Part 4

Part 4

Echoing strains of music drifted down the uncomfortably mage-lit, wide stone corridor between the cells, the stone carved to arc gracefully over the head, semicircular, a geometrical beauty in the construction of a structure to the worship of pain and despair. Jarlaxle paused for a while at the floor-to-ceiling, sturdy adamantite gates that marked the only entrance or exit to the Bregan D'aerthe dungeons, not for any reason that his mind could make out. Perhaps, he thought mildly, I'm developing a dramatic streak.

The air of the dungeon could seem oppressively still, and was quite a few degrees cooler than the normal Underdark temperature. One prisoner said before…what was it? Something witty, but unimportant, about freezing and bitterness – Jarlaxle dismissed the tendril of thought that was reaching tentatively into the expanse of his mind in search for the detail. He enjoyed the temperature – Jarlaxle liked the cold better than warmth – perhaps because it reminded him that he was alive, as the skin tingled and the tiny hairs rose in lazy attention. At times, after one of those sessions with Matron Baenre, he needed to reassure himself of that fact.

The guard at his side…Mi'erl, was it? Hesitated, watching his leader with peripheral vision so as not to seem impolite with a direct stare. It would have been too rude as well to continue if Jarlaxle were to stop. Too rude to seek the reason as to his hesitation. And Jarlaxle did not like those of his minions without…manners, he had put it mildly; unremarkably, those he 'did not like' often suffered 'accidents' or got posted to far and harsh places. Nevertheless the soldiers allowed him his quirks, for what he was made up for all of them several times over.

Jarlaxle pulled down the brim of his hat a fraction against the light, and then continued walking in an elf's erect, dancer-like grace, cat-like and making not a sound, throwing up distorted, tortured shadows in the brightness against the polished walls. The light was to make the atmosphere slightly more uncomfortable for prisoners...it distracted most, and irritated others. Also, if they ever tried to escape, especially those held long enough – they would have enough on their metaphorical plates trying to adjust back to the pitch darkness outside the dungeon, making it easier to recapture or kill them.

He gave no indication that he heard the distant screams, or if he did, his face showed neither disgust, pleasure nor irritation. This section of the dungeon was for those to be detained 'temporarily', and was quite often empty – on the other hand, Bregan D'aerthe trainees were never short of target practice.

The dungeon was clean and dry wherever it could be, and it smelled of stale air, though not unpleasantly so. Almost like an old storeroom, and some cells could be comfortable, if Jarlaxle willed it to, because sometimes it was used, as in this circumstance, to keep dangerous 'guests'.

As Jarlaxle allowed the guard to lead him to his destination – even if he was fully capable of finding his way there himself (he had helped to design the place, after all) but he liked the guards to enjoy the idea that they knew something more than he did – he recalled the pertinent information. Like an efficient machine, he retrieved the facts in a fraction of a second.

The 'guest' had reappeared after heading to the Braeryn with the new acquisition at…Jarlaxle decided that the time was unimportant, and simply carried on…carrying him, injuries to the acquisition on remaining arm and chest. Stopped and challenged by sentries, killed two with quote lightning ease unquote. Mages somehow never thought of using magic, note point.

Something to his right snarled and flung itself against the bars. Jarlaxle saw features twisted by the lycanthrope disease, once handsome elven features marred with patches of dirty fur and a too-large, froth-covered mouth, muscles twitching uncontrollably. Teeth as yellowed as that of a smoker's fingernails had lengthened, especially the canines, and its breath stank of rotting meat. He ignored the repellent remnant of what had been a proud drow, but the guard flinched reflexively, then glanced furtively and guiltily to see if Jarlaxle had noticed. The mercenary pretended not to observe that brief slip as well.

Gave himself up for quote safekeeping unquote, note point. No trouble until inside cell, then lapse of security involving manacles, casualties one lieutenant one soldier, soldier fatality, lieutenant critical condition.

That had been surprising. Jarlaxle knew this case intrigued him – there were so many points that he could not come up with fitting theories for, and that irked him.

