Chapter 4
Without Expecting Something in Return
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Excerpt from R. A. Salvatore's Servant of the Shard:
"Why would old Soulez sell it now?" Sha'lazzi asked with a dramatic wave of his skinny arms – arms that looked so incongruous when lifted beside that huge head. "What is this, my friend, the third time you have tried to purchase that fine sword? Yes, yes! First, when you were a pup with a few hundred gold pieces – a gift of Basadoni, eh? – in your ragged pouch."
Entreri winced at that despite himself, despite his knowledge that Sha'lazzi, for all his other faults, was the best in Calimport at reading gestures and expressions and deriving the truth behind them. Still, the memory, combined with more recent events, evoked the response from his heart. Pasha Basadoni had indeed given him the extra coin that long-ago day, an offering to his most promising lieutenant for no good reason but simply as a gift. When he thought about it, Entreri realized that Basadoni was perhaps the only man who had ever given him a gift without expecting something in return.
And Entreri had killed Basadoni, only a few months ago.
(5)
Jarlaxle smiled at the distant form of his companion lying in the shade of the oasis. Even while he was going about the rest of his business, the dark elf mercenary was watching over Artemis as he slept. If that was what Artemis was doing, of course. Jarlaxle doubted it. Judging from what he knew of the assassin, the man was now pretending to sleep and keeping an eye out for approaching hostility.
Jarlaxle continued to watch, for a long moment with that smile playing across his lips, uncaring of the picture he painted. His head was turned towards his friend even though he stood in front of a humble kiosk peddling dried and sealed foods, trying to decide how many pitted dates and wheels of cheese to buy. In one hand, he held several dates, and the other was resting on the top of the counter by a small silver scale. His attention was clearly on the form of Artemis as he said, "How much for a pound?"
"That would be six copper coins of Calishite currency," the kiosk vender, an assistant merchant of about twenty-six years with a thick, curled mustache said. "If you need me to translate that into something else, that would be…"
Jarlaxle's attention waned. He nodded absently and said, motioning to the purse at his belt, "That will be fine. I have all the local currency I need."
The air was hot and still on his face. It was with surprise that he again realized he was far above his homeland, feet resting on the surface his mind had always imagined as hovering close to the sun. It was like walking on the top of a moving platform. He couldn't help the ghost sensation that the ground his feet were standing on was not nearly as solid as his senses told him it was.
He noticed the stillness of the camp around him and thought that in this moment, it would be likely for Artemis to notice his scrutiny. The assassin would never believe that the mercenary was doing that because he wanted Artemis to be safe. Artemis was constantly afraid that people could be using him. He would fear that Jarlaxle had some sinister purpose in watching him.
Jarlaxle chuckled quietly to himself. Of course, to Artemis, life was sinister.
It wasn't so to Jarlaxle. Life could be beautiful – it frequently was beautiful. And life could be fun – it was always fun. Jarlaxle grinned. Sometimes it just was a different kind of fun, a fun that was harder to identify and enjoy. Everything has its own fun. Jarlaxle knew that he was in the minority in that opinion, but he also knew that he was the only person he knew of who had been denied life at birth and then had a chance to get it back.
He bargained about cheese without really thinking about it, negotiating a lower price in the event that he bought more cheese. If he bought four palm-sized wheels of cheese, he wanted to pay ten copper pieces instead of paying three copper pieces for each wheel of cheese. It was just enough of a shave off the price that he felt it would be a better deal without having to make the vendor walk away without making a profit. That would be like buying three cheeses at full price, and getting the last one at one-third the price. To an outsider, Jarlaxle would seem totally absorbed in the bargaining.
But the truth was, he was watching over Artemis. These traders were primarily Calishites, and Artemis was famous in Calimshan – for all the wrong things now that they were playing sellswords. Jarlaxle uneasily weighed the chances of any of them remembering Artemis' face. If that happened, he had to be ready to defend Artemis in a heartbeat.
It was not from physical harm he was trying to defend Artemis –he was trying to keep the withdrawn assassin from being victimized in a different way. People encroached upon Entreri's space without even realizing it, and the assassin couldn't handle individuals coming up to him, trying to engage him and draw him out of his shell all day, even just for simple conversations. Being part of a group seemed to give Artemis a headache.
It concerned Jarlaxle. The drow saw that most people were group creatures, comforted by numbers instead of solitude. That meant to him that Artemis was unhappy.
