The string of prisoners was led through a wide doorway, and Irenicus examined the rusted iron spikes that made up the bottom of the portcullis bars they passed under. Someone screamed loudly from down the long, wide corridor, and another person laughed loudly in answer. A voice clearly called out "Stop me!" from some space many walls away. A low sound of moaning that sometimes became a melodic hum pervaded every nook. Irenicus didn't recognize the tune, but he took note of it.

The prisoner behind him said, "Please," in a voice so pitiful Irenicus wanted to kill him. The guards didn't respond in any way, though Irenicus expected at least one of them to at least sigh impatiently. Irenicus would have.

The trip down the corridor took a long time, and though Irenicus didn't relish it, he made as much use of it as he could. He noted the way the bricks were mortared together, the iron banding on the doors that occasionally led off from the wide corridor. He noticed the straw scattered on the floor and the stains on the flagstones that might have been blood, or food. He saw a spider in its web in the corner ignoring what was going on around it, waiting for its web to quiver with fresh food.

At the end of the corridor, he counted the clicks as the guard turned the big iron key in the elaborate lock, heard another lock click open on the other side of the door, memorized the squeak of the tired old hinges, saw the way the double doors pulled apart from each other, opening inward. These doors were meant to keep people in, not out. They were sturdy but not sturdy enough. He knew he would have to do something about that eventually.

One of the prisoners behind him hesitated when the guards prodded them though the doors, and a flash of anger crossed Irenicus's otherwise passive face. He resisted the temptation to speak or strike out, but one of the guards noticed his expression. He looked at Irenicus curiously, his body tensing in blind anticipation, like a squirrel caught in the middle of a yard by the neighbor's cat.

Irenicus smiled and said, "Three buckets of hot water, Momma. Three buckets of hot water," just so the man would think he was an idiot.

It worked. The guard looked away, prodding the man in front of Irenicus with the rounded end of his slim oaken cudgel. As they crossed from the straw-strewn flagstones to an expanse of polished marble, one of the prisoners started to weep openly, inconsolably, with the wild abandon of madness and despair. The sound made Irenicus smile at the same time it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

"Welcome, tortured souls," the man standing in the middle of the otherwise empty room said in a voice of practiced calm. "This will be your home for a very long time. You will be treated well. You will not be allowed to harm yourselves or others. You will rest, you will meditate, you will heal, or you will not."

Irenicus didn't smile. He kept his face blank and stared hard at the man, who didn't seem to see any of them.

"I am the coordinator here," the man continued. "You will refer to me simply as 'Sir. Is that understood?" None of the prisoners responded except one, who said, "This is madness," in a voice full of insult.

The coordinator smiled in a condescending, fatherly way, and said, "Quite."

Irenicus continued to stare at the coordinator, who was looking each of the ragged prisoners up and down in turn. When he got to Irenicus, their eyes finally met. The coordinator seemed surprised by Irenicus, by the look in his eyes, or the color, or the depth, or something. The coordinator didn't look away.

Irenicus said, "I am very happy to be here," in a slow, careful way.

"I'm…" the coordinator started. He seemed confused—was confused—by the look in this prisoner's eyes. Irenicus knew the man was looking for what he always saw, either madness or fear. Irenicus knew the coordinator saw neither of those things in his eyes.

"I want us to talk," Irenicus told him, "you and me."

The coordinator smiled feebly, and a drop of sweat started a slow crawl down the side of one high, bald temple. A small man, round from years of inactivity, the coordinator dressed well but simply and carried no weapons but what he obviously thought to be a superior will.

"We can," the coordinator said, matching Irenicus's cadence and tone. "We will."

"Coordinator?" one of the guards said. Irenicus was surprised at the guard's perception and felt a passing reluctance to kill the man.

"He's fine," Irenicus said, not looking at the guard but keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the coordinator. "Aren't you, Sir?"

"I'm fine," the coordinator said, his voice creaking. The drop of sweat made it to his softly rounded jaw and hung there, catching light from the four torches that lit the room.

Someone far away screamed three times in exactly the same way each time.

Irenicus smiled and said, "Everything is going to be just fine here."

Of course he was going to go back for them. What else could he do?

Abdel had found pity at the Copper Coronet—clothes, food, and a place to part ways with Minsc—but when he allowed himself the minutes it took to eat the chicken they gave him and drink some water, he could feel his mind clear. He came into the tavern exhausted, still reeling from what had been a long period of unconsciousness. He'd demanded to see Captain Orhotek, and though it seemed perfectly reasonable at the time, now he had to admit to himself that he didn't actually know the man, had heard of him but had never met him. Abdel looked mad and told stories that were difficult to believe at best. He knew he'd left Jaheira behind, and he wasn't even sure if she was alive or dead, but he wasn't so sure anymore that Imoen had been there too. It sounded like her, looked like her, but how could it be her?

Abdel put his head in his hands and felt the grease coating his fingers mingle with the dried sweat and grime that covered him. His head lolled, and he almost fell asleep. Knowing he couldn't possibly leave Jaheira to the Shadow Thieves—or whoever their captors were— for as long as he knew he'd sleep if he let himself, Abdel struggled to stand. His head spun, but when he got to his feet, he actually started to feel better. Minsc walked by, holding a tray full of empty flagons and dirty dishes. He caught Abdel's eye and smiled. The little hamster peered at the sellsword from a pocket in Minsc's already dirty apron.

Abdel tried to return the man's smile but couldn't. He turned and went through the door in the back wall of the barroom he'd seen several of the patrons pass through. It led into a space off the alley where two barrels of water stood open to the warm night. Abdel went to one of the barrels, and after splashing a handful of water over his face, he grew frustrated and simply dunked his head into the lukewarm water.

He scrubbed at his face and hair, scratching his itchy scalp, then pulled off the too-tight shirt he'd borrowed from the barkeep and let it drop onto the alley floor. Abdel washed himself aggressively, using the action to wake himself up. He had no plan and still wasn't thinking well enough to try to form one. All he knew was that he didn't want to fight with the light long sword he'd taken from the soldier. He had one of the swords, and so did Minsc. The red-haired man seemed to have found a place to settle, so Abdel figured the madman wouldn't be needing his sword. Maybe Abdel could trade the two blades for one decent broadsword, but he knew he'd have to wait at least until morning to do that.

His own weapon and armor might have been left in Baldur's Gate for all he knew, but they might also be down somewhere under that warehouse with Jaheira. Before he did anything else, he'd have to go back there. "You should sleep," a voice behind him said, and he didn't bother spinning. He turned slowly and saw Bodhi standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorframe.