Both Entreri and Jarlaxle regarded the dwarf.
"They're telling them women that turning over their coins'll help dead kids?"
"Some," said Entreri.
"Orcs," muttered the dwarf. "Worse than orcs." He spat again and stormed off.
Entreri and Jarlaxle exchanged a confused glance, and Jarlaxle set off after the dwarf. Entreri watched them go, but didn't follow.
He remained at the square for quite a while, and every so often found his eyes drawn to a street entrance across the way, an avenue that wound down toward the docks.
A place he knew well.
"The Fugue Plane is a place of torment," Devout Gositek assured the nervous little man who stood before his desk. The man's hands worked feverishly about a tiny coin purse, rolling the dirty bag incessantly.
"I've not much," he said through his two remaining teeth, crooked and yellow.
"The charity given by the poor is more greatly appreciated, of course," Gositek recited, and the devout brothers standing guard behind him both smirked. One even winked at the other, for Gositek had done nothing but complain to them all morning, as soon as the listing had been pegged in the foyer, naming Gositek as one of the indulgence agents every day for the next tenday. He would spend his mornings, collecting coin, and his afternoons offering prayers for the paupers at the smelly graveyard. It was not an envied duty at the Protector's House.
"It is not the amount of coin," Gositek lied, "but rather the amount of sacrifice that is important for Selûne. So the poor are blessed, don't you see? Your opportunities for freeing your loved ones from the Fugue, and shortening your own visit, are far greater than those of the rich man."
The dirty old peasant rolled his tiny purse yet again. He licked his lips repeatedly as he fumbled about and extracted a single coin. Then, with a nearly toothless grin that spoke of lechery and deceit, he handed the coin to Devout Gositek's assistant, who sat beside him to watch over the heavy metal box, a slot in the top to accept the donations.
The peasant seemed quite pleased with himself, of course, but Gositek's glare was uncompromising. "You hold a purse," the devout said. "It bulges with coin, and you offer a single piece?"
"My only silver," the old peasant wheezed. "The rest're but copper, and just a score."
Gositek just stared at him.
"But my belly's growling bad," the man whined.
"For food or for drink?"
The peasant stammered and sputtered, but couldn't quite seem to find the words to deny the charge—and indeed, the stench that wafted from him would have made any such denial seem rather foolish.
Gositek sat back in his wooden chair and folded his arms in front of him. "I am disappointed," he said.
"But my belly…"
"I am not disappointed in your lack of charity, good brother," Gositek interrupted. "But in your continuing lack of common sense."
The peasant stared at him blankly.
"Twice the chance!" Gositek derided him. "Twice the opportunity to impress your devotion upon sacred Selûne! You can sacrifice greatly, for a pittance, and at the same time better your earthly standing by controlling your impure thoughts. Forsake your coin to Selûne, and forego your drink for yourself. Do you not understand?"
The man stuttered and shook his head.
"Each coin buys you double the indulgence and more," said Gositek, extending his hand.
The peasant slapped the purse into it.
Gositek smiled at the man, but it was a cold grin indeed, the smug grin of the cat dominating the mouse before feasting. Slowly and deliberately, Gositek pulled open the purse and dumped the meager contents into his free hand. His eyes flashed as he noted a silver piece among the two dozen coppers, and he looked up from it to the lying peasant, who squirmed and withered under that gaze.
"Record the name," Gositek instructed his assistant.
"Bullium," the peasant said, and he bobbed his head in a pathetic attempt to bow, and started away. He paused, though, and licked his lips again, staring at the pile of coins in Gositek's hand.
Devout Gositek pulled a few coppers from the pile, staring at the man all the while. He handed the rest to his assistant for the collection box, and started to put the others in the purse. He paused again, however, still staring at the man, and gave half of that pile to his assistant as well. Three coppers went into the purse, which Gositek handed back to the man.
But when the peasant grabbed it, Gositek didn't immediately let go.
"These are a loan, Bullium," he said, his tone grave and even. "Your indulgences are bought—a full year removed from your time on the Fugue Plane. But they are bought for the full contents of your purse, due to your reluctance and your lie about the second piece of silver. You have back three. I expect five returned to Selûne to complete the purchase of the indulgence."
Still stupidly bobbing his head, the peasant grabbed the purse and shuffled away.
Beside the wooden chair, Gositek's assistant chuckled.
"You believe that Knellict and his band haven't done worse?" Jarlaxle asked when he at last caught up to the dwarf. They were almost back at their bug-filled shack by then.
"Knellict's a fool, and an ugly one, too," Athrogate grumbled. "Not much I'm liking there."
"But you served him, and the Citadel of Assassins."
"Better that than fight the dogs."
"So it is all pragmatism with you."
"If I knew what the word meant, I'd agree or not," said the dwarf. "What's that, a religion?"
"Practicality," Jarlaxle explained. "You do what serves your needs as you see fit."
"Don't everyone?"
Jarlaxle laughed at that. "To a degree, I expect. But few use that as the guiding principle of their lives."
"Maybe that's all I got left."
"Again you speak in riddles," said the drow, and when Athrogate scowled at him, Jarlaxle held up his hands defensively. "I know, I know. You do not wish to speak of it."
Athrogate snorted. "Ye ever hear o' Felbarr, elf?"
"Was he a dwarf?"
"Not a he, but a place. Citadel Felbarr."
Jarlaxle considered the name for a bit, then nodded. "Dwarven stronghold… east of Mithral Hall."
"South o' Adbar," Athrogate confirmed with a nod of his own. "Was me home and me place, and ne'er did me thoughts expect I'd ever be living anywhere but."
"But…?"
"An orc clan," Athrogate explained. "They come in hard and fast—I'm not even knowin' how many years ago it's been. Not enough and too many, if ye get me meaning."
"So the orcs sacked your home and now you cannot but wander?" asked Jarlaxle. "Surely your clan is about. Scattered perhaps, but…"
"Nah, me kin're back in Felbarr. Drove them orcs out, and none too long ago."
Athrogate's face grew tight as he said that, Jarlaxle noted, and he decided to pause there and let Athrogate digest it all. He had started the dwarf down a painful road, he knew, but he did not want to press Athrogate too much.
To his surprise, and his delight, the dwarf went on without prodding, running his mouth as if he were a river and the drow had just crashed through the beaver dam.
"Ye got young ones?" Athrogate asked.
"Children?" Jarlaxle chuckled. "None that I am aware of."
"Bah, but ye're missing, then," said the dwarf.
To Jarlaxle's surprise, there was moistness about Athrogate's eyes— something he never thought he'd see.
"You had children," Jarlaxle surmised, gauging Athrogate's reaction to his every word before speaking the next. "They were slain when the orcs invaded."
"Good sprites, one and all," Athrogate said, and he looked away, past Jarlaxle, as if his eyes were staring into a distant place and distant time. "And me Gerthalie—what dwarf could ever be thinking he'd be so blessed by Sharindlar to find himself a woman o' such charms?"