CHAPTER SIX
Malehedectar launched the jeweled dagger clear across the room. It sank into the wood paneling of the far wall with its hilt quivering. The light form the single oil lamp caught the facets of the garnet set in its pommel and cast an ominous red glow over the floor.
Jarlaxle looked up into her tear streaked eyes. He was at a loss for words. Never had he thought that anyone, even existed, that could honestly care for Artemis Entreri. Calihye was a notable exception, but he suspected that one's desire for revenge heavily out weighed any true feelings she may have harbored for the assassin.
"You are very much like him, you know." He said, for lack of anything better.
"No I don't know. I have not seen the man in years." Malehedectar replied, her voice tight, on the verge of cracking.
If Entreri had killed Basadoni he must have had good reason, she thought. If Jarlaxle's story was to be believed, and the eye-patch confirmed it was, it was still much to digest. She focused on Calihye, and a burning rage and stinging jealousy constricted her chest.
They had never been close. How could she have ever taken a lover? For sixty years, her face had been enough to cause a lesser man to faint. Even so, Artemis Entreri never seemed one to take a steady lover anyway. Now though, he is a changed man, she thought. A spark of hope and long dead longing slowly kindled in the twisted knot in her stomach.
The spark was small, but she felt it none the less and quickly squelched it, a habit that had cost her more than she ever knew, but one that had served her well over her years of torment, living as a maimed wretch.
She mulled over the situation Jarlaxle had described in Memmon and the stolen glimpses he had taken of Entreri's memories. Rage and bitter bile crept up her throat. Angry tears spilled down her face, she realized her whole body was shaking.
Jarlaxle was touched by the display of emotion from this half drow maiden. The world was ever full of wonders, he mused. He stood then, his bare feet comfortably warm on the plush, if a bit worn, fax Turmish rug. He brought his hands up slowly and laid them on her shoulders.
Malehedectar's eyes snapped to attention, boring holes through his crimson orbs. She held the angry stare as long as she could, resenting bitterly, the look of concern on the face of Jarlaxle D'aerthe. This drow was Captain of one of Menzoberranzan's most ruthless mercenary companies, and here he is playing at genuine concern, she thought. Most likely, his concern was for his magic eye-patch.
Mal had snatched the thing off her face when she flung her dagger. The bright cut gems, set in the red leather, were digging into the palm of her clenched fist. She softened her grip and pressed the leather band into his bare chest.
"Here, it's not broken. I didn't hurt it, so you can stop fretting over your magic trinket," she had to steady her self, lest she start sobbing.
"No, Mal you keep it. I have another one, and besides its enchantments don't work as well over the mask anyway." Jarlaxle smiled and gently pulled her into his embrace.
He could not help himself, she was too beautiful. Granted he had not yet seen her fight, but she seemed to have everything he liked about Entreri and none of the sour man's stubble.
Malehedectar's stoic façade melted as she crumbled into Jarlaxle's arms. She hid her face against the mercenary's neck and wept. She felt his delicate fingers in her hair as he ran his hands over her head and down her neck. His fingers were seeking, probing and working at the knots of stress in her muscles.
He walked her slowly to the bed and sat her down. Malehedectar's head hung listlessly, her tears spent. He could see a twitch in her shoulders that spoke of building rage. That won't do, he thought, and quickly paced the room to fetch his hat.
Mal looked up when he plopped his great, feathered, hat atop her head. She couldn't help but smile as she caught the incredulous look on Jarlaxle's face.
"Not nearly as hansom as it is on me, if I do say so my self!" he huffed in mock vexation.
Jarlaxle took his hat by the brim and swept it off her head, with a swift, graceful, motion he sent it spinning up his arm to land at an angle atop his bald pate. His little performance was rewarded with Malehedectar's musical laughter.
He tossed the hat back to its peg and stretched out on the saggy bed. He pulled her down to lay beside him and gently coaxed her into cuddling up close. Her head rested in the crook of his arm and her hand spread out over his chest.
