Chapter 7

Naught But A Pawn

Excerpted from R. A. Salvatore's Starless Night:

A familiar clicking sounded from the tunnel directly across the small chamber and, a moment later, in swept Jarlaxle, the extraordinary drow mercenary, his wide-brimmed hat festooned with a giant diatryma feather, his vest cut high to reveal rolling lines of muscles across his abdomen. He strode before the gnome, glanced about a couple of times to take in the whole scene, then dipped into a low bow, brushing his hat across the floor with an outstretched hand.

"My greetings!" Jarlaxle said heartily as he came back upright, crooking his arm above him so that the hat tucked against his elbow. A snap of he arm sent the hat into a short spin, to land perfectly atop the swaggering mercenary's shaved head.

"High soar your spirits this day," Firble remarked.

"And why not?" the drow asked. "It's another glorious day in the Underdark! A day to be enjoyed."

Firble did not seem convinced, but he was amazed, as always, by the conniving drow's command of the Svirfneblin language. Jarlaxle spoke the tongue as easily and fluidly as any of Blingdenstone's deep gnome inhabitants, though the mercenary used the sentence structure more common to the drow language and not the inverted form favored by many of the gnomes.

"Many svirfneblin mining parties have been assaulted," Firble said, his tone verging on that of an accusation. "Svirfneblin parties working west of Blingdenstone."

Jarlaxle smiled coyly and held his hands out wide. "Ched Nasad?" he asked innocently, implicating the next nearest drow city.

"Menzoberranzan!" Firble asserted. Ched Nasad was many weeks away. "One dark elf wore the emblem of a Menzoberranzan house."

"Rogue parties," Jarlaxle reasoned. "Young fighters out for pleasure."

Firble's thin lips almost disappeared with his ensuing scowl. Both he and Jarlaxle knew better than to think that the raiding drow were simple young rowdies. The attacks had been coordinated and executed perfectly, and many svirfneblin slain.

"What am I to say?" Jarlaxle asked innocently. "I am but a pawn to the events around me."

(152-153)


Jarlaxle sat alone in the darkened cell, nauseated with pain, trying to shut out the other figures in other cells revealed to him by infravision.

He considered the vivid, frightening memories of his partnership with Crenshinibon. Once, he had believed that he had been at fault for ordering the crystal shard not to kill a fleeing spy. That his lack of respect caused the partnership to dissolve. But on reflection, he felt that the shard had been toying with him all along. Crenshinibon had let him believe there was a partnership, that there were lines neither of them would cross. Lines of civility. In reality, he had been in terrible danger from the beginning. He had allowed an ignorant delusion of equality to convince him that he, simply because of cleverness and charisma, could be a match for an artifact with a limitless source of power.

Unpleasant as the conclusion was, Jarlaxle drew inescapable parallels between his foolishness then and the principle upon which he based his very survival in Menzoberranzan. Like he had believed that cleverness and charisma protected him against Crenshinibon, he based his entire concept of self-worth on the belief that his cleverness and charisma would protect him against the matriarchy.

Crenshinibon had simply outmaneuvered his mind. When Jarlaxle posed an actual challenge to its dominance, all it had to do was distract him with pain and fear. Just as he, in ignorance, had wielded Crenshinibon's ability to use pain and fear against Artemis during a sparring match. He had not learned. Artemis had defeated those morale weakening emotions but he had still lost. Crenshinibon would not have cared if its feint had snapped Jarlaxle's mind in two, but it expected the drow mercenary to defeat it. After that mere distraction, it knew Jarlaxle would be too weak to search for subterfuge. Having survived the attack, it knew Jarlaxle would listen to its offer of diplomacy, that he would be eager to reestablish codes of conduct.

The crystal shard, with its nonliving perspective on mortal life and centuries of experience, knew very well that Jarlaxle protected himself with denial. Crenshinibon did not tire; it could channel energy from the sun forever. It knew that his sanity depended on being able to deny that the crystal shard could make him relive his childhood over and over again, until he broke under the strain.

Jarlaxle was alone, helpless, wretchedly cold in the prison clothes the guards had substituted for his ripped and muddied garments, his bald head exposed. His lips were cracked and bleeding, his tailbone numb from sitting on the stone floor. And not more than a few hours ago, he had seen death in the hulking behemoth frame of the red dragon…and not done anything about it.

Would I be having this breakdown anyway?

