Chapter 2
“Faster! Faster, I say!” Jarlaxle howled. His arm flashed repeatedly, and a seemingly endless stream of daggers spewed forth at the dodging and rolling assassin.
Entreri worked his jeweled dagger and his sword-a drow-fashioned blade that he was not particularly enamored of-furiously, with in and out vertical rolls to catch the missiles and flip them aside. All the while he kept his feet moving, skittering about, looking for an opening in Jarlaxle’s superb defensive posture-a stance made all the more powerful by the constant stream of spinning daggers.
“An opening!” the drow mercenary cried, letting fly one, two, three more daggers.
Entreri sent his sword back the other way but knew that his opponent’s assessment was correct. He dived into a roll instead, tucking his head and his arms in tight to cover any vital areas.
“Oh, well done!” Jarlaxle congratulated as Entreri came to his feet after taking only a single hit, and that a dagger sticking into the trailing fold of his cloak instead of his skin.
Entreri felt the dagger swing in against the back of his leg as he stood up. Fearing that it might trip him, he tossed his own dagger into the air, then quickly pulled the cloak from his shoulders, and in the same fluid movement, started to toss it aside.
An idea came to him, though, and he didn’t discard the cloak but rather caught his deadly dagger and set it between his teeth. He stalked a semicircle about the drow, waving his cloak, a drow piwafwi, slowly about as a shield against the missiles.
Jarlaxle smiled at him. “Improvisation,” he said with obvious admiration. ‘The mark of a true warrior.” Even as he finished, though, the drow’s arm starting moving yet again. A quartet of daggers soared at the assassin.
Entreri bobbed and spun a complete circuit, but tossed his cloak as he did and caught it as he came back around. One dagger skidded across the floor, another passed over Entreri’s head, narrowly missing, and the other two got caught in the fabric, along with the previous one.
Entreri continued to wave the cloak, but it wasn’t flowing wide anymore, weighted as it was by the three daggers. “Not so good a shield, perhaps,” Jarlaxle commented. “You talk better than you fight,” Entreri countered. “A bad combination.”
“I talk because I so enjoy the fight, my quick friend,” Jarlaxle replied.
His arm went back again, but Entreri was already moving. The human held his arm out wide to keep the cloak from tripping him, and dived into a roll right toward the mercenary, closing the gap between them in the blink of an eye.
Jarlaxle did let fly one dagger. It skipped off Entreri’s back, but the drow mercenary caught the next one sliding out of his magical bracer into his hand and snapped his wrist, speaking a command word. The dagger responded at once, elongating into a sword. As Entreri came over, his sword predictably angled up to gut Jarlaxle, the drow had the parry in place.
Entreri stayed low and skittered forward instead, swinging his cloak in a roundabout manner to wrap it behind Jarlaxle’s legs. The mercenary quick-stepped and almost got out of the way, but one of the daggers hooked his boot and he fell over backward. Jarlaxle was as agile as any drow, but so too was Entreri. The human came up over the drow, sword thrusting.
Jarlaxle parried fast, his blade slapping against Entreri’s. To the drow’s surprise, the assassin’s sword went flying away. Jarlaxle understood soon enough, though, for Entreri’s now free hand came forward, clasping Jarlaxle’s forearm and holding the drow’s weapon out wide.
And there loomed the assassin’s other hand, holding again that deadly jeweled dagger.
Entreri had the opening and had the strike, and Jarlaxle couldn’t block it or begin to move away from it. A wave of such despair, an overwhelming barrage of complete and utter hopelessness, washed over Entreri. He felt as if someone had just entered his brain and began scattering all of his thoughts, starting and stopping all of his reflexes. In the inevitable pause, Jarlaxle brought his other arm forward, launching a dagger that smacked Entreri in the gut and bounced away.
The barrage of discordant, paralyzing emotions continued to blast away in Entreri’s mind, and he stumbled back. He hardly felt the motion and was somewhat confused a moment later, as the fuzziness began to clear, to find that he was on the other side of the small room sitting against the wall and facing a smiling Jarlaxle.
Entreri closed his eyes and at last forced the confusing jumble of thoughts completely away. He assumed that Rai-guy, the drow wizard who had imbued both Entreri and Jarlaxle with stoneskin spells that they could spar with all of their hearts without fear of injuring each other, had intervened. When he glanced that way, he saw that the wizard was nowhere to be seen. He turned back to Jarlaxle, guessing then that the mercenary had used yet another in his seemingly endless bag of tricks. Perhaps he had used his newest magical acquisition, the powerful Crenshinibon, to overwhelm Entreri’s concentration.
“Perhaps you are slowing down, my friend,” Jarlaxle remarked. “What a pity that would be. It is good that you defeated your avowed enemy when you did, for Drizzt Do’Urden has many centuries of youthful speed left in him.”
