Part 9
Jarlaxle
Translator's Note: After correlation by Nalfein, Jarlaxle now seems inclined to admit that the journal was written by Zaknafein Do'Urden. Upon questioning regarding the 'third way' mentioned, he was quick to admit that being a mercenary was an old occupation for males, but he had wanted to sound dramatic.
Being a new Master at Melee-Magthere was, as would be expected, far more interesting than it was to be a student. One was considered too inept to do administrative tasks, lecture, teach techniques, or lead patrols, so what one generally did was to lead exercises, something considered relatively foolproof. As mass exercises generally only occurred a few times a day, I had a considerable amount of free time, a large proportion of it taken up by having to 'shadow' a Master of a certain task, such as teaching. However, it still left me with a lot of time, during which I was allowed to sneak back to the House and see Matron Malice.
Malice always seemed glad of my presence, especially when she had company. After all, it looked good to have the honours student of Melee-Magthere, and a Master at that, hovering protectively over her shoulder, despite everything she had to say about the 'fragrance' of armour.
As the years passed, I managed to be happy – I was young, in love, and the Academy was not so bad a thing to do – all I had to do was not to look at the poor in the Braeryn, the street-children with the haunting, hopeless eyes, or at Soelisk himself in an unguarded moment. Self-denial is powerful, and I knew what I was doing was stupid and delusional, but I was happy. I did not want the feelings of contentment and satisfaction to stop. I did not want a despair as deep as Soelisk's, so I tried to believe that everything was right, that Malice would not use me like Saole had used Soelisk, and I actually managed to convince myself.
It was easier to forget about those matters whenever I was with Malice, or working in the Academy. It was on those long stretches home where I averted my eyes from the pain, the injustice, the cruelty and the poverty of the streets, the dying, hopeless children, and ran, ran until I was breathless at the House gate. Malice was always delighted, despite her overt complaints about the smell of sweat – she believed that the reason why I ran was so as to be able to spend more time with her. That was only partly true.
Once one advances in seniority – say, after some decades – then one is allowed to assist in teaching, help supervise the grand Melees at the end of each year, and fight the new students on their entry evaluation. It was on one of these evaluations that I first met Jarlaxle.
**
"Your name?" It was my fourth fight, and I was growing terser and terser. I was not on very good terms with the priestess on duty, and so she was relatively lax in allowing me the refreshing spells. I had far too much pride to ask her nicely for them, so I had to resort to making do with the meagre effort she spent on me.
"Jarlaxle, sir."
No House name attached? This could be interesting… I studied him carefully. A male of average height and average build, sharp eyes with just a hint of mischief under a wild mop of white hair, well-chosen chainmail, a few light throwing knives in his belt, and two short swords. He was in a good stance, and not nervous at all, strangely enough – his grip was steady, and his gaze was firm.
"Weapons chosen?"
"Knives and short swords, sir," Jarlaxle said, bowing slightly, so I attacked immediately and swiftly. If he had no sense enough as to take his eyes off a hostile target, I intended to make his first lesson as hard as possible.
To my surprise, Jarlaxle dodged easily, as if he had expected me coming, and then blocked the upward slash that would have cut up his leg. He moved lightly and neatly, as precisely as a dancer, parrying and dodging, all the while his mouth set in a small grin, as if everything was highly entertaining. Somewhat irritated at this, I set into my offensive routine immediately, bypassing the defensive that I had been planning to take so as to be able to gauge his abilities.
It did not take too long for me to know that I was better than him – he was practiced, but his teachers had not been as good as mine, and his technique was a little shaky and flamboyant. I took advantage of this by playing a little, slicing shallow cuts on his arms and legs until there was a hot crimson film of blood in the infrared – while blocking a slice, I ran my blade swiftly along his and gashed his arm, allowing a wolfish smile at his sharp intake of breath, and then stabbed at his head. He avoided that barely – the whistling blade sheared off a few strands of his hair. With a muttered curse, he leapt back, parrying a vicious lunge, metal singing off metal in an inanimate chorus, and managed to kick me hard enough to make me stumble.
I let him close in, and then swung upwards, but the sword skittered off his hastily raised bracer on his arm, recovering to stab up again, but was blocked neatly.
The bastard was still grinning, blood and all.
With a growl, I sliced heavily at his feet, knowing he'd jump gracefully to avoid it, and then used the other blade to stab – he couldn't change course in the air to dodge… but he parried with both blades, landing him a little unsteadily a few feet away. Another quick lunge, using the first blade to feint and raise his swords too high – then slip down and aid with the other blade's slice, edge with edge into a cross, using all my strength. The blow hit him on the ribs and actually pushed him a little into the air, to slam down on the ground a few feet away. It wouldn't kill him – the chainmail was there – but it would have cracked something, or at least stunned him.
Had dented the chainmail – gashed it actually, quite severely – but adamantite make was very strong, at least in the Underdark, and it had not given. Jarlaxle was gamely trying to get up – he had already dropped one of his swords in pain, and was clutching his side with his free hand, blood tracing external veins of red.