Requested for amenities afterward: musical instrument, paper, quills, ink. All metal possible removed from cell – not yet fed, but instructions not to give him any utensils.

They reached another gate, at which the guard carefully arranged the movable pattern of seemingly identical, tiny tiles of blue-green opal at eye-level. The only hint that the action had achieved anything the brief, sudden outline of white light between the tiles, then the gates swung open steadily. The maximum-security area.

The guards inside stood to attention guiltily, and if Jarlaxle noticed the hastily hidden cards and tokens, he gave no indication. Nodding to each of them, he continued to allow himself to be led past the cells, passing another occupant, which seemed to spend most of his time asleep, and the rest of it trying to disembowel something.

The music was louder now, yet still pleasant, none of the eerie reverberation it had down the previous corridors, dreamy and slow, the chords simple, but the tune complex, most unlike the current environment of starkly geometrical stone.

Jarlaxle stopped outside his destination, the corridor twisting enough such that he could no longer see the guards at the entrance. The occupant continued playing one of those surface instruments that had been smuggled in and improved in the city decades ago – called a harpsichord, Jarlaxle believed. The drow had refined the instrument, such that the volume of a note could be controlled with how heavily one pressed on the keys, or suchlike – he did not need such trivial information, so he usually made no effort to investigate. Now he waited politely for the occupant to start a conversation, if he would, taking the time to observe and appreciate the music.

Male drow in his prime, slender and handsome as so many hundreds more were. Wearing robes with no pockets to store weapons in. Thin, aristocratic fingers dexterous and expertly teasing out the music with some deep understanding of the instrument even if it had only arrived last Narbondel cycle. Eyes blank, but only because of the concentration required and not due to some disorder. The passion was evident as he swayed along to the rhythm, caught up by the composition.

The cell itself reeked of security. The adamantite bars nearest to Jarlaxle were enchanted, again floor-to-ceiling, wall to wall except for the adamantite door with the flap over the small platform that also extended into the cell a little, for food and any other small items. Jarlaxle had considered wards, but it could have been a waste of magic – the drow had not shown any ability in magic as yet, and if Jarlaxle's theory was correct, that the drow had some sort of new, unknown power, conventional wards would probably not work.

Other than the instrument, the cell had the barest of facilities – bed, privy, table, chair, all bolted to the ground. No mirror – fragments would be deadly if the occupant thought to break it for weapons. Several drow, including a lieutenant, had scrupulously examined the cell for potential weapons before deeming it safe.

The drow finished the piece, and without turning around, spoke. "Vendui' Jarlaxle. I hope you will forgive me if I do not rise."

"Vendui' Ti'erlfein Ilith'vir. I hope you will forgive me if I take a seat," Jarlaxle accepted the chair the sentry had brought for him, then waved him away. When they were relatively alone, the drow turned his face to the mercenary leader. His eyes were both more than and less than sharp – Jarlaxle could see the cold, unnerving intelligence behind them, but there was no passion, no apparent life, just deceivingly calm and languid as the dangerous monster-infested Donigarten Lake's surface.

"My name is not Ti'erlfein."

"Oh? Then what is your name?"

"I have none. Names tend to bind one to certain…views or stereotypes. Do you know what Jarlaxle means?" His gaze was oddly intense, pupils small due to the light. Jarlaxle shaded his own gaze with the brim of his hat, but without any indication of self-consciousness toward performing that gesture normally associated with discomfort.

"And if I do?" Jarlaxle leant back in his seat, glad that his cloak cushioned him from the hard back. He had no time and no inclination to visit masseurs, or body-strokers, as they were alternatively and popularly called in Menzoberranzan, and would not profit from being stiff-backed for the rest of the day – he made a note to procure more cushioned chairs.

The drow ignored the question. "Did you play with jarlaxles when you were young, I wonder?" Voice soft and pleasant, but probing. "Somehow I doubt it, yes? Third son of the only truly 'noble' family."