Also, he wanted Artemis to be part of a group so he could have his own comfort level of people. It wasn't like him to limit himself to interacting with a single individual. It was a bit of a bend to concentrate on Artemis all the time. He felt a bit like the cocked string of a bow.
Nevertheless, Jarlaxle cleared his head and put away his aspirations of the man Artemis could be. The mercenary could see that what Artemis needed most was for him to have a constant person around who he trusted. Once he found out that his trust wasn't misplaced, someone would actually stand by him, he wouldn't be so afraid, so easily unbalanced by anything that happened to him. Jarlaxle wanted to be the person that stabilized Artemis. He wanted to catch Artemis whenever the assassin fell so many times that the Calishite would have to face that he had a friend in this world.
"How much for the cheese, bread, and dates?" Jarlaxle asked, smiling brilliantly at the food vendor.
The vendor tallied it up, looking at the packages and bobbing his head to some internal rhythm of counting, scribbling on his notepad with a pencil.
They exchanged goods, Jarlaxle's coin for the tallied packages, and Jarlaxle gave a nod and a half-bow so as not to lose his grip on his purchases. "Thank you very much. It was a pleasure doing business with you." With a friendly wave, he started off towards the display that had caught his eye all along – racks and racks of brightly sparkling jewelry. He did so love jewelry.
It's pity that Entreri seems lacking in the desire for more ornamentation, because the man could use it, Jarlaxle thought. I wonder if I could get him to wear something if I made it a gift. He wears the hat I gave him… Perhaps he just needs a little nudge in the right direction.
"Good afternoon," he said, tipping his hat to the jewelry merchant's assistant. The boy was a thin, scrawny specimen of the human race with dusty brown skin and high cheekbones that made his eyes look larger than they actually were. He found himself feeling a bit sorry for this merchant-in-training.
As he was examining a fine necklace of rubies, large, square cut things in silver settings, he found his mind wandering back to Artemis. He just couldn't get Artemis off his mind – it was no surprise, really, because he was Jarlaxle's pet project of the times, but still, he felt that he shouldn't feel, perhaps, so bad that he was distracted from the beauty of a wonderful ruby necklace. When he looked up and saw a breathtaking necklace of blue pearls, he felt similarly queasy and dissatisfied with the spurt of possessiveness tickling the inside of his chest. He felt…almost…petty.
What a horrible thing to have happen, Jarlaxle thought, scowling indignantly to himself.
And yet, he reminded himself, his expression smoothing out to that of thoughtfulness, this is the same preoccupation that I have experienced ever since meeting the famed assassin.
Artemis was some leftover of someone else's mess that the mercenary had salvaged – because it was obvious to Jarlaxle that someone had ruined him so completely that he spent his entire life trying to rebuild who he thought he was. He had been doing that and failing when Jarlaxle met him, and at least in part, that was why Jarlaxle had tried to hard to show some covert mercy towards the assassin.
The mercenary couldn't help thinking that Entreri had been hurt in ways that he had not been for years when Jarlaxle had kept him in Menzoberranzan. Jarlaxle had always told himself that it was worth it – that Artemis' way of rebuilding was wrong, and had to be torn down before the mercenary could help him build back up in the right direction.
He thought about it like breaking a bone that set improperly. Except in this case it was Entreri's personality that healed improperly. Realigning it was a good thing, wasn't it? But it could only be done by breaking Artemis as swiftly and precisely as possible – and Jarlaxle felt that he had done that. Artemis was healing up, so to speak, from his intervention, and the assassin was healing nicely. He had to keep people from interfering as he oversaw this process of recovery.
That was most of the reason he had found such a dislike in his heart for the priest Cadderly – a man who under different circumstances, Jarlaxle simply would have called misguided. Because his work with Artemis was threatened, his guard had gone up, and in the end, that was why he chose to come along anyway, even when he would rather not have faced a red dragon. Just as he'd thought that it wouldn't matter one way or the other, Artemis had opened up to him – a discussion on religion, no less! – and shown him that truly, his friend was changing and his intervention was able to help the assassin. He couldn't imagine what might have happened if he had left his friend in the tender clutches of that Deneir-worshipping fanatic and his ignorant companions.