Entreri scoffed at the words, though in truth, the thought gnawed at him. He had lived his entire life on the very edge of perfection and preparedness. Even now, in the middle years of his life, he was confident that he could defeat almost any foe-with pure skill or by out-thinking any enemy, by properly preparing any battlefield-but Entreri didn’t want to slow down. He didn’t want to lose that edge of fighting brilliance that had so marked his life.
He wanted to deny Jarlaxle’s words, but he could not, for he knew in his heart that he had truly lost that fight with Drizzt, that if Kimmuriel Oblodra had not intervened with his psionic powers, then Drizzt would have been declared the victor.
“You did not outmatch me with speed,” the assassin started to argue, shaking his head.
Jarlaxle came forward, his glowing eyes narrowing dangerously-a threatening expression, a look of rage, that the assassin rarely saw upon the handsome face of the always-in-control dark elf mercenary leader.
“I have this!” Jarlaxle announced, pulling wide his cloak and showing Entreri the tip of the artifact, Crenshinibon, the Crystal Shard, tucked neatly into one pocket. “Never forget that. Without it, I could likely still defeat you, though you are good, my friend-better than any human I have ever known. But with this in my possession . . . you are but a mere mortal. Joined in Crenshinibon, I can destroy you with but a thought. Never forget that.”
Entreri lowered his gaze, digesting the words and the tone, sharpening that image of the uncharacteristic expression on Jarlaxle’s always smiling face. Joined in Crenshinibon? . . . but a mere mortal? What in the Nine Hells did that mean? Never forget that, Jarlaxle had said, and indeed, this was a lesson that Artemis Entreri would not soon dismiss.
When he looked back up again, Entreri saw Jarlaxle wearing his typical expression, that sly, slightly amused look that conferred to all who saw it that this cunning drow knew more than he did, knew more than he possibly could.
Seeing Jarlaxle relaxed again also reminded Entreri of the novelty of these sparring events. The mercenary leader would not spar with any other. Rai-guy was stunned when Jarlaxle had told him that he meant to battle Entreri on a regular basis.
Entreri understood the logic behind that thinking. Jarlaxle survived, in part, by remaining mysterious, even to those around him. No one could ever really get a good look at the mercenary leader. He kept allies and opponents alike off-balance and wondering, always wondering, and yet, here he was, revealing so much to Artemis Entreri.
“Those daggers,” Entreri said, coming back at ease and putting on his own sly expression. “They were merely illusions.”
“In your mind, perhaps,” the dark elf replied in his typically cryptic manner.
“They were,” the assassin pressed. “You could not possibly carry so many, nor could any magic create them that quickly.”
“As you say,” Jarlaxle replied. “Though you heard the clang as your own weapons connected with them and felt the weight as they punctured your cloak.”
“I thought I heard the clang,” Entreri corrected, wondering if he had at last found a chink in the mercenary’s never-ending guessing game.
“Is that not the same thing?” Jarlaxle replied with a laugh, but it seemed to Entreri as if there was a darker side to that chuckle.
Entreri lifted that cloak, to see several of the daggers- solid metal daggers-still sticking in its fabric folds, and to find several more holes in the cloth. “Some were illusions, then,” he argued unconvincingly.
Jarlaxle merely shrugged, never willing to give anything away.
With an exasperated sigh, Entreri started out of the room.
“Do keep ever present in your thoughts, my friend, that an illusion can kill you if you believe in it,” Jarlaxle called after him.
Entreri paused and glanced back, his expression grim. He wasn’t used to being so openly warned or threatened, but he knew that with this one particular companion, the threats were never, ever idle.
“And the real thing can kill you whether you believe in it or not,” Entreri replied, and he turned back for the door.
The assassin departed with a shake of his head, frustrated and yet intrigued. That was always the way with Jarlaxle, Entreri mused, and what surprised him even more was that he found that aspect of the clever drow mercenary particularly compelling.
* * * * *
That is the one, Kimmuriel Oblodra signaled to his two companions, Rai-guy and Berg’inyon Baenre, the most recent addition to the surface army of Bregan D’aerthe.
The favored son of the most powerful house in Menzoberranzan, Berg’inyon had grown up with all the drow world open before him-to the level that a drow male in Menzoberranzan could achieve, at least-but his mother, the powerful Matron Baenre, had led a disastrous assault on a dwarven kingdom, ending in her death and throwing all the great drow city into utter chaos. In that time of ultimate confusion and apprehension, Berg’inyon had thrown his hand in with Jarlaxle and the ever elusive mercenary band of Bregan D’aerthe. Among the finest of fighters in all the city, and with familial connections to still-mighty House Baenre, Berg’inyon was welcomed openly and quickly promoted, elevated to the status of high lieutenant. Thus, he was not here now serving Rai-guy and Kimmuriel, but as their peer, taken out on a sort of training mission.
He considered the human Kimmuriel had targeted, a shapely woman posing in the dress of a common street whore.
You have read her thoughts’? Rai-guy signaled back, his fingers weaving an intricate pattern, perfectly complementing the various expressions and contortions of his handsome and angular drow features.
