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.
CHAPTER
MANY ROADS TO MANY PLACES
4
Entreri stood in the shadows of the doorway, listening with great curiosity to the soliloquy taking place in the room. He could only make out small pieces of the oration. The speaker, Jarlaxle, was talking quickly and excitedly in the drow tongue. Entreri, in addition to his limited Deep Drow vocabulary, couldn’t hear every word from this distance.
“They will not stay ahead of us, because we move too quickly,” the mercenary leader remarked. Entreri heard and was able to translate every word of that line, for it seemed as if Jarlaxle was cheering someone on. “Yes, street by street they will fall. Who can stand against us joined?”
“Us joined?” the assassin silently echoed, repeating the drow word over and over to make sure that he was translating it properly. Us? Jarlaxle could not be speaking of his alliance with Entreri, or even with the remnants of the Basadoni Guild. Compared to the strength of Bregan D’aerthe, these were minor additions. Had Jarlaxle made some new deal, then, without Entreri’s knowledge? A deal with some pasha, perhaps, or an even greater power?
The assassin bent in closer, listening particularly for any names of demons or devils—or of illithids, perhaps. He shuddered at the thought of any of the three. Demons were too unpredictable and too savage to serve any alliance. They would do whatever served their specific needs at any particular moment, without regard for the greater benefit to the alliance. Devils were more predictable— were too predictable. In their hierarchical view of the world, they inevitably sat on top of the pile.
Still, compared to the third notion that had come to him, that of the illithids, Entreri was almost hoping to hear Jarlaxle utter the name of a mighty demon. Entreri had been forced to deal with illithids during his stay in Menzoberranzan—the mind flayers were an unavoidable side of life in the drow city—and he had no desire to ever, ever, see one of the squishy-headed, wretched creatures again.
He listened a bit longer, and Jarlaxle seemed to calm down and to settle more comfortably into his seat. The mercenary leader was still talking, just muttering to himself about the impending downfall of the Rakers, when Entreri strode into the room.
“Alone?” the assassin asked innocently. “I thought I heard voices.”
He noted with some relief that Jarlaxle wasn’t wearing his magical, protective eye patch this day, which made it unlikely that the drow had just encountered, or soon planned to encounter, any illithids. The eye patch protected against mind magic, and none in all the world were more proficient at such things as the dreaded mind flayers.
“Sorting things out,” Jarlaxle explained, and his ease with the common tongue of the surface world seemed no less fluent than that of his native language. “There is so much afoot.”
“Danger, mostly,” Entreri replied.
“For some,” said Jarlaxle with a chuckle.
Entreri looked at him doubtfully.
“Surely you do not believe that the Rakers can match our power?” the mercenary leader asked incredulously.
“Not in open battle,” Entreri answered, “but that is how it has been with them for many years. They cannot match many, blade to blade, and yet they have ever found a way to survive.”
“Because they are fortunate.”
“Because they are intricately tied to greater powers,” Entreri corrected. “A man need not be physically powerful if he is guarded by a giant.”
“Unless the giant has more tightly befriended a rival,” Jarlaxle interjected. “And giants are known to be unreliable.”
“You have arranged this with the greater lords of Calimport?” Entreri asked, unconvinced. “With whom, and why was I not involved in such a negotiation?”
Jarlaxle shrugged, offering not a clue.
“Impossible,” Entreri decided. “Even if you threatened one or more of them, the Rakers are too long-standing, too entrenched in the power web of all Calimshan, for such treachery against them to prosper. They have allies to protect them against other allies. There is no
way that even Jarlaxle and Bregan D’aerthe could have cleared the opposition to such a sudden and destabilizing shift in the power structure of the region as the decimation of the Rakers.”
“Perhaps I have allied with the most powerful being ever to come to Calimport,” Jarlaxle said dramatically, and typically, cryptically.
Entreri narrowed his dark eyes and stared at the outrageous drow, looking for clues, any clues, as to what this uncharacteristic behavior might herald. Jarlaxle was often cryptic, always mysterious, and ever ready to grab at an opportunity that would bring him greater power or profits, and yet, something seemed out of place here. To Entreri’s thinking, the impending assault on the Rakers was a blunder, which was something the legendary Jarlaxle never did. It seemed obvious, then, that the cunning drow had indeed made some powerful connection or ally, or was possessed of some deeper understanding of the situation. This Entreri doubted since he, not Jarlaxle, was the best connected person on Calimport’s streets.