Jarlaxle sighed. No, actually, he could imagine. He would ask where Entreri was when Cadderly, Danica, and the Bouldershoulder twins returned from defeating the Crystal Shard, and Cadderly and his beautiful monk wife would exchange glances before saying innocently that Artemis died a noble death. 'Surprising, for an assassin,' Danica would remark. 'I almost would have thought that he actually cared about honor. He defended me when drow showed up and tried to kill us. Of course, he was foolish, like most villains, so he died at his hands, but not before ensuring my safety.' And then Jarlaxle would have had to burn The Spirit Soaring down to let them know how he felt. That would be a pity, since he thought it was such a beautiful building, and he normally liked to preserve beautiful things.
He smiled again at the necklaces and the jewelry merchant's assistant, inspecting the coils of sparkling gems and taking in the beauty of them all. Their renewed radiance now that his mood had lifted twinkled back at him fondly, a warm rainbow of things just waiting to be possessed.
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The feeling of being cold was one that, in spite of the assassin's attempts to banish it, lingered. Irritated and confused by his sentimentality, he got to his feet and brushed off the sand clinging to his clothing. He didn't know what he was going to say, but he wanted to find Jarlaxle.
He didn't have to look far. Jarlaxle was partway into the crescent shape of the parked caravans, back turned but still ridiculously easy to spot in his purple hat and rainbow colored cape.
He ventured back into the main camp, glancing around as he did so and noticing that the sellswords were at work polishing their armor, maintaining their weapons, and using other skills to prolong their equipment. He hardly expected one of them to break away from the little group by the fire and approach him. He stopped, as any reasonable person would do, when barred by an obstacle that happened to be a living, breathing person. It was the Calishite boy. The child smiled, no more than a nervous twitch of his lips, really, and bowed.
Artemis wanted nothing more than to leave. He could see Jarlaxle, talking to somebody, but he couldn't get to his partner while this boy blocked his way.
"I am Kalashiko," the Calishite boy said, looking at him with anxious eyes.
"Greetings," Artemis muttered.
However, the young sellsword seemed to be prepared for his grumpiness. "I want to tell you how much your story –"
What story? Artemis thought, missing the rest of what the youth was trying to say to him. The damned Drizzt story? What is he talking about? He glared. "Look, I didn't tell any story to give you advice, give you pointers on how to love your life, or volunteer myself as some kind of outlet for every single problem that plagues your adolescent life."
"But you have helped me so much," Kalashiko protested. "I was too afraid to rely on myself and my abilities in order to –"
Artemis interrupted, "Boy, I am not a philosopher. Whatever you do is your choice."
"Yes!" the young sellsword said, bobbing his head eagerly. "I understand that now! My fate is in my own hands, and –"
What am I not understanding? Artemis thought in frustration. Why does he not just go away? He decided to be direct and asked with a sigh, "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I wanted to share you – I mean, you – my gratitude with you," the other Calishite stammered. "My mother was a sick woman who passed away last year, and my father was a –"
"You're welcome," Artemis said, staring at him. The assassin didn't think he could stand to hear any more about this boy's life. He would go insane if he had to hear about the boy's parents, and he definitely did not want to hear sob stories about mothers dying and fathers abandoning their sons. He wondered why Jarlaxle had not noticed his predicament and swooped in to rescue him yet.
He almost groaned when the youth reached out and clasped his forearm in thanks. The assassin averted his eyes from this display. Somebody help me.
Let me eat him, Charon's Claw said.
Artemis directed a silent yell of irritation at it. No! Shut up, already!
Then the assassin heard a voice in his ear. "Hello, Artemis. Who is your little friend?" Of course. Jarlaxle would just show up to mock him.
"Kalashiko," Artemis said, and reluctantly glanced at the Calishite sellsword's reaction to Jarlaxle stepping into this.
The sellsword went wide-eyed, and gazed at them both with naked awe on his face.
Artemis didn't think he'd ever felt a more desperate urge to stab himself.
Jarlaxle chuckled, and placed a hand on Artemis' arm as Kalashiko had been doing only moments ago. "I am pleased to meet you, Kalashiko," the dark elf mercenary said, tipping his hat to the boy, "but I am afraid it is about time that I and Artemis left. We have a lot of work to do." He winked. "More people to inspire and many places to go." He grinned. "I am sure we will see you around sometime." He began to lead Artemis away, waving cheerfully to the stunned and openmouthed boy before turning around and conversing with the assassin on the way to their tethered horses.
"My thanks," Artemis said, finally letting out a heavy sigh. The hand next to his vampiric dagger twitched.
Jarlaxle let out an amused, affectionate chuckle. "Indeed, I didn't do it for you, I was afraid that if I let that go on for another few minutes the boy would end up dead." The dark elf mercenary teased, "You looked ready to commit a murder." The mercenary untied their horses. "What was he doing, anyway? Praising you?"
