Part Two
***
Entreri noted that the magical vortex did not seem so strong this time as he returned to Earth, dashing the idea that he could just pop in and out of this other world whenever it was convenient. Jarlaxle hadn't mentioned anything about charges, but he knew that some magical devices needed time to replenish themselves.
He'd left Charon's Claw with Jarlaxle, but kept the glove--the sword was too difficult to keep concealed. His favorite dagger was tucked in his waistband and the weapons he'd looted from the agents he kept in his coat, along with the others. Deciding his clothing was too distinctive looking, he'd stopped in an army surplus store, where he'd bought a nice long coat from a beady-eyed little skinhead who had been delighted to show him his other merchandise. Entreri didn't have a permit to buy half the stuff in the store, but he discovered the cash he'd looted was enough to make the merchant overlook that minor detail.
"Did y' get fired or something?" he asked as Entreri strapped on several automatic pistols, a couple of rifles and a shotgun. "Or are you going to go kill yourself some A-rabs?"
Halfway to the door, Entreri stopped and turned around, staring at the weasely little man with a look of dangerous contempt. "I did not pay you to question my intentions," he said coldly, loading his voice with an unspoken threat.
"Hey man, that's cool, I just--"
The assassin strode out of the shop without another word.
He had enough money left to rent a room at a cheap little place called the Driftwood Inn, this time thinking the better of using any name associated with Drizzt. If the people in this world knew of him, they might know of Drizzt and his companions. He did not want his new alias to be associated in any way with "Drizzit Dudden."
When the hotel clerk asked him his name, he was looking at a gaudy news publication called "Star."
"Tyler Cruise," he told her.
The next morning, he walked over to a coffee shop and bought an Expresso and a more reliable looking newspaper. There was a line at the counter, but most people were taking their breakfast elsewhere. Entreri had his pick of tables and sat in the corner with his back to the wall, across from the only other staying patron, a woman apparently asleep. Her hood was down over her face and her forehead was pressed against her notebook.
His eyes strayed to the newspaper. "Suspected Terrorist Detained at Holiday Inn," ran the front-page headline. He began reading: "A suspicious-looking man was arrested last night after resisting questioning about his attempt to pay his bill in unusually marked gold coins.
"`He was dressed oddly,' reported one eye-witness. `He was a bit swarthy, and spoke with a slight accent. He used a foreign-sounding name, and didn't really seem familiar with our customs. I had a bad feeling about him right away.'
"He was taken into custody to an undisclosed location, and the FBI agents involved in his arrest could not be reached for comment. `Rest assured that they are working very hard on this case,' said a spokesperson."
So much for reliability.
Entreri finished his coffee and got up to throw his cup out. Busy pondering his next move, he almost didn't notice the book poking out of the woman's knapsack as he walked past, but the name R.A. Salvatore caught his eye.
_Servant of the Shard_, it was called, and featured a rather effeminate looking, but recognizable dark elf on the cover.
Entreri tossed out his garbage and walked back past the woman's table, close enough that his coat brushed against the book, knocking it from its place. As Entreri bent to pick it up, the woman's foot snapped out, kicking him in the shin.
She sat up and glared at him--a young woman he saw now, with tousled red hair and a spiral-shaped indent on her forehead.
Entreri grimaced. "I am sorry," he said, playing up his accent and handing her the book. "I am a clumsy oaf."
"No, _I'm_ sorry," said the girl. "I thought you were trying to steal my wallet. Or use some cheap trick to hit on me. Because I can tell you right now, it won't work. I've been awake for 24 hours straight, I'm tired, and I do _not_ want to `do lunch.'"
"You seemed to be asleep a moment ago," Entreri said mildly. Yes, she had been asleep, he was sure of it. He took a moment to sort through the rest of her discourse. A suspicious and short-tempered girl, she nevertheless seemed to have a passion for writing, if the feverishly scribbled-in notebook was any indication.
Perhaps she'd respond better to something that approached the truth.
"Perhaps I did have a ploy in mind," he admitted finally, managing a disarming smile. "But it was your book I was interested in, actually. I have heard of the author--R.A. Salvatore. Is he a good writer?"