Raker spy, Kimmuriel silently assured his companion. The coordinator of their group. All pass her by, reporting their finds.
Berg’inyon shifted nervously from foot to foot, uncomfortable around the revelations of the strange and strangely powerful Kimmuriel. He hoped that Kimmuriel wasn’t reading his thoughts at that moment, for he was wondering how Jarlaxle could ever feel safe with this one about. Kimmuriel could walk into someone’s mind, it seemed, as easily as Berg’inyon could walk through an open doorway. He chuckled then but disguised it as a cough, when he considered that clever Jarlaxle likely had that doorway somehow trapped. Berg’inyon decided that he’d have to learn the technique, if there was one, to keep Kimmuriel at bay.
Do we know where the others might be? Berg’inyon’s hands silently asked.
Would the show be complete if we did not? came Rat-guy’s responding gestures. The wizard smiled widely, and soon all three of the dark elves wore sly, hungry expressions.
Kimmuriel closed his eyes and steadied himself with long, slow breaths.
Rai-guy took the cue, pulling an eyelash encased in a bit of gum arabic out of one of his several belt pouches. He turned to Berg’inyon and began waggling his fingers. The drow warrior flinched reflexively-as most sane people would do when a drow wizard began casting in their direction.
The first spell went off, and Berg’inyon, rendered invisible, faded from view. Rai-guy went right back to work, now aiming a spell designed mentally to grab at the target, to hold the spy fast.
The woman flinched and seemed to hold for a second, but shook out of it and glanced around nervously, now obviously on her guard.
Rai-guy growled and went at the spell again. Invisible Berg’inyon stared at him with an almost mocking smile- yes, there were advantages to being invisible! Rai-guy continually demeaned humans, called them every drow name for offal and carrion. On the one hand, he was obviously surprised that this one had resisted the hold spell-no easy mental task-but on the other, Berg’inyon noted, the blustery wizard had prepared more than one of the spells. One, without any resistance, should have been enough.
This time, the woman took one step, and held fast in her walking pose.
Go! Kimmuriel’s fingers waved. Even as he gestured, the powers of his mind opened the doorway between the three drow and the woman. Suddenly she was there, though she was still on the street, but only a couple of strides away. Berg’inyon leaped out and grabbed the woman, tugging her hard into the extra-dimensional space, and Kimmuriel shut the door.
It had happened so fast that to any watching on the street, it would have seemed as if the woman had simply disappeared.
The psionicist raised his delicate black hand up to the victim’s forehead, melding with her mentally. He could feel the horror in there, for though her physical body had been locked in Rai-guy’s stasis, her mind was working and she knew indeed that she now stood before dark elves.
Kimmuriel took just a moment to bask in that terror, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle. Then he imparted psionic energies to her. He built around her an armor of absorbing kinetic energy, using a technique he had perfected in Entreri’s battle with Drizzt Do’Urden.
When it was done, he nodded.
Berg’inyon became visible again almost immediately, as his fine drow sword slashed across the woman’s throat, the offensive strike dispelling the defensive magic of Rai-guy’s invisibility spell. The drow warrior went into a fast dance, slashing and thrusting with both of his fine swords, stabbing hard, even chopping once with both blades, a heavy drop down onto the woman’s head.
But no blood spewed forth, no groans of pain came from the woman, for Kimmuriel’s armor accepted each blow, catching and holding the tremendous energy offered by the drow warrior’s brutal dance.
It went on and on for several minutes, until Rai-guy warned that the spell of holding was nearing its end. Berg’inyon backed away, and Kimmuriel closed his eyes again as Rai-guy began yet another casting.
Both onlookers, Kimmuriel and Berg’inyon, smiled wickedly as Rai-guy produced a tiny ball of bat guano that held a sulfuric aroma and shoved it, along with his finger into the woman’s mouth, releasing his spell. A flash of fiery light appeared in the back of the woman’s mouth, disappearing as it slid down her throat.
The sidewalk was there again, very close, as Kimmuriel opened a second dimension portal to the same spot on the street, and Rai-guy roughly shoved the woman back out.
Kimmuriel shut the door, and they watched, amused. The hold spell released first, and the woman staggered. She tried to call out, but coughed roughly from the burn in her throat. A strange expression came over her, one of absolute horror.
She feels the energy contained in the kinetic barrier, Kimmuriel explained. I hold it no longer-only her own will prevents its release.
How long? a concerned Rai-guy asked, but Kimmuriel only smiled and motioned for them to watch and enjoy.
The woman broke into a run. The three drow noted other people moving about her, some closing cautiously- other spies, likely-and others seeming merely curious. Still others grew alarmed and tried to stay away from her.
All the while, she tried to scream out, but just kept hacking from the continuing burn in her throat. Her eyes were wide, so horrifyingly and satisfyingly wide! She could feel the tremendous energies within her, begging release, and she had no idea how she might accomplish that.
