Author's note: Massive warning for angst. Heheheheheh.

Part 5

Only a dream

            This position was beginning to get overly familiar.  Winded, bruised, unarmed, and with two dark elves peering down at him with vaguely condescending expressions.  To head off the inevitable and insulting discussions over his head about his swordplay, Entreri asked, "Now what is it, Jarlaxle?"

            "I thought you would be interested to know that my contacts replied," Jarlaxle said innocently.

            "What contacts?" Zaknafein asked, curiously.

            Entreri opened his mouth, closed it, and then shot Jarlaxle a beseeching expression which Zaknafein apparently missed, since he was studying the mercenary – a rather futile endeavour on any account, as Jarlaxle's expressive face could assume whichever emotion at will.  Jarlaxle shrugged.  "From the various branches – since we are doing quite well for ourselves, I thought to send messages inquiring as to how many personnel every branch could send to Calimport.  It would aid in my consideration in reinstating a branch here."

            Zaknafein snorted.  "Did you not get chased out the last time?"

            "We have lawyers now, too," Jarlaxle replied.  "And… I believe oddly enough Calimport has come up with an anti-discrimination rule in their, ah… 'Constitution' that we can use to our advantage."

            "You know that was put in only to please the halflings." Entreri said, playing along.

            "We have considerably more money than halflings," Jarlaxle replied, then turned to Zaknafein.  "So, old friend, unless you are interested in listening in on our little branch negotiations…"

            Zaknafein helped Entreri up, not bothering to look in Jarlaxle's direction.  "Find me when you finish.  You need to work on your feint."

            Once Entreri and Jarlaxle were relatively out of hearing, the mercenary began to chuckle.  "For an assassin, you have remarkably little ability in duplicity."

            "Assassins kill.  They don't talk in circles," Entreri retorted.  "I'd leave that to you.  And lawyers.  Though I believe now you are one and the same."

            "Hah! You still need to learn that sometimes, a well-placed word is considerably more destructive than a sword, old friend.  That is why I found the ironically-named 'legal profession' so entertaining."

            "What about the reports?" Entreri asked, before Jarlaxle could berate him on the need for diplomacy.

            "They found nothing."

            "Nothing?"

            "Yes, I found that very strange," Jarlaxle said mildly, "Some of my mages actually said the demons they asked seemed to be afraid of something.  And that is truly peculiar, because none of those mages call up anything less than Glabrezu."

            "So I believe Cloakwood has to come first, then.  Perhaps there will be clues there."

            "We have to be doubly cautious," Jarlaxle warned, "If there is something that can scare demons of this rank."

            "Having second thoughts?"

            "No," Jarlaxle said, apparently amused.  "I admit to being very curious about this entire situation."

            "What did Kimmuriel say about it?"

            "He expressed his disapproval," Jarlaxle smirked, "But he insisted on coming along, if I was going.  I did even go as far to order him not to go, since if anything happened he would be my obvious successor, but he… convinced me otherwise.  Though if he is truly unwilling about it, he would prove far too much of a problem than an actual help."

            "Doesn't he know you're playing with him?"

            "This time? Most assuredly – Kimmuriel is quite intelligent, even for a mage.  That makes it all the more amusing."

            "For you, I would imagine." Entreri was actually beginning to feel sorry for Kimmuriel, since, despite popular opinion and his best efforts, Entreri was actually not without a rather battered conscience and a moral code.  But it was not a very healthy thing to put yourself wholly in the power of Jarlaxle – he could be a lot crueler to those fully under his control.  To those outside that kind of power, his manipulation was a lot subtler and tolerable.  Perhaps that was why Bregan D'aerthe, to a certain extent, was a relatively free organisation – most of the soldiers could simply up and leave if they wished to.  It helped him keep what Entreri saw as the dark elf's natural ruthlessness in check, and channel it towards more productive venues.

            While Kimmuriel – would definitely bear the brunt of it.

            "He might break one day," Entreri mused.

            "Oh, do not worry," Jarlaxle said merrily.  "I always know exactly what I am doing.  And… whatever I do to him, I always make it somewhat more worthwhile for him to stay."