It was if the impulsive, shin-kicking girl had walked out of the coffee shop and another identical young woman had slipped in to replace her. Her face brightened immediately, and she gestured to the seat across from her.
"You can call me Siobhan," she said. "Are you from around here?"
It wasn't her real name; that was fair enough. Entreri wasn't about to give her his real name, either. "I am Shalir Za'Mmiral," he replied, sitting down. For some reason the name of the wine seller from his childhood neighborhood in Memnon popped into his head. Now, what was that country that was always on the news? Ah, yes--"I am from Afghanistan. A...refugee."
"Are you really?" Suddenly she was making a real point to be friendly--no doubt to show that she was more open-minded than others who may have slighted him for his ethnicity. Entreri silently congratulated himself; that had been a gamble, but it seemed to have paid off. "Why don't we have a cup, and I'll tell you all about R.A. Salvatore..."
After enduring almost an hour of hearing about Drizzt Do'Urden's wretched home-life, Entreri's cell phone rang. He apologized to Siobhan and answered it, knowing it could only be Jarlaxle. Although he would never admit it to the mercenary, he was glad to hear a familiar voice.
"Hello?" Entreri said into the mouthpiece.
"My _khal abbil_! I received your note, and your gifts. Thank you so much for polluting my yard. Didn't you know I'm trying to grow a garden out there?"
He had to hand it to Jarlaxle--he did have a way of diffusing a situation. "Spare me your gardening tips. Did you have something important to say, or did you just call me up to bother me?"
"What's with that accent?" Jarlaxle asked. "You sound like a Calishite pimp in a really bad Waterdhavian theater production. Is that how people talk there?"
"More or less. Can I call you back later? I'm in the middle of a--" he paused in search of the right word; "meeting" sounded too formal--"conversation."
"Do not trouble yourself," said Jarlaxle. "I was just checking to see how you were doing. Busy already? Well, what can I say; you do work fast." There was a pause at the other end of the line. "I hope I'm not...ah...interrupting anything."
"If you were," Entreri said pleasantly, "I would have to kill you." He hung up the phone.
Siobhan was smiling at him. "A friend, I take it?"
"Yes, quite a joker--I am staying with him and his family for a time."
She nodded. "Now, where was I?" she mused. "Oh yeah. So after Drizzt defeated the spirit wraith...I'm not giving away too much, am I?"
"No, no," Entreri assured her. "But if I wanted to get copies of these books, where would I go?"
"Well, I just pick them up in Barnes & Noble," Siobhan said. "You just get on 390 and go north to Exit 5...Actually," she added a little hesitantly, "I was thinking of going there this afternoon. I suppose you could come with me, if you like."
Entreri agreed, and they walked out to the parking lot. Her car, as he had learned that they were called, was small and sleek, gunmetal gray, with the word "Celica" inscribed on the back. It occurred to him that he might need to steal a car, and it would help if he knew how to drive one. "I did not have a car in Afghanistan," he said, looking at it admiringly. How far might this girl's sympathy go, he wondered? "I always wanted to learn how to operate one..."
Siobhan nodded, then stopped in her tracks. "You want to drive my car? Are you _crazy_? You don't just lend your car out to someone you've known for an hour and who has never driven one in their life!"
Apparently, not that far. But Entreri persisted; when he wanted something, he was determined to get it, even if he had to do it with words instead of weapons.
"Just around the lot, perhaps. I am sure you would not let me wreck your car."
"Well...okay."
She unlocked the driver's side door and let him in as if she still thought this was the worst idea of her life, then got in on the other side before handing him the keys. She showed him the clutch, the gas and the brake, and let him take the car around the parking lot a few times, explaining how and when to shift. Entreri was as intelligent and coordinated as almost anyone alive; he didn't stall the car once.
"Good!" Siobhan congratulated him. "You sure you've never done this before?"
Entreri just shrugged noncommittally.
"Let's take it on the road," she suggested.
"I thought you said that was...`crazy'" Entreri reminded her.
"I don't think there should be a problem. We'll take it around just a bit. If all goes well, you can drive to the bookstore. You ought to learn where things are, anyway." Siobhan gestured. "Make a right out of here--don't forget to signal."