Even given one of those possibilities, though, something just didn’t seem quite right to Entreri. Jarlaxle was cocky and arrogant— of course he was!—but never before had he seemed this self-assured, especially in a situation as potentially explosive as this.
The situation seemed only more explosive if Entreri looked beyond the inevitability of the downfall of the Rakers. He knew well the murderous power of the dark elves and held no doubt that Bregan D’aerthe would slaughter the competing guild, but there were so many implications to that victory—too many, certainly, for Jarlaxle to be so comfortable.
“Has your role in this been determined?” Jarlaxle asked.
“No role,” Entreri answered, and his tone left no doubt that he was pleased by that fact. “Rai-guy and Kimmuriel have all but cast me aside.”
Jarlaxle laughed aloud, for the truth behind that statement—that Entreri had been willingly cast aside—was all too obvious.
Entreri stared at him and didn’t crack a smile. Jarlaxle had to know the dangers he had just walked into, a potentially catastrophic situation that could send him and Bregan D’aerthe fleeing back to the dark hole of Menzoberranzan. Perhaps that was it, the assassin mused. Perhaps Jarlaxle longed for home and was slyly facilitating the move. The mere thought of that made Entreri wince. Better that Jarlaxle kill him outright than drag him back there.
Perhaps Entreri would be set up as an agent, as was Morik in Luskan. No, the assassin decided, that would not suffice. Calimport was more dangerous than Luskan, and if the power of Bregan D’aerthe was forced away, he would not take such a risk. Too many powerful enemies would be left behind.
“It will begin soon, if it has not already,” Jarlaxle remarked. “Thus, it will be over soon.”
Sooner than you believe, Entreri thought, but he kept silent. He was a man who survived through careful calculation, by weighing scrupulously the consequences of every step and every word. He knew Jarlaxle to be a kindred spirit, but he could not reconcile that with the action that was being undertaken this very night, which, in searching it from any angle, seemed a tremendous and unnecessary gamble.
What did Jarlaxle know that he did not?
No one ever looked more out of place anywhere than did Sharlotta Vespers as she descended the rung ladder into one of Calimport’s sewers. She was wearing her trademark long gown, her hair neatly coiffed as always, her exotic face painted delicately to emphasize her brown, almond-shaped eyes. Still, she was quite at home there, and anyone who knew her would not have been surprised to find her there.
Especially if they considered her warlord escorts.
“What word from above?” Rai-guy asked her, speaking quickly and in the drow tongue. The wizard, despite his misgivings about Sharlotta, was impressed by how quickly she had absorbed the language.
“There is tension,” Sharlotta replied. “The doors of many guilds are locked fast this night. Even the Copper Ante is accepting no patrons—an unprecedented event. The streets know that something is afoot.”
Rai-guy flashed a sour look at Kimmuriel. The two had just agreed that their plans depended mostly on stealth and surprise, that all of the elements of the Basadoni Guild and Bregan D’aerthe would have to reach their objectives nearly simultaneously to ensure that few witnesses remained.
How much this seemed like Menzoberranzan! In the drow city, one house going after another—a not-uncommon event—would measure success not only by the result of the actual fighting, but by the lack of credible witnesses left to produce evidence of the treachery. Even if every drow in the great city knew without doubt which house had precipitated the battle, no action would ever be taken unless the evidence demanding it was overwhelming.
But this was not Menzoberranzan, Rai-guy reminded himself. Up here, suspicion would invite investigation. In the drow city, suspicion without undeniable evidence only invited quiet praise.
“Our warriors are in place,” Kimmuriel remarked. “The drow are beneath the guild houses, with force enough to batter through, and the Basadoni soldiers have surrounded the main three buildings. It will be swift, for they cannot anticipate the attack from below.”
Rai-guy kept his gaze upon Sharlotta as his associate detailed the situation, and he did not miss a slight arch of one of her eyebrows. Had Bregan D’aerthe been betrayed? Were the Rakers setting up defenses against the assault from below?
“The agents have been isolated?” the drow wizard pressed to Sharlotta, referring to the first round of the invasion: the fight with—or rather, the assassinations of—Raker spies in the streets.