Jarlaxle did not seem surprised that the drow knew something that he had taken pains to conceal, but the mercenary did not start his own questioning, preferring to fence a little more. "Investigations' command of information is far-reaching."

"Do you know what is the connotation of jarlaxles? Very fitting…you are a dead drow, Jarlaxle. As long as you stay in Menzoberranzan, or anywhere with Ilythiiri – you have not as yet noticed it, perhaps."

"Is that a threat?" The leader looked bored. Perhaps this wasn't as entertaining as he'd thought it would be, if the drow only knew how to threaten. He'd seen hundreds like that, and that sort never interested him.

"Merely some advice, since I am feeling generous. Third sons are dead sons. That is Lloth's way. It may do you some good to remember that in front of her clergy, especially the female ones."

"Religious now?"

"Ah, and you make a mistake. Never ask questions that you know the answer to, Jarlaxle. You waste my time."

Jarlaxle was unruffled. "Ti'erlfein. I have some questions."

"I am not Ti'erlfein. Ti'erlfein is, sadly, unavailable for questioning. He is…dead? No, the word is not fitting. Dormant, then."

"Where is he?"

The drow tilted his head and tapped it, liquid, slow grace. Jarlaxle was quietly reminded of a certain stubborn weapon master when said master was in a certain exasperating mood. "In here."

"Then he is part of you?"

"As a sword would be a part of a warrior."

"Some warriors do not use swords."

"Precisely."

Jarlaxle's lip curled slightly. "Your sword against the world?"

"Very poetic, but true in a sense." His fingers moved, producing a sudden tumbling, discordant melody.

"In what manner?"

The chords were now monotonous and repetitive, as if reflecting his tone. "I'm not a minion for you to question and expect answers from at every time. I think a trade is now in order. Books from you for information from me."

"Spells do not work here, so spellbooks and grimoires..."

"Any books, it does not matter. Information for information."

Jarlaxle appeared to consider this. "Why?"

"Do not waste my time." The music ended off with a trill, seemingly unfinished.

Jarlaxle shook off the irritation. Not-Ti'erlfein liked information – that was fine by him…perhaps it explained why he worked as he did, and Jarlaxle needed some time to turn the conversation over in his mind and tease out hidden meanings, in any case. He rose from his chair, the scrape of the legs against the rough stone ground jarring in the still air. "Acquiring the books will take time."

"I can wait." The drow turned back to the instrument, contemplating the keys as his aristocratic fingers stroked them in a slow, light caress, and his ensuing silence as he ignored Jarlaxle seemed only enhanced by the quiet, yearning music.

**

When Jarlaxle returned the drow was folding a small square of paper carefully with nimble fingers. Again, he gave no indication of noticing the mercenary's presence until he had finished whatever he was doing – he completed the paper craft. It was of a pyramidal shape made of four smaller pyramids, for four fingers. As he moved two fingers up and down in tandem, the pyramid seemed to turn into a mouth that worked its jaw up and down.

Jarlaxle held a volume that he had scanned through himself and found harmless. It was on rothe behavior. He pushed it through the flap for food, which clicked shut after he withdrew his hand with a mechanical, oiled sound.

Not-Ti'erlfein got up from the bed and approached unhurriedly, picking up the book and pushing something else through the flap. Jarlaxle waited with feline patience till the drow moved away to reseat himself at the harpsichord. Only then did he look down at the 'gift'. It never hurt to be cautious.

It was a paper folding of a jarlaxle, exquisitely done, every angle sharp and perfect. The mercenary looked up for an explanation as he carefully picked it up between thumb and forefinger.

"The wings move if you touch the head."

"A hidden message there?"

"None but that which your mind might come up with."

Jarlaxle put it into a pocket in his trousers and sat down carefully, loathe to squash his paper namesake. "The book is satisfactory?"

The drow nodded perfunctorily, placing it noiselessly on the table in the cell, and continued to play with his paper mouth. It gaped open and mimed speech. "Ask your questions. You may ask six."

"Six?"

"Yes. That was your first question."