"You have no idea," Artemis muttered, mounting his horse and noticing that a great deal many more parcels were tied to it.
Jarlaxle couldn't suppress another laugh. "What is so bad about that? I know that you detest fawning, but he seemed truthful enough –"
"Truthfulness is not the point," Artemis said. "The point is that he should stand on his own and not cling to other peoples' ramblings to get him through his problems. It's weak, and it's misguided. He assumes he knows me before he even takes a good look at me, and takes words to heart before he considers what their purpose and veracity is."
Jarlaxle looked at him curiously. "Why are you so hard on him? He is but a child."
"Shut up," Artemis said wearily. "And never mind. Let's get to a town by nightfall and sleep in a real bed tonight." He felt pain, real and aching pain that coursed through him and seemed to make his bones groan like aging beams. He wanted it off, to shut it off as if it were as easy as tightening a spigot. But he knew it wasn't. He knew that his nap had done no good, that he was disturbed by what he had concluded about Jarlaxle's past, and that he had opened himself up to this kind of pain. He should have kept the memories where they belonged. In the past. Where they had no value, and no ability to harm him. Instead, he had allowed himself to relive something, and it was attacking him.
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The next time they stopped, it was for a rest before traveling to the place they would spend their evening. It was also the place and time when Jarlaxle pounced on him. They stopped as the sun's intensity diminished and the wind picked up in a lush grass grove created by the way the land gently sloped downward, collecting more rainwater to it than the surrounding parched desert. Artemis was glad that they had found a merchant caravan if only so that Jarlaxle could buy food.
The two of them were camped around a small fire pit, supposedly enjoying the quiet chirp of cicadas when Artemis paused mid-swallow in a mouthful of cheese (the kind he liked, thank you very much) and bread to see Jarlaxle staring at him. He half expected the mercenary to look away now that the dark elf had been caught in the act, but instead Jarlaxle only seemed to deepen his expression of scrutiny and widen his visible eye at Artemis a little.
"What?" Artemis looked at the gaze Jarlaxle was giving him and scowled. "What is it?"
"You look troubled," Jarlaxle said.
Artemis sighed. "That is because, my very obvious and sometimes annoying friend, I am troubled." He crossed his arms. "Now, if you don't mind, I would like to be troubled without being stared at by my traveling companion."
"You don't have to be troubled at all," Jarlaxle said, a smile spreading across his face. "Bothered by me or otherwise. I can solve your problems."
"Since when do you care about solving my problems?" Artemis asked, raising an eyebrow incredulously. He didn't know what had gotten into Jarlaxle, but he wasn't sure that he liked the idea of Jarlaxle getting any closer to him than the elf was already. Jarlaxle looked ready to cross the campfire and sit by him or something.
"Since I am your friend and you agreed to travel with me," Jarlaxle said.
It was you who agreed to travel with me without any invitation and you who decided that you were going to be my friend without asking me if I wanted one, Artemis wanted to say, but he held his tongue. Saying that would accomplish absolutely nothing. "Well, I don't need your help," he said instead. "I am perfectly content to be miserable."
"Oh, but I must insist," Jarlaxle said, raising an index finger with a patient smile. "I am your friend, and if I wish to retain that title, I must help you whether you ask me to or not."
"I think that's a rather twisted interpretation of friendship," Artemis said.
Jarlaxle remained smiling, with that same air of untouchable confidence he assumed in the face of obstruction as he always did. "You do?"
Artemis ran a hand through his hair. "Yes. Why do you choose these awkward moments to start repeating anything I say?" He didn't know why he said that, except that Jarlaxle's bluntness was somewhat infectious. He supposed he did it just to hear the response Jarlaxle would come up with.
"I like making you elaborate on everything you say so you can't get away with stymieing me with gibberish," Jarlaxle said, smirking as though he just loved the opportunity to explain himself in that situation.
Artemis stared at him. "Stymie you with gibberish."
The dark elf mercenary laughed at the expression on his face. "Now who's repeating ourselves?"
"Does it really matter that much?" Artemis asked, shifting and looking uncomfortable. He had never had someone ask such repeated, insistent requests to know what was on his mind. It felt out of place. Is he trying to manipulate me? But why? For what purpose? He put his head in his hand and let a sigh burst out of him. He didn't know. He couldn't think of anything. There were no plans, as far as he was concerned, about which Jarlaxle was worried, that required knowing what bothered Artemis. It didn't work that way for drow, anyway. They didn't need other peoples' concerns to form plans.