He breathed in her scent, an earthy musk with a sharp undertone of pungent, sweet smelling, incense. The smell instantly called to mind the Basadoni guild house and Entreri. The assassin, his cloak, and now that Jarlaxle thought of it, nearly all of the man's possessions smelled exactly like this. It must be a Calishite thing, he mused, as he breathed it in deeply none the less.
Jarlaxle was not the only one exploring scent. Malehedectar nuzzled her face over his shoulder and drank in the sent of him. Even after all his time on the surface Jarlaxle still used a strongly scented, quick lathering Underdark soap. Its rich complex scent was just as exciting as it was frightening. Mal's memories of the Underdark were not ones of joy, to be sure. Still she inhaled deeply breathing hot breath on Jarlaxle's neck.
He reveled in the sensation of her breath on his neck and let it wash over him. He felt his face flush; he was having quite a time keeping his desire from being obvious. He turned his head to take in her beauty and their eyes locked. Jarlaxle just couldn't help himself. He pulled her closer and his breath caught as he felt her fingers trace small circles near his belt. He leaned in and they shared their first blissful kiss.
Malehedectar caressed the soft velvet of his tongue with hers, noting his surprised pause as he discovered the mithral posts that pierced her tongue. His mouth was hot and tasted strongly of the cloves he had chewed to clean his teeth.
Mal's eyes flashed when they pulled apart her breath coming in soft gasps. Jarlaxle raised a questioning eyebrow and Malehedectar stuck out her tongue.
Jarlaxle grinned, he had sensed the magical emanations of the jewelry with his tongue and was very curious as to what enchantment those mithral pearls held. But that was a question best left for another time, he thought as he crushed his lips to hers.
Their kisses soon became more urgent as the passion built. Jarlaxle moved atop her as he trailed kisses and small love bites down the loose collar of the black, silk, tunic she had donned, pinning her beneath him.
He groaned with lusty pleasure as she moved beneath him, teasing his, almost painful, erection. Suddenly, Mal stiffened and all his pleasure came to a screeching halt.
"Jarlaxle, I cannot give myself to you" though regret was clear in her voice.
"Why ever not, my beautiful desert flower?" Jarlaxle cooed in her ear.
"As much as I would enjoy it, I cannot. My heart and my body are too firmly united. You are drow and may never know what it means to have heart, but if ever those things change… Having time is what it means to be an elf after all" she spoke in low tones, uncertain how the volatile leader of Bregan D'aerthe would react to being shut down.
"Well My Lady, I'll be here for a few more days at least, until my ship leaves port. Feel welcome to join me for meals anytime you like. But I really must be off now, as I have some rather pressing, business to attend to." He said the last with a hint of ironic laughter to his tone as he made to get up.
Malehedectar stopped him with a hand on his chest. She kissed him again longingly and still breathless, she whispered in his ear.
"I would dearly love to see this pressing business you speak of, but if it is an affair you would rather keep private I'll understand."
Jarlaxle flashed a feral grin. Her words had him more excited than he could remember feeling in quite some time.
"No, not at all, you are in fact most welcome to the show" he said as he unlaced his trousers, exposing his well endowed form.
Jarlaxle felt a spike of pleasure at the sound of her gasp. Yes I am very well equipped, for a drow, he thought. He reached a delicate hand down the flat muscled plane of his stomach and slowly began stroking his erection.
Mal's gasp turned in to a soft purring moan in his ear. Suddenly, her tongue snaked out to lick and draw the sensitive flesh of his earlobe into her hot mouth.
His breath caught as shivers of pleasure assailed him. Her motion at his side snared his attention. One of her hands had disappeared into the band of her loose, black silk, pants. She raised her tunic just enough so he could see signs of her hand working between her legs. She twisted sideways to whisper in his ear.
"Please don't stop, I wish to follow you into bliss."
Her husky whisper sent his head spinning and he picked up the pace of his strokes.
Malehedectar grasped his other hand and began kissing and sucking on his, thin, delicate fingers. Jarlaxle groaned in response as a pearl of clear fluid formed at the tip of his obsidian erection.
He made sure to keep one eye on her reaction as he moved one slender finger over it, smearing the liquid over his circumcised head.
"Oh please let me taste you" she begged, her hot breath sending shivers down his side.
