Chapter 2

Life in Waterdeep was boring, Artemis decided as he stood in the anteroom outside the office of one of the merchant guildsmen. It was boring and predictable, and a far cry from every other period in his life, especially most recently.

Life with Jarlaxle had been anything but boring. It had been adventuresome and unpredictable. One day he was fighting a lich to the death, the next he was riding a dragon.

May your life always be interesting—the halfling curse went—and looking back over the interesting portions of his life, he had to agree that interesting could indeed be a curse.

Life in Waterdeep was boring, but at the moment he saw that as a reprieve.

For the first time in his life he was his own man in every sense of the word. No pasha commanded his loyalties or directed his activities. Dark elves did not set his schedule. He worked under no other agenda but his own. If he wanted things to be interesting, he would make them so.

But right now, boring suited him.

As he waited for the merchant to meet with him he considered how different it had been to enter into the society of this group.

Before being trusted by one of the many crimelords he'd served in the past, he'd always been expected to perform an act of pointless obedience—he recalled his most recent encounters with the Citadel of Assassins and with House Basadoni. Each had tested his willingness to murder without cause, to obey without question. Only then would they be satisfied that his will was sufficiently bent to their own for him to be of use to them.

He knew the routine well—he'd passed it many times over the years. He'd assigned the same pointless kills to other young men, boys younger than Cullon. He'd revealed himself to be a willing tool in the hands of the crimelords, a weapon without thought, without conscience.

But these people, he sighed, these good merchantmen of Waterdeep were satisfied enough by the recommendation of one good man to offer him a job, and once the job was complete, the quality of the outcome was enough for them to recommend him for another.

He was not used to being judged on his worth more than his willingness. None of them sought to control him for themselves, but instead encouraged their friends to seek him out. None of them questioned his motives or his reasons for what he did, but instead went out of their way to justify their own to him.

The white-whiskered man that stood before him now began to ask him his opinion about security measures along the route to Amn. To ask him what he thought.

Entreri had never been consulted so deferentially by anyone. Certainly the pashas would expect his advice and his counsel, but always with an air of superiority and command that he found annoying at best, infuriating at worst. And they were always so shocked when he left their employment for someone else, each fully convinced that they'd owned him in some way.

But this little man that spoke to him now, his maps spread out across his worktable, this little man knew Entreri did not work for him. He knew that Entreri was doing him a service by helping him improve his security and was willing to pay him handsomely for the service without ever once asking anything more of him than the company of himself and his wife for dinner.

Entreri bemusedly agreed, aware that Dwahvel would enjoy the outing and the chance to enlarge her already incredible circle of acquaintances and that a well-placed word from this little man would only result in another contract for service.

Once the meeting was concluded, Entreri returned to the warehouse to find Dwahvel busily hanging her new bedroom curtains. Lacking a proper ladder, she was standing on tiptoe atop several stacked boxes.

"You're going to fall from there," he chastised her. Startled by his voice, she did indeed slip a little, barely catching herself on the windowframe. "See? What did I tell you?"

"You shouldn't go sneaking up on people, you know," she snapped back at him.

"I did not sneak up on you," he retorted, moving to stand behind her, his arms encircling her hips. He enjoyed the feel of her, enjoyed the way she wriggled as he picked her up.

"Artemis!" she squealed. "I'm not finished hanging these!"

"Finish later," he responded smoothly. "We have a dinner invitation for this evening."

"With whom?" He could hear the note of excitement in her voice.

"With the good merchant Wallingdam and his lovely wife." The usual level of disdain in his voice had abated even more, Dwahvel noted. Soon he'd be able to speak of his clients with something approaching basic courtesy.

He set her on her feet, but atop the trunk that sat at the foot of their bed so that she stood at his eye level.

"Should I dress up for this one?" she asked, running her arms around his neck.

"You can go naked for all I care."

"I don't know why I bother to ask," she sighed. "You always say the same thing."

"And I always mean it."

Then she couldn't help but kiss him. He was too direct. He played no games. She never wondered what he was thinking—he was tactless enough to just say it outright. Sometimes she thought he spoke his mind so freely just because he could, just because he felt he had no reason to hide his thoughts or his intentions from her.

Then his hand went up the skirt of her dress and she stopped thinking.

The intricacies of her clothing was still a mystery to him. Dwahvel always dressed like a lady, not like a harem girl, not like an adventurer. She insisted on wearing layers of fabric, held together with buttons and laces and hooks.

To get to her skin, he had to navigate a sea of delicate linen and handwoven lace. And each time that he was tempted to simply tear the garments free of her body, he was reminded of his own strength in relation to hers. He could not allow his passions to master him lest he hurt her. And he did not wish to hurt her.

He pulled at the laces of her bodice until it came free in his hand, then deftly unhooked her skirt so that it fell to her feet in a little rustle of fabric. She stood before him, clad only in a diaphanous underslip that revealed the sensuous curves of her body and the narrowness of her waist.

He sighed and decided what she lacked in height she more than made up for in voluptuousness. It wrong of her to keep herself hidden away from him under all those clothes.

"Yes, by all means go naked," he repeated.

Evening found them at the front door of one of the South Ward's nicest residences. "You are moving up in clientèle, aren't you?" Dwahvel commented appreciatively. "Imagine the reward for the one clever enough to burgle this place one night."

"Shame on you, my dear," came the sly comment from her tall companion. "We are guests."

As they entered the front hall, Entreri could indeed see a few treasures he would once have been happy to lift from their displays. But even then, he'd have never taken them for himself, but only to swell the coffers of a fat pasha or an ever-acquisitive dark elf. He decided that those treasures were placed just as properly in Wallingdam's front hall as Pasha Pook's treasure room or Jarlaxle Baenre's bag of holding.