Jarlaxle leaned forward and nodded, his face attentive.
Artemis felt oddly put on the spot. He shifted again. "You don't need me," he began, but Jarlaxle was already shaking his head.
"Of course I need you," Jarlaxle said. "You're my partner. Business wouldn't be the same without you."
The assassin started again, "I meant that you need not concern yourself with matters only affecting my wellbeing." He held his hands out. "They don't affect you, and I make sure that they do not impact you or your business. There is no reason for you to know."
"And there is more to our relationship than business," Jarlaxle said. "Please. Tell me what troubles you. I promise that I will not make you regret it. I will be a good listener."
You can't possibly replace Dwahvel, Artemis wanted to say, but he didn't say that, either. He was conscious that it would hurt Jarlaxle's feelings, and he didn't want to do that right now. He saw that Jarlaxle was trying, in the capacity Jarlaxle understood best, to be his friend the way Dwahvel had been – to the dark elf, it was like posing a business deal. He felt a pang of longing for his halfling friend, and her understanding that whatever they had, it was not nor could it be dictated by the conduct of business. It was something else, and perhaps something extra. He knew that if Dwahvel were here, he would tell her. Therefore, he made the conscious decision to give Jarlaxle a chance – but only one, he said sternly to himself – to prove himself worthy of reliance. "Alright," he sighed, "I will tell you – but keep your mouth shut until I am finished, and do not even think of interrupting me in the middle. I am sick of your chattering."
Jarlaxle beamed. It seemed, like always, that the mercenary only heard the part he had wanted to hear in the first place.
"Don't think that I haven't lived a fulfilling life," Artemis said, "because I have. But what price have I paid? What price have I given up to come this far?" He clenched his fists. "I have done battle with the 'great' Drizzt Do'Urden, not once but many times, and every time, through some circumstance, I have come out alive. Not even other dark elves can attest to that. It is not only an achievement, it is a personal measure. I once thought that what it meant was that I was not 'great' enough." He shook his head. "In that measure, I could never be great enough to allow myself to exist. That I have learned since Do'Urden's death. If I am to justify my existence, what I really mean is that I believe it best never to have lived at all; and if I say that, then I may as well die.
"But I do not want to die. I want to live. And I want to live with a purpose." He held out his hands. His gray eyes were intense. "If I am to wait for a purpose to find me, I might wait forever and never find one. But how do I seek out a purpose, knowing that in the meantime, I have none? I am seeking without purpose, Jarlaxle, and I am feeling more and more with the passing of every day that it is hopeless. I have given up so much to be on this road, but what have I gained in return? You would agree that for every investment there has to be a reward. I ask you, Jarlaxle, what is my reward?"
Jarlaxle was shaking his head. "I cannot tell you that. You must find it out for yourself."
"But the things that I have given up. Do you not understand? You never had a childhood!"
Jarlaxle opened his mouth in protest, but then shut it again, remembering in the midst of his bewilderment that he had promised to be silent. He had already spoken once. He didn't suppose Artemis would forgive him for speaking again.
"Did you never wonder what brought me to this state?" Artemis gestured at his own body, at his cloak, and at his hair, at his light leather armor and at the weapons on his belt. "I did not choose to be an assassin!"
This revelation had Jarlaxle blinking at him rapidly and trying not to betray his thoughts. I say you have a choice – you just didn't know it at the time, my friend. I can't believe you didn't have a choice, and if you did become an assassin unwillingly, there have been ample places to stop. He almost wanted to say that in his mind, Artemis had stopped being an assassin already – had stopped when he was part of Bregan D'aerthe, a human spy in the underbelly of Menzoberranzan. But he didn't. He didn't say any of these things.
"It would have been different if you hadn't been there," Artemis said, and he looked brooding, as if he were speaking to himself. His eyes were dark and flashing. "It would have been different. That is the answer."
But then he shook his head, the mask of stoicism falling from his face in that moment and revealing a troubled expression. "No. It is me. I should not have been there. I never should have been embroiled in that plot."
Jarlaxle couldn't contain himself now that Artemis wasn't making any sense. "What 'plot'?"
Artemis snapped his head up and looked at the dark elf mercenary as if he'd forgotten Jarlaxle was sitting there. Then he grated out, "The plot to take over Basadoni's guild."
"I – That was inevitable, wasn't it?" Jarlaxle asked. He was honestly confused.