"Asanque, then my second question is…what did you do to the sentry mages? The report said they did not consider using spells against you." Jarlaxle scrupulously added that detail as he crafted the question – a simple Are you psychic would only waste one of the six questions if the answer was 'no'. He refused to get angry – it was a point of pride that he had never done so in the company of others. Losing one's temper, Jarlaxle believed, was simply a waste of energy and breath, and worse, it made one reckless.

"I persuaded them not to use spells."

"How? State this 'power', and how it works." Jarlaxle thought it safe to make an assumption that it was supernatural, and saw it hit its mark.

The drow merely looked amused, and Jarlaxle felt much the same way – that question sounded remarkably in the style of certain examination papers he had taken before when he had been in Melee-Magthere. "There is no name to this power, if it even is one. It appears to be a higher version of something you yourself have in quantity...even quality. It works by amplifying…we could basically call them emotions…in any feeling creature, and by being able to understand what drives a creature at any point – it allows for a certain amount of prediction and manipulation. In the case of the mages, just indecision and inactivity."

Jarlaxle, absorbing this, spoke without thinking when his mind decided on a stunning answer, and regretted it instantly after he voiced it. "Empathy?"

"Yes. That was your fourth question." The paper mouth worked mechanically.

Annoyed at himself but entertaining the idea that part of this 'Empathy' had just been used on him, Jarlaxle remained outwardly calm. "Why did you give yourself up to the 'safe keeping' of Bregan D'aerthe?"

"I needed a place to think that I could not easily get out of and hence would not be tempted to get out of."

"Yet you killed some of my soldiers, hardly a gesture of good will. A warning then, I would think. Ti'erlfein, by all reports, did not have half of your ability with weaponry. Why did you bring Caomh back?"

"The answer to your sixth question – because I liked him as you do. You may bring a book again next cycle. And do tell those fool guards of yours at the entrance not to bother me any longer with insults or accusations, or you might find Bregan D'aerthe in sudden need of more minions with which to harass guests."

With that final, thinly veiled threat, the drow turned his head away, appearing to stare blankly at the active paper mouth.

**

In his office, he gently pulled on the head of the jarlaxle. The wings flapped stiffly, as if the creature was waking up leisurely from a long hibernation. He contemplated this simple action-reaction, giving his eyes and hands something to do while his mind worked.

I am not Ti'erlfein. Either a dramatic statement, or as he suspected, truth. The drow currently locked up in the dungeon certainly did not resemble Ti'erlfein – physically, yes, but there was always something around each individual that Jarlaxle liked to call an 'aura' which was very different.

Ti'erlfein, when he had met the ragar noamuth in Melee Magthere, seemed harmless and of average intelligence, even with his known skill with throwing knives and daggers. The drow in the dungeon was certainly not harmless, which he had already amply demonstrated to the tune of becoming the direct cause of Bregan D'aerthe casualties with such careless ease. And he was just as unmistakably brilliant at the very least – with the ease by which he had picked up how to play that harpsichord just being one of the examples Jarlaxle cared to draw up.

Something about not-Ti'erlfein fascinated Jarlaxle – perhaps it was the obvious power, perhaps the intellect, perhaps just the surreal quality of the atmosphere which he seemed to create around him. The supercilious, higher-than-thou manner Jarlaxle could tolerate – Lloth knew he had endured worse when he was very young. It was also easier to manipulate those with this sort of attitude. But power…power was something that mesmerized Jarlaxle in all its myriad forms.

As a sword would be a part of a warrior. Why would the drow need such a…mask against the 'world'? Other than that females normally didn't like males with a greater degree of intelligence…and with otherworldly powers not of Lloth's make. This was the first case of 'empathy' that Jarlaxle had heard of, and immediately he wondered if the drow was even drow. It was not difficult to shapeshift, for certain creatures.

But to go to such elaborate risks by pretending to be Ti'erlfein for so many years? And why stop the pretense by turning into yet another drow, if this was the case? Something he wanted in Menzoberranzan? Then why male, and why the same face as Ti'erlfein's? No, Jarlaxle was sure that he was Ilythiiri and not a shapeshifter though certainly a strange one.