From where he sat now, it seemed inevitable. He had survived his ordeal with Crenshinibon, but he had not recovered. The artifact's intimate knowledge of him, its gaze into the center of his heart, had wounded him. Its manipulation of his innermost self, the self he had tried to protect against his lieutenants, his double-edged world of lies and conspiracies, the grabbing hands of Matron Mothers…Crenshinibon wore a hole through him like acid.

Of course he had misjudged Tandy.

Of course he had sprung her trap.

Of course he had frozen in the face of that dragon.

It was all inevitable.

Jarlaxle knew he had solved the mystery of the nightmares that plagued him ever since he woke up from his near death sleep in Tandy's clutches. He was having these nightmares now because of Crenshinibon. Underneath his denial, these doors were waiting to be opened, waiting for him to see.

Where sat Artemis in all of this? He was more than just a witness to Jarlaxle's disintegration. What was he? Jarlaxle tried so hard to make him escape, to push him away, but he kept coming back.

He had seen something in Artemis' eyes.

It was different than when Jarlaxle, in a searing moment, his mind being burned away by Crenshinibon's power, glimpsed into the eyeless, immortal face of emptiness and power lust that stared into him.

Jarlaxle had stared into Artemis' face and found…concern, insecurity, passion, anger and life, so very familiar things – and understanding.

Artemis hadn't wanted to burn him alive. Artemis had wanted to protect him.

Jarlaxle closed his eyes, rested his head against the stone wall of his cell. He was so tired he didn't think he could stand another moment of consciousness. But reverie wouldn't come. He was so cold it burned now. He wished with the traitorously weak part of him Crenshinibon cruelly exposed that he wouldn't live through the night. Delirium would steal over him, lending him strange dreams while he slowly froze to death, finally proven to be the foolish male his family always said he was.

Tears ran down his cheeks, and sleep drew him into its void.

As what usually happened to exhausted dreamers, Jarlaxle was almost instantly enfolded into a world of vivid and strange images. A sound like a ravenous whirlpool roared in his ears. The foreign experience of being exposed to the true chaos in his sleeping mind entertained and frightened him until morning.

***

Jarlaxle jerked awake in the hands of two guards. They were holding him upright by the wrists.

"Damnit, he's awake!" the bearded one said.

"Hold still," the other snapped at him.

The world tilted at crazy angles, almost as if he were tumbling down a hill. He didn't remember for a moment where he was or why he was cold, and the bright lanterns on hooks around the cell blinded him.

One of the guards produced manacles from his belt and fitted Jarlaxle's wrists into them with a heavy snap of their jaws closing.

"W-w-what are you doing?" Jarlaxle asked. He was instantly ashamed of the fear in his voice and his chattering teeth.

"Sit down." The bearded guard shoved him onto the stone bench on the wall he'd been unable to reach yesterday before his ankle gave out.

Jarlaxle fell onto it hard, unable to break his fall. He slumped over, resting his manacled hands in his lap, trying to wish away the pain of his tailbone. He felt naked and vulnerable, and the feelings shook him to pieces. He realized he was afraid of being raped. He'd gone to sleep, and he'd let them deprive him of his only chance of self defense.

The bearded guard stared at him. "It's safe now. He's locked up."

A third person came into the cell, out from behind the guards. It was a young man in robes.

Jarlaxle cringed. A priest. A priest of some unknown human deity. They were going to torture him now.

He could have withstood torture before. He had, countless times. It was just a matter of will.

But he didn't care if he lived or died right now. He didn't know if he was going to live, if he was going to be imprisoned here forever, if Artemis would be put to death… He didn't have the willpower to be tortured right now.

So many drow had died imprisoned, humiliated, tortured to death by Matron's priestesses…he knew the beast that was Menzoberranzan was fed with the bodies of countless soldiers, sent into unwinnable battles, thrown as mere distractions at academy trained nobles they were no match for. He had simply watched and sidestepped the blood.

But now it was his turn, and someone else far above him would be watching, disdainful of his pain.

Jarlaxle started crying before the priest said a word.

"Would you like to confess?" the priest asked, his mannerisms deceptively gentle.

Jarlaxle's breath caught and he felt a tight pain in his chest as his heart jumped. This is what Zaknafein did. This is how he died. He was asked to confess, and he was killed, his heart got carved out and they fed it to a fire and they threw him away and they used him. This is what happened. This is what's happening to me.