She couldn’t hold the kinetic barrier, and her initial realization of the problem transformed from horror into confusion. All of Berg’inyon’s terrible beating came out then, so suddenly. All of the slashes and the stabs, the great chop and the twisting heart thrust, burst over the helpless woman. To those watching, it seemed almost as if she simply fell apart, gallons of blood erupting about her face, head, and chest.
She went down almost immediately, but before anyone could even begin to react, could run away or charge to her aid, Rai-guy’s last spell, a delayed fireball, went off, immolating the already dead woman and many of those around her.
Outside the blast, wide-eyed stares came at the charred corpse from comrade and ignorant onlooker alike, expressions of the sheerest terror that surely pleased the three merciless dark elves.
A fine display. Worthy indeed.
For Berg’inyon, the spectacle served a second purpose, a clear reminder to him to take care around these fellow lieutenants himself. Even taking into consideration the high drow standards for torture and murder, these two were particularly adept, true masters of the craft.
Chapter 3
He had his old room back. He even had his name back. The memories of the authorities in Luskan were not as long as they claimed.
The previous year, Morik the Rogue had been accused of attempting to murder the honorable Captain Deudermont of the good ship Sea Sprite, a famous pirate hunter. Since in Luskan accusation and conviction were pretty much the same thing, Morik had faced the prospect of a horrible death in the public spectacle of Prisoner’s Carnival. He had actually been in the process of realizing that ultimate torture when Captain Deudermont, horrified by the gruesome scene, had offered a pardon.
Pardoned or not, Morik had been forever banned from Luskan on pain of death. He had returned anyway, of course, the following year. At first he’d taken on an assumed identity, but gradually he had regained his old trappings, his true mannerisms, his connections on the streets, his apartment, and, finally, his name and the reputation it carried. The authorities knew it too, but having plenty of other thugs to torture to death, they didn’t seem to care.
Morik could look back on that awful day at Prisoner’s Carnival with a sense of humor now. He thought it perfectly ironic that he had been tortured for a crime that he hadn’t even committed when there were so many crimes of which he could be rightly convicted.
It was all a memory now, the memory of a whirlwind of intrigue and danger by the name of Wulfgar. He was Morik the Rogue once more, and all was as it had once been ... almost.
For now there was another element, an intriguing and also terrifying element, that had come into Morik’s life. He walked up to the door of his room cautiously, glancing all about the narrow hallway, studying the shadows. When he was confident that he was alone, he walked up tight to the door, shielding it from any magically prying eyes, and began the process of undoing nearly a dozen deadly traps, top to bottom along both sides of the jamb. That done, he took out a ring of keys and undid the locks-one, two, three-then he clicked open the door. He disarmed yet another trap-this one explosive-then entered, closing and securing the door and resetting all the traps. The complete process took him more than ten minutes, yet he performed this ritual every time he came home. The dark elves had come into Morik’s life, unannounced and uninvited. While they had promised him the treasure of a king if he performed their tasks, they had also promised him and had shown him the flip side of that golden coin as well.
Morik checked the small pedestal at the side of the door next. He nodded, satisfied to see that the orb was still in place in the wide vase. The vessel was coated with contact poison and maintained a sensitive pressure release trap. He had paid dearly for that particular orb- an enormous amount of gold that would take him a year of hard thievery to retrieve-but in Morik’s fearful eyes, the item was well worth the price. It was enchanted with a powerful anti-magic dweomer that would prevent dimensional doors from opening in his room, that would prevent wizards from strolling in on the other side of a teleportation spell.
Never again did Morik the Rogue wish to be awakened by a dark elf standing at the side of his bed, looming over him.
All of his locks were in place, his orb rested in its protected vessel, and yet some subtle signal, an intangible breeze, a tickling on the hairs at the back of his neck, told Morik that something was out of place. He glanced all around, from shadow to shadow, to the drapes that still hung over the window he had long ago bricked up. He looked to his bed, to the tightly tucked sheets, with no blankets hanging below the edge. Bending just a bit, Morik saw right through the bottom of the bed. There was no one hiding under there.
The drapes, then, he thought, and he moved in that general direction but took a circuitous route so that he wouldn’t force any action from the intruder. A sudden shift and quick-step brought him there, dagger revealed, and he pulled the drapes aside and struck hard, catching only air. Morik laughed in relief and at his own paranoia. How different his world had become since the arrival of the dark elves. Always now he was on the edge of his nerves. He had seen the drow a total of only five times, including their initial encounter way back when Wulfgar was new to the city and they, for some reason that Morik still did not completely understand, wanted him to keep an eye on the huge barbarian.
He was always on his edge, always wary, but he reminded himself of the potential gains his alliance with the drow would bring. Part of the reason that he was Morik the Rogue again, from what he had been able to deduce, had to do with a visit to a particular authority by one of Jarlaxle’s henchmen.
He gave a sigh of relief and let the drapes swing back, then froze in surprise and fear as a hand clamped over his mouth and the fine edge of a dagger came tight against his throat.