Jarlaxle brought his finger up to hover over her parted lips, "Oh but my seed is poisoned" he said in a lusty whisper.
"Then I shall gladly meet my end on bended knee at the poisoned alter of Jarlaxle D'aerthe" she breathed, her face pleading.
Her words were too much for him. With an almost pained groan Jarlaxle spilt his seed in a white shower over his obsidian flesh. With a few final strokes Jarlaxle removed his hand from his throbbing erection and ran two fingers through the white sticky fluid that glistened on his skin.
He brought those fingers up and into Malehedectar's parted lips and watched her heavenly reaction. Mal savored the sweet bitter taste of his seed. Her eyes closed as her breathing became heavy. She reached for Jarlaxle and kissed him with a feral passion as she followed him into sweet oblivion.
Jarlaxle and Malehedectar took a few moments to bask in the afterglow of their bliss. As soon as Mal caught her breath she dunked a clean rag into the water pitcher and dragged it over Jarlaxle's stomach.
The cold wet chill of the cloth set him shivering once more. Jarlaxle let out a contented sigh. Never had he felt this sated from merely pleasuring himself.
"I take back what I said about your pillow talk. That was most satisfying, even if it was all a lie." Jarlaxle gave her a sly grin.
"Oh and what makes you think it was a lie?" Malehedectar asked sweetly as she fiddled with a long thin sliver filigree tube.
"Words spoken in the throws of passion, my dear, are rarely ever true."
"Well when next we meet you shall have to throw me to my knees and think up a suitable punishment for my lying mouth" she quipped, then held the tube between her lips and struck a match.
The sweet smell of strong Turmish tobacco filled the room as Malehedectar took a long pull oh her strait-pipe. Jarlaxle cocked an eyebrow and she handed the pipe to him.
"So you were serious and I should take that as an invitation to have you on your knees?" Jarlaxle took a pull on the tapered silver pipe and smiled as the fine Turmish tobacco made his head lighten just so.
"Take it however you wish Jarlaxle D'aerthe. If ever you learn to share your heart, then you shall have me on my knees always" she replied flippantly.
"Ware your words, Malehedectar Basadoni, you may just find, I have plenty of heart to spare." Jarlaxle laughed, a melodious sound that brought a warm smile to her face.
"Ware your words, lest you come to one day eat them" Mal said with a touch more seriousness.
"Stranger things have happened, especially to those who travel with certain drow mercenaries. Consider Entreri for instance" she shrugged, planting seeds of doubt in the dark soil of Jarlaxle's mind.
The leader of Bregan D'aerthe's whoring was legendary though. She knew that she was in no danger of him ever becoming a one woman man. One could only hope, she thought, sarcastically.
Malehedectar looked out a bubbled, pitted glass of the window. The waxing moon had moved far across the sky. A few hours longer and dawn would be upon them. She spun on Jarlaxle then, her crimson-flecked yellow eyes glittering with mischief.
"Take reverie with me." She said suddenly.
Jarlaxle's crimson orbs matched her mischief twice over. Drow were never casual in their reverie, unlike surface elves drow typically needed to be well warded to let their guard down enough to slip into trance. Even Jarlaxle had a few extra precautions when his only seeming protection had been the assassin taking watch from the shadows. Still the idea of sharing reverie with Malehedectar sent a surge of warmth pulsing through his veins.
"Have you gone mad, dear sweet Malehedectar? You would share your reverie with the Captain of Bregan D'aerthe?" Jarlaxle asked teasingly.
"No, I would share my reverie with simply Jarlaxle, friend of Artemis Entreri and bane of the Desert's Milk."
Jarlaxle took her words for what they were, honest but from her half drow heart.
"So I am" he chuckled.
"Then you will stay?" She asked, reaching into her bag.
Jarlaxle blew out a sigh, "Yes I shall stay, but only because you looked so fine under my hat."
Two long strides took him to her and he spun the slight elf-maid to face him as he pulled her into a crushing embrace.
Malehedectar purred like a happy cat in his dark arms. When their limbs finally untangled she tossed a pair of loose black pants, made of the finest Calishite silk at the mercenary.