Sentries had mentioned Ti'erlfein, before encountering Caomh, shouting something about him not going mad. If Ti'erlfein was a mask, then he was certainly cracking by then – why, Jarlaxle logically connected to something to do with the Tyfein business, which had apparently landed Ti'erlfein in bed for a cycle or so.

The concept of a power that could manipulate emotions was staggering. Jarlaxle made a mental note to find a counter to add to his arsenal of defensive magic, and practical as always, wondered what it would take to get the drow to work for him, if so attractive an idea was even applicable. The drow was too dangerous, and one day Jarlaxle might just have to make certain terminal arrangements.

Was his answer toward Jarlaxle's inquiry as to why he was using Bregan D'aerthe truth? Jarlaxle had no doubt that this drow was using the organization, and he disliked that fact intensely, especially since he had yet to see any immediate profit from it. Someplace to think? Someplace he could not get out of easily? Jarlaxle snorted derisively to himself. He would have to do some investigations of his own.

A respectful knock on the door. "Come in," he drawled, dropping the jarlaxle into a drawer for safekeeping.

A guard came in…Jarlaxle casually recalled the name, Ylusr…and stood to attention. "Caomh has calmed, sir."

"Awake?"

"His eyes are open, but other than that, no sir."

This sounded intriguing.

**

The notes finally careened to a stop, and Jarlaxle opened his eyes. Calm as ever, the drow sat cross-legged on the harpsichord chair, cradling the newest book in his arms as if it were brittle, heartstoppingly expensive lycier crystal.

The mercenary wondered idly, not for the first time, as he patiently waited for not-Ti'erlfein to 'notice' him, why payment was in books. Was he so driven by this insatiable thirst for knowledge? Perhaps he would be interesting after all, even if nothing practical could be gleaned from this situation – Jarlaxle had never heard of anyone whose primary driving force was curiosity and not greed or desire like so many other drow, including Jarlaxle himself.

"Six questions," the drow glanced up finally. His voice was cool and curt, as if Jarlaxle were the one incarcerated and not he.

"First one: what exactly happened in the Braeryn?" Jarlaxle had heard reports of those spies stationed on the periphery, but those who had, on orders or otherwise, ventured into the Braeryn never came out again.

"Are you familiar with the concept of blood-rituals?"

Ah, familiar ground. "How could I not, when I live in a city founded with them."

"I am not sure on all points," the drow stated cautiously. Jarlaxle felt surprised – usually drow tried to twist their way out of speaking outright truth, even when required to, and this certainly extended (especially, in fact) to areas in which they were unfamiliar. Something to do with not showing ignorance, but Jarlaxle didn't always claim to understand the drow psyche.

"From what both Ti'erlfein and myself could see – there was some evidence of a blood-ritual taking place, on a massive scale. Did your spies see some immense snake rearing out of the Braeryn…no? Then it appears one has to enter it first. Dyrr's misguided attempts to graft the snake tattoo into his arm could have backfired, releasing the creature, which was not meant to exist in a corporeal form in this Plane. That would explain why it was apparently trying to build up substance with so much…sacrifice."

Jarlaxle was silent for a moment as he assimilated the information. Dyrr? Tattoo? Snake? It was extremely likely that this had something to do with Ti'erlfein's investigation regarding the disappearance of Tyfein, as coincidence could only stretch so far.

"Perhaps it would be easier if you simply told me about what Ti'erlfein found about Tyfein and how it connects to the…current state of the Braeryn."

"That was two questions, Jarlaxle, which makes that last the third."

Jarlaxle listened as not-Ti'erlfein updated him, rather complacently as if all the astonishing events were commonplace, on the issues, and began to draw his own conclusions automatically. It helped to be as far ahead as possible on occasion.

