Note to readers: In this chapter the character of Raphealla Von'Mercer, myself, makes a brief appearance. I would like to let any naysayers know that she is only a plot device and will not be featured in the rest of the story. As this is my very first story, I dearly wanted a cameo, so please just let me have my tiny moment of fame and don't quit reading just because of this brief self insertion.
CHAPTER NINE
Jarlaxle watched her sleep. They rhythm of her breathing, the rise and fall of her pert breasts, the soft glow of her dusky grey skin, in the dim light of the oil lamp, all of these things ensnared him. He twisted a lock of her hair in his slim fingers, it was a lustrous white. A small section she had missed in her hasty application of the pigments.
Jarlaxle drew a dagger and removed the small lock of hair, close to her scalp, behind her ear. He twisted it into a braid and tied it around his wrist. It was an action of sentimentality, one that he hardly noticed. Jarlaxle extended his arm to admire his new trophy, flexing his wrist, to make sure it did not interfere with his magical bracer. Satisfied, he turned his attention back to Malehedectar's sleeping form.
A strange desire close to, but not quite lust, welled up within him. Suddenly he felt sick. She was his, he had taken her, all of her, but somehow that was not enough. The more he thought about it, the more agitated Jarlaxle became. In a flurry of motion he got out of the bed and began collecting his belongings.
He didn't know what kind of game this female was playing at, but he needed to be away from her. These feelings that assailed him were troublesome, unfamiliar, and distracting. Jarlaxle paused in his hasty retreat to study her again. Malehedectar, lost in true sleep, shivered, naked atop the bed.
Without a thought Jarlaxle set his boots down and padded over to her. He pulled the thin, cotton, quilt over her, ceasing the shivering. Mal stirred a bit, but soon settled back into sleep at the sound of Jarlaxle's soothing voice.
"Hush now, rest Malehedectar", He whispered, as he eyed her dagger, just like Entreri's, stuck fast into the wall above her head, "So much alike, and yet, so far removed." Jarlaxle mused aloud.
He had been gone from Menzoberranzan for far too long. First Entreri, then Athrogate, and now Malehedectar, who else; what other wretch will find their way into the bleeding heart of Jarlaxle. He let out a breath, a huff really.
"More aptly, who else shall fall into Jarlaxle's tangled webs", he muttered to himself.
Mal woke then, "Humm… talking to yourself? Have I already driven you mad, dear Jarlaxle?" she rested her head in her hands, her elbows sinking into the mattress.
"Not yet, my precious whore", Jarlaxle said with a scowl, as he tugged on his boots, resenting the familiar and almost trivial manner in which she spoke to him.
Malehedectar sat up abruptly and snatched his shirt from the rumpled pile on the bed. She wadded it into a ball and launched it at him.
"Get out!" she screamed when the shirt collided with his face.
Jarlaxle nearly toppled over. He had been in a rather awkward position, stooping to fix his boots, when the wad of magically infused fabric slammed into his face. He tore the shirt from his head and quickly pulled it on.
"I was just leaving!" he shouted back, Jarlaxle grabbed his hat off the chair and strode to the door, his boots clacking so loudly, Mal thought he would bring the whole building down.
Jarlaxle yanked his cape off the pegs and flung open the door. He snapped his head around and took one more look at the furious Malehedectar.
"Get out! You pompous! Arrogant! Vile! Son of a spider kissing whore!" Mal pulled her dagger from the wall and flung it at him.
Jarlaxle quickly slammed the door, only to open it again when the missile struck home. He winced as he realized Mal had aimed for his groin. The blade quivered just below waist level in the inch thick wood. Jarlaxle ran and lunged at her. He drove her into the bed, pinning her beneath him.
"Get out! Leave me alone!" Malehedectar's words came in gasps of white hot rage, "I hate you!"
"You do not yet know what true hate is, my dear." Jarlaxle spoke soothingly, "I didn't mean it, you are many things Malehedectar Basadoni, but whore is not one of them" he whispered, nearly inaudibly, crushing her in his embrace.
Mal was stiff in his arms. She shook with fury, hurt, and confusion. He didn't mean it? That was supposed to make everything normal? Normal? She had shared her bed for the first time, and with Jarlaxle D'aerthe… things were ever going to be far from normal.