He couldn't believe it. He'd thought his lieutenants would kill him, or his enemies would catch up to him on the battlefield, he never thought he'd be killed…weak, alone, unprepared in this cell.

He broke out sobbing. "I can't be here, I can't, it wasn't supposed to be me. It wasn't supposed to be me – I'm different, I'm not like them…"

"Everyone is here for a reason," the priest said.

"Leave me alone."

"I cannot," the priest said. "It would be unconscionable. Your wounds must be mended."

"No!" Jarlaxle shrank back, curling up on the bench in a shaking huddle.

The priest approached.

"No! Don't touch me!" Jarlaxle felt the priest's hands on him. "No, don't touch me. Don't do it…"

"Your ribs are cracked on your left side," the priest said.

Jarlaxle felt a warm tingling, and suddenly he could breathe without pain. "Please stop. You're only going to kill me later."

He felt the priest touching his hip, and another warm, tingling sensation spread through him. The pain in his back and tailbone stopped.

Jarlaxle sat up, trying to push the priest away even though his wrists were bound.

"Hey!" A guard slapped him, hard. "You try that again and you will die!"

Jarlaxle whimpered. "It can't make a difference."

"No one is dying, here," the priest said, giving the guard a stern look. He turned to Jarlaxle. "I am not an executioner. I am here to heal you. That is my job. That is all." He knelt and healed Jarlaxle's ankle.

Then he stood and addressed the guards again. "He is too cold. Get me a blanket for him."

The guards reluctantly left.

"Why do you care if I am cold or hot, or well or infirm?" Jarlaxle asked. "It doesn't matter."

"I have to care," the priest said. "I would be a disgrace to my god if I did not."

"Your god cares whether I am suffering or not?" Jarlaxle demanded incredulously.

"Of course He does," the priest said. "He cares about all suffering."

Jarlaxle blinked. He was feeling a whole lot better, and the cloudiness of his despair was quickly being burned off by anger. "What kind of a god is that? Why would he bother? What can he gain? My adoration? My indebtedness? My soul?" He stood up. "What right do you or some god I've never met have to tell me whether or not to suffer? Tell me that."

The priest looked quite surprised, but did not back up. Rather, he held his position and merely said, "No, none of those things. It is my duty to lessen the suffering of anyone I come by, not anyone else's duty to come to my god and thank him. Service to Him is a choice."

Jarlaxle still clenched his jaw, skeptical. It would have been better to die as he had thought he would. Now he lived for perhaps a day or two longer in the shame of misreading someone's intentions, the shame of being a fool. "If service to him is a choice, and your service is to go out and help people all day or the rest of your life, why in the nine blazing hells would you serve such a god?"

The priest sighed. "I have met many people who feel that way, and I only have one answer for you. The same answer I gave the rest of the people who think like you: I do it because it's what I want to do. Pity me if you want, disdain me if you wish, but I feel the most fulfilling thing in the world is to protect people instead of harming them or letting them suffer because of others." He gave Jarlaxle a defiant stare. "And I will never apologize for healing someone. If you wanted to suffer, that is your business. Take it up with Shar."

The priest left with his head held high. A moment later the guards came back with a faded yellow blanket.

"Who in the world was that?" Jarlaxle asked them.

The guards threw the blanket at him. He caught it deftly in one hand. "The priest of Ilmater." They left, and locked the door.

Jarlaxle looked down at the blanket in his hand, then wrapped himself in it. He sat down on the hard bench with a sigh. "A priest of Ilmater…Who in the nine hells is Ilmater? Why haven't I heard that name before? What is his purpose?"

He began to feel a lot warmer after about fifteen minutes, but felt no wiser about what had just happened.

As his irritation faded, it was replaced with hope. The world opened up to him and offered him its vast possibilities. Perhaps, for instance, a lot of people believed in this Ilmater – then they wouldn't kill him, because it was against their god's wishes or something. Or perhaps Alustriel would listen to his story before automatically condemning him. This justice system seemed slow on the move. Perhaps he had enough time to escape from here, rescue Artemis if he hadn't already busted free, and run for it. Alustriel dealt with the dragon easily enough. Perhaps she and Tandy Jedra were having a mage fight right now.

Perhaps there was still some time to make things right – to kill Tandy, regain power, contact Kimmuriel, and fix his friendship with Artemis.

No matter how badly he was still hurting on the inside, it didn't matter – the priest had just proved that. Being an emotional mess didn't mean his life was over. And if his life was over, he could have chances to fix it. To regrow some armor around his heart, and stop thinking about the past so much.