Dyrr was not…inanimate, nor was he in the Braeryn at the moment. Jarlaxle knew this well – he had, some hues of Narbondel ago, come from the lichdrow's House after negotiations on an unrelated service, and the mercenary remembered that stooped, gnarled figure crouching respectfully and protectively as always near the Matron's throne. So all that magic – Jarlaxle felt a familiar greed rising in him – all that power was loose in the Braeryn. Should he sell the information to Taek'tharm, or would that House already be aware of that fact? Most probably so. Then, should he make an effort towards quelling the menace? But if it was so powerful, perhaps he should just leave an anonymous warning in the Academy…

"What happened to Caomh?" Jarlaxle finally asked. The ex-Master of Melee Magthere was currently still in a state of catatonic shock, though now he seemed slightly more conscious than before. It was unnerving – Caomh was an old drow, and definitely not the nervous sort. Jarlaxle wasn't sure he wanted to know what happened to Caomh that could reduce him to such a pitiful state.

"I do not know everything that happened. Ti'erlfein lost consciousness during most of…whatever happened. Just that when I woke up, Caomh was unmoving but alive and wounded, so I thought it best to take him and retreat. The snake was…occupied with others and had thought us dead, perhaps. Underestimated drow."

"Caomh was suffering from a loss of blood when you…delivered him to Bregan D'aerthe. Why not yourself?"

"Ti'erlfein was lucky. He had a hellhound that got an illusion on him when the snake shifted its attention in his direction." The drow did not need to ask Jarlaxle where the figurine was – it was safely under guard in a vault, having burned some mages to death when they had attempted to summon whatever had been inside.

Sixth question now. "Would your sister Matron Ilith'vir happen to know why you would rather put yourself in Bregan D'aerthe custody than to go back to the House, I wonder?"

A direct hit, and the sides of the elf's mouth twitched upwards for an instant, as if in a rueful smile, but he did not reply – which gave Jarlaxle all the answer he needed. The drow seemed to understand this as well, for he turned back to the harpsichord as he usually did when a discussion was palpably over.

**

Jarlaxle made arrangements to speak with the Matron Ilith'vir when he had returned to his office, and he was pleasantly surprised when she accepted the invitation toward a free exchange of information. Ilith'vir had told him once that if she ever saw him again he would find himself impaled and missing his limbs at the tip of Narbondel before he could 'spout' his 'oily greetings', Baenre-alliance or no.

Hmm. In that light, he had better make a few other arrangements. He doubted the Matron would actually try and assassinate him, but he did not want to make so horrific a mistake as underestimating a drow female.

After all, he had no wish to wake up small, furry, and with eight legs.

**

Jarlaxle waited for Matron Ilith'vir at one of the more well-known meeting places in the innumerable tunnels on the outskirts of the city cavern – called The Fallen Stalactites for all those large, stake-like structures embedded in the ground at uneven intervals, the ends that were once joined to the ceiling sharp planes, as if the stone had been lopped off neatly. The reason as to why this had happened wasn't very clear, but the thinness of the structures didn't allow for effective ambushing. Besides, this area was, though unspoken agreement, 'neutral ground'. No one killed any other here (but of course, in the adjoining tunnels outside, murders were as common as in the rest of the city).

The mercenary leaned against a particularly large fallen stalactite and pretended he didn't hear Matron Ilith'vir's approach. If he let her win a battle by simulating surprise when she addressed him, maybe she'd deign to let him win another one later…

"You can stop ignoring me now, Jarlaxle." Her amused voice undermined his plan perfectly. Although he wouldn't admit it to anyone, Jarlaxle liked sparring with the sharp-witted Matron, and he had to hide a grin as he turned around. The dainty, normally ostensibly dressed Matron wore a dark-colored if thin cowl and a cape that covered her robes, and she raised the hood with one delicate hand. No apparent escort, no apparent weapons.

"I wasn't ignoring you, elamshinus uss." Jarlaxle protested, bowing elaborately.

"Now you sound like Ti'erlfein. How is he, by the way?"

Jarlaxle sighed inwardly. Was there no end to the distance with which House Ilith'vir could reach?

"And you need not pull such a face. The breach in your security wouldn't be too big for you to repair." She smiled wickedly. "You may have to scold a few, kill a few, then we can start all over again."