Now the assassin was angry, curling his hands into hard fists, his expression cut down to the core of a man carrying a secret source of self-hatred – and then just as quickly it was gone.
"I've killed a lot of people, but I can't say I'm sorry," Artemis said. "I am sure I have made mistakes that people can punish me for…" The assassin narrowed his eyes. "But who is to do the punishing? Who can say they've done any better than I can? I have tried my best, and I cannot claim to do anything else."
There. There it was. His speech was over, and he had finally gotten it out of his chest, where it had continued to hurt him for all this time, crushing his heart and playing his discomfort against him. He had confided, and now he waited almost defiantly to see what Jarlaxle would do. He was angry, and he was ready to turn around and march away from Jarlaxle forever with a parting shot: There, you see, you can't be Dwahvel, can you? Because of you, now we've pushed our relationship too far, and we have to see each other never again.
Jarlaxle sat perfectly still, at once looking as though he wanted to cross the invisible border between them and give some kind of comfort to his friend, and then looking as though he didn't know where to begin.
Entreri saw this, and for some reason, he felt obligated to ease this barrier. Opening the door, he thought, calling back to his discussion about Jarlaxle's culpability in the sabotage of any relationships the drow could hope to have. His anger, which he had expected to last, was draining away. What was left, at the very bottom of the proverbial pit, was the desire he didn't know he'd had: to make this friendship work.
He didn't know what made him ask this particular question. "Who was the first person you killed that you were close to?"
"My niece," Jarlaxle said, smiling in pain as though through subdued grief at the memory. "I was very fond of her."
That was more of a response than Artemis was expecting, and it was such a direct one that he found himself at a loss for words. A small part of him responded with eagerness, a hope that since the mercenary had admitted it, they might find answers together. "Then…Why did you do it?" Being gentle was not customary for him, but he tried. He strove to take the accusation out of his words.
Jarlaxle looked up at him strangely. A moment passed before his expression changed, seeming to assess Artemis' words as no threat. "It was the Test of Lloth."
---
"What are you doing, Uncle?" she said, surprised at his sudden appearance and the daggers in both of his hands.
"I think you should ask Lloth that," Jarlaxle replied with an amiable smile, readying for battle by shifting his stance. "You're her priestess, after all."
Kill him! Lloth's voice suddenly rang in her mind. She gasped, putting a hand to her mouth and stumbling back. She lost her balance and sat down hard on the ground. "What did you do?" she cried, horror showing on her face that Jarlaxle had betrayed Lloth somehow and had to be put to death like a common traitor.
"Nothing," the drow mercenary said. He waited patiently for her to understand the situation. "I have been selected to participate in your little coming of age ritual."
Ignorance and fear warred in her blue eyes.
Jarlaxle saw that he was intimidating her and relaxed, sheathing the daggers at his belt. He held out a hand to her, and she took it, struggling to get back on her feet again. The drow mercenary gave her a kindly smile. "I have to fight you, my dear, and you have to at least try to fight me back."
You always did have to do things your way, didn't you, Lloth said in his head, sounding a little like a peeved cat.
Oh, bugger off, Jarlaxle responded casually, shoving her out of his mind in order to concentrate on his niece.
He smiled and held up an index finger coaxingly. "It'll be fun! And if you win, you get to go on to become one of the most powerful priestesses in Menzoberranzan! Don't you want to be famous?"
He elicited a little, reluctant nod from her. Then she frowned, scowled at him, and shook her head. "What happens to you?" she demanded.
Jarlaxle shrugged. "I'll have to shove off and die, of course." She stared disbelievingly at his ever-calm demeanor.
"But you don't look scared a bit!" she protested. "How can you not tell the truth now and be a little scared?"
"Because I don't play fair," he whispered through his smile. He held her comfortingly as she collapsed into his arms, feeling the poisoned dart in her back.
"How did that…?" She stirred weakly, reaching behind to pull it out, and then she was gone. She sagged lifelessly in his arms, almost peacefully dead.
You have won, and she should have known better, Lloth said. I grant you your life, Baenre Jarlaxle.
"Oh, shut up and leave me alone," Jarlaxle said, stroking his niece's tender cheek and smoothing down her hair. "I intended to wait until you were gone before I started crying and now you've ruined it." True to his words, there was a single tear sliding down his cheek, against his control and already escaped to fall free.
---
"…and ever since then I tried not to get to know my sisters and nieces," Jarlaxle said shrugging. "It made things too hard when they had to go through that stage. I stood a chance of being chosen as Lloth's dupe again if they ever reached their ceremonies."