“You have the jewels?” a voice whispered in his ear, a voice showing incredible strength and calm despite its quiet tone. The hand slipped off of his mouth and up to his forehead, forcing his head back just enough to remind him of how vulnerable and open his throat was.
Morik didn’t answer, his mind racing through many possibilities-the least likely of which seeming to be his potential escape, for that hand holding him revealed frightening strength and the hand holding the dagger at his throat was too, too steady. Whoever his attacker might be, Morik understood immediately that he was overmatched.
“I ask one more time; then I end my frustration,” came the whisper.
“You are not drow,” Morik replied, as much to buy some time as to ensure that this man-and he knew that it was a man and certainly no dark elf-would not act rashly.
“Perhaps I am, though under the guise of a wizard’s spell,” the assailant replied. “But that could not be-or could it?-since no magic will work in this room.” As he finished, he roughly pushed Morik away, then grabbed his shoulder to spin the frightened rogue around as he fell back.
Morik didn’t recognize the man, though he still understood that he was in imminent danger. He glanced down at his own dagger, and it seemed a pitiful thing indeed against the magnificent, jewel-handled blade his opponent carried-almost a reflection of the relative strengths of their wielders, Morik recognized with a wince.
Morik the Rogue was as good a thief as roamed the streets of Luskan, a city full of thieves. His reputation, though bloated by bluff, had been well-earned across the bowels of the city.
This man before him, older than Morik by a decade, perhaps, and standing so calm and so balanced . . .This man had gotten into his apartment and had remained there unobserved despite Morik’s attempted scrutiny. Morik noted then that the bed sheets were rumpled-but hadn’t he just looked at them, to see them perfectly smooth?
“You are not drow,” Morik dared to say again.
“Not all of Jarlaxle’s agents are dark elves, are they,
Morik the Rogue?” the man replied. Morik nodded and slipped his dagger into its sheath at his belt, a move designed to alleviate the tension, something that Morik desperately wanted to do.
“The jewels?” the man asked. Morik could not hide the panic from his face.
“You should have purchased them from Telsburgher,” the man remarked. “The way was clear and the assignment was not difficult.”
“The way would have been clear,” Morik corrected, “but for a minor magistrate who holds old grudges.”
The intruder continued to stare, showing neither intrigue nor anger, telling Morik nothing at all about whether or not he was even interested in any excuses.
“Telsburgher is ready to sell them to me,” Morik quickly added, “at the agreed price. His hesitation is only a matter of his fear that there will be retribution from Magistrate Jharkheld. The evil man holds an old grudge. He knows that I am back in town and wishes to drag me back to his Prisoner’s Carnival, but he cannot, by word of his superiors, I am told. Thank Jarlaxle for me.”
“You thank Jarlaxle by performing as instructed,” the man replied, and Morik nervously shifted from foot to foot. “He helps you to fill his purse, not to fill his heart with good feelings.”
Morik nodded. “I fear to go after Jharkheld,” he explained. “How high might I strike without incurring the wrath of the greater powers of Luskan, thus ultimately wounding Jarlaxle’s purse?”
“Jharkheld is not a concern,” the man answered with a tone so assured that Morik found that he believed every word. “Complete the transaction.”
“But...” Morik started to reply. “This night,” came the answer, and the man turned away and started for the door.
His hands worked in amazing circles right before Morik’s eyes as trap after trap after lock fell open. It had taken Morik several minutes to get through that door, and that with an intricate knowledge of every trap-which he had set-and with the keys for the three supposedly difficult locks, and yet, within the span of two minutes, the door now swung open wide.
The man glanced back and tossed something to the floor at Morik’s feet.
A wire. “The one on your bottom trap had stretched beyond usefulness,” the man explained. “I repaired it for you.”
He went out then and closed the door, and Morik heard the clicks and sliding panels as all the locks and traps were efficiently reset.
Morik went to his bed cautiously and pulled the bed sheets aside. A hole had been cut into his mattress, perfectly sized to hold the intruder. Morik gave a helpless laugh, his respect for Jarlaxle’s band multiplying. He didn’t even have to go over to his trapped vase to know that the orb now within it was a fake and that the real one had just walked out his door.
Entreri blinked as he walked out into the late afternoon Luskan sun. He dropped a hand into his pocket, to feel the enchanted device he had just taken from Morik. This small orb had frustrated Rai-guy. It defeated his magic when he’d tried to visit Morik himself, as it was likely doing now. That thought alone pleased Entreri greatly. It had taken Bregan D’aerthe nearly a ten day to discern the source of Morik’s sudden distance, how the man had made his room inaccessible to the prying eyes of the wizards. Thus, Entreri had been sent. He held no illusions that his trip had to do with his thieving prowess, but rather, it was simply because the dark elves weren’t certain of how resistant Morik might be and simply hadn’t wished to risk any of their brethren in the exploration. Certainly Jarlaxle wouldn’t have been pleased to learn that Rai-guy and Kimmuriel had forced Entreri to go, but the pair knew that Entreri wouldn’t go to Jarlaxle with the information.