            This proved even intelligent, powerful mages could be fools.  And besides, Kimmuriel was bound to be extremely upset with this conversation right now, but Jarlaxle seemed supremely unconcerned, adding, "When can you charter a Floating Galleon?"

            "In a day.  This isn't the visiting season, so they're relatively free," Entreri said, automatically – he always kept tabs on the influx of traffic into Calimport.  He was still vaguely worried about Kimmuriel – since although the gauntlet he had would make him technically invulnerable to magical attacks, Kimmuriel, being a very skilled psionist, could actually read his surface thoughts, at the very least.  And being a dark elf, he definitely knew many ways of making one's life miserable without using magic.

            "Do you want to leave tomorrow, then?"

            "All right," Entreri nodded.  "We might as well start as quickly as possible.  I will get an afternoon ship – one of the captains who is in port around that time is my friend, and he is going to leave in Cloakwood's general direction."

**

            Kimmuriel, to all appearances, was studiously doing paperwork on Jarlaxle's desk, seated in the visitor's chair, and did not even look up with Jarlaxle entered with his usual noise.  Jarlaxle closed the door carefully, then walked over to Kimmuriel and looked over his shoulder, diatryma feathers falling just within the psionist's peripheral vision.  They stayed this way for a long time until Kimmuriel caved first, turned around, and said, very politely, "The papers requiring your personal signature are in front of your chair."

            "Why did you not say that earlier?" Jarlaxle asked mildly.

            Kimmuriel grimaced.  "I apologise, but…" He gasped as Jarlaxle yanked hard on the back of his collar, choking him for a moment and jerking his head back.  Long, silvery strands of hair slithered over his gloves, and Jarlaxle distantly admired their silky beauty.

            Leaning close enough so as to enjoy Kimmuriel's scent, Jarlaxle said, "We are leaving tomorrow for Cloakwood, but I suspect you know about that."

            "Yes," Kimmuriel said, as meekly as possible while still being rather obviously upset.  Jarlaxle smiled as he noticed the psionist fighting down his temper.  "I will follow."

            "Actually, seeing how you really do not like the Surface, I have arranged to take someone else with me."

            Kimmuriel turned to try and discern Jarlaxle's expression, shocked, but nearly choked himself on the collar, and sank back into his chair.  "No! Please…"

            "You are returning to the Underdark."

            "Master, please!"

            "In the meantime, regarding all that paperwork, just sign it yourself, or send word that I am currently away." Jarlaxle said, admiring his handiwork.  Kimmuriel's hands were white-knuckled in their grip on the chair's handles, and his breathing was already irregular – also, he was trembling a little from the strength of his emotion.  Through the link they shared he could definitely sense frustration, despair, jealousy, and a lot of self-mockery – while all Kimmuriel would have been able to sense on his part would be a rather detached air of command. 

            Kimmuriel definitely knew what Jarlaxle was trying to do, but the bait had to be taken.  And since the psionist could not read Jarlaxle's mind, or see Jarlaxle's face, some doubt was beginning to grow, and he was becoming uncertain as to whether or not the mercenary leader really meant what he said.

            "You would create far too many difficulties if you went," Jarlaxle said calmly, jerking the collar back in time to choke off Kimmuriel's desperate pleas and keeping the pressure.  The psionist gasped for air, but didn't take his fingers off the chair to scrabble at the collar – that would be far too undignified.  Jarlaxle let go of the collar, then walked over to his paperwork, leafing through it.  None of it seemed really important enough to require his attention, in any case, except possibly the duergars' propositions.  He rather liked the current leader of their trading community, and Hazek would be insulted if he did not reply.  Perhaps a note to the duergar leader would help him understand…

            "It hurts," Kimmuriel whispered suddenly.  "It hurts when I am not with you."

            Jarlaxle did not even look up.  "I did spend a decade away from Bregan D'aerthe, once."

            "That was before I… we… but it still hurt then, every moment!"

            "I do not spend that much of my time, even now, in your presence."

            "It is not that bad when at least I can see you once a cycle!"