How lucky he was to have found a do-gooder to help acclimate him into this unfamiliar culture--and one who knew of Salvatore, no less! Entreri smiled to himself.
He had already spent some time observing the traffic from his hotel room, and had a basic understanding of lanes, lights and the more common signs. Soon he felt quite comfortable driving, as if he'd been doing it for a long time.
Siobhan reached over and turned a dial on the dashboard; suddenly sound came out from somewhere in the car. That was one thing Entreri had to get used to--everywhere in this world there were pictures, noises, and flashing lights. And there was more visual stimulation than at a Calimport slave auction.
It took him a few moments to realize that the sounds were some sort of music. After seeing his expression, Siobhan turned down the volume. "Sorry," she said. "You probably don't want to listen to this."
"What is it?" he asked.
"A band called Nine Inch Nails. I can change the CD if you like; my case is in the backseat."
Entreri shrugged. "I don't mind it," he said. He kept the volume low, however, so that he could hear the noises around him.
Siobhan directed him onto the freeway, and Entreri found this sort of driving much more fun. He stepped on the gas and started flying past the slower moving vans and trucks. Siobhan grinned at him and pressed a button on the roof, opening up a window on top of the car. It was an unseasonably warm day, the snow melting in dirty mounds along the side of the road. He found a rare and genuine smile creep onto his face as he turned up the volume on the CD player.
Suddenly, he saw lights flashing some distance off in his rearview mirror. He was about to ask Siobhan about it when she noticed them, too.
She cursed. "Crap! You'd better pull over; we've been nailed."
"Highwaymen?" Entreri asked, glancing behind him and not slowing down.
"Um...Pretty much, yeah. Stop the car, dammit!"
There was an open stretch of road ahead of them. "I can outrun these bastards," Entreri assured her.
"No! Don't be an idiot!" Siobhan shrieked. "You can't outrun the cops. Don't you understand? They'll just make it worse for me if you try to run!"
Entreri completely misunderstood. "Nobody's going to bother you," he said, twisting to look at her, and letting his coat fall open to reveal his arsenal of guns.
"Oh my God," said Siobhan.
***
Entreri noted that the magical vortex did not seem so strong this time as he returned to Earth, dashing the idea that he could just pop in and out of this other world whenever it was convenient. Jarlaxle hadn't mentioned anything about charges, but he knew that some magical devices needed time to replenish themselves.
He'd left Charon's Claw with Jarlaxle, but kept the glove--the sword was too difficult to keep concealed. His favorite dagger was tucked in his waistband and the weapons he'd looted from the agents he kept in his coat, along with the others. Deciding his clothing was too distinctive looking, he'd stopped in an army surplus store, where he'd bought a nice long coat from a beady-eyed little skinhead who had been delighted to show him his other merchandise. Entreri didn't have a permit to buy half the stuff in the store, but he discovered the cash he'd looted was enough to make the merchant overlook that minor detail.
"Did y' get fired or something?" he asked as Entreri strapped on several automatic pistols, a couple of rifles and a shotgun. "Or are you going to go kill yourself some A-rabs?"
Halfway to the door, Entreri stopped and turned around, staring at the weasely little man with a look of dangerous contempt. "I did not pay you to question my intentions," he said coldly, loading his voice with an unspoken threat.
"Hey man, that's cool, I just--"
The assassin strode out of the shop without another word.
He had enough money left to rent a room at a cheap little place called the Driftwood Inn, this time thinking the better of using any name associated with Drizzt. If the people in this world knew of him, they might know of Drizzt and his companions. He did not want his new alias to be associated in any way with "Drizzit Dudden."
When the hotel clerk asked him his name, he was looking at a gaudy news publication called "Star."
"Tyler Cruise," he told her.
The next morning, he walked over to a coffee shop and bought an Expresso and a more reliable looking newspaper. There was a line at the counter, but most people were taking their breakfast elsewhere. Entreri had his pick of tables and sat in the corner with his back to the wall, across from the only other staying patron, a woman apparently asleep. Her hood was down over her face and her forehead was pressed against her notebook.