"Who did you seduce this time, temptress?" He asked whimsically. Meetings between them usually 'degenerated' into name-calling, and he decided to start first this time. It was amusing, if anything, this competition to see who would annoy which one first. "A lieutenant?"

"I'd tell you if you pay me, fang-less viper," The Matron shot back. "But I doubt you can afford it."

"Not even with your…Qu'el'velguk as the bargaining chip?" Jarlaxle decided to drop the insults. They were beginning to become boring in comparison with all the other issues they could argue about.

"If he's gone back to claiming he's not Ti'erlfein, as far as I am concerned, you can keep him," Matron Ilith'vir shrugged. The cape fell back a little, baring part of her robes, and she folded those slender arms under her breasts, perhaps to draw attention to them. If that was her plan, it was working. Jarlaxle tried to focus on Ti'erlfein, and the Matron Ilith'vir, curse her pretty face, smirked at him as she noticed what he was attempting to do.

"Has he done this before, then?"

"Obviously. You males – is even the obvious too difficult to perceive?"

"Would telling me why be too much for you, or would you like to talk in circles for a few hues of Narbondel first?" Parry, parry, and thrust.

"He's revealed his 'Empathy' already, I believe?" The Matron pretended to study her long, painted fingernails. Jarlaxle pulled his mind away from contemplating what those nails could do to a back when…Ti'erlfein. Think of Ti'erlfein.

"Xas, and he seems to have become very skilled with his weapons." The quiet question as to why the Matron did not want Ti'erlfein back in the House when he had gained such value did not pass over her head, but she answered obscurity with obscurity.

"Did he tell you what would happen if two Empaths happened to come into close contact with each other?"

Jarlaxle blinked. "You have this power as well?"

She sighed deeply and rolled her eyes up to the ceiling of the cavern for patience. Jarlaxle didn't bother trying to think of a snappy riposte, but struggled to come to terms with this revelation.

"What would happen?" The mercenary leader was all too aware that he sounded like a student asking questions of a Master.

"Empaths influence the emotions of all those around them even when they're not trying to – molding those to see them in a certain light. Even when my dear brother was pretending to be a pathetic drow called Ti'erlfein. Not many seemed to realize that the overwhelming impression of harmlessness did not exactly fit with Ti'erlfein's obvious intelligence, weaponry skills and race. And Empaths do not like their own emotions being manipulated, since we can sense it."

Now, that would explain the reports of Ti'erlfein not spending a lot of time in his House, and communicating with his Matron mostly by discs.

"Two full Empaths, if put together, would eventually drive each other crazy. The persona of Ti'erlfein prevented that – as long as he was the pathetic drow assassin, the gift didn't leak out as much as it would. Now I'm getting thirsty, so it's your turn to answer questions. What exactly happened in the Braeryn to destroy the persona of Ti'erlfein?"

Jarlaxle still had one question – why not-Ti'erlfein would even choose to live with Ilith'vir, but he supposed that perhaps it was better than living with his Matron Mother. And as to why he decided to hide in Bregan D'aerthe…perhaps Ilith'vir was stronger than he was in 'Empathy'. Now that was disturbing. And it would explain why he felt such lust for Ilith'vir now even if on all prior occasions he had only admired that pretty face. Why she wanted him to feel that now he could not seem to pinpoint.

As it was he shifted uncomfortably, and she smirked again, but he managed to answer with his usual steady voice as he told her what Ti'erlfein had said. Much later he would realize that, distracted in such a way, he never thought of concealing some parts of the truth, or talking in circles.

"Interesting," was her only comment, and she tapped her chin thoughtfully. "You have informed the Academy anonymously...so it should cease to be a threat." Jarlaxle wished that she wouldn't draw so much attention to how much she knew of Bregan D'aerthe machinations – he hadn't told her that response to the news.

"About Ti'erlfein…" Jarlaxle began.

"Keep him if you wish. When he decides to build another persona, do tell him to make it more stable and less of a wimp." Very dry.