So Entreri had played message boy for the two formidable, hated dark elves.
His instructions upon taking the orb and finishing his business with Morik had been explicit and precise. He was to place the orb aside and use the magical signal whistle Rai-guy had given him to call to the dark elves in faraway Calimport, but he wasn’t in any hurry.
He knew that he should have killed Morik, both for the man’s impertinence in trying to shield himself and for failing to produce the required jewels. Rai-guy and Kimmuriel would demand such punishment, of course. Now he’d have to justify his actions, to protect Morik somewhat.
He knew Luskan fairly well, having been through the city several times, including an extended visit only a few days before, when he, along with several other drow agents, had learned the truth of Morik’s magic-blocking device. Wandering the streets, he soon heard the shouts and cheers of the vicious Prisoner’s Carnival. He entered the back of the open square just as some poor fool was having his intestines pulled out like a great length of rope. Entreri hardly noticed the spectacle, concentrating instead on the sharp-featured, diminutive, robed figure presiding over the torture.
The man screamed at the writhing victim, telling him to surrender his associates, there and then, before it was too late. “Secure a chance for a more pleasant afterlife!” the magistrate screeched, his voice as sharp as his angry, angular features. “Now! Before you die!”
The man only wailed. It seemed to Entreri as if he was far beyond any point of even comprehending the magistrate’s words.
He died soon enough and the show was over. The people began filtering out of the square, most nodding their heads and smiling, speaking excitedly of Jharkheld’s fine show this day.
That was all Entreri needed to hear.He moved shadow to shadow, following the magistrate down the short walk from the back of the square to the tower that housed the quarters of the officials of Prisoner’s Carnival as well as the dungeons holding those who would soon face the public tortures.
He mused at his own good fortune in carrying Morik’s orb, for it gave him some measure of protection from any wizard hired to further secure the tower. That left only sentries and mechanical traps in his way.
Artemis Entreri feared neither. He went into the tower as the sun disappeared in the west.
* * * * *
“They have too many allies,” Rai-guy insisted.
“They would be gone without a trace,” Jarlaxle replied with a wide smile. “Simply gone.”
Rai-guy groaned and shook his head, and Kimmuriel, across the room and sitting comfortably in a plush chair, one leg thrown over the cushioning arm, looked up at the ceiling and rolled his eyes.
“You continue to doubt me?” Jarlaxle asked, his tone light and innocent, not threatening. “Consider all that we have already accomplished here in Calimport and across the surface. We have agents in several major cities, including Waterdeep.”
“We are exploring agents in other cities,” Rai-guy corrected. “We have but one currently working, the little rogue in Luskan.” He paused and glanced over at his psionicist counterpart and smiled. “Perhaps.”
Kimmuriel chuckled as he considered their second agent now working in Luskan, the one Jarlaxle did not know had left Calimport.
The others are preliminary,” Rai-guy went on. “Some are promising, others not so, but none are worthy of the title of agent at this time.”
“Soon, then,” said Jarlaxle, coming forward in his own comfortable chair. “Soon! They will become profitable partners or we will find others-not so difficult a thing to do among the greedy humans. The situation here in Calimport... look around you. Can you doubt our wisdom in coming here? The gems and jewels are flowing fast, a direct line to a drow population eager to expand their possessions beyond the limited wealth of Menzoberranzan.”
“Fortunate are we if the houses of Ched Nasad determine that we are undercutting their economy,” Rai-guy, who hailed from that other drow city, remarked sarcastically.
Jarlaxle scoffed at the notion. “I cannot deny the profitability of Calimport,” the wizard lieutenant went on, “yet when we first planned our journey to the surface, we all agreed that it would show immediate and strong returns. As we all agreed it would likely be a short tenure, and that, after the initial profits, we would do well to reconsider our position and perhaps retreat to our own land, leaving only the best of the trading connections and agents in place.”
“So we should reconsider, and so I have,” said Jarlaxle. “It seems obvious to me that we underestimated the potential of our surface operations. Expand! Expand, I say.”
Again came the disheartened expressions. Kimmuriel was still staring at the ceiling, as if in abject denial of what Jarlaxle was proposing.
“The Rakers desire that we limit our trade to this one section,” Jarlaxle reminded, “yet many of the craftsmen of the more exotic goods-merchandise that would likely prove most attractive in Menzoberranzan-are outside of that region.”
“Then we cut a deal with the Rakers, let them in on the take for this new and profitable market to which they have no access,” said Rai-guy, a perfectly reasonable suggestion in light of the history of Bregan D’aerthe, a mercenary and opportunistic band that always tried to use the words “mutually beneficial” as their business credo.
“They are pimples,” Jarlaxle replied, extending his thumb and index finger in the air before him and pressing them together as if he was squeezing away an unwanted blemish. “They will simply disappear.”
“Not as easy a task as you seem to believe,” came a feminine voice from the doorway, and the three glanced over to see Sharlotta Vespers gliding into the room, dressed in a long gown slit high enough to reveal one very shapely leg. “The Rakers pride themselves on spreading their organizational lines far and wide. You could destroy all of their houses and all of their known agents, even all of the people dealing with all of their agents, and still leave many witnesses.”