"But you figured it out," Artemis pointed out.
"And it didn't help me," Jarlaxle said. "I still had to kill her. It was not a pretty sight. She had always been a pretty girl, and then she was just a pretty corpse. Useless." His hands were clenched. "It served no purpose. She would have become great. I cannot respect someone who squanders greatness the way Lloth does."
Artemis hesitated, and then put a hand on his friend's shoulder.
"She was a sweet girl," Jarlaxle said. "So smart, but so sweet. If she hadn't been half as nice, she never would have been killed. She didn't raise a single spell against me, Artemis. She just stood there. And I planted the dart in her back when I helped her up." He closed his eyes, and sat there, seeming to condemn himself. "I killed her." He opened his eyes and made a watery smile - one that might even look normal on another's face, Entreri knew, but would never look normal to anyone who had seen what smiles Jarlaxle was capable of.
"Oh, stop sniveling," Artemis said. He didn't know why he said that. One minute he was sitting there being uncomfortable but supportive, and the next he was turning away and trying to distance himself from his dark elf friend. He silently cursed himself at Jarlaxle's reaction and wondered how he let that stupid little comment slip out of his mouth. What had set him off, anyway? What had been so the blazing hells' important that he had to go and say that?
The mercenary's eyes became cold, even as his smile widened, and he tossed his head in a lofty manner. "Hmph." He waved a heavily be-ringed finger. "I do not know what… lies, you have heard about the dark elf race, but contrary to popular belief, Drow do not snivel." He stuck his nose up in the air and composed a haughty smile. "We may murder babies – oh yes, we may kill our own children – but, haha! – We do not snivel!"
His odd little scene apparently over, Jarlaxle sighed and got to his feet. "L' bwael el waelin. Xor doera verin." He glanced over at Artemis' curious expression and smiled. "It's a Drow phrase. It means 'The good die young. Or become evil.'" He smiled sadly. "She died young." He started to continue walking down the road.
Artemis stopped him, putting a hand on his shoulder again. Jarlaxle paused, but did not turn around. "What was her name?"
"Na'Geirishgaloth," Jarlaxle said, turning around and grinning.
The sudden transformation disgruntled Artemis, thinking perhaps that the sorrow had been an act. "Anything else?"
Jarlaxle tipped his hat to the assassin. "We called her Nagei for short." He turned and began marching, swinging his arms at his sides, and this time, his spirits seemed to be returned.
Artemis considered his actions and his words carefully, and, as the assassin watched him strolling back to their horses, the Calishite found some kind of hidden truth. Jarlaxle had been happier after he had related his story. After Artemis had said something solicitous. Was it his offer of comfort that had invigorated Jarlaxle so? How was his stiff show of sympathy such a reward for opening up with an obviously painful story? He didn't understand, but he did know as he followed Jarlaxle to their horses that he had been paid some kind of convoluted compliment, if only he could figure out how it went.
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As it turned out, he had opened the door holding back the flood. The entire time they were setting up camp, and when Artemis retreated to his bedroll to sleep, his dark elf mercenary friend was unrelentingly chattering at him. It wasn't even about important things, as it had been earlier that day. It was about everything. The world was Jarlaxle's topic. Eventually, Artemis rolled onto his side facing away from the elf, trying to signal that this conversation had to end, and shut his eyes, determined to sleep through this assault on his ears.
Finally, he was forced to say something – the last resort in a long line of deterrents to the conversation continuing even in pitch black darkness and the mercenary's own preparation for bed. Artemis rubbed his eyes. "Can you shut up now? I am trying to go to sleep."
Jarlaxle smiled. "I was just waiting for you to go to bed."
"Why?" He was trying to ignore the utter ridiculousness of that statement.
The drow mercenary shrugged, still smiling. His form was barely visible in the near-nonexistent light of the tent interior. "Because I wanted to know when you were tired."
Entreri opened both eyes and sat up. "Why?"
Jarlaxle chuckled. "Because I wanted to know when you would pass out so that I could –"
The assassin sat all the way up and gripped his sleeping bag with white-knuckled hands. "You're sleeping on the other side of the tent tonight."
"But I – " Jarlaxle laughed, confused and not trying to hide it.
Artemis didn't bother to explain. The anger on his face showed clearly. "Am I going to have to sleep outside?"