She looked on approvingly, admiring his form as he shucked his tight leather trousers and switched to the more comfortable garment. Then she tied her mask behind her head and sat cross-legged on the large flat, round cushion that Aria had sent up with her bath.
Jarlaxle's eyes narrowed with suspicion as he waited for an explanation. When none was forthcoming he moved to stand before her.
"You are a night blade then?" his tone made it more of an accusation than a question.
"No, though I am familiar with some of Vhaeraun's followers. It is but an old habit" she nodded to the silver pipe on the table, "Old habits are slow to die." She noticed that the tension did not entirely leave his shoulders at her obtuse explanation. "Suffice to say that you too would have developed a habit of hiding your face had you suffered at the hands of the Derro as I have."
Jarlaxle's look of suspicion melted into one of true sympathy. The Derro were an abomination of a race, a cross between humans and deep dwarfs. They infested the Underdark like vermin, capturing and torturing any one they snared along their way. Some claimed their insane cruelty even surpassed that of Loth's clergy, though Jarlaxle was unsure about that.
"I see, forgive an old drow habit of inborn mistrust, My Lady." Jarlaxle replied earnestly as he sat down with his back to hers.
"There is noting to forgive. I seem to have that same trait. But mistrust is a double edged sword I am afraid. On the one hand it keeps you form walking blindly into treachery, on the other it keeps you from ever knowing the full potential of those you would like to call friends." Mal's words were spoken with clear lament.
"There is much wisdom to those words Malehedectar; it's a terrible and wonderful world we live in. As with all things I have found a little temperance goes a long way, but I am sometimes the last one to follow my own advice." Jarlaxle's voice reverberated through her spine as he spoke.
"Mmm… hush now. Breathe with me" she said as she took his hands in hers.
Malehedectar exhaled and was surprised to feel Jarlaxle do the same. His every breath, every slight movement sent motes of pleasure though her being.
As Jarlaxle fell in tune with her rhythmic breathing he was taken aback at how relaxed and calm he felt. The gentle pressure of her back against his beckoned him to let go, slip off into reverie. But a tiny portion of his mind rebelled, demanding he stay alert.
She is half drow! His mind screamed. She must have an ulterior motive for this. No drow would willingly give such pleasures without a clear gain to be had.
Malehedectar felt him tense. She knew he could only try his best to relax; Menzoberranzan had a way of seeping into a drow's soul, making even a simple shared reverie nigh impossible.
"Jarlaxle?" she called softly.
"Yes" he tried to sound casual.
"The information you have provided thus far has proven most useful and the eye-patch is a nice toy. But I sense this relationship could be far more profitable for us both, given the right circumstances." She was glad he couldn't see her face, or it would have given away her little ploy.
Jarlaxle let out a breath he only then realized he had been holding, "I was just thinking along those very lines, My Lady. We shall discuss the details over breakfast." Jarlaxle gave her hands a slight squeeze.
Jarlaxle was finally able to put his mind at ease, with a clear profit in sight; he exhaled deeply and let his back settle against hers. His breathing falling in once again with Mal's, he discovered a whole new realm of pleasure though it was tinged with a sadness he couldn't yet identify.
Athrogate stumbled into the Cloak and Dagger well past sunrise, drunk as a fat-bellied friar deep into his own kegs.
"If ever a'lady be wide in tha hips, ye better believe I'de be kissen them lips!" he sang as he caught sight of Jarlaxle's plumed hat.
He went through a few more raunchy verses as he made his way over to slap the mercenary on the back.
Jarlaxle took note of the Dwarf's black eye as Athrogate pulled up a chair and plunked down.
"Iffen a woman e'er tells ya she's got one o'them brassiere's o'elemental summon'en ye best believe her, coal skin, ye best believe her. An don't ye go ask'en about me eye nether!" Just then the oblivious dwarf caught sight of Malehedectar.
'Brassier of elemental summoning?' Mal signed.
'It's best not to ask as I'm sure he will divulge the whole, horrifying story at the most appropriate time' Jarlaxle's hands flashed back.
Malehedectar burst out laughing then, there was nothing for it. The way Jarlaxle's intrigued expression betrayed his seeming indifference was just too much on top of the whole business of a women's brassier that could supposedly summon elementals.