“Who would do what?” Jarlaxle asked, but he was still smiling, even patting his chair for Sharlotta to go over and sit with him, which she did, curling about him familiarly. The sight of it made Rai-guy glance again at Kimmuriel. Both knew that Jarlaxle was bedding the human woman, the most powerful remnant-along with Entreri- of the old Basadoni Guild, and neither of them liked the idea. Sharlotta was a sly one, as humans go, almost sly enough to be accepted among the society of drow. She had even mastered the language of the drow and was now working on the intricate hand signals of the dark elven silent code. Rai-guy found her perfectly repulsive, and Kimmuriel, though seeing her as exotic, did not like the idea of having her whispering dangerous suggestions into Jarlaxle’s ear.
In this particular matter, though, it seemed to both of them that Sharlotta was on their side, so they didn’t try to interrupt her as they usually did.
“Witnesses who would tell every remaining guild,” Sharlotta explained, “and who would inform the greater powers of Calimshan. The destruction of the Rakers Guild would imply that a truly great power had secretly come to Calimport.”
“One has,” Jarlaxle said with a grin. “One whose greatest strength lies in remaining secret,”
Sharlotta replied.
Jarlaxle pushed her from his lap, right off the chair, so that she had to move quickly to get her shapely legs under her in time to prevent falling unceremoniously on her rump.
The mercenary leader then rose as well, pushing right past Sharlotta as if her opinion mattered not at all, and moving closer to his more important lieutenants. “I once envisioned Bregan D’aerthe’s role on the surface as that of importer and exporter,” he explained. “This we have easily achieved. Now I see the truth of the human dominated societies, and that is a truth of weakness. We can go further- we must go further.”
“Conquest?” Rai-guy asked sourly, sarcastically.
“Not as Baenre attempted with Mithral Hall,” Jarlaxle eagerly explained. “More a matter of absorption.” Again came that wicked smile. “For those who will play.”
“And those who will not simply disappear?” Rai-guy asked, but his sarcasm seemed lost on Jarlaxle, who only smiled all the wider.
“Did you not execute a Raker spy only the other day?” Jarlaxle asked.
“There is a profound difference in defending our privacy and trying to expand our borders,” the wizard replied. “Semantics,” Jarlaxle said with a laugh. “Simply semantics.”
Behind him, Sharlotta Vespers bit her lip and shook her head, fearing that her newfound benefactors might be about to make a tremendous and very dangerous blunder.
* * * * *
From an alley not so far away, Entreri listened to the shouts and confusion coming from the tower. When he had entered, he’d gone downstairs first, to find a particularly unpleasant prisoner to free. Once he had ushered the man to relative safety, to the open tunnels at the back of the dungeons, he had gone upstairs to the first floor, then up again, moving quietly and deliberately along the shadowy, torch-lit corridors.
Finding Jharkheld’s room proved easy enough. The door hadn’t even been locked. Had he not just witnessed the magistrate’s work at Prisoner’s Carnival, Artemis Entreri might have reasoned with him concerning Morik. Now the way was clear for Morik to complete his task and proffer the jewels.
Entreri wondered if the escaped prisoner, the obvious murderer of poor Jharkheld, had been found in the maze of tunnels yet. What misery the man would face. A wry grin found its way onto Entreri’s face, for he hardly felt any guilt about using the wretch for his own gain. The idiot should have known better, after all. Why would someone come in unannounced and at obvious great personal risk to save him? Why hadn’t he even questioned Entreri while the assassin was releasing him from the shackles? Why, if he was smart enough to deserve his life, hadn’t he tried to capture Entreri in his place, to put this unasked-for and unknown savior up in the shackles in his stead, to face the executioner? So many prisoners came through these dungeons that the gaolers likely wouldn’t even have been aware of the change.
So, his fate was the thug’s own to accept, and in Entreri’s thinking, of his own doing. Of course, the thug would claim that someone else had helped him to escape, had set it all up to make it look like it was his doing. Prisoner’s Carnival hardly cared for such excuses. Nor did Artemis Entreri.
He dismissed all thoughts of those problems, glanced around to ensure that he was alone, and placed the magic dispelling orb along the side of the alley. He walked across the way and blew his whistle. He wondered then how this might work. Magic would be needed, after all, to get him back to Calimport, but how might that work if he had to take the orb along? Wouldn’t the orb’s dweomer simply dispel the attempted teleportation?
A blue screen of light appeared beside him. It was a magical doorway, he knew, and not one of Rai-guy’s, but rather the doing of Kimmuriel Oblodra. So that was it, he mused. Perhaps the orb wouldn’t work against psionics.
Or perhaps it would, and that thought unsettled the normally unshakable Entreri profoundly as he moved to collect the item. What would happen if the orb somehow did affect Kimmuriel’s dimension warp? Might he wind up in the wrong place-even in another plane of existence, perhaps?
