From the journal of Vanivieve ir’Coralyn d’Sivis, with a small word of warning: today’s entry concerns wealth, police corruption, and a somewhat gruesome murder.
This whole affair began with us – that is to say, the version of us from our two years of lost time – performing some great service for the city of Sharn. I’m told it involved an orphanage.
It seems our lost-time-doppelgangers were something of a force to be reckoned with; alas, not a solitary one of us could hope to measure up to their prowess. Nor the channeling of that prowess toward the public good.
Nevertheless, when the stream of their accomplishments broke its banks, it would be dishonest if I said my companions and I were willing to swim against the current. And so, we found ourselves attending a gathering of highest society, the crème de la crème of Sharn’s Skyway.
Star Caller, a Fae Dragonborn of unbridled social sway and factor-500 sunny disposition, had thrown together the event as both a celebration, and a fundraiser; both of which were thanks to our efforts. I can perhaps imagine there might have been some collateral damage.
I am not equipped to write on the fashions present at the event. No doubt with Aster’s help, I could have a detailed account of the looks on display, with – I’m sure – several points deducted from myself for choosing an outfit more or less copied from last year’s Skyway Gala. But I don’t intend to trouble her with such trivialities. Everyone else is decompressing, in their own ways. This journal is mine.
Upon our arrival, Star Caller greeted us with a warmth we hadn’t earned. Her dress left her shoulders bare; blue-purple skin setting her apart from the other guests. The external gills coming from her head trailed as though she moved through water, glowing with a soft, pink bioluminescence.
‘I’m so glad you could all make it,’ she beamed. ‘There’s been a few people that couldn’t attend, what with us having to relocate and reschedule!’
These amendments to the occasion came at the behest of Efir Van Quisse, a Police Captain moonlighting as a Security Guard for the night. It appeared that our Great Detective, Robyn, has had dealings with him in the past, so she went to make a few inquiries as to why such amendments were necessary. Mock elected to accompany her, I assume to loom in the background and crack her knuckles at dramatic moments. Or fluff up her tail; whatever it is Tabaxi do to appear threatening.
We made sure to keep our Sending Stones on their loudest settings, so we could communicate despite the crowds and music.
Security was fairly tight. While Robyn and Mock were acquainting themselves with the guards, we were doing the same at the coatroom. The party had a strict no-weapons policy, which included magical devices, staves, and even jewellery if it was too pointy. There was a Goblin complaining about having to check in a knife she’d brought. ‘I know, but this is not a weapon, it’s an heirloom,’ I heard her saying to the poor clerk. ‘I’m close friends with Star Caller herself, you know!’
We later learned, when Robyn reported back, that Van Quisse was operating under the idea that there was an incident about to happen. That DAASK, that anti-social gang of monsterfolk, was planning to make an appearance. And that Star Caller herself was wrapped up in some kind of scheme with them.
This made no sense at all; Star Caller just obviously wasn’t the gang type. That said… very little made sense to me at the time. I’d been attempting to calm the nerves a little, and in doing so found that the barman mixed a superb tequini.
The fire of the tequila – plus the heat of the chilli twist that was the garnish – certainly melted away the chill of my anxiety, and the cold sweat on my palms was soon replaced by a sort of garlic residue from the shrimp hors d’oeuvres I was shoveling down my gullet.
I may have embarrassed myself somewhat.
(A note on the hors d’oeuvres – there were at least eight different types of shrimp, ranging from simple tartlets with guacamole, to a blue-cheese stuffed offering that I couldn’t have said no to even if, say, a corpse were on the floor before me)
My companions had found some rumours going around the place. Many were relating to the apparent DAASK attack, though others mentioned some kind of incendiary device. This did set off alarm bells for each of us; I think not unreasonably, considering our recent altercation in a burning library. Of course, sometimes rumours are just that. Rumours.
It wasn’t just a party with rich people milling around a ballroom. For the fundraising angle, Star Caller had arranged a variety of games and events – a bake-off, broomstick races, dancing duels; and fireworks at 8pm. We participated in some of the events ourselves; Jacqueline in particular wanted to try a dancing duel. This will be relevant later on.
We heard more as the party went on. It wasn’t just to be an attack, but an assassination. And Star Caller wasn’t a member of it, she was the target! This we heard from an older woman with an incredible veneer of ruffles, who in turn had heard it from an uncomfortable-looking guard going through his orders with Van Quisse.