Jarlaxle felt like his chest was caving in. Not two moments ago he was ready to kill her and now he needed to see her smile again. This is sick, he thought, Sick! I'm not well, it must be this desert air, Boulder's Gate, be damned! I'll be on the first ship out of port, no matter where it's headed! Still he held her, petting her hair, willing her to be calm.
"Jarlaxle?" she asked, finally, her voice steady.
"Yes, my dear?"
"Please, go. I have a ways to ride on the morrow, and I do need some rest, and some time to myself, to gather my thoughts before I depart." Malehedectar kept her voice calm, but inside she was still, raw and angry.
"I shall go. I do apologize, My Lady, I seem to be feeling a bit under the weather. I usually am quite charming, I assure you." Jarlaxle flashed a smile.
Mal did laugh a bit at the irony, he was indeed, usually quite dashing, "Will I see you again before I go?"
"Yes, my Lieutenant. You must report to me before you leave. I shall have your orders ready, along with a list of contacts and some supplies." Jarlaxle walked to the door, his boots, quiet as a windblown feather and plucked her blade from the wood.
He brandished the dagger, menacingly for a moment, flashing another smile. Jarlaxle sauntered back over to her and set the blade on the bedside table, "You and Entreri are really, very much alike. Did you know he commissioned a painting of me, just so he could use it's groin for target practice?"
Malehedectar laughed so hard her sides hurt, "Oh, but that means we are both extremely fond of you!" she wiped tears from her eyes, "It's a Calimshite thing. You wouldn't understand."
Jarlaxle's eyebrows shot up his forehead, "Very clever! If that is the case, than I am very glad to be leaving Calimshan far behind me."
"Or, you could stay and invest in a sound, mithral, codpiece." Mal quipped, her anger finally forgotten.
"It's funny you mentioned that. The shining mithral codpiece, used to be quite a respectable fashion in Menzoberranzan, many, many, years ago. And one, I may just deem necessary to bring back, now that you so, quaintly, reminded me." Jarlaxle said mischievously as he turned to leave.
Malehedectar could only shake her head and laugh. Jarlaxle is utterly mad, she thought, nestling down to finally get some rest.
The intricate webs of his mind twitched and writhed as the mercenary retreated to his door. Athrogate's snoring assaulted him as soon as he set foot in the tiny closet that Aria called a room. He reminded himself to have a little chat with the innkeeper; Malehedectar had somehow managed to procure much more spacious accommodations.
"Must be a Calimshite thing", he chuckled to himself.
Jarlaxle made himself more comfortable, kicking off his boots and settling atop his small, stiff, bed. He took off his hat and ran a hand over his cleanly shaven head and closed his eyes. He breathed deeply and could smell the pungent, earthy, incense of his two most trusted allies. Jarlaxle's crimson orbs snapped open to stare accusingly at the bracelet of woven white hair on his wrist.
Was there no escaping her? Jarlaxle shrugged, he did not want to answer that question, at least not honestly. Jarlaxle D'aerthe always had a method of escape. He did not survive as the captain of rogue mercenaries, for centuries, without having an escape rout planed for every venture he undertook. Jarlaxle could not recall having ever felt the need to run, and the nagging desire to stay at the same time, however.
The conflict was driving him mad. He had known the female for less than three days and already he felt… haunted, exasperated, distraught. The ease with which he had taken her into his band was staggering! Now that he thought about it; it was Entreri! That bastard! Jarlaxle felt as if he had known Malehedectar for years, only because she so reminded him of the moody assassin.
"So close and yet" Jarlaxle recalled her blissful surrender, "So very far apart."
A shiver of remembered passion snaked down his spine. Her intensity, her precise, calculated movements, sometimes even her very words, were enough to make Jarlaxle feel, if even for a moment, that Artemis Entreri had never left his side.
Jarlaxle pressed his palms into his tired eyes. Perhaps he would accompany Malehedectar on her first trade mission; return to the dark simplicity that he called home. Things seemed to be more easily unraveled in the Underdark. Mistrust, greed, and duplicity were far more straightforward than sentiment and friendship.