"You know this foul mouthed drunkard?" she asked Jarlaxle out loud.
"Surren I do. An Jarlaxle's mouth be tha worst in tha land. An if e'er ye see him there be a mug in his hand! Gwhaahaa!" Athrogate interjected.
Now it was Jarlaxle's turn to laugh as Mal's eyes went tight. He could only imagine the look of pristine annoyance beneath that black silk mask. True he should have warned her about Athrogate, but surprises were just too much fun.
"Now, now, my dear Athrogate there is no need to sing my many praises. You know how it gets right to my head." Jarlaxle's blue eyes sparkled.
"Let me introduce Lady Malehedectar. She is a lady of grace and infinite patience. And this charming fellow is Athrogate, formerly of Vassa. At present he is simply Athrogate of the Wayward Wench." Jarlaxle said, making reference to the brothel where Athrogate had spent nearly two full days.
"I see" was Mal's terse response.
Jarlaxle could tell by the undercurrent in her voice that Malehedectar thought just as highly of Athrogate as Entreri had. The similarities those two shared bordered on the supernatural.
"She aint a dragon is she?" the dwarf asked Jarlaxle in a loud whisper. Without bothering to wait for a reply the dwarf turned to Malehedectar, "Ye aint no dragon, are ye? I'm a'tellen ya, ye can't be trust'en the looks o'them skinny maids these days."
'Dragon?' Mal's hand flashed.
'It's a long story' came Jarlaxle's silent reply.
Hand was hard at work shoring up the guild houses defenses. He had set the guild's three resident wizards to work casting wards and a few well placed, thoroughly nasty, traps all along the perimeter. The lower chambers, the ones that allowed access to the sewers, had already been sealed. But Hand had insisted that dart traps and glyphs of warding be placed near all the sealed doors.
Hand had learned a painful lesson the night the drow had infiltrated. Even the Basadoni guild house was vulnerable. He doubted that the Rakers attack would be as efficient, or as deadly as the one perpetrated by Bregan D'aerthe, but never the less he was taking few chances.
He had followed Dwahvel's advice and set up an elaborate alarm. There were triggers in nearly every room that set off a series of multicolored magical lights accompanied by a shrill whistle. The whistle was keyed to sound only in the ears of Basadoni guild members. The magical lights were merely a feint.
Hand, at present, was on the rooftop drilling the archers on sniper positions. They had lost many good men and a few women too in the last few tendays. But the senior members that still remained were taking charge and making sure the new bloods were up to the challenge.
Hausrath and Rocio, his acting lieutenants, were drilling new solders in what used to be Basadoni's private roof-top garden. The once meticulously groomed turf had long since turned brown and the massive potted fruit trees had clearly seen better days.
When the appointment of Pasha fell to him by default, Hand had been hard pressed to handle the faltering guild's day to day affairs. Things like the garden, the harem, and even Basadoni's cash of exotic pets all fell by the wayside. To be sure the garden and the animals got the short end of the stick as the lady's of the harem could at least fetch their own water.
Just as he was finished going over the secondary positions a low rank street boy darted up the carved marble stairs.
"Pasha Sir, there is a little girl here to see you. I didn't want to come get you, but she says your sister is sick, it sounds urgent."
"I don't have a…" he started, but quickly changed his words as it dawned on him, "a problem with you bringing news so long as it's important. You've done well, what is your name lad?"
"Its Disstan Sir, uh Hand, uh Pasha." The boy stuttered.
"Relax Disstan, why don't you go down to the kitchens and tell Mistress Ivory that I said to give you a cheese pie?"
"Yes my Pasha!" the boy said with a formal salute.
Hand knew he shouldn't be so soft with the boy but these were trying times for everyone. Especially for the young ones who worked over the streets in the poorer sections of town like Disstan. Death loomed ever closer and he could not bring himself to deal with the lad harshly.
Hand followed the boy down the stair well and through the bas-relief double doors. He nearly ran over Dwahvel, who was dressed as a ragged looking little girl. Dwahvel's shrill shriek of, 'Uncle!' was nearly enough to knock him over and coupled with her strong embrace it almost did.