And this led to my trying, and failing, to persuade Star Caller to leave and get somewhere safe. We found her judging the entries of a cake-decorating contest, and she would not be convinced of the danger.
So, I chose to attempt something… less than ethical. Since my breakdown embracing of honesty as a guiding force, I’ve found my faith in Truth… rewarded. I can do things some conjurers would envy, and these abilities are only becoming stronger. But they’re new to me, and as with any new tool, I still look for excuses to put them to work.
I run the risk of being misconstrued here. I am not trying to defend my actions. I reasoned at the time that it was for her own protection; that I knew better the threat to her safety. Arrogance. I was correct about the danger, but that is irrelevant.
I Suggested that she get away from the party and find somewhere safe. I did this because I was unable to convince her without resorting to magic. Strange, is it not, how I go into a moral (and emetic) crisis if I speak anything but the truth, but I may attempt to subsume another’s will without so much as a hiccup?
At any rate, it didn’t work. I would love to excuse myself from guilt because the spell failed; after all, Attempted Murder carries a much milder punishment. But why? Should one who tries to kill another be excused because they are incompetent? I think not.
I don’t know if she even noticed the enchantment I’d woven into my words; if she did, she chose to spare me the shame of having to explain myself. That woman is better than any of us.
The fireworks display was when things went wrong.
I was mulling over ethics when we heard the scream, just as the last fireworks were fading in the sky. We sprinted back to the main hall, followed by what seemed to be the entire guest list, and luckily we arrived seconds before anyone else.
I should mention the incident with the dancing duels. As I mentioned, this was part of fundraising efforts similar to the cake decorating. When a duel began, a whole side-room full of participants – under some enchantment or other – would dance and dance away until they couldn’t any more. And whoever was the last one dancing was the winner.
Yes, it sounds like a punishment from the end of a fairytale, but the fatigue wasn’t anything that couldn’t be remedied with a short rest and a small cup of orange juice.
Several members of our group took part, and who should win but our resident Bard, Jacqueline. She may have the temperament of a baby duckling, but she can move with the grace of a swan. Of course she won.
Which led to her being whisked away to the Winner’s Room, where those victorious in each round of the dancing duels would wait, rest up, and convalesce with their citrus beverages until the final showdown.
Only it seems that Jacqueline never made it inside. We didn’t see her until the murder.
Star Caller was dead, her blood seeping between the boards of the main stage. An assistant of hers had been the one to scream, alerting the gathered guests to the body.
And to the person standing over it with a bloody knife. Jacqueline Rantique.
If you’ve read my previous entries in this book, you can see why this would be cause for additional alarm. Jacqueline’s ami jovial had struck again.
But that didn’t quite add up.
‘Drop the knife,’ I heard Aster snarl. Jacqueline did so without hesitation.
Straight away I’d dropped my bag and found myself sprinting for the assistant, who stood with her mouth open in horror. Damage control, I thought. Someone else in our group had a similar idea – a cloud of fog filled the room, and I barely made it to the assistant before I’d lost sight of her.
‘Okay,’ I told her. ‘You need to tell the guards what you’ve seen. But-‘ and here I found myself feeling my way around the truth, like prodding at a sore tooth with my tongue – ‘It’s vitally important that you don’t mention the woman you saw until we return to you. We know her. She’s part of the investigation.’
See? That wasn’t even a lie by omission.
Luckily, the assistant seemed to be in shock, and was mostly just pleased to have a clear voice to direct her. When the fog cleared, and the guards arrived, Jacqueline had been bundled into a room behind the stage.
She didn’t remember anything, because nothing that simple could have happened. She’d been sent to the winners’ room, then the next thing she remembered she heard a thump and saw a corpse at her feet. The knife was already in her hand when she came to.
Now, it would appear that our ami jovial would be the prime suspect, would it not? But as I said before, that didn’t add up, and for one simple reason.
We knew the results of that thing’s work. There was too much of Star Caller left for it to have been him.
So whodunnit?
Being heroic guests of honour at this party, there were certain privileges when it came to events such as murder. Plus, we had a well-renowned detective in our midst.
Le jeu était en pied.
That, uh, doesn’t translate especially well to Common.