Jarlaxle walked over to the cramped desk and snatched up his quill. He finished his list, extinguished the oil lamp and sat back in his chair. His crimson eyes flashed in the dark like a beacon as he watched the luminescent ink dry on the parchment.
Entreri woke with his head aching and the taste of honey mixed with wet ash in his mouth. The light of predawn streamed into the tent through the open flaps. He winced as he looked around, his head throbbing with every turn of his neck. The Shaman's tent was bare, save for the skins he was occupying. Entreri remembered then that the whole tribe was making ready for the journey; they were traveling to the city of their ancestors.
He propped himself up on his elbows and swiftly lay back down. A shooting pain in his side twisted his stomach and made him want to gag.
Nylund poked his head in, to check on his ward and vanished instantly, off to fetch Abrhama. Soon enough the blue eyed warrior returned, Shaman in toe.
"Artem, it is good to see you among the living!" Nylund spoke with a cheerfulness that grated the assassin's nerves.
"If this is how the living feel, I…" Artemis broke off as he clenched his jaw in agony, "then I would rather remain among the dead!" he finished in a labored snarl.
Abrhama shook his head and laughed, "Malpitte was good to you! Artem, the strong!" the Shaman raised a fist to his bony chest and laughed all the more.
"Laugh while you still have breath, Old Man!" Entreri spat, curling a fist around his dagger, "I could have died, you old fool!" he roared, in building furry.
Nylund interceded quickly, he had come to like the brooding Artem and did not wish to see the Shaman strike him dead, "You could have died, yes, but you did not. The Malpitte, she is fond of you. Now be calm Artem so we may tend to your wounds."
Entreri swallowed his anger and let his hand drop from the jeweled hilt of his dagger. Nylund approached and checked the bandages. The blond man packed a compress of wet, golden yellow, herbs into the wound in Artemis's side.
"Do you not possess any healing magic? I witnessed as much from the Shaman when I first met you." Artemis snapped, flinching involuntarily at Nylund's touch.
"Yes we can heal many ailments, but you must heal from these wounds on your own. The Malpitte has caused them and our magic cannot close these wounds", Nylund spoke solemnly.
"I see", Entreri hissed through gritted teeth.
Truly, he did not see at all. He knew he had been alone in the desert; only his mind had taken the journey with the Malpitte. Entreri knew he could only have inflected the wounds himself. The one in his side, the one from his own dagger, should have killed him, and yet he still lived. Even more disturbing, were the other cuts, scrapes, and punctures over his chest and arms.
"Jarlaxle!" he shouted, startling Nylund and drawing a concerned look from Abrhama.
The Shaman sat, cross-legged, a short distance behind the Northman on the bare, sand floor of the tent. His words, as per usual, came through Nylund. It was an arrangement Entreri was beginning to tire of, considerably. The assassin made a mental note to learn the tribe's complex dialect before he departed for Calimport.
"Our time here is nearly at an end, we must make haste to the City of the Dead. Tell me what she has shown you. Tell me too what the lizard spoke into your ear. You must leave out nothing! Everything is important, color, texture, and odor", the look on Nylund's face was as serious as his tone.
The visions, the memories, were clear in Entreri's mind. Every time he focused on the one aspect of them though, a red haze encroached on the outskirts of his vision. His chest felt tight. Never had he spoken aloud what had been done to him as a child. It was shameful, something to be pitied for, something that marked him as weak, a victim.
"How could the lizard have spoken anything? It's mouth was sewn shut, and the last time I checked, lizards cannot speak!" Artemis snapped, buying time, and trying to sate his curiosity all at the same time.
Nylund replied, in his own words, with no prompting from the Shaman, "Lizards are great gossips! We must sew the mouth shut when a lizard agrees to help the Malpitte, so that they cannot tell another man the secrets she reveals. Your lizard will speak only to you and he speaks into your mind, with the help of the Malpitte."
"Nylund I…", Artemis started, but his throat closed, his eyes burned as salty tears threatened to form.
"Artem, I know. Her visions are always painful. She takes from us the source of our strength by showing us the depth of our weakness. Please, you must be strong."