“The agents are not to be found,” Sharlotta replied matter-of-factly, a surprising tone given the enormity of the implications.
Again Rai-guy glanced at Kimmuriel.
“All is in place,” the psionicist reminded.
“Keego’s swarm cramps the tunnels,” Rai-guy replied, his words an archaic drow proverb referring to a long-ago battle in which an overwhelming swarm of goblins led by the crafty, rebellious slave, Keego, had been utterly destroyed by a small and sparsely populated city of dark elves. The drow had gone out from their homes to catch the larger force in the tight tunnels beyond the relatively open drow city. Simply translated, given the current situation, Rai-guy’s words followed up Kimmuriel’s remark. All was in place to fight the wrong battle.
Sharlotta looked at the wizard curiously, and he understood her confusion, for the soldiers of Bregan D’aerthe waiting in the tunnels beneath the Rakers’ houses hardly constituted a “swarm.”
Of course, Rai-guy hardly cared whether Sharlotta understood or not.
“Have we traced the course of the missing agents?” Rai-guy asked Sharlotta. “Do we know where they have fled?”
“Back to the houses, likely,” the woman replied. “Few are on the streets this night.”
Again, the less-than-subtle hint that too much had been revealed. Had Sharlotta herself betrayed them? Rai-guy fought the urge to interrogate her on the spot, using drow torture techniques that would quickly and efficiently break down any human. If he did so, he knew, he would have to answer to Jarlaxle, and Rai-guy was not ready for that fight … yet.
If he called it all off at that critical moment—if all the fighters, Basadoni and dark elf, returned to the guild house with their weapons unstained by Raker blood—Jarlaxle would not be pleased. The drow was determined to see this conquest through despite the protests of all of his lieutenants.
Rai-guy closed his eyes and logically sifted through the situation, trying to find some safer common ground. There was one Raker house far removed from the others, and likely only lightly manned. While destroying it would do little to weaken the structure and effectiveness of the opposition guild, perhaps such a conquest would quiet Jarlaxle’s expected rampage.
“Recall the Basadoni soldiers,” the wizard ordered. “Have their retreat be a visible one—instruct some to enter the Copper Ante or other establishments.”
“The Copper Ante’s doors are closed,” Sharlotta reminded him.
“Then open them,” Rai-guy instructed. “Tell Dwahvel Tiggerwillies that there is no need for her and her diminutive clan to cower this night. Let our soldiers be seen about the streets—not as a unified fighting force, but in smaller groups.”
“What of Bregan D’aerthe?” Kimmuriel asked with some concern. Not as much concern, Rai-guy noted, as he would have expected, given that he had just countermanded Jarlaxle’s explicit orders.
“Reposition Berg’inyon and all of our magic-users to the eighth position,” Rai-guy replied, referring to the sewer hold beneath the exposed Raker house.
Kimmuriel arched his white eyebrows at that. They knew the maximum resistance they could expect from that lone outpost, and it hardly seemed as if Berg’inyon and more magic-users would be needed to win out easily in that locale.
“It must be executed as completely and carefully as if we were attacking House Baenre itself,” Rai-guy demanded, and Kimmuriel’s eyebrows went even higher. “Redefine the plans and reposition all necessary drow forces to execute the attack.”
“We could summon our kobold slaves alone to finish this task,” Kimmuriel replied derisively.
“No kobolds and no humans,” Rai-guy explained, emphasizing every word. “This is work for drow alone.”
Kimmuriel seemed to catch on to Rai-guy’s thinking then, for a wry smile showed on his face. He glanced at Sharlotta, nodded back at Rai-guy, and closed his eyes. He used his psionic energies to reach out to Berg’inyon and the other Bregan D’aerthe field commanders.
Rai-guy let his gaze settle fully on Sharlotta. To her credit, her expression and posture did not reveal her thoughts. Still, Rai-guy felt certain she was wondering if he had come to suspect her or some other Raker informant.
“You said that our power would prove overwhelming,” Sharlotta remarked.
“For today’s battle, perhaps,” Rai-guy replied. “The wise thief does not steal the egg if his action will awaken the dragon.”
Sharlotta continued to stare at him, continued to wonder, he knew. He enjoyed the realization that this too-clever human woman, guilty or not, was suddenly worried. She turned for the ladder again and took a step up.
Servant of the Shard: The Sellswords Page 5