His eyes strayed to the newspaper. "Suspected Terrorist Detained at Holiday Inn," ran the front-page headline. He began reading: "A suspicious-looking man was arrested last night after resisting questioning about his attempt to pay his bill in unusually marked gold coins.
"`He was dressed oddly,' reported one eye-witness. `He was a bit swarthy, and spoke with a slight accent. He used a foreign-sounding name, and didn't really seem familiar with our customs. I had a bad feeling about him right away.'
"He was taken into custody to an undisclosed location, and the FBI agents involved in his arrest could not be reached for comment. `Rest assured that they are working very hard on this case,' said a spokesperson."
So much for reliability.
Entreri finished his coffee and got up to throw his cup out. Busy pondering his next move, he almost didn't notice the book poking out of the woman's knapsack as he walked past, but the name R.A. Salvatore caught his eye.
_Servant of the Shard_, it was called, and featured a rather effeminate looking, but recognizable dark elf on the cover.
Entreri tossed out his garbage and walked back past the woman's table, close enough that his coat brushed against the book, knocking it from its place. As Entreri bent to pick it up, the woman's foot snapped out, kicking him in the shin.
She sat up and glared at him--a young woman he saw now, with tousled red hair and a spiral-shaped indent on her forehead.
Entreri grimaced. "I am sorry," he said, playing up his accent and handing her the book. "I am a clumsy oaf."
"No, _I'm_ sorry," said the girl. "I thought you were trying to steal my wallet. Or use some cheap trick to hit on me. Because I can tell you right now, it won't work. I've been awake for 24 hours straight, I'm tired, and I do _not_ want to `do lunch.'"
"You seemed to be asleep a moment ago," Entreri said mildly. Yes, she had been asleep, he was sure of it. He took a moment to sort through the rest of her discourse. A suspicious and short-tempered girl, she nevertheless seemed to have a passion for writing, if the feverishly scribbled-in notebook was any indication.
Perhaps she'd respond better to something that approached the truth.
"Perhaps I did have a ploy in mind," he admitted finally, managing a disarming smile. "But it was your book I was interested in, actually. I have heard of the author--R.A. Salvatore. Is he a good writer?"
It was if the impulsive, shin-kicking girl had walked out of the coffee shop and another identical young woman had slipped in to replace her. Her face brightened immediately, and she gestured to the seat across from her.
"You can call me Siobhan," she said. "Are you from around here?"
It wasn't her real name; that was fair enough. Entreri wasn't about to give her his real name, either. "I am Shalir Za'Mmiral," he replied, sitting down. For some reason the name of the wine seller from his childhood neighborhood in Memnon popped into his head. Now, what was that country that was always on the news? Ah, yes--"I am from Afghanistan. A...refugee."
"Are you really?" Suddenly she was making a real point to be friendly--no doubt to show that she was more open-minded than others who may have slighted him for his ethnicity. Entreri silently congratulated himself; that had been a gamble, but it seemed to have paid off. "Why don't we have a cup, and I'll tell you all about R.A. Salvatore..."
After enduring almost an hour of hearing about Drizzt Do'Urden's wretched home-life, Entreri's cell phone rang. He apologized to Siobhan and answered it, knowing it could only be Jarlaxle. Although he would never admit it to the mercenary, he was glad to hear a familiar voice.
"Hello?" Entreri said into the mouthpiece.
"My _khal abbil_! I received your note, and your gifts. Thank you so much for polluting my yard. Didn't you know I'm trying to grow a garden out there?"
He had to hand it to Jarlaxle--he did have a way of diffusing a situation. "Spare me your gardening tips. Did you have something important to say, or did you just call me up to bother me?"
"What's with that accent?" Jarlaxle asked. "You sound like a Calishite pimp in a really bad Waterdhavian theater production. Is that how people talk there?"
"More or less. Can I call you back later? I'm in the middle of a--" he paused in search of the right word; "meeting" sounded too formal--"conversation."
"Do not trouble yourself," said Jarlaxle. "I was just checking to see how you were doing. Busy already? Well, what can I say; you do work fast." There was a pause at the other end of the line. "I hope I'm not...ah...interrupting anything."
"If you were," Entreri said pleasantly, "I would have to kill you." He hung up the phone.
Siobhan was smiling at him. "A friend, I take it?"