The first thing Robyn wanted to do was to inspect the body. Van Quisse and his lackeys were crawling all over the stage, with the former sneering at anyone who seemed unsettled. ‘Get a grip, man!’ he barked at one particularly shaken officer. ‘It’s only a body. You’d think it was your first murder.’
In retrospect, I’m interpreting that comment differently.
Van Quisse’s brusque demeanour paired well with his stature. He was imposing, in a powder keg sort of way; a barrel filled with the potential for sudden, explosive violence.
His eyes narrowed when Robyn approached, though his glare did little to bore through her noble background and quiet competence. He simply stewed as she inspected the wounds, matching them to the knife, before she stated that the angle of entry meant the assailant must have been someone taller than Star Caller.
Van Quisse guffawed at this. ‘Is that so?’ he said. ‘Well, I happen to have already found the culprit, and unless she has a pair of stilts…’
He revealed a goblin, looking very uncomfortable in the fine surroundings – though that may have been more to do with the handcuffs digging into her wrists.
We’d seen her earlier at the cloakroom, complaining that it was an heirloom, not a weapon. The knife did indeed have a ceremonial quality to it. It was gold or at least gold plated, with so many sharply-cut jewels embedded in the handle that it might have hurt the wielder more than any potential victim. The blade was also about as sharp as a cheese knife. It was a sloppy tool for murder.
Plus, some goblin masquerading as a guest was altogether too obvious. Especially with the ‘DAASK attack’ rumours, that, now we thought about it, we had first heard from Van Quisse himself.
This time I felt less ethically dubious when using magic, considering Van Quisse was potentially covering up a murder through his assumptions. So I cast Zone of Truth, and I asked if he had concrete proof that the goblin – Lady Sucrocene – was responsible for the murder. He didn’t, of course.
Robyn saw a prime opportunity. Under the compulsion of the Zone of Truth, Van Quisse struggled to deflect the weight of her inquisition.
‘Why are you so quick to blame this Goblin?’
‘I don’t like goblins,’ spat Van Quisse. ‘So it’s an excuse to clear out one with ideas above its station.’ He could feel the spell affecting him, and struggled against its bounds.
‘So you admit she didn’t do it.’
‘Fine.’
Robyn pressed on. ‘Do have a lead on the actual culprit?’
‘You can’t force me to cooperate.’
‘Why? What are you hiding? Are you the one responsible for the murder of Star Caller?’ she asked.
‘How dare you accuse me!’
‘Answer the question, Van Quisse. Did you kill Star Caller?‘
‘No,’ Van Quisse said, with a grim smile. ‘I did not.’
Now, did you see what happened there?
I’m quite an expert at the difference between honest truth and technical truth, and it nearly slipped past even me. Van Quisse wasn’t lying, no… but Robyn hadn’t quite asked the same question the second time around.
But now he was stonewalling us. The fact that he knew he could only speak the truth just made him refuse to speak at all. Robyn would ask another question, and he would simply say ‘I already told you I didn’t kill her.’
So we made our way to questioning others. We learned from the clerk we’d seen with Sucrocene earlier that the cloakroom safe with all the confiscated weaponry in wasn’t actually locked; it was more for show than anything. So really, anyone could have waltzed in and took the knife.
We learned that when the judge of the dancing duels took Jacqueline back to the Winners’ Room, he didn’t actually stick around to see if she’d gone in, as there was the next round to manage.
We eventually tracked down Star Caller’s assistant – the one who’d found the body – and gently pressed for more information on what she’d seen.
‘It was… he didn’t have a face,’ she wailed. ‘It was horrible.’ Seeing the body and the figure standing over it, she’d looked around to try and find help. When she’d turned back, the faceless man was gone, and had been replaced by our friend Jacqueline.
So, our ami jovial really had been present, which was why Jacqueline had the blank spot in her memory. Fortunately, the assistant hadn’t connected the two.
‘He looked right at me, and he said something,’ she told us, staring into the cup of tea she’d been given. ‘He said… uh. He said to “tell her I got her a present”, and he just… patted his pocket. I don’t know who he meant, though? Maybe the girl that got there afterwards?’
We quickly excused ourselves after hearing this, and made our way back to the room behind the stage – our sort of base in the investigation.
‘Do you even have pockets?’ asked Mock.
Jacqueline reached into her jacket, and slowly, slowly retrieved a slim book from within. Its title was written in gold foil, all calligraphy and heavy swirls. ‘It’s a romance,’ she said, leafing through the first few pages.