He had almost given up.

Suddenly he was angry with himself. He had given up. If he had been in the situation he thought, he would have died. What was going to become of Artemis if he died? Artemis had no friends, no family, no home, no life to go to even if someone decided this was all a mistake and let the assassin go. No one else cared! No one cared whether his potential was wasted or not, if he was ever happy, if he smiled, scowled, or cried…or died.

Jarlaxle punched the wall and nursed his scraped knuckles immediately after.

What was he thinking? What was his problem? To the nine hells with his histrionic emotional disturbances! He didn't give a damn! People were going to waste a life. They were going to throw away a perfectly good person! There was nothing wrong with Artemis he couldn't fix with a few years' time. Artemis was so close to being the person he was supposed to be.

The thing that drove Jarlaxle to the brink of insanity was the waste of life. That was where Crenshinibon had kicked him in the groin.

That's right…It wasn't his own problems that made him so desperate for some peace, even if that meant death. It was the idea that he'd blundered, that he'd been stupid, that he hadn't been able to salvage as many lives from Menzoberranzan's hunger as he should have been. That he was going to fail again.

Well, he wouldn't fail again.
I can't fail again. Jarlaxle stood up and paced throughout the cell, blanket clutched tightly around his shoulders. I will go insane if I don't make it.

***

He didn't know how many hours later it was when he heard an interruption from the prison hallway.

"Is he here?" a young, melodic voice asked, echoing slightly in the corridor.

"He is here, Good Ranger Do'Urden," the rough voice of a guard said.

Jarlaxle's head snapped up.

The youthful, neurotically handsome drow sprung from Zaknafein's loins was indeed standing before him, looking through the bars of the cell door.

"I see you live still, clever mercenary," Drizzt said. "What have you been up to since killing me and staging my death in front of my greatest rival and all of my friends?"

"What are you doing here?" Jarlaxle asked incredulously. "Is it not enough for you to capture me? Must you see me denuded, without my glorious clothing and my magical items? You come here to gawk at me like a lion in a cage?"

"I came to make sure you were still here under lock and key," Drizzt retorted. "No one knows better than I how skilled you are at making your escape."

"Says the boy who captured me," Jarlaxle said, scowling at him. "You see that I am here. Now fly." He made a shooing motion.

"You are in no position to tell anyone when to come or go," Drizzt said. "I may come or leave as I wish to."

Jarlaxle gave him a rude drow gesture that basically suggested he should feed his head to a drider.

Drizzt's face heated under Jarlaxle's infravision. "You do it and like it!" he snapped in Drow.

"Child's retort," Jarlaxle said, switching over as he had. "What do you think your father would think of you, locking up a family friend and siding with the Matron of Silverymoon?"

"This isn't anything like Menzoberranzan!" Drizzt exclaimed. "You're too old to realize that! It will never be!"

"Everywhere is Menzoberranzan," Jarlaxle snapped back. "You are too young to realize that it doesn't matter where you are. You are going to be treated just the same." He didn't know why he said that, since he had told Entreri just the opposite, but he was angry, and here was this easy target. "Except the people here are softer. You would never survive in Menzoberranzan, you weak-hearted, Matron-fearing konbluth-aspirerer! Look at yourself. You have dark skin, white hair, pointed ears. You are a drow! A male drow."

"That doesn't make me like you," Drizzt said.

"That makes you more like me than you are like them," Jarlaxle said. "If male drow never stuck together, we would all be dead. You are betraying your entire culture. I'm trying to make something of it. I'm trying to unite people. What are you trying to do? You kill every one of us you come across!"

"Shut up," Drizzt demanded, shaking.

"Your father isn't proud of you. He's ashamed of you!"

"Shut up!"

"If he were here right now, he'd let me go, and he would help me get Artemis out of his cell!"

"If he did that, he would be wrong!" Drizzt shouted. He turned cold all over. "You can't look at me and see my father. I'm not him! And you aren't my friend!"

He ran away, green cloak flying behind him.

Jarlaxle felt less angry, but he felt sick to his stomach. It was a sinking feeling. What had he done by unleashing his anger on Drizzt like that? He'd made a deal with himself to try and help the child of Zaknafein's blood. Now he had driven him away.

His mind was soon overcome by his other problems.

He resumed pacing. What was going to happen to Artemis?

***