Artemis Entreri pulled himself up, gritting through the pain. He sat facing Abrhama and steadied his breathing. Entreri's heart was pounding; he could feel his pulse drumming in his neck. This was a battle of will. Deep in his core, the assassin was terrified; he was loathe to speak of what had been done to him as a child. Adrenalin shot through his veins and danced in his legs, the need to run, to turn away from this, screamed in his mind.
Malehedectar's words, the ones from the vision, came to him then, "Salvation dose not come from running away. You may find peace only in complete, utter surrender, with one eye, always at the centre", Artemis spoke the phrase aloud, in low tones.
Artemis Entreri squared his jaw and closed his eyes. Slowly, through clenched teeth, he began recounting what the Malpitte had shown him. Gradually his descriptions gained momentum and his voice gathered strength until his hissed whispers became a confidant monologue, spoken with intensity and conviction.
Jarlaxle left the Cloak and Dagger in good spirits. He tweaked his disguise, just so, and sauntered off into the more affluent Merchant District. He wore his cape a deep golden yellow, his steps clicked merrily as he twirled a sliver, ferret-headed cane.
Jarlaxle tipped his plumed hat to every group of blushing ladies he passed along his way. Yes, he was in fine spirits this day. Malehedectar was well on her way to Memnon, and the change in his plans had been prosperous thus far.
The mercenary had booked passage on a well decorated schooner that was set to leave port in the evening. He had yet to inform the Dwarf, but what would Athrogate care anyhow, he thought.
Well, there was the small matter of briefing him on their new professions, but with Athrogate's natural aptitude for rhymes, the fellow was sure to get on just fine. Now, to find some books; Jarlaxle was searching for not just any old tomes, but for books of bardic lore.
He walked up and down the crowded avenues, stopping and carefully reading the placards of each small shop he passed. The sun was high, but a clean breeze swept through the port town, carrying the smell of Myrrh from a distant temple. Jarlaxle inhaled deeply, the smell, the sun, the breeze, the colorful garb of the upper-class merchants, everything delighted him. This was a fine day, indeed!
Soon enough he came to a bookstore, it was scrunched in-between an apothecary and a dry goods trader, "The Showman's Quill", Jarlaxle read the placard aloud, "Yes, this is just what I need", he said, playfully speaking to the ferret-head of his cane.
He opened the, green and gold painted, door and stepped inside. A pleasant chime greeted him as long stands of small, brass, bells announced his arrival. Jarlaxle had to pick his path carefully. The tiny, cramped, shop was full to bursting with bookcases and precariously stacked tomes.
Jarlaxle stopped to scan a few titles, "Tyrfing's Tales of Bigy's Middle Finger", he chuckled and read a few more, "Mortakis missiles of romance, A tale of two Orcs", Jarlaxle wrinkled his nose, "Attacking the Darkness, a beginners guide to adventuring", he smirked as he made his way to the back of the shop.
He could hear someone rummaging through books near the very back wall. Quietly he crept behind a bookcase and removed a few tomes, to peer at the shop's proprietor.
A half elf, female, he guessed, though her garb and appearance were so androgynous it was difficult to be sure, was sorting and stacking leather bound tomes. A large brimmed hat, entirely made of feathers, that surly rivaled his own, hung on a peg above the half elves' head. She was deeply engrossed in her task and oblivious to the mercenary's presence, a very dangerous position to be sure.
Jarlaxle face sported a wicked grin and he cleared his throat, loudly. He shook with suppressed mirth when the shopkeeper started and the precariously stacked books tumbled to the ground.
"Damn it all! That's going to take years to sort again!" the woman shouted, snatching up her hat, "Unless…" with a snap of her fingers and a tip of her feather hat, the books, fluttering and rustling, all danced back into their respective places.
She darted around the bookcase and threaded through the stacked tomes with a grace and poise that suggested an intimate knowledge of the little shop. The woman stopped in front of Jarlaxle, her feathered cape sweeping out behind her in a grandiose flourish.
"Raphealla Von'Mercer, at your service", she said with a musical tone, sweeping her great hat off her head and with a flick of her wrist she sent it spinning to land askew, atop her golden tresses, "Perhaps you have heard the name?"
Jarlaxle was taken aback. Clearly she was a bard of some renown, or more aptly, she wished to be a bard of some renown, he smirked as he looked her over.