            Jarlaxle waved a hand dismissively.  "A few clairvoyance spells…"

            "That is not the same!"

            "Kimmuriel… I warn you," Jarlaxle looked up, his eyes purposefully cold, allowing a hint of steel into his voice.  "I do not want to hear any more about this."  Kimmuriel immediately kept silent, though his eyes were pleading.  Satisfied, Jarlaxle sat down at his desk and began reading more closely.  He could tell Kimmuriel was definitely not paying attention to the paperwork any longer.

            It was at least an hour later before Kimmuriel asked, a little timidly, "May I know when you will be back, Master? The schedules may require some revision."

            Jarlaxle let the silence drag on until it seemed as though he was not going to reply, then said vaguely, "It depends."

            Kimmuriel was obviously not happy with this answer.  "At least tell me who is going with you… please." The politeness was becoming extremely forced.

            Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow at him.  "You already do know.  Zaknafein, Entreri, and one of our mages."

            "It will be dangerous…"

            Jarlaxle interrupted tersely.  "I know.  That is partly why I am going."

            Kimmuriel was silent for about another hour or so, probably wondering whether Jarlaxle was toying with him with the intention of allowing him to go in the end, or just toying with him but meaning every single word, which was much worse.  Jarlaxle himself was considering several mischievous avenues from which to take this amusing situation further, but kept them to himself, his pen dancing over a note to Hazek in his own, unique, flamboyant script.

            The one which had the highest potential for fun was actually the cold shoulder, come to think of it…

            "Do you know what you will be looking for in Cloakwood?" Kimmuriel asked, trying a little transparently to be circumspect.  The psionist was not at his best when this upset.

            "Trouble, I would suspect," Jarlaxle said blithely.  Finishing off the note, he started on the rest of the papers.  Hazek was likely not to get that upset now – after all, the duergar was old enough to take things as they came, in time.  Kimmuriel seemed to have forgotten that adage, and now seemed as flustered as a youth. 

            Another hour of hurt silence, and he was finished.  Kimmuriel looked up sharply when Jarlaxle rose and stretched.  "I am going to sleep," he informed the psionist as blandly as possible.  "It has been a long day… and tomorrow I may have to wake early to prepare."

            Kimmuriel half-rose from the table, but Jarlaxle pushed him firmly back down, gesturing at the paperwork.  "Finish it first."

            The bedroom was nearly as elaborate as his study, just as Jarlaxle, having a relatively outlandish taste in luxuries, liked it.  The much-loved hat was hung carefully on a hook, and then Jarlaxle divested himself neatly of his armour and his less-important jewellery and boots.  The gloves went under the pillow, and Jarlaxle gradually blanked out his mind to give the semblance of sleep to the psionist outside, who was feeling more and more disbelieving.

            After all, if Jarlaxle had proceeded to sleep instead of using the situation to extract sexual favours, it was quite likely to Kimmuriel that the mercenary had meant everything after all.  A short while later, Kimmuriel entered the room, also removing his boots, then softly walked over to the bed and touched Jarlaxle hesitatingly on the arm.  From the lack of tension and the even breathing, Kimmuriel could only conclude that Jarlaxle was really asleep.

            Feigning sleep well was a rather underestimated skill. 

            From the sounds and sensations, Kimmuriel had taken a seat on the edge of the bed, probably in thought, then to Jarlaxle's mild surprise and definite amusement, instead of joining him on it, Kimmuriel got off, and judging by the rustling sounds and the lowered tension on the bed, had knelt down on the flagstones, his head and cushioning arms only on the bed, in a supplicant's position.

            His curiosity satisfied, Jarlaxle decided to allow himself a dark elf's four hours of 'trance' before doing anything about the situation.

            He woke up to find Kimmuriel still in that position, and 'asleep' to all accounts, so he rolled over and stared at the dark elf.  Congratulating himself on possessing a plaything that afforded him this much amount of entertainment, he propped himself up on an arm, reached over, and gently pushed back Kimmuriel's hair behind his ears to better reveal the collar.  Jarlaxle was rather fond of that item.  It was not magical, but it served as a constant reminder to both Kimmuriel and to anyone else who the psionist belonged to.  Needless to say, this action woke Kimmuriel up in turn, and it took a few, sleep-fuddled moments before the psionist came to full consciousness.