"Do you yield, Jarlaxle?" I asked, panting. The force of the blow had numbed my right arm, and I mentally added this as something Not to Try Again in other circumstances.
His answer was a quick fusillade of knives, and I cursed my arm and my weariness as I parried those I could see that would hit. His aim seemed to have been thrown by his injury, as some of the knives went wide, and I heard the sharp sounds as they struck the near wall to my left…
Two meaty thuds, and to my horror, I felt pain flare in my shoulder and leg. A step back, and my leg collapsed under me, sending me to my knees. The impact on the ground hurt. How…?
Ricochet. The knives I thought had missed must have ricocheted off the walls and found their target. I stared at Jarlaxle with new respect – he could calculate the trajectory that well? He seemed nearly as surprised as I was, actually – and the grin had gone, but momentarily, and returned quickly.
"Do you yield, Zaknafein?" he replied politely, somehow managing to stagger to his feet and point his remaining sword at me. I could not back off – trying to get up would no doubt cause an even more ignominious fall, and so, considering my options and realizing they were not very open, I nodded.
This was my first true defeat in a real battle, and the sensation was bitter in my mouth.
**
There were, thankfully, no snide comments about my defeat from either the students or the Masters, and the priestess had actually been so gratified at it that she'd healed my wounds fully and gave me a proper refresh. Jarlaxle had watched me carefully throughout the healing, but said nothing. In my irritation, I was somewhat unfairly harsher on the other students that I encountered after him.
When I grumbled to Matron Malice about this later, she actually laughed. "Is that why you are sulking?"
"I am not sulking, malla Ilharess," I muttered. I sat at her feet while she read a tome on a chair in the House Library. We carried out most of our conversations that way – it was safer to avoid too much speculation, which would have been generated had I spent most of my time in her company on the same physical level. I liked talking to Malice – her mind was sharp and incisive, and so long as one avoided anything to do with religion, she could be quite perceptive and even witty.
"Of course you are, Zaknafein," Malice smiled, stroking my hair lightly. "I was going to make you tell me once I saw you storming into the House, but it slipped my mind."
"Jarlaxle was only a student," I complained. I had really thought that I was the better warrior, especially at the beginning of the fight. To try and belatedly cover my own mortification at the defeat, I added, "I feel as though I have betrayed your trust in my ability, malla Ilharess."
"He was only one person, and other than that, you have a perfect record in serious battles, as far as I know," Malice pointed out, "And Masters can be defeated. You yourself were not too long ago a student, a student who managed to defeat a Master in the evaluations, Zaknafein. Besides, it could well have been due to good fortune on his part."
"Unless he was really able to know the precise angle with which to strike the wall, malla Ilharess," I said. That had been an even more difficult concept to accept.
"So good a warrior should have been noticed before the Academy," Malice said thoughtfully, "And I have not even heard of this Jarlaxle. You say he has no House?"
"No, but he is on scholarship from Baenre, malla Ilharess," That had pushed the odds a little in favour to the second concept. House Baenre only offered commoner scholarships if said commoner displayed remarkable ability.
"Baenre!" Malice exclaimed sharply, frowning, fingers freezing for a moment, entwined in my hair. "Ah… perhaps he was kept a secret, then. Zaknafein, keep an eye on this Jarlaxle. It might prove useful knowledge."
"May I ask why, malla Ilharess?" I asked, puzzled. "Baenre would not consider us a threat, would they?"
"No, but it would still be useful," Malice turned a page in her book, her other hand reaching down to rub my cheek gently. "Would you be teaching his class?"
"I may be involved with his class, but I doubt it, malla Ilharess. I am already involved with the fourth-years." I pushed my thoughts back to the defeat again, and added thoughtfully, "He did look surprised when the knives hit me, as if he had not expected them to."
"Or the surprise might have been that you fell for it," Malice said, then smiled rather wickedly when I looked up indignantly at her. "Only teasing, Zaknafein."
"I bow to your shrewd and discerning judgement, malla Ilharess," I said dryly.
"Shut up and kiss me."
**
A few months passed before I had a stretch of free time that coincided with the 'personal exercise' sessions of Jarlaxle's class – where the Masters left them unsupervised to allow them to train on their own. I had not wanted to use it to speak with Jarlaxle, but an order from Malice was an order.
"Greetings, sir," Jarlaxle said politely when I found him doing double sword routines in a quiet section of the training area for first-years.
"Greetings, Jarlaxle," I replied, sitting down on a bench near him. "No, no, continue with what you were doing. How have you found the Academy?"
"It has been very interesting, sir," Jarlaxle grinned. He managed to put a little undertone to each 'sir' such that the formality and implied respect of the term was surgically removed. "I sincerely hope you were not offended by our first encounter?"
"No, not at all," I said, lying between my teeth. Well, not offended, exactly, just seriously irritated with myself. "You are good with knives."
"That was mere good fortune, sir," Jarlaxle said innocently, and for the life of me I could not tell if he was the one now telling untruths. It is always difficult to tell, when speaking with Jarlaxle.
"Two coincidences?"