"No," Jarlaxle said, picking up his belongings and moving across the tent with a perplexed expression on his face. "Of course not. I would never –"
"Then good night." Artemis lay back down and went to sleep.
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If Artemis was considering what transpired between the two of them yesterday, then Jarlaxle wasn't going to disturb him, for he found his own thoughts wandering to that very subject as well. It was the assassin's response to his story that had so surprised him. He had expected dismissal, perhaps in the form of a reminder to keep traveling, or silence. Instead, Entreri, who had seemed offended by physical contact, actually sought it out in the form of placing his hand on Jarlaxle's shoulder. That was enormous. Jarlaxle knew that he should be honored, and he was.
These events also led the mercenary to an unexpected conclusion. Perhaps the time is right to tell him of Drizzt's survival, now. He has only rewarded me for speaking openly. Perhaps he will do so again- and perhaps the value he attaches to this act of openness will keep him from retaliating – perhaps it will outweigh his anger with me for concealing that his foe lives.
When they stopped for the first rest of the day, he approached his assassin friend with a deal.
"I'll trade honesty for honesty," the dark elf said. He held out his hand.
Artemis hesitated, then took it.
"I didn't do what you thought I did with Drizzt," Jarlaxle said. He looked away, and then looked into Artemis' eyes. "I couldn't keep him that way. I had to fix him up. He had friends. They watched him get killed and they cared enough to kill me for it." He put his hand on his heart. "I couldn't let them down by letting Drizzt die."
"What makes you think I wanted him to die?" Artemis asked, his eyes glinting. He couldn't help it, he had to feel as though Jarlaxle had missed the entire point. "He had done nothing to die, and I had lost. Miserably, lost. Defeated. A defeated man does not deserve to kill his opponent." He gestured in front of himself with his hands angrily. "I had nothing to do with his 'death' – that was your doing, your solution for my defeat! I have never allowed myself to take the spoils of a victory that was not rightfully mine." He narrowed his eyes at his friend and remembered the death by beheading he had wished upon this gaudily dressed dark elf. He wasn't about to ask for that wish to be fulfilled, but he still wasn't pleased.
Jarlaxle clasped his hands behind his back and milled about uncomfortably. "You won't fight him again, will you?"
The assassin felt a headache coming on. Of all the things to grasp about the situation, the drow immediately jumped to the fact that he had a history of behaving irrationally to deceptions. "How many times do I have to say so?" Artemis asked, sighing in exasperation. "Yes: I'm through worrying about him."
Jarlaxle's face lit up with such an expression that Artemis realized that his friend had been truly worried this whole time. It gave him an odd feeling. This contradicted his feeling only moments ago that Jarlaxle had been merely toying with him by coming out and confessing this hidden part of his scheme two years ago. "What about what you want from me in exchange?"
Jarlaxle smiled, his eyes warm. "You can tell me later." He started walking to their tethered horses, then waved a hand. "Come on. We have much riding to do."
Artemis stared after him. Was it just a ruse, then, to get me to hear what he wanted to say? Or was he planning to make me admit something, and then at the last moment decided I didn't have to? Which would be more surprising? The assassin didn't know. Either one was beyond the range of what he could have thought possible for Jarlaxle. In either case, it meant that Jarlaxle had given something to him without asking to be given something back. It was disorienting.
One matter stuck out to him in this event: Jarlaxle had told the truth about something. About his motives, Artemis couldn't care less. He could only imagine that his mercenary friend was explaining out of guilt, out of the fact he chattered too much, or out of a conception that Artemis wouldn't believe him without stocking a motive for the act. The thing that remained was that Jarlaxle had told Artemis that Drizzt was alive, and that the mercenary was clearly nervous about it, and he told Artemis anyway even though there might be grave consequences for him.
That was an amount of respect from someone that the assassin was not used to – he was used to having no respect at all until he demonstrated his killing abilities and his willingness to conquer obstacles in order to do it. Jarlaxle had not feared that Artemis would kill him. The mercenary had silenced the topic completely until he was sure that he would never have to talk to Artemis about it. The dark elf faced prosecution by telling Artemis about it. There was no gain to be had from telling, and much more gain to be had from glossing it over indefinitely.
Or so Artemis had thought. In fact, that had been the basis of his theory that Jarlaxle was dropping hints out of guilt to avoid ever saying that he had spared Drizzt directly. Now he had said it, and Artemis did not know what was going on in Jarlaxle's mind any longer.
He liked it that way, he realized as he followed Jarlaxle to the horses and readied for another long ride.