"Yes, quite a joker--I am staying with him and his family for a time."
She nodded. "Now, where was I?" she mused. "Oh yeah. So after Drizzt defeated the spirit wraith...I'm not giving away too much, am I?"
"No, no," Entreri assured her. "But if I wanted to get copies of these books, where would I go?"
"Well, I just pick them up in Barnes & Noble," Siobhan said. "You just get on 390 and go north to Exit 5...Actually," she added a little hesitantly, "I was thinking of going there this afternoon. I suppose you could come with me, if you like."
Entreri agreed, and they walked out to the parking lot. Her car, as he had learned that they were called, was small and sleek, gunmetal gray, with the word "Celica" inscribed on the back. It occurred to him that he might need to steal a car, and it would help if he knew how to drive one. "I did not have a car in Afghanistan," he said, looking at it admiringly. How far might this girl's sympathy go, he wondered? "I always wanted to learn how to operate one..."
Siobhan nodded, then stopped in her tracks. "You want to drive my car? Are you _crazy_? You don't just lend your car out to someone you've known for an hour and who has never driven one in their life!"
Apparently, not that far. But Entreri persisted; when he wanted something, he was determined to get it, even if he had to do it with words instead of weapons.
"Just around the lot, perhaps. I am sure you would not let me wreck your car."
"Well...okay."
She unlocked the driver's side door and let him in as if she still thought this was the worst idea of her life, then got in on the other side before handing him the keys. She showed him the clutch, the gas and the brake, and let him take the car around the parking lot a few times, explaining how and when to shift. Entreri was as intelligent and coordinated as almost anyone alive; he didn't stall the car once.
"Good!" Siobhan congratulated him. "You sure you've never done this before?"
Entreri just shrugged noncommittally.
"Let's take it on the road," she suggested.
"I thought you said that was...`crazy'" Entreri reminded her.
"I don't think there should be a problem. We'll take it around just a bit. If all goes well, you can drive to the bookstore. You ought to learn where things are, anyway." Siobhan gestured. "Make a right out of here--don't forget to signal."
How lucky he was to have found a do-gooder to help acclimate him into this unfamiliar culture--and one who knew of Salvatore, no less! Entreri smiled to himself.
He had already spent some time observing the traffic from his hotel room, and had a basic understanding of lanes, lights and the more common signs. Soon he felt quite comfortable driving, as if he'd been doing it for a long time.
Siobhan reached over and turned a dial on the dashboard; suddenly sound came out from somewhere in the car. That was one thing Entreri had to get used to--everywhere in this world there were pictures, noises, and flashing lights. And there was more visual stimulation than at a Calimport slave auction.
It took him a few moments to realize that the sounds were some sort of music. After seeing his expression, Siobhan turned down the volume. "Sorry," she said. "You probably don't want to listen to this."
"What is it?" he asked.
"A band called Nine Inch Nails. I can change the CD if you like; my case is in the backseat."
Entreri shrugged. "I don't mind it," he said. He kept the volume low, however, so that he could hear the noises around him.
Siobhan directed him onto the freeway, and Entreri found this sort of driving much more fun. He stepped on the gas and started flying past the slower moving vans and trucks. Siobhan grinned at him and pressed a button on the roof, opening up a window on top of the car. It was an unseasonably warm day, the snow melting in dirty mounds along the side of the road. He found a rare and genuine smile creep onto his face as he turned up the volume on the CD player.
Suddenly, he saw lights flashing some distance off in his rearview mirror. He was about to ask Siobhan about it when she noticed them, too.
She cursed. "Crap! You'd better pull over; we've been nailed."
"Highwaymen?" Entreri asked, glancing behind him and not slowing down.
"Um...Pretty much, yeah. Stop the car, dammit!"
There was an open stretch of road ahead of them. "I can outrun these bastards," Entreri assured her.
"No! Don't be an idiot!" Siobhan shrieked. "You can't outrun the cops. Don't you understand? They'll just make it worse for me if you try to run!"
Entreri completely misunderstood. "Nobody's going to bother you," he said, twisting to look at her, and letting his coat fall open to reveal his arsenal of guns.
"Oh my God," said Siobhan.