Servant of the Shard: The Sellswords

by R. A. Salvatore

Crenshinibon is no mystery to my people, for it is an ancient item indeed, and one that has crossed the trails of the illithids on many occasions, Yharaskrik admitted. Indeed, Crenshinibon, the Crystal Shard, despises us, for we alone are quite beyond its tempting reach. We alone as a great race are possessed of the mental discipline necessary to prevent the Crystal Shard from its greatest desires of absolute control. You, too, Kimmuriel, can step beyond the orb of Crenshinibon’s influence and easily.

  The drow took a long moment to contemplate the implications of that claim, but naturally, he quickly came to the conclusion that Yharaskrik was relating that psionics alone might fend the intrusions of the Crystal Shard, since Jarlaxle’s potent eye patch was based in wizardly magic and not the potent powers of the mind.

  Crenshinibon’s primary attack is upon the ego, the illithid explained. It collects slaves with promises of greatness and riches.

  Not unlike the drow, Kimmuriel related, thinking of the tactics Bregan D’aerthe had used on Morik.

  Yharaskrik laughed a gurgling, bubbly sound. The more ambitious the wielder, the easier he will be controlled.

  But what if the wielder is ambitious yet ultimately cautious? Kimmuriel asked, for never had he known Jarlaxle to allow his ambition to overrule good judgment—never before, at least, for only recently had he, Rai-guy, and others come to question the wisdom of the mercenary leader’s decisions.

  Some lessers can deny the call, the illithid admitted, and it was obvious to Kimmuriel that Yharaskrik considered anyone who was not illithid or who was not at least a psionicist a lesser. Crenshinibon has little sway over paladins and goodly priests, over righteous kings and noble peasants, but one who desires more—and who of the lesser races, drow included, does not?—and who is not above deception and destruction to further his ends, will inevitably sink into Crenshinibon’s grasp.

  It made perfect sense to Kimmuriel, of course, and explained why Drizzt Do’Urden and his “heroic” friends had seemingly put the artifact away. It also explained Jarlaxle’s recent behavior, confirming Kimmuriel’s suspicions that Bregan D’aerthe was indeed being led astray.

  I would not normally refuse an offer of Bregan D’aerthe, Yharaskrik imparted a moment later, after Kimmuriel had digested the information. You and your reputable kin would be amusing at the least—and likely enlightening and profitable as well—but I fear that all of Bregan D’aerthe will soon fall under the domination of Crenshinibon.

  And why would Yharaskrik fear such a thing, if Crenshinibon becomes leader in order to take us in the same ambitious direction that we have always pursued? Kimmuriel asked, and he feared that he already knew the answer.

  I trust not the drow, Yharaskrik admitted, but I understand enough of your desires and methods to recognize that we need not be enemies among the cattle humans. I trust you not, but I fear you not, because you would find no gain in facilitating my demise. Indeed, you understand that I am connected to the one community that is my people, and that if you killed me you would be making many powerful enemies.

  Kimmuriel bowed, acknowledging the truth of the illithid’s observations.

  Crenshinibon, however, Yharaskrik went on, acts not with such rationality. It is all-devouring, a scourge upon the world, controlling all that it can and consuming that which it cannot. It is the bane of devils, yet the love of demons, a denier of laws for the sake of the destruction wrought by chaos. Your Lady Lolth would idolize such an artifact and truly enjoy the chaos of its workings—except of course that Crenshinibon, unlike her drow agents, works not for any ends, but merely to devour. Crenshinibon will bring great power to Bregan D’aerthe—witness the new willing slaves it has made for you, among them the very daughter of the man you overthrew. In the end, Crenshinibon will abandon you, will bring upon you foes too great to fend. This is the history of the Crystal Shard, repeated time and again through the centuries. It is unbridled hunger without discipline, doomed to bloat and die.

  Kimmuriel unintentionally winced at the thoughts, for he could see that very path being woven right before the still-secretive doorstep of Bregan D’aerthe.

  All-devouring, Yharaskrik said again. Controlling all that it can and consuming that which it cannot.

  And you are among that which it cannot, Kimmuriel reasoned.