‘Huh,’ I said.
‘Huh,’ everyone else agreed.
They, like me, had assumed it’d be a clue of some kind.
‘Well, maybe it is a clue,’ said Aster. ‘What if it was taken from the murderer?’
So, a plan came together. We’d make an announcement – could the owner of this book please collect it, we found it (technically it was truth, so I shouldn’t get that urge to sabotage things I get if someone is lying on my behalf). And we’d watch for reactions in the crowd; the beefier members of the group guarding the exits, coordinating through Sending Stones.
In the end, we got lucky.
It turned out that the book had nothing to do with it, but when Jacqueline got on stage, and Robyn had the guards gather everyone in the main room, the murderer got jumpy. It was Aster that spotted him; I couldn’t actually see over the bannister we were hiding behind.
It was the guard we’d seen Van Quisse barking orders at. His head was spinning, looking for ways out we hadn’t covered. His eyes darted to his Captain, silently pleading for support, but Van Quisse only shrugged at him with a smile on his face.
He made a break for it, bursting from the milling guests around him like a blast from a siege staff. He was heading for the stage, bulldozing his way through the crowd at a full sprint. I realised, too late, there was a trapdoor he was aiming for.
Then Robyn stepped out from stage right, and the guard was spinning in the air before landing hard with his arms pinned behind his back.
Robyn’s voice was patient. ‘You, sir, are under arrest.’
We’d finally moved Van Quisse to action. He marched up as we regrouped onstage, his massive frame flanked by slightly less-imposing officers.
‘You lot are causing a scene, you know,’ he said, slowly. ‘I’ll have you release my Corporal there, and you’ll be coming with us to explain just what the hell you’re playing at. From behind bars.’
Robyn pulled the Corporal to his feet. ‘You can’t cover this up, Van Quisse,’ she said.
‘Oh?’ Van Quisse’s reply was much softer now, so the crowd couldn’t hear. ‘And who are you going to report it to? We look after our own, you know.’
‘Yes, I’m quite aware of that fact.’
She nodded to Jacqueline, on the other side of the stage. Then she leapt backwards, pulling the guard along with her, down the route he’d used after the murder to make his getaway; the route he’d been hoping to use again. The trapdoor made the thump that Jacqueline had heard when she first came to.
Before Van Quisse and his lackeys could pursue, Jacqueline hit him with a spell I’d never seen before – Tasha’s Hideous Laughter. Van Quisse doubled over, laughing that booming laugh of his, and when the other officers turned back to see what was wrong, Jacqueline dropped the Laughter and enthralled them with bardic music.
A haunting tune encircled the stage. The guards, stood and listened with an air of intense melancholy. I wasn’t even a target of the magic itself, and it still filled me with this delicate ennui, like I was lost in the woods…
We pulled Van Quisse below the stage to join his Corporal. Without Jacqueline’s ensorcelled music, the other guards woke up and began hammering at the trapdoor – both Shiira and Mock using all their strength to keep it closed against their assault.
I reached out through my faith again, too desperate now to even consider ethics, and cast another Zone of Truth around myself, Van Quisse, and his Corporal. We needed them to confess! But even if I could compel the truth, I couldn’t compel cooperation.
‘Do we just need to persuade them to talk?’ asked Jacqueline, stepping toward our captives. ‘I can help.’
‘Jacqueline, I don’t think pulling off your own face and turning them into steak tartare will exonerate us,’ I said, without thinking.
She looked hurt. ‘I said I can help. Not Jeeves.’
‘Jeeves?’
She ignored me, putting her panpipes to her lips. A single note flowed from her as she cast Charm Person on them both. ‘Alright,’ she said, sounding almost like a school teacher. ‘Do you want to explain what happened?’
‘The Captain made me kill Star Caller, and he was going to frame some monster!’ said the Corporal. ‘He said if I didn’t do it I’d lose my job. I’ve got a family to feed!’
Van Quisse interrupted, the Charm Person only prompting him to treat us with respect, not his patsy. ‘Either that or I’d toss you in a cell, you sniveling maggot.’ He turned to Jacqueline and began chatting away like a cab driver spouting conspiracy theories.
