"How do you feel?" she asked, not quite as tenderly as before.
"Better," I replied. "No worse than if I had been dragged from Undermountain to Skullport by the hair of my head."
She smiled again.
I ran my hand over the top of my noggin, to make sure I wasn't bald, and said, "I just can't remember who I am, where I'm from, or what I'm doing here."
"What you are doing here is easy," Kitten replied. "You're getting your strength back. Perhaps you hit your head and fell overboard from one of the ships in the harbor. A blow like that can cause memory loss."
"So I've heard," I replied, and quickly realized something. "Funny that," I observed, "I didn't lose all of my memory."
"How so?" she queried, her expression again turning serious.
"I can't remember my name, but I recognized I was probably in the Waterdeep Dock Ward. I also knew about memory loss from a blow to the head, and all sorts of other stuff."
"What's the farthest back you can remember?"
"Waking up," I answered, quickly adding, "and seeing your angelic face."
She smiled.
I shrugged. "Well, it's a start."
A rapid thumping against the floorboards signaled that Lothar was once again approaching. He quickly shooed Kitten away and offered me a draught of something. I began to protest, but given my weakened condition, thought better of it, and accepted what I hoped was medicine.
A gentle drowsiness quickly seized me, and I was once again out like a light.
I awakened from my slumbers to the none-too-gentle prodding of Kitten, who seemed to have decided I no longer deserved coddling. She was right. The pain in my skull had disappeared, and my strength had indeed returned. I felt well rested and refreshed, and if it weren't for the fact that I still could not recall a single thing about my past, I might have been tempted to pronounce myself fit as a fiddle.
"Do you remember who you are yet?" she inquired.
"No," I replied, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and thankful that the throbbing didn't return.
"Too bad," she answered flippantly. "I guess you'll just have to make do with what you know."
"Did Lothar tell you anything more? Maybe he knows something."
Kitten laughed heartily. Gone was the girlish giggle of my convalescence. "No such luck," she replied, "and just so you know, Lothar doesn't say anything. He can't."
"He's mute?"
"You might say that. Years back, his tongue was cut out after a particularly ugly argument with a particularly ugly brute."
'Too bad."
Kitten shrugged. "He doesn't seem to mind," she commented. "He can read and write and make his opinions known when he wants to."
"I'm sure."
"It's just an obstacle that needed to be overcome, sort of like losing one's memory."
I couldn't be sure if she intended her comment to be taken as encouragement or a malicious taunt. The only thing I really knew was that I desperately wanted to know who I was.
The formerly soft and sensitive Kitten grew impatient. 'Well," she said, tapping the toe of her soft-soled boot against the floor, "are you ready to get on with your life?"
I was perplexed. "What do you mean 'get on with my life'?"
"You seem well enough," she observed, setting her carefully manicured fingertip against her delicately tapered jaw. "I thought you might be in need of some employment, gainful or otherwise, unless of course you just planned on setting up housekeeping here with Lothar."
"What did you have in mind?" "I have this friend who is exceptionally good at judging the measure of a man. I'm sure he can size you up and situate you in an appropriate position." "What about my identity?"
"Suit yourself," Kitten replied with a shrug. "Personally, I always considered it more important to secure food, shelter, and whatnot before indulging in 'finding myself… but if you have some plan…"
This Dock Ward vixen was right. A question still nagged me, though.
"What sort of work can I do? If I don't know who I am, how can I know my abilities?"
"Don't you worry your damaged little head," she instructed condescendingly. "It's obvious you know a lot more than you realize. You're probably exceptionally good at a lot of things." She started toward the door.
"Just leave it up to Murph."
"Murph?" I asked, hot on her heels. "Who's Murph?" "Let's just say he's a broker of talents," she replied, hastening her step. "Hurry! He doesn't like to be kept waiting."
The door to my entire universe led to a hallway, which in turn opened on an alley. I'd been in a recently abandoned warehouse.
I was surprised how quickly my eyes adjusted to the broad daylight, until I realized our fast-paced journey through byways and back alleys of the Dock Ward was confined to shadowy areas. Like her surefooted namesake, Kitten scurried from patch of gray to patch of gray until I felt we'd walked for miles; we were probably only a few blocks from our original location. Whether she had an affinity for shade or some desire to evade pursuit, Kitten led me on a circuitous tour of the least splendid sights in the City of Splendors. We finally arrived at a boarded-up facade that had once been a tavern.
Kitten looked right and left, gave three firm stomps to the establishment's coal chute cover, lifted it back, and gestured for me to follow her as she slid inside. She whispered the singularly unsentimental admonishment, 'Try not to hit your head. It seems to have sustained more than enough damage for one lifetime."
Pausing a moment to imprint my surroundings on the tabula rasa of my memory, I followed the chimerical Kitten down the chute and through a pair of blackout curtains. I landed on a stack of burlap. Before me sat a one-eyed poster boy for 'lard is good for you' and a band of unsavory brigands with fists the size of traveling kegs.
In the few moments I required to study my surroundings, Kitten took her place on the tub of lard's lap.
"You must be Murph," I ventured with as much false bravado as I could muster.
The tub of lard turned to Kitten and said, "It talks to us?"
"It appears to have forgotten its manners, Murph," Kitten offered, "as well as a few other things."
Murph nodded in acknowledgment. "Ah, so you said. So you said."
I decided to bide my time in silence, having no desire to further offend my amply protected host. I felt Murph's watery eyes sizing me up.
"It knows nothing of its past?" my host inquired.
"No, Murph," Kitten answered, shifting herself off his lap and onto the arm of the exceptionally strong armchair that supported them.
"And it needs our powers of observation," Murph murmured aloud, "… and perhaps a situation."
"Yes, Murph," the feline female replied, steel in her voice.
"It should come closer," the tub of lard instructed.
Before I could regain my feet, a brigand on each side of me grabbed the ends of the bag that had been my settee and tossed me and it closer to my host. I landed hard, in his dale-sized shadow. I could smell the stale sweat of his seldom-washed corpulence. Murph leaned forward and gestured with his fingers to the left and right. I was jostled from side to side by his flunkies so that he might observe some of my finer details.
"It has a tattoo on its left hand," Murph rambled, "perhaps a slave mark, or the mark of a thief. The hands are strong, yet uncallused. The knuckles have been bruised more than a few times. Both earlobes remain intact; no substantial gut from a sedentary life. Not much intelligence either. Looks just less than average."
I had almost reached my limit of tolerance when Murph leaned back, sighed, and belched. "It no longer amuses us," he said dismissively. "Get rid of it!"
I tried to make eye contact with Kitten, but was immediately distracted by the breeze of a bashing blow that just missed my cranium. My shoulder was not so lucky. Without thinking, I rolled with the blow, turning as I tumbled until I regained my footing and a defensible posture, my back to the cellar wall.