His eyes roamed over her, from head to sparkling toe, her clothes were resplendent, made almost entirely of reddish brown feathers. Not even a scuff marred her boots! She carried no obvious weapons and her stance spoke performer, not fighter. No, Raphealla Von'Mercer most likely, never left her cramped shop. If she was really a famous bard, Jarlaxle knew he would have at least have heard her name.
Jarlaxle gave her just a tip of his hat, so as not to seem ostentatious, "Jarlaxle D'aerthe at your service, My Lady. I am but a humble traveler and alas, the name Raphealla Von'Mercer has not yet reached my ears. But that shall be remedied, surly, if you would but spare me just a moment of you time."
Raphealla thrust out one shapely hip and brought a slender finger up to the corner of her mouth, striking her best pensive pose, "My, but you are a dashing fellow. How can I be of service to you this fine day?"
Several hours later Jarlaxle left the Showman's Quill with a spring in his step and several packages under his arms. He took the rickety steppes of the Cloak and Dagger two at a time. When he reached his room, Jarlaxle was more than pleased to find Athrogate, hung-over, but awake.
"Good news, my drink ravaged friend! Get up, get dressed, we have much to do!" Jarlaxle practically sang his words as he ripped into the packages.
Athrogate grumbled and rolled out of bed, he landed on his hands and knees and crawled over to an amber bottle that was on it's side. He made a grab for it, but the bottle slipped out of his fingers and skittered across the floor to come to a spinning halt near Jarlaxle's polished black boots.
Jarlaxle cocked his head and looked at the Dwarf askance. He snatched up the bottle and tossed Athrogate a small potion instead.
"See here! We've no time for such nonsense, my good Dwarf. Now bottoms up, I need you in top shape if we are to master our routine!"
Athrogate drank the potion down and was disappointed by it's lack of kick, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, "Someone's gone an' poisoned tha soggy mass ye be call'en a brain! What's this ye be go'in on about?"
Jarlaxle smiled wide and pulled out a royal blue, gold timed outfit, complete with a little tasseled cape, "You see, Athrogate, I have booked us passage through a reliable page. We are leaving for Waterdeep, and traveling as bards no less!" Jarlaxle laid out the clothes on the Dwarf's messed bed.
"Now get dressed, we have much to go over. I wouldn't want to disappoint our fans, after all!" Jarlaxle flashed a toothy grin.
Jarlaxle concentrated briefly on the magic of the mask and in seconds his appearance changed. In the blink of an eye he took on the form of an androgynous half elf, his clothes and hat changed to look like they were made entirely out of feathers.
"Raphael Von'Mercer, at your service, the greatest bard in all the realms!" Jarlaxle proclaimed with a gesture far grander than he had ever used before.
"Suren yer disguises keep getten prettier and prettier, coal skin. Ye'll be a noble lady or Queen Dragonsbane herself next I reckon! Gwhaahaaa!" Athrogate continued to laugh as he picked over the clothes on his bed.
Jarlaxle had successfully copied the shopkeeper's garb, down to the very last detail, including the fancy, sliver, crescent moon and harp pin she had worn on her hat band, "Enough of this banter, my friend. Make haste, the Wa'Wona sets sail at dusk."
Malehedectar marveled at the grace and beauty of her mount. Jarlaxle had spared no expense outfitting his newest lieutenant. The white Calimshite mare was lithe and swift, Mal would be sore to leave her in Memnon.
Usually reserved for nobles, or extremely wealthy merchants, the desert breed of Calimshite horses were inordinately expensive. Prized for their intelligence and regale bearing, the mounts usually lent some of their prestige to their riders.
Malehedectar felt far from prestigious but not because of the mare. She was having quite a time, arguing with and adjusting, her billowy white shirt, and navigating the black piwafi that trailed out behind her. The clothes were another of Jarlaxle's little gifts, it's not like she did not have coin to finance her own endeavors, like dressing herself, but the mercenary Captain had insisted.
His instance had bordered on an order, and Mal knew it was in her best interest to accept. When Jarlaxle instead, it was never wise to back away. Malehedectar also knew that gifts from Jarlaxle were, at best, like gifts from a Djen; they were never given with out a price. What price Jarlaxle would demand was another matter all together.