            Warily, the psionist looked at Jarlaxle, trying to discern from the now-impassive expression what his master's reaction to this was. 

            Jarlaxle decided to speak first. Yawning, he said, "The bed would have been much warmer had you chosen to join me in it."

            Kimmuriel flinched, but retorted, "You did not give me that express command."

            "Oh? And are you so adept at following express commands, Kimmuriel?"

            "I would… follow them to the best of my ability," Kimmuriel snapped, irritated at the perceived jibe.

            "And one would think from last night that you could not," Jarlaxle said, lying back onto the bed.  "Did I not tell you not to speak about the situation?"

            "I was worried!"

            "So you would follow express commands only where you feel like it?"

            "I…" Kimmuriel began stiffly, then added, "I apologise for my misconduct."

            "Are you not supposed to add 'It will not happen again'?"

            "I…"

            Jarlaxle sighed, as if greatly disappointed.  "Kimmuriel.  If you say one more word of dissent about the matter, you will spend the rest of your nights sleeping outside my room, at the door."

            "And why should that matter?" Kimmuriel asked, his voice rising, "You would treat me like your dog no matter what I do – I might as well sleep like one, act like one!"

            Jarlaxle decided to be somewhat wicked and deny Kimmuriel even the satisfaction of having a good fight, so he chuckled, as if bantering.  "I would admit that attaching a chain to that collar might be somewhat aesthetic."

            "Jarlaxle!" Almost a wail of exasperation.

            Or maybe he should play along, after all.  He looked at Kimmuriel, assuming an expression of curiosity.  "So what would you have me do? Did you not ask me – beg me – to be your 'master'?"

            Kimmuriel shivered under the weight of old memories, but said, "I would serve you, and you only, but I am not a toy that can be discarded on will!"

            "You're not?" Jarlaxle asked, seemingly puzzled, tapping one finger against Kimmuriel's collar.  "I would think that came with the definition."

            "I…" Kimmuriel began indignantly, but was (again) interrupted when Jarlaxle's fingers slipped under the collar and pulled sharply, choking him. 

            Very pleasantly, Jarlaxle said, "Bregan D'aerthe is a free enterprise.  You can leave if you wish – though you know the rules for that.  I admit to taking a lot of liberties from my soldiers, but you were quite a different thing due to those circumstances.  I will not tolerate much disobedience from you, Kimmuriel, or any of my lieutenants, as a matter of setting an example for the rest of my soldiers – I had thought I'd made that clear.  You may advise, but if I tell you outright to be quiet, you keep quiet.  If it does not match your will, you are, as I said, free to leave the Surface, or even the band, if you so feel like it"

            Jarlaxle released Kimmuriel, who started coughing, rubbing his throat, then said, in a considerably more broken tone of voice, "I just… want to be with you.  Please.  I will do anything you ask.  Just let me go with you."

            Jarlaxle shrugged, and said, complacently, "I will think about it."

            Kimmuriel opened his mouth to protest, but Jarlaxle raised a hand, shooting the psionist a warning glance, and the mage closed it with a ragged sigh. 

            Several hours more to sunrise…

            Jarlaxle sat up, and patted the bed.  "Come here and lie down."

            Kimmuriel complied, a little warily, his expression becoming a little more panicked when Jarlaxle proceeded to strip the psionist of his garments and discard them carelessly on the ground, using a knee to push Kimmuriel's legs apart.  "Jarlaxle…"

            "You think I would exhaust you then leave?" Jarlaxle asked, amused, positioning himself between the psionist's legs, pulling up his knees and spreading them invitingly wider with his hands, looking over Kimmuriel's slender, naked body with an almost critical interest.  "I can tell that much from your thoughts."

            "I…"  Kimmuriel flushed a little under Jarlaxle's gaze, but held his eyes, a little defiantly.