  “As are you,” Yharaskrik said in its watery voice. “Tower of Iron Will and Mind Blank,” the illithid recited, two typical and readily available mental defense modes that psionicists often used in their battles with each other.

  Kimmuriel growled, understanding well the trap that the illithid had just laid for him, the alliance of necessity that Yharaskrik, obviously fearing that Kimmuriel might betray him to Jarlaxle and the Crystal Shard, had just forced upon him. He knew those defensive mental postures, of course, and if the Crystal Shard came after him, seeking control, now that he knew the two defenses would prevent the intrusions, he would inevitably and automatically summon them up. For, like any psionicist, like any reasoning being, Kimmuriel’s ego and id would never allow such controlling possession.

  He stared long and hard at the illithid, hating the creature, and yet sympathizing with Yharaskrik’s fears of Crenshinibon. Or, perhaps, it occurred to him that Yharaskrik had just saved him. Crenshinibon would have come after him, to dominate if not to destroy, and if Kimmuriel had discovered the correct ways to block the intrusion in time, then he would have suddenly become an enemy in an unfavorable position, as opposed to now, when he, and not Crenshinibon, properly understood the situation at hand.

  “You will shadow us?” he asked the illithid, hoping the answer would be yes.

  He felt a wave of thoughts roll through him, ambiguous and lacking any specifics, but indicating clearly that Yharaskrik meant to keep a watchful eye on the dangerous Crystal Shard.

  They were allies, then, out of necessity.

  “I do not like her,” came the high-pitched, excited voice of Dwahvel Tiggerwillies. The halfling shuffled over to take Sharlotta’s vacated seat at Entreri’s table.

  “Is it her height and beauty that so offend you?” Entreri sarcastically replied.

  Dwahvel shot him a perfectly incredulous look. “Her dishonesty,” the halfling explained.

  That answer raised Entreri’s eyebrow. Wasn’t everyone on the streets of Calimport, Entreri and Dwahvel included, basically a manipulator? If a claim of dishonesty was a reason not to like someone in Calimport, then the judgmental person would find herself quite alone.

  “There is a difference,” Dwahvel explained, intercepting a nearby waiter with a wave of her hand and taking a drink from his laden tray.

  “So it comes back to that height and beauty problem, then,” Entreri chided with a smile.

  His own words did indeed amuse him, but what caught his fancy even more was the realization that he could, and often did, talk to Dwahvel in such a manner. In all of his life, Artemis Entreri had known very few people with whom he could have a casual conversation, but he found himself so at ease with Dwahvel that he had even considered hiring a wizard to determine if she was using some charming magic on him. In fact, then and there, Entreri clenched his gloved fist, concentrating briefly on the item to see if he could determine any magical emanations coming from Dwahvel, aimed at him.

  There was nothing, only honest friendship, which to Artemis Entreri was a magic more foreign indeed.

  “I have often been jealous of human women,” Dwahvel answered sarcastically, doing well to keep a perfectly straight face. “They are often tall enough to attract even ogres, after all.”

  Entreri chuckled, an expression from him so rare that he actually surprised himself in hearing it.

  “There is a difference between Sharlotta and many others, yourself included,” Dwahvel went on. “We all play the game—that is how we survive, after all—and we all deceive and plot, twisting truths and lies alike to reach our own desired ends. The confusion for some, Sharlotta included, lies in those ends. I understand you. I know your desires, your goals, and know
that I impede those goals at my peril. But I trust as well that, as long as I do not impede those goals, I’ll not find the wrong end of either of your fine blades.”

  “So thought Dondon,” Entreri put in, referring to Dondon Tiggerwillies, Dwahvel’s cousin and once Entreri’s closest friend in the city. Entreri had murdered the pitiful Dondon soon after his return from his final battle with Drizzt Do’Urden.

  “Your actions against Dondon did not surprise him, I assure you,” Dwahvel remarked. “He was a good enough friend to you to have killed you if he had ever found you in the same situation as you found him. You did him a favor.”

  Entreri shrugged, hardly sure of that, not even sure of his own motivations in killing Dondon. Had he done so to free Dondon from his own gluttonous ends, from the chains that kept him locked in a room and in a state of constant incapacity? Or had he killed Dondon simply because he was angry at the failed creature, simply because he could not stand to look at the miserable thing he had become any longer?