‘See, they call Star Caller’s work “advocacy” but everybody knows it’s a setup to replace normal humans with monsters from Droaam. Can you imagine living in a city like that? You’d have DAASK, or worse, on every street, in every window! And then what? Riots is what. People will die.
‘So yeah, she had to go. You can’t sort someone like that out through legal methods, not when it’s all people like her that are really in charge. Lucky for Sharn, I’m willing to protect our way of life.’
He grinned, all self-satisfied. I noticed then that the hammering at the trapdoor had stopped.
‘I think that’s quite enough,’ said Robyn, handing Aster’s sending stone back to her. Van Quisse’s confession had been broadcast through Robyn’s own stone, lying above on the stage itself, still set to the loudest volume.
Van Quisse’s smile faded as the Charm Person wore off and he realised what he’d said. He’d proved himself much more of a monster than those he was so afraid of. It’s ironic, especially seeing as his actions will likely push moderates in the opposite direction.
Until all this, I would have counted myself among those moderates. Now, I’m… thinking quite hard about my views on DAASK, and Droaam itself. I don’t want to be on the same side Van Quisse was.
Droaam, as a nation, isn’t recognised by the Treaty of Thronehold, no. But neither is Cyre, and nobody seems to discredit its natives as thieves and pillagers (though the tragedy of the Mourning may have something to do with that). Despite Van Quisse’s insistence, public sentiment on those from Droaam skews negative. The best they can hope for is “noble savage” or “criminal pretending to be respectable”.
I’d never really thought about it before.
And that’s where I assumed it would end. Van Quisse might have the backing of a corrupt police force, but he’d been heard gloating by a whole room of influential socialites and Dragonmarked House representatives. He’d be taken away by his own men, and they’d be forced into following the law at pain of funding cuts.
But the evening had one last thing in store. As we emerged from the cellar, we found that the entire guestlist had been knocked unconscious, sprawled out across the floor like a fallen tray of gingerbread people. I saw Aster shudder at the sight of it, but looking back it may have been more at all the glamerweave getting creased.
A figure in a heavy cloak stooped over Star Caller’s remains. Power thrummed in the air.
We rushed at it, determined to keep it from whatever its plans were for the body of our friend. But whatever magic it had at its disposal was far beyond anything we could handle – I was frozen in place, as were my companions save for Robyn and Mock. Somehow they resisted the hold, and flanked the figure, though it noticed Robyn’s advance and kept its guard up.
‘Please. I’m not here to cause harm,’ said a feminine voice from within the cloak. ‘Just trust me.’
And the power in the air coalesced. Mock shot forward to interrupt, but Robyn herself stepped in and deflected her falling hammer. She must have recognised the person before them.
And in the silent ballroom, Star Caller drew in a ragged breath after laying lifeless on the stage for hours.
Zagorda of the Third Eye removed her hood and helped Star Caller to her feet. I recognised her too, now. She was one of three rulers of Droaam, a Night Hag, a being of such arcane potency that not even the combined might of the five nations had been able to dethrone her. And she and Star Caller were chatting like old friends at a school reunion.
Zagorda thanked us for our assistance in finding her friend’s killer, and gave us a business card, saying we seemed competent enough to warrant her doing so. If we were in need of work, or in need of aid, we may contact her.
She also… “dealt with” Van Quisse and his accomplice. I hope that just means he’s in prison.
But with that, the party was over. Zagorda had modified the memory of the collected guests, having them believe that there’d been an attempt at Star Caller’s life, but nothing had succeeded. They all knew Van Quisse had been responsible, though I later heard some of the guards wondering why his punishment was so severe for just attempted murder.
‘Should one who tries to kill another be excused because they are incompetent?’ I asked them. ‘I think not.’
Please. I’m allowed to be a tiny bit smug, I think.
Before she disappeared, Zagorda thanked us again, and promised she’d leave our memories of the evening intact, but I still can’t help but feel paranoid. She was too real, in a metaphysical sort of way. Like she was the only letter penned with enough ink, and the rest of us were pages of scratchy grey indentations instead of words.
Her card is a discomforting weight hidden in my journal. I hope we never want to follow up on it, but that isn’t just up to me. I keep writing “we”, you know?
I was shown several times tonight that I don’t always know best; whether that’s about the severity of danger, or getting people to talk, or the number of hors d’oeuvres to eat before they make you sick.
So, I suppose I’ll have to talk to everyone else about it, instead of just my journal.
Roll History 