            "Even knowing that I could do that… will you still play?" Jarlaxle slipped his hand slowly up Kimmuriel's inner thigh to its apex, fingers moving expertly until Kimmuriel arched his back in pleasure, shuddering, fingers clenched in the bed sheets. 

            He leaned over the psionist, kissing him.  Kimmuriel responded almost desperately, trying to pull Jarlaxle closer.  Jarlaxle broke the kiss, murmuring, "Keep still."

            "At least… your clothes…" Kimmuriel gasped when Jarlaxle lazily licked his neck, pushing up the collar to expose more tender skin.

            "Who said I was going to play that way?" Jarlaxle smiled at Kimmuriel's look of incredulity.  "After all… you never said if you were going to play."

Kimmuriel bit his lip, and then sighed, defeated.  "If that is your wish, then I will."

            "You will just have to find out what that is, then."

**

            Zaknafein was strangely non-committal on the matter of visiting Cloakwood – as far as Entreri could tell, the dark elf didn't care at all – only about the prospect of having to spend a few weeks cloistered on a floating ship with Jarlaxle.   From that Entreri could conclude that the Cloakwood mages either didn't do anything to Zaknafein – and that Zaknafein/Sam had escaped extremely quickly, or they had not done anything to the dark elf that he could remember enough to make an impression.

            "You really do not have to spend so much time sharpening your swords," Entreri complained.  The scraping noise was distracting.  "Either that, or do it somewhere else."   He didn't have that much work to do today, but what with Zaknafein sitting on his expensive study table and sharpening his weapons, it was not really getting done.

            Zaknafein scrutinised his blade, shrugged, and put away both whetstone and weapon.  "True.  If I sharpen it on your flying boat Jarlaxle might talk to me less often."

            "And, you can stop sitting on my table."

            "Why not? You refused to sit in my lap."

            "That has nothing to do with why you shouldn't sit on the table."

            "So if I get off the table will you sit in my lap?"          

            "I already said it has nothing to do with the table," Entreri said patiently.  The words in front of him were wavering out of focus.

            "Really? Both matters have to do with my present comfort."

            "If you got off the table, sat on that sofa, and quietly let me finish all this work, we can go upstairs, where the bed is a lot more comfortable than a chair." Come to think of it, being reasonable didn't actually work when Zaknafein was in this particular mood.

            "Hmmm.  Would you pay more attention to me if I decided to go around killing everything?"

            "Out of necessity? Yes.  But I doubt it's the type of attention you'd prefer.  And that was an extremely juvenile consideration, Zaknafein."

            "Are not insane people allowed to be juvenile?"

            "You don't sound very insane right now."

            "And how are you to judge?"

            "Well… if you go around screaming and killing people for no good reason, that's a relatively decent measure."

            "So you will pay more attention if I was obviously out of my mind, is that it?"

            "I'd pay attention to you anyway." Entreri said, correcting a document and signing it.  "You know you're… important to me."

            "It is a very strange sort of importance if you only like me in certain aspects."

            "The degree of attention paid does not equal the amount of like."

            "So you can like something very much and yet never pay any attention to it?"

            "Why am I even having this conversation with you?"

            "Humour me."

            "I think I spend far too much of my time doing that."

            "Therefore you actually think I should mean less to you?"

            Entreri let out a deep sigh.  It looked as though the paperwork was, again, not going to get done.  He wondered how Jarlaxle, who seemed to have brought over a lot of his work from the Underdark, actually got things done.  Probably because Jarlaxle's lover didn't spend this much of Jarlaxle's time.

            "Hard as it may be for you to understand, I actually… like you more right now," Entreri said dryly, finally looking up, and pointedly putting down his pen.

            "Why? Why is this different from what I was, previously? There is little truth in either."

            "Because previously more than half of the time you didn't look as though you understood what I was saying to you? And sometimes you made it seem as though you were with me only because it was convenient.  It was worse when you had that mask," Entreri explained, very patiently, "Sometimes you showed so much disdain I wondered how you could even bear to be with a human."

            Zaknafein considered this, tapping his chin, and then said, "And now you think I understand you all the time?"

            "Don't you?"

            "No, actually I do not understand you much at all," Zaknafein said mildly.  "