  “Sharlotta is not trustworthy because you cannot understand her true goals and motivations,” Dwahvel continued. “She desires power, yes, as do many, but with her, one can never understand where she might be thinking that she can find that power. There is no loyalty there, even to those who maintain consistency of character and action. No, that one will take the better deal at the expense of any and all.”

  Entreri nodded, not disagreeing in the least. He had never liked Sharlotta, and like Dwahvel, he had never even begun to trust her. There were no scruples or codes within Sharlotta Vespers, only blatant manipulation.

  “She crosses the line every time,” Dwahvel remarked. “I have never been fond of women who use their bodies to get that which they desire. I’ve got my own charms, you know, and yet I have never had to stoop to such a level.”

  The lighthearted ending brought another smile to Entreri’s face, and he knew that Dwahvel was only half joking. She did indeed have her charms: a pleasant appearance and fine, flattering dress, as sharp a wit as was to be found, and a keen sense of her surroundings.

  “How are you getting on with your new companion?” Dwahvel asked.

  Entreri looked at her curiously—she did have a way of bouncing about a conversation.

  “The sword,” Dwahvel clarified, feigning exasperation. “You have it now, or it has you.”

  “I have it,” Entreri assured her, dropping his hand to the bony hilt.

  Dwahvel eyed him suspiciously.

  “I have not yet fought my battle with Charon’s Claw,” Entreri admitted to her, hardly believing that he was doing so, “but I do not think it so powerful a weapon that I need fear it.”

  “As Jarlaxle believes with Crenshinibon?” Dwahvel asked, and again, Entreri’s eyebrow lifted high.

  “He constructed a crystalline tower,” the ever-observant halfling argued. “That is one of the most basic desires of the Crystal Shard, if the old sages are to be believed.”

  Entreri started to ask her how she could possibly know of any of that, of the shard and the tower at Dallabad and of any connection, but he didn’t bother. Of course Dwahvel knew. She always knew—that was one of her charms. Entreri had dropped enough hints in their many discussions for her to figure it all out, and she did have an incredible number of other sources as well. If Dwahvel Tiggerwillies learned that Jarlaxle carried an artifact known as Crenshinibon, then there would be little doubt that she would go to the sages and pay good coin to learn every little-known detail about the powerful item.

  “He thinks he controls it,” Dwahvel said.

  “Do not underestimate Jarlaxle,” Entreri replied. “Many have. They all are dead.”

  “Do not underestimate the Crystal Shard,” Dwahvel returned without hesitation. “Many have. They all are dead.”

  “A wonderful combination then,” Entreri said matter-of-factly. He dropped his chin in his hand, stroking his smooth cheek and bringing his finger to a pinch at the small tuft of hair that remained on his chin, considering the conversation and the implications. “Jarlaxle can handle the artifact,” he decided.

  Dwahvel shrugged noncommitally.

  “Even more than that,” Entreri went on, “Jarlaxle will welcome the union if Crenshinibon proves his equal. That is the difference between him and me,” he explained, and though he was speaking to Dwahvel, he was, in fact, really talking to himself, sorting out his many feelings on this complicated issue. “He will allow Crenshinibon to be his partner, if that is necessary, and will find ways to make their goals one and the same.”

  “But Artemis Entreri has no partners,” Dwahvel reasoned.

  Entreri considered the words carefully, and even glanced down at the powerful sword he now wore, a sword possessed of sentience and influence, a sword whose spirit he surely meant to break and dominate. “No,” he agreed. “I have no partners, and I want none. The sword is mine and will serve me. Nothing less.”

  “Or?”

  “Or it will find its way into the acid mouth of a black dragon,” Entreri strongly assured the halfling, growling with every word, and Dwahvel wasn’t about to argue with those words spoken in that tone.

  “Who is the stronger then,” Dwahvel dared to ask, “Jarlaxle the partner or Entreri the loner?”

  “I am,” Entreri assured her without the slightest hesitation. “Jarlaxle might seem so for now, but inevitably he will find a traitor among his partners who will bring him down.”