"What makes you think I would keep him, elamshinus uss?" He grinned at her raised eyebrow.

"Why, I thought all you mercenaries positively marinated with avarice."

"And caution," Jarlaxle pointed out. "If this 'Empathy' is as potent as I believe it is – then he is a threat."

"Well," she swayed closer, and slid a perfectly formed hand up his chest, "If you find yourself out of a job, you know where to look for me. I'd be happy to have you."

Jarlaxle chuckled, keeping the growing desire from showing in his voice. "I doubt it would come to that."

Her eyes gleamed. "Speaking of coming…"

**

"You met with Matron Ilith'vir?" A statement more than a question. The drow didn't even look at him.

"You could say that. And she does not seem particularly interested in…"

"Having me back, I know. And I wish to meditate for a while, so I cannot say I am devastated by the news."

"You are free to go."

"Ever since I had been incarcerated here, I have been," the drow said serenely.

"If you want to continue eating my food, and sleeping in my headquarters, then you'd have to pay me something," Jarlaxle retorted.

"Employment?" He looked bored. "If I did not want to move from here you could hardly force me to."

"If I were to brick up the entrance to this area…"

"You need workers to lay the bricks and foundation."

"I have mages who can, I'm afraid, do it from some distance away."

The mercenary didn't bother to hide his smile at the fleeting look of uncertainty on the drow's face. He was actually gambling – he didn't have enough mages for that, but he had enough for a shield equivalent. Starving not-Ti'erlfein to a slow death would be a waste, but better that than allowing for the possibility of him turning into a threat.

The drow opened the new book to the last page, and glanced ostensibly at it. "Six questions." He shut the book, and put it on the table with the others.

Jarlaxle's expression kept neutral, but he felt surprised. Was it foolhardiness that caused him to ignore the blatant warning? Or was he truly confident of his chances of surviving starvation?

"How much of a fool are you?" Jarlaxle inquired with a solicitous tone, as if asking for his state of health.

Ti'erlfein chuckled. "As much as you are, to sleep with Matron Ilith'vir. Would you happen to know what she took from you?"

Jarlaxle's smile was rueful. "Would I."

"Would you like me to tell you, then?"

"I think I'd rather not know." The drow shared in his snorted, wry laughter. "Would you like to work for me?"

"I could ask you the same question." He touched a key on the harpsichord, a high note, questioning and quivering in the still air.

"I doubt you can afford it." Throwing back the Matron's words on her Qu'el'velguk lent a pleasant symmetry to the situation.

"I doubt you can afford me either." The drow retorted amiably.

"Do you have a price?" Jarlaxle idly twisted his wrist, experimenting on the weight of the new dagger he had fitted some time ago. The hilt dug into his skin and pushed against the cloth of his sleeve so as to reveal is presence for the observant, and he made a note to get another dagger, perhaps hilt-less. The sheath was good, though…

"Doesn't everyone? The world's a large market for all to be bought and sold. Everything has a price."

"As an advisor, then? Not one of my 'minions'." Jarlaxle leaned back in the chair.

"And if I refused? You'd brick me up?" the drow smirked. He was right in his assumption, Jarlaxle realized, that the mercenary would never actually do that. Maybe he was being influenced.

"What would defend against empathy?" An impudent question, and he'd sidestepped the drow's question.

"Another empath, of course, but I doubt you'd be able to persuade Matron Ilith'vir to be your bodyguard."

"She'd have been happier born as an 'escort' for certain branches in Elstearn's offices, would she not?"

"She would never admit that to you," the drow agreed affably, then added just as conscientiously, "That was your sixth question."

Jarlaxle realized he'd been manipulated again, into letting down his guard just enough to make a mistake, but he stood up gracefully and tipped his hat to him with mocking courtesy, to see the drow incline his head with just as much mockery. "I believe I'd visit her again and confirm that," the mercenary said mischievously.

"Send her my regards," the drow turned back to the harpsichord. Whispering, oddly disturbing music enveloped Jarlaxle as he took his leave.

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