unobserved, I returned to the furnished room from which I had begun my quest, scant hours ago, and waited to be contacted.
I nodded to sleep, my back still cushioned by the traveling folder.
Once again I dreamt. I found myself at the mercy of the cloaked men. The room was heavy with magic, and I could feel all eyes bearing down on me. I was undeniably guilty and remained passive, willing to accept my fate.
The circle closed in on me as the dream came to an end.
A few hours later, I awoke of my own accord (a pleasant surprise) and removed the parcel from its hiding place on my person. Undoing the drawstring, I looked inside and read the cover sheet, which bore the seemingly innocuous tile, Volo's Guide to the Moonsea, the Land of Political Intrigue and Conspiracy.
I recalled the name Volo-a best-selling hack writer. Perhaps Murph's client was a rival publisher. Still, it seemed a silly thing to risk life and limb over.
I was about to read the first page when I sensed I wasn't alone. I looked up.
Kitten had arrived as silently as her namesake.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," she instructed. "You're being paid to get it, not read it."
I placed the manuscript in its folder, rebound it, and handed it over.
"Good," Kitten said, placing it firmly in the crook of her arm. "Follow me."