  “You never could stand the thought of taking orders,” Dwahvel said with a laugh. “That is why the shape of the world so bothers you!”

  “To take an order implies that you must trust the giver of such,” Entreri retorted, and the tone of his banter showed that he was taking no offense. In fact, there was an eagerness in his voice rarely heard, a true testament to those many charms of Dwahvel Tiggerwillies. “That, my dear little Dwahvel, is why the shape of the world so bothers me. I learned at a very young age that I cannot trust in or count on anyone but myself. To do so invites deceit and despair and opens a vulnerability that can be exploited. To do so is a weakness.”

  Now it was Dwahvel’s turn to sit back a bit and digest the words. “But you have come to trust in me, it would seem,” she said, “merely by speaking with me such. Have I brought out a weakness in you, my friend?”

  Entreri smiled again, a crooked smile that didn’t really tell Dwahvel whether he was amused or merely warning her not to push this observation too far.

  “Perhaps it is merely that I know you and your band well enough to hold no fear of you,” the cocky assassin remarked, rising from his seat and stretching. “Or maybe it is merely that you have not yet been foolish enough to try to give me an order.”

  Still that grin remained, but Dwahvel, too, was smiling, and sincerely. She saw it in Entreri’s eyes now, that little hint of appreciation. Perhaps their talks were a bit of weakness to Entreri’s jaded way of thinking. The truth of it, whether he wanted to admit it or not, was that he did indeed trust her, perhaps more deeply than he had ever trusted anyone in all of his life. At least, more deeply than he had since that first person—and Dwahvel figured that it had to have been a parent or a close family friend—had so deeply betrayed and wounded him.

  Entreri headed for the door, that casual, easy walk of his, perfect in balance and as graceful as any court dancer. Many heads turned to watch him go—so many were always concerned with the whereabouts of deadly Artemis Entreri.

  Not so for Dwahvel, though. She had come to understand this relationship, this friendship of theirs, not long after Dondon’s death. She knew that if she ever crossed Artemis Entreri, he would surely kill her, but she knew, too, where those lines of danger lay.

  Dwahvel’s smile was indeed genuine and comfortable and confident as she watched her dangerous friend leave the Copper Ante that night.

  CHAPTER

  NOT AS CLEVER AS THEY THINK

  10

  My master, he says that I am to pay you, yes?” the slobbering little brown-ski
nned man said to one of the fortress guards. “Kohrin Soulez is Dallabad, yes? My master, he says I pay Kohrin Soulez for water and shade, yes?”

  The Dallabad soldier looked to his amused companion, and both of them regarded the little man, who continued bobbing his head stupidly.

  “You see that tower?” the first asked, drawing the little man’s gaze with his own toward the crystalline structure gleaming brilliantly over Dallabad. “That is Ahdahnia’s tower. Ahdahnia Soulez, who now rules Dallabad.”

  The little man looked up at the tower with obvious awe. “Ah-dahn-ee-a,” he said carefully, slowly, as if committing it to memory. “Soulez, yes? Like Kohrin.”

  “The daughter of Kohrin Soulez,” the guard explained. “Go and tell your master that Ahdahnia Soulez now rules Dallabad. You pay her, through me.”

  The little man’s head bobbed frantically. “Yes, yes,” he agreed, handing over the modest purse, “and my master will meet with her, yes?”

  The guard shrugged. “If I get around to asking her, perhaps,” he said, and he held his hand out, and the little man looked at it curiously.

  “If I find the time to bother to tell her,” the guard said pointedly.

  “I pay you to tell her?” the little man asked, and the other guard snorted loudly, shaking his head at the little man’s continuing stupidity.

  “You pay me, I tell her,” the guard said plainly. “You do not pay me, and your master does not meet with her.”

  “But if I pay you, we … he, meets with her?”

  “If she so chooses,” the guard explained. “I will tell her. I can promise no more than that.”

  The little man’s head continued to bob, but his stare drifted off to the side, as if he was considering the options laid out before him. “I pay,” he agreed, and handed over another, smaller, purse.

  The guard snatched it away and bounced it in his hand, checking the weight, and shook his head and scowled, indicating clearly that it was not enough.

  “All I have!” the little man protested.