Wallingdam's lady was just as little and old as he was and spent the entire meal making pointless conversation in Entreri's opinion.

She and Dwahvel traded shopping tips and current city gossip, as well as admiring each other's jewelry.

"Oh, Mistress Wallingdam, your brooch is just beautiful," Dwahvel gushed as she fingered a unique jeweled piece pinned to the lady's collar.

"Do you think so?" Wallingdam's lady replied in gratification.

Entreri forced himself not to roll his eyes, glad that Dwahvel was so good at this type of social engineering since he lacked even the most basic skills in tact and negotiation.

Even so, he politely turned his attention back to Wallingdam's recitation of the many items he had ready for shipment in his next caravan. The old merchant apparently trusted him completely, based off nothing but the word of a few friends and an initial consultation.

Why this trust? Entreri wondered. How had he earned the power to destroy the old man's operations? If he'd been seeking to infiltrate this group of people in order to destroy them, he wouldn't have had any more success any faster.

Entreri had to admit that so far he'd led no one astray, had neither cheated nor misguided any of his clients. He'd looked at their operations and told them bluntly where lay their weaknesses and their strengths. He'd simply been honest with them. Was that all it took to gain admittance in this world?

As they took a turn through the merchant's gardens after dinner, he overheard Dwahvel regaling Mistress Wallingdam with stories of his exploits. She told of his actions against the pirates with a great deal of enthusiasm, then not so casually mentioned the matter of his knighthood in Damara.

"Mistress Wallingdam would not be interested in such tales, my dear," he intervened.

"No, Mr. Entreri," the old lady replied eagerly, "I find your adventures very exciting."

"Nevertheless, I must beg my wife's company for a moment," Entreri said with a polite bow as he led Dwahvel off to the side.

"What are you doing?" he asked sharply. "I am no knight of Damara."

"Of course you are," Dwahvel replied sweetly. "At least until word of your banishment comes to Waterdeep. And I don't see that happening any time soon."

"Still there is no reason to bring it up," Entreri responded.

"You wish to build a front of respectability," Dwahvel reasoned. "I'm just trying to help you." Then he looked down at her hands where she idly turned Mistress Wallingdam's brooch over in her fingers.

"You lifted the brooch," he observed coolly.

"Right off her during dinner." Then at Entreri's accusatory look, she retorted, "I like pretty things, Artemis." At his continued glare, she snapped, "And since when has Artemis Entreri, housebreaker extraordinaire, been averse to a bit of casual thievery? Or to a creative retelling of the truth?"

Entreri sighed. "Give the brooch back, Dwahvel. These are our hosts."

"Fine."

They returned to the Wallingdams, Dwahvel's smile so sincere Entreri could hardly imagine that she'd just been fighting with him. Only a few moments later, Entreri noticed that the old lady's brooch was right back on her collar just as if it had never gone missing. Dwahvel shot him a sharp look, but it was gone so quickly he could have imagined it.

The rest of the visit was boring, but productive as Entreri lined up yet another consultation for the merchant as well as promise of more work through several of his contacts.

"It's hard to find someone you can trust these days," Wallingdam said with a sigh as they walked to the front door. "Too many who claim to be protecting you are simply setting you up for ambush."

"Then why trust me, Mr. Wallingdam?" Entreri found himself asking.

The old merchant stopped at the door and turned to him. "When you first looked at my operation, you pointed out several areas of weakness I already knew about and added several more. I could tell you were thinking like a professional—a professional thief. But who knows how to stop a thief better than one who knows the art well?"

Entreri just looked at him.

Then the old man continued, "But your advice was so thorough and your directions were so specific, I knew that whatever you had done in the past, you were not setting me up for ambush."

Then he bowed to Dwahvel. "And no man with a wife as lovely and as genial as Mistress Entreri could be hiding dark intentions," he added graciously.

Entreri could barely hold back his snort of disbelief.

"Yes, indeed, it was delightful to meet you, Mistress Entreri," the merchant's wife added. Then she reached up and took the brooch from her collar. "You admired this so ardently. I want you to have it." She pressed the brooch into Dwahvel's hands with a sweet grin. Entreri could not help but fully enjoy his "wife's" discomfiture. She at least had the grace to look embarrassed as she accepted the gift.

"Our thanks for a very pleasant evening, Mr. Wallingdam, Mistress Wallingdam," Entreri stated with a little bow, then led his dumbstruck lady onto the street.

They walked together in silence for several blocks until they were nearly back at the warehouse. "What is all this, Artemis?" Dwahvel asked at last. "What are you doing here?" She looked up at him with a look of unease on her face.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean, what are you doing? Is this a front for some elaborate scheme or are you sincerely going straight?"

"What does it matter?" he asked, a little uncomfortable by her questions. He'd never considered his motives in that light.

"You aren't, are you? You aren't planning anything. This is for real, isn't it?" She sounded as if she'd received some kind of revelation.

He couldn't answer. All he knew was that he was being judged by what he could do for people, not to them. His clients came to him out of respect for him rather than fear of his masters.

She didn't say any more, but went upstairs with him thoughtfully. They got ready for bed, but instead of holding her as had become his custom, he rolled away from her instead. So she curled up against him, slipping her arm across his chest.

After a while, he rolled onto his back and she lay her head on his shoulder. Then she looked up at him. "Artemis, whatever you want to do here, it's fine by me. I'll help you however I can," she whispered. "I trust you."

Then she closed her eyes and went to sleep.

Entreri lay there in the dark, questions circling in his mind like carrion birds. He had no answers for her because he had no answers for himself.

But he did have her.

And with another sigh, he pulled her to him and went to sleep.