Baldur's Gate by Philip Athans Read Free Book Online Page B

at the inn fer an ale er seven.”
    “I can’t take that money.”
    “It’s been feedin’ ye since the Friendly Arms,” Montaron reminded him, not expecting Abdel to feel guilty. “Take it an’ see what ye can find—fer the common good.”
    The halfling nodded at a particular merchant’s cart, laughed, and disappeared into the crowd once more. Abdel studied the cart and its proprietor. The man was dressed like a Calishite, but his features were decidedly northern. He’d be from Waterdeep, maybe Luskan, Abdel guessed, and was selling a collection of glass and silver vials—perfumes maybe.
    The merchant noticed Abdel looking at him and spread a huge, gap-toothed grin across his face in a practiced greeting.
    “Potions,” the man called, his accent proving Abdel right about his northern heritage, “elixirs, drafts, and ointments for every ill and every eventuality.”
    Abdel approached, the little purse still in his hand jingling with the weight of coin.
    “Ah, my good sir,” the merchant said, “I see you have a need.”
    Abdel was legitimately confused by this and said, “Indeed? And what need have I?”
    The merchant laughed, “You fight,” he said, then looked Abdel up and down appreciatively, “and fight well, to be sure. You will guard yourself well but still fall victim to the lucky stab or slash here and there, I’m sure. One sip of this” —he lifted a plain silver vial from the collection spread across his cart— “and you’ll be feeling no pain.”
    “Four coppers an ale will do the same.”
    “Ah,” the merchant said, his smile not faltering for a moment, “ah yes indeed, sir, but in the morning the cut is still there—treated only with ale that is—but this beauty will make it all go away. The secret is lost to the ages, but it can be yours, for a price.”
    “The secret or the draft?”
    “Ah, the draft, of course, sir,” the merchant said, then glanced at the little pouch in Abdel’s big hand, “unless you’ve a bigger purse elsewhere.”
    Abdel laughed and came closer still. He asked about some of the other vials and heard tales no sane man would believe. There was something about this act of haggling with some over-cheerful merchant that settled Abdel. He’d been as taut of nerve the last tenday and a half as he’d ever been in his life. Everything had changed abruptly but still seemed to be moving so slowly.
    “Acid?” Abdel asked, not understanding the word.
    “Aye, good sellsword, aye,” the merchant said. “This is a dangerous concoction indeed—like liquid fire it burns—a creation of the mad geniuses of Netheril, for sale today for what an honest man such as yourself can afford.”
    Exactly what an honest man could afford ended up being a matter of some debate, and it was nearly an hour before Abdel walked back into the crowd with the small leather pouch now containing a small silver vial, a slightly larger glass one, and four coppers.

Chapter Six
    “Oh, please, girl,” Montaron whined, “I ain’t gonna poison ye, fer Urogalan’s sake.”
    Jaheira only grunted in response, but Khalid reached for the wineskin the halfling was offering. He held it gingerly to his nose as if it might explode.
    The Amnian sniffed, then shrugged and said, “Smells like ale.”
    “An’ ale it is, my friend,” Montaron said. “Go ahead … fer luck’s sake.”
    Khalid smiled and looked at both Xzar and Abdel. The mage and the sellsword had each downed sizeable quaffs of Montaron’s special ale, and both were still standing, none the worse for wear.
    “Khalid—” Jaheira started to say but stopped when Khalid lifted the skin to his lips and drank. He held the liquid in his mouth for a second or two before swallowing, then closed his eyes as it slid down.
    When he opened them again, he said, “Go ahead, Jaheira, make the halfling happy. Maybe there is something to rituals like these.”
    “We’re goin’ into Oghma only knows what ‘ere, girl,” Montaron added, “an’ a