When Disstan was safely out of earshot Hand pried the mad Gild Mistress off his legs and gave her a proper scolding.
"By the gods Dwahvel, couldn't you have sent a runner? And that story! Now the whole guild will think I've some bleeding heart!" Hand had his fists on his hips as he stooped over her, looking for all the world like an angry uncle scolding his niece.
A sly smile played on her lips as she led the way through the plush upper corridors of the Basadoni guild house. When finally they came to the map room, Dwahvel launched in to her explanation.
"Hand I've risked much coming here like this I know, but we have a problem brewing in Myratma. I've just come form a meeting with LaValle."
"You mean Bodau's resident wizard?"
"The very same. Tell me, you were here when Entreri was still a free agent of Basadoni's correct?" Dwahvel asked as she itched at her filthy blond wig.
"Yes, you know that, I've spent the last thirty years working through the ranks of this guild!" Hand shook his head and let out a mirthless laugh, "I never expected I'de be playing Pasha to this skeleton crew though."
"Do you remember a woman by the name of Malehedectar?"
Hand's face went white, as if he had seen a ghost. He remembered Mal alright and she was nearly as bad as Entreri, nearly. He had never actually seen her kill anyone, and that was just it. She was a master thief, and she had been one of the guild's lieutenants for years; but whenever she was around people simply disappeared, or turned up dead with hardly a scratch on their flesh to mark their passing.
"That I do. I took her position after she left, but the way Basadoni looked at it, I was just her placeholder. She and Artemis were like the man's progeny, the way he went on about them after they had gone you would have thought old coot had lost his damn kids!"
"I see I've touched on a sore subject." Dwahvel looked concerned.
Hand shook his head, "No I'm not sore, the man is dead. Those two were the best at what they did because Basadoni trained them himself. When they took off, they left some pretty big holes to fill around here. No one was good enough to fill them though and Basadoni was ever quick to remind us of that fact."
Hand paused to pour himself a glass of water from a cut crystal decanter.
"When Entreri came back I was sure the old man would welcome him to his side. I was a bit shocked when Sharlotta told us Entreri's first assignment. I guess it was the old bat's way of letting him know he was angry, or hurt, or what have you."
"Hand, I never knew you were the introspective type. But your words explain much, to be sure. Malehedectar is on her way here, LaValle has a contact in Memmon that will teleport her right to your door and sooner than you think." Dwahvel wagged a stubby finger to drive her point home.
"I'll not turn her away; we need all the strength we can muster. But Hausrath and Rocio won't stand for her just waltzing in here and barking orders. Rocio doesn't even know her; she was well before his time." Hand mused aloud.
"One more thing, it's been said that she is actively seeking information, what would you have me do? This is first and foremost a Basadoni matter and I wouldn't want to overstep my boundaries."
Hand mulled it over, spinning the water in the rounded bottom of his tumbler, watching the small whirlpool it caused.
"She has been gone form Calimshan far too long. We can't say with any certainty that she still conceders herself a Basadoni. Have your contact pass on a general outline of the city's dispossession. If you can determine her loyalty then offer more, but noting sensitive, mind you."
"You are ever practical." Dwahvel turned to leave, but spun suddenly as she remembered something else she had meant to tell him, "You know she carries Entreri's dagger. I'd be damned if I knew how she got her hands on his blade, but she was flashing it in the Cloak and Dagger. It'll be a few days before the news hits the city, but she will be hard pressed to make it to Memmon unscathed."
"Rest easy Dwahvel, it's not Entreri's blade."
The relief was clear on her face as he spoke the words. She had concocted plenty of unreasonable explanations as to how the assassin had lost that blade and none of them were in any way pleasant.
"You have never wondered about the crossed jeweled daggers on the Basadoni standard?" Hand asked, shocked that the Halfling Guild Mistress had never pondered the symbol.
"I just assumed…"
"One in front and the other behind, the twin blades of Basadoni; the daggers are a set, as once were ones who wield them. That is how they operated, Entreri, the bold flashy assassin and Malehedectar, silent as night shadows robbing Pashas and peasants alike and leaving no witness alive."