"Luck favoured me greatly," Jarlaxle said playfully. "I was worried that you had been angered, as you struck me as someone I would like to know better. Sir."
I belatedly realized that Jarlaxle was now leading the conversation, and a little too adeptly for my liking. "The feeling is mutual, Jarlaxle, though in my case my Matron also ordered me to speak with you."
"Why, what a coincidence!" Jarlaxle smiled. "My Matron told me to do the same thing."
"Why would Matron Baenre be interested in me?" I blinked.
"Other than the fact that you graduated with the highest honours, ranked top at each grand Melee, and are now a fast-rising Master?"
I chuckled. "There is that."
"But why would your Matron be interested in me?"
"Because of your connection with Baenre."
"Oh, I am just a lowly male that the Matron decided to grant a scholarship on," Jarlaxle said, but there was something bitter in his voice that made me study his face. "Somewhat similar to your circumstances, I believe." The wooden short-sword poles that he held blurred in the air, against an unseen enemy. "Sir."
There was definitely something intriguing about him.
**
Jarlaxle, to my surprise, came third in the grand Melee, even though I had been sure that none of the students of his year had been his match. He had seemed to lose purposefully once he ascertained that there were only three of them left, but for the life of me I could not understand why he wished to do that. Matron Malice summarily dismissed him from her considerations, and I was then obliged to return to the House every free block, as usual.
I managed to speak with him later, though – by carefully being vague about my schedule, I could find time to talk to him, something I rather enjoyed, even through his penchant for trying to irritate me and manipulate the conversation. There was something different about Jarlaxle that I tried – and failed – repeatedly to grasp.
"Why did you lose?" I asked bluntly, once I got him alone.
"I am not as good as you thought?" Jarlaxle suggested, the grin back in place. "Ran out of luck, sir."
"You could definitely have blocked that slice in your sleep. I have watched your routines and mock battles with your classmates. Your skill is not extremely exceptional, but it is better than that of your classmates."
"Ah, but your Matron is now not interested in me, yes?"
"That is true…" I frowned, as my ears caught up with his meaning. "You lost because you wanted her to lose interest?"
"Her and… other people," Jarlaxle said cheerfully, "The encounter I had with you generated a little too much interest in my welfare. First position would have sealed that, second may have had a chance, but third is obscure enough to be forgotten, sir."
"Why are you doing this? Would not your Matron be displeased?"
"She sends scholarship-males here very often, and does not expect so much of them, sir."
"But how can you rise in rank as a commoner unless you display your ability?"
Jarlaxle shrugged. "If I told you why, would you tell your Matron, sir?"
"Naturally I am expected to relay any information to her, but…"
"But she is no longer interested in me, so if she does not ask, do you need to tell her?" There was no mistaking the mischief in this, and I had to smile.
"That is true."
"Very well, sir, since I am tired of keeping this to myself – I am the second son of Matron Baenre."
This was a shock. "What?" But there had been no surname attached to his, in the records – only the name of the sponsor…
Jarlaxle held up a hand before I could cover him in questions. "However, technically, I do not exist in that function, sir. This circumstance is mainly due to my inconvenient older brother, the Archmage Gromph."
"Why?"
Jarlaxle sighed. "One of the priestesses of Baenre has a gift at visions, and before my birth she foretold that I would rise to the greatest power a male would know in the Cities of the Dark Elves. Needless to say, Gromph assumed immediately that this meant I would become an Archmage of unmatched power, and plotted murder. Matron Baenre, being intelligent, could see this, and though she could forbid him to kill me, it was not unlikely, considering the power and intellect of my brother, that 'accidents' would happen and I die in my youth. So to all respects I was stillborn and burned on the braziers as an offering before Gromph could examine me, and he believes that I am dead."
"I was brought up secretly and trained as a fighter – training by mages would definitely have reached Gromph's ears eventually. Matron Baenre is curious to see if the vision would be true, therefore she took the trouble to get good – but not outstanding – teachers, and enrol me into the Academy. And that, sir, is my story, albeit somewhat summarised."
"Fighters cannot be ranked greater than mages," I pointed out. "So this vision does not seem to contain much potential truth."
"Rank is but one of the ways in this world to measure power. Admittedly, it is believed that there are two ways for males to gain noticeable power – to be an exceptional fighter, or a mighty mage." Jarlaxle smiled. "I will make a third way."
"Would it not be safer to remain submerged in mediocrity?"
"The vision piqued my interest, so I will work towards its fulfilment. After all, that is how I will be able to feel alive." Jarlaxle said solemnly, "To be mediocre and male is to pass each middling day in a kind of dormant death, for there is nothing one would be able to achieve, and when one dies, nothing will be remembered or changed. Life – to live each of your days however you want it – is more important, because to have life is to have something more precious than fame or money or other material things that will have no meaning if you die, and I will achieve that – and an immortality of sorts, if I die – by being the vision's 'greatest power'. Besides," he added, mischievous again, "If I turn out to be just like a common soldier, it is likely that Matron Baenre will have me put to death out of disappointment."