Dwahvel's teeth were chattering. The Mistress of the Halflings Guild was shivering uncontrollably, balled up, on the floor of her stonewalled cell. Time passed, she did not know how long, but she was beginning to hope that the wizard had forgotten about her. It was a fleeting hope, she knew, and Dwahvel cringed when a black mist began to take shape in the far corner.
The cell was illuminated by the glowing lichen that covered the damp walls. The soft blue light played in the lingering mist and as Jouneidi drew it around himself, like an ethereal cloak, the light caused it to shimmer.
When finally the dark skinned wizard allowed the mist to subside he spoke in a hissing whisper, "I trust these accommodations are more than adequate, Guild Mistress?" Jouneidi chuckled, at her non-response, "Well it's no matter, we shall be moving you into a more… comfortable suit shortly."
A wellspring of impotent furry rose in her throat, "You will die for this Jouneidi! This I promise you!" Dwahvel yelled, her voice raw, the words scraping her vocals like sand across chafed skin.
"Save your foolish promises for someone else, Half woman!" The wizard shouted, his words booming like thunder, ringing in her ears.
Abruptly the wizard calmed. A wide, almost pleasant smile danced upon his lips, and his dark eyes sparkled with mirth. Somehow, the smile, Jouneidi's whole demeanor, seemed infinitely more unsettling than his outright anger.
"We have the luxury of time, my dear. The Basadoni's are not going anywhere and with Lujan's abominations chipping away at their numbers every day, we really can afford to wait." Jouneidi paced the small cell, "The Basadoni Guild will fall, make no mistake! And with your gracious cooperation, Dwahvel, their holdings shall all me mine!" Jouneidi shot a clenched fist into the air, "Time is on OUR side not YOURS halfling!"
A blinding white light shot out of the wizard's fist and the sound of grating stone caught Dwahvel's attention. Up, in each corner of the cell, small shoots opened. Water, as cold as death's embrace, rushed from the openings, forcing Dwahvel to stand, the water reached her ankles in no time and was steadily rising.
"I shall be back, and soon, though possibly not as soon as you would, undoubtedly, prefer." Jouneidi smiled again, that pleasant, unconcerned, smile and vanished in a swirl of black.
Disstan was very upset; he didn't know what to do. Hand, no Pasha Hand was sure to punish him, or even have him killed! The scrawny, dusky blond, boy clenched a dirty wig in his hand as he squatted behind a few crates of moldering garbage.
He should have gone straight to the kitchens! A cheese pie, even one of Mistress Ivory's cheese pies, would have been preferable to the situation he found himself in. Disstan, who fancied himself a great rogue, had hidden and eavesdropped on the little girl's whole tale. Turns out, she was no little girl at all! A good rogue would have spotted a Halfling, no matter how well disguised, he scolded himself.
The green eyed boy, of barely fifteen summers, had followed the Guild Mistress all the way to Half Moon street. He had lost her when she skipped down an alley, but careful tracking and an almost inborn knowledge of the labyrinthine back passageways had led him to her discarded disguise.
Disstan absently tossed two hammer darts in his other hand as he thought of what to do. The boy had gone over every inch of the alleys, but found no sign of the Halfling Mistress, or any clue as to where she went. He had spied two Rakers though and they were carrying an empty net.
"It could be she escaped them and made it back to her Guild", he murmured to himself, "Or it could be that those Rakers killed her, and just hid the body extremely well." Disstan shuddered at the thought.
He had seen plenty of bodies in his time, mostly bloated, decomposing wretches. The remains of the old and the poor, whose final resting place was in the open sewers of some forgotten back alley. Disstan thought of the plump rosy cheeks, the tear streaked face of the Guild Mistress as she had spun him her tale. Sure it had all been a ruse, but she seemed too nice, too good to be allowed to rot in a sewer.
The boy pocketed the darts as he stood and carefully folded the wig, placing it in the worn leather satchel he had slung over his shoulder. Disstan tucked his loose, dirty blond, hair back behind his ears and squared his shoulders.
The green eyed youth, puffed out his chest; if he was going to be punished than so be it! He simply could not let the halfling woman die, if she was not dead already! Quickly he set off, melting into the long shadows of dusk, off towards the Basadoni complex and a sound whipping, he was sure.