Entreri shook that thought away as well. Life was risky when dealing with drow, magical orbs or not. He took care to pocket the orb slyly, so that any prying eyes would have a difficult time making out the movement in the dark alley, then strode quickly up to the portal, and with a single deep breath, stepped through.
He came out dizzy, fighting hard to hold his balance, in the guild hall’s private sorcery chambers back in Calimport, hundreds and hundreds of miles away.
There stood Kimmuriel and Rai-guy, staring at him hard.
“The jewels?” Rai-guy asked in the drow language, which Entreri understood, though not well.
“Soon,” the assassin replied in his shaky command of Deep Drow. “There was a problem,”
Both dark elves lifted their white eyebrows in surprise. “Was,” Entreri emphasized. “Morik will have the jewels presently.”
“Then Morik lives,” Kimmuriel remarked pointedly. “What of his attempts to hide from us?”
“More the attempts of local magistrates to seal him off from any outside influences,” Entreri lied. “One local magistrate,” he quickly corrected, seeing their faces sour. “The issue has been remedied.”
Neither drow seemed pleased, but neither openly complained.
“And this local magistrate had magically sealed off Morik’s room from outside, prying eyes?” Rai-guy asked.
“And all other magic,” Entreri answered. “It has been corrected.”
“With the orb?” Kimmuriel added.
“Morik proffered the orb,” Rai-guy remarked, narrowing his eyes.
“He apparently did not know what he was buying,” Entreri said calmly, not getting alarmed, for he recognized that his ploys had worked.
Rai-guy and Kimmuriel would hold their suspicions that it had been Morik’s work, and not that of any minor official, of course. They would suspect that Entreri had bent the truth to suit his own needs, but the assassin knew that he hadn’t given them anything overt enough for them to act upon-at least, not without raising the ire of Jarlaxle.
Again, the realization that his security was almost wholly based on the mercenary leader did not sit well with Entreri. He didn’t like being dependent, equating the word with weakness.
He had to turn the situation around. “You have the orb,” Rai-guy remarked, holding out his slender, deceivingly delicate hand.
“Better for me than for you,” the assassin dared to reply, and that declaration set the two dark elves back on their heels.
Even as he finished speaking, though, Entreri felt the tingling in his pocket. He dropped a hand to the orb, and his sensitive fingers felt a subtle vibration coming from deep within the enchanted item. Entreri’s gaze focused on Kimmuriel. The drow was standing with his eyes closed, deep in concentration.
Then he understood. The orb’s enchantment would do nothing against any of Kimmuriel’s formidable mind powers, and Entreri had seen this psionic trick before. Kimmuriel was reaching into the latent energy within the orb and was exciting that energy to explosive levels.
Entreri toyed with the idea of waiting until the last moment then throwing the orb into Kimmuriel’s face. How he would enjoy the sight of that wretched drow caught in one of his own tricks!
With a wave of his hand, Kimmuriel opened a dimensional portal, from the room to the nearly deserted dusty street outside. It was a portal large enough for the orb, but that would not allow Entreri to step through.
Entreri felt the energy building, building ... the vibrations were not so subtle any longer. Still he held back, staring at Kimmuriel-just staring and waiting, letting the drow know that he was not afraid.
In truth this was no contest of wills. Entreri had a mounting explosion in his pocket, and Kimmuriel was far enough away so that he would feel little effect from it other than the splattering of Entreri’s blood. Again the assassin considered throwing the orb into Kimmuriel’s face, but again he realized the futility of such a course.
Kimmuriel would simply stop exciting the latent energy within the orb, would shut off the explosion as completely as dipping a torch into water snuffed out its flame. Entreri would have given Rai-guy and Kimmuriel all the justification they needed to utterly destroy him. Jarlaxle might be angry, but he couldn’t and wouldn’t deny them their right to defend themselves.
Artemis Entreri wasn’t ready for such a fight. Not yet.
He tossed the orb out through the open door and watched, a split second later, as it exploded into dust. The magical door went away.
“You play dangerous games,” Rai-guy remarked.
“Your drow friend is the one who brought on the explosion,” Entreri casually replied.
“I speak not of that,” the wizard retorted. “There is a common saying among your people that it is foolhardy to send a child to do a man’s work. We have a similar saying, that it is foolhardy to send a human to do a drow’s work.”
Entreri stared at him hard, having no response. This whole situation was starting to feel like those days when he had been trapped down in Menzoberranzan, when he had known that, in a city of twenty thousand dark elves, no matter how good he got, no matter how perfect his craft, he would never be considered any higher in society’s rankings than twenty thousand and one.
Rai-guy and Kimmuriel tossed out a few phrases between themselves, insults mostly, some crude, some subtle, all aimed at Entreri.
He took them, every one, and said nothing, because he could say nothing. He kept thinking of Dallabad Oasis and a particular sword and gauntlet combination.
He accepted their demeaning words, because he had to.
For now.