Prologue
Artemis Entreri rode hard out of Memnon, eager to put as many leagues as he could between himself and all that had transpired there. The flaming hooves of his mount kicked up a plume of hot sand that streamed out behind him, a trail that could be seen for miles if anyone took care to notice. In his present state of mind he could care less who or what designed to follow him so long as it was not Jarlaxle and his new pet Dwarf.
Entreri pulled his reins in hard, as a fit of laughter seized him. The image of Athrogate in a small brimmed black hat took the assassin off guard. He laughed long and hard, a sight anyone would have found disturbing had they been around to witness. He laughed until tears stung his eyes and threatened to spill over. It was the laugh of a man that had been too long dead.
It emerged from somewhere beyond the vast emptiness that threatened to consume him. It was irrational, spontaneous, and genuine. As the spasms of laughter died down, he began to ponder the source of the emotion, and then thought better of it. Come what may, he was done with analyzing his feelings. Too rarely a man was given extra years of life, and Artemis Entreri would not waste it contemplating his every emotion.
He blew out a great sigh. Humorous as the teaming of that pair was, they truly deserved each other. In a matter of weeks, Jarlaxle would be in the company of the best dressed Dwarf in all the realms, with his skin a few shades darker for the trouble, Entreri was sure. He chuckled a bit at that. If Jarlaxle had thought his lessons on diplomacy lost on me, let him see how well Athrogate takes to them.
Entreri kicked his mount into motion and sped off through the desert that spanned from Memnon to Calimport. He stopped to rest through the hottest part of the day almost, but not quite, regretting leaving the enchanted hat with Jarlaxle. He sniggered at the thought. Look who is becoming careless with his magical items. Ah well, the hat he could live with; the Drow he could not. Wherever the mercenary was headed, whatever personal demons Jarlaxle had left to battle, Entreri was determined to have no further part of it.
He dropped a small scale, sandy brown tent on to the hot sand and spoke a command word. As soon as he did, it began to grow until he spoke a second command word to halt its progress. Undetectable to any mundane eyes, the tent would serve as a respite from the hot sun. Entreri dismissed his mount and made his way to the back of the tent to lounge on a pile of soft, silk covered pillows. There he forced himself to relax. He had seen the back of Jarlaxle D'aerthe, for a while at least.
Returning to Calimport should be his main concern for the moment. With all the things that had happened after he and the drow took their leave of the place, Entreri had not given a thought as to what would await him should he ever decide to return.
He had left the Basadoni Guild in ruins. Kimmuriel and Rai'gy had slaughtered any who had witnessed the presence of Bregan D'aerthe sometime after Jarlaxle's little incident with Crenshinibon. Bregan D'aerthe had also decimated several of the smaller guilds as well, leaving only burned out husks where once lavish guild houses stood.
In his haste to get to Jarlaxle before his lieutenants could take Crenshinibon from their leader's cold dead hands, Entreri had also run afoul of Pasha Da'Daclan. True he only killed five or so of the Rakers's street soldiers, but Sharlotta never made it to her meeting with Pasha Da'Daclan. It was never wise to insult a Pasha.
Still, he knew the Basadoni Guild was strong. Even decapitated as it was without the old man and his lieutenants; Artemis figured it could survive even the worst Drow wrought chaos.
Then there was Dwahvel Tiggerwillies. He had strong feelings for the diminutive female and was more than eager to see her again, eager to be among friends. Never in his life could he recall ever having called anyone a true friend. Dwahvel was someone he knew he could trust, and he had to admit it felt good. Truly Drizzt was right; life was empty without friends with which to share it.
Drizzt... Artemis hung his head and let out a longsuffering sigh. He reached into his pocket and clenched his fist around a cold metal locket. He told himself once again that he and Drizzt could never have been friends. Their hate for each other was just too great to overcome. In another life perhaps, but even then they were just too different, or too alike for comfort.
Well, what's done is done, he sighed, and there could be no going back. He had lifted the locket off Jarlaxle to keep as a reminder. A reminder of what, the assassin had yet to discern. All he knew was he had to have it. If Jarlaxle ever missed the item he could always have Kimmuriel fetch up another one.
Returning to Calimport may turn out a bigger disaster than before. Entreri was sure a sizable price would be on his head, and in Calimport rarely was a bounty left uncollected. He was older and wiser now; he told himself he would not make the same mistakes twice.
Older... it had been nearly a year since he had thought himself older, slower. No more, he thought, as he inspected the gray pallor of his skin. No, physically he was not older at all. If any thing he felt and appeared much younger than his more than forty years. How many years he had left in him was a mystery, infused with the stuff of shadow, he may very well live quite a long time.
He searched beneath the pillows of his tent until he found one of the many silk sheets Jarlaxle was so fond of. He couldn't help but smile as he cut several long strips form the supple black fabric. The drow would have a fit if he ever learned what cruelty Entreri now inflected upon his beloved sheets.
He wound the fabric tight over the hilts of both the jeweled dagger and Charon's Claw, suitably disguising the distinctive weapons. He knew it wouldn't hold under close scrutiny, but that hardly mattered as he did not intend anyone to get a lingering look.
Indeed, even if the restructured Basadoni Guild welcomed him back with an open purse, Entreri still had Da'Daclan of the Rakers to contend with. Assuming the Pasha still lived. For all he knew an all out street war could have erupted in the wake of Jarlaxle's little venture.
Artemis felt his shoulders slump as he considered his options. He could easily disguise himself and bypass any obstacles he may otherwise encounter, or he could chance slinking form shadow to shadow and likely remain unnoticed as he made his was through the city, but for how long?
He would not, could not become his own prisoner in the Copper Ante. His face twisted into a look of utter revolution as an image of Dondon sprang unbidden to mind. No! Never that, gluttony would never be his vice, nor cowardice his prison. He shook his head to further banish the image he found far too disgusting to contemplate.
He knew his worry could all be for naught, though it was doubtful, there was still the possibility that all was well. He could still be considered a ranking member of Basadoni Guild. Not that he wanted such a position. No, that man died back in Memnon. Died in a fiery temple to the false god of vengeance.
Truly he was at an impasse. In Calimshan an assassin of his caliber did not simply retire. Retirement was merely a term for banishment, or death, which ever came first. The Great Artemis Entreri hardly feared for his life. He scoffed at the very notion, at the same time however; he knew the value of caution. The last thing he wanted was to get in over his head.
The best course of action, he decided, was to sneak into the Copper Ante and seek out Dwahvel. Dwahvel Tiggerwillies would know every detail he needed. While he was unsure as to what changes the city's streets had undergone, Entreri was certain the Halflings Guild would have remained unscathed.
It was upon her word the future of his life hinged it seemed. He had not the stomach to return to his old life in Calimport. If the city would not accept him as a changed man, Entreri would make his home elsewhere. With that decision made, he was ready to be on his way.
Jarlaxle and Athrogate were able to procure employment as caravan guards, escorting a caravan that had departed that very day out of Memmon. The drow in elf's skin was more than glad to leave the foul place behind. He shuddered slightly as he remembered the crunch of Athrogate's little snack.
He turned in his saddle to look back down the length of the caravan, his eyes widening slightly as he caught sight of the dwarf. For all his grumbling, the little fellow seemed to be getting on better with his mount. Well, at the very least, the beast had stopped spitting. He smiled as he turned back around and considered his own mount.
Camels, the oddly shaped beasts were called. He twisted his delicate fingers in the things shaggy matted fur. As odd as the camel beasts appeared, he had to admit they were well adapted to such a harsh climate. Though he was curious about what purpose the large misshapen humps served, he wondered too what price such an exotic creature would fetch in the lightless caverns of his home. Jarlaxle chuckled to himself as he imagined Kimmuriel's reaction to such a request.
True, he and his less than enthusiastic companion, had far better mounts at their disposal, but a Nightmare and an Infernal Boar would be much too conspicuous. As it stood, it was only by the grace of Selûne that they had not been chased down and apprehended for Entreri's little temple interlude. He smirked at that, it seemed the gods themselves' did indeed possess a fair sense of irony. Ah well, that was a contemplation for another day.
They were on their way to Myratma, a port city just north of Memmon. From there Jarlaxle had plans to book passage aboard a ship bound for Baldur's Gate. Striking out from Baldur's Gate over land to Cormyr seemed the best rout, far better than traveling the whole way in the saddle in any case. Besides, Jarlaxle thought, I'm looking forward to testing my sea-legs.
Again he looked back at his comrade, just in time to see the dwarf hit the sand face first. Quelling the urge to laugh out loud, Jarlaxle smoothly guided his camel to the back of the caravan. He dismounted with a flourish and extended his hand to a sand spitting Athrogate.
Just as the dwarf seized his wrist in a vice like grip, Jarlaxle caught on to the ruse, but it was too late. With a strong jerk, Athrogate sent the handsome elf tumbling toward the sand.
Jarlaxle managed to alter his course, and using the momentum, he fell into a graceful roll followed by a series of handsprings and aerial flips. He finished with a bow, sweeping his great feathered hat out in front of him so the brim nearly touched the sand.
"Strange way ta gets yer kicks elf!" Athrogate called out as he brushed the sand out of his beard.
Jarlaxle regarded the dwarf coldly as he replaced his hat atop his long golden hair. His anger abated some what as dusted off his fine tailored cloak.
"What no rhymes from you, my dear Athrogate? Oh, but I am wounded! To think such a performance has gone to waste," Jarlaxle said, lifting a hand as if to cover a wound in his chest.
"Suren ye test me patience, coal skin. That foul camel beasts' a'beggen. A'beggen for a kiss I'd reckon."
The grave tone in his voice did less to betray his intended kiss than the swiftness with which his twin maces appeared in his hands.
"Ah that's more like it my friend, but come now it's only a two day trek to Myratma. There is plenty of fine ale, and I'm sure an even finer woman, awaiting Athrogate there," Jarlaxle spread his hands to accentuate his point.
"So long as yer payen elf an none o' them skinny little ones yer so fond of. I likes a little meat on them bones!! Gwaaahaa!" Athrogate made a show of replacing the maces across his back as they headed back to the caravan.
"That's the spirit! Now why don't you go and sit in one of the wagons for a spell, give the poor beast a rest for a while?" Jarlaxle kept his tone up beat, but in truth he was wondering if even Bregan D'aerthe had enough gold in its coffers to buy a woman for that one.
A grunt was the only response he got out of the dwarf. Jarlaxle could only shake his head and sigh. It was going to be a rather long two days, especially if Athrogate insisted on behaving like a mule. Ah well, the price one pays for good company, he thought, as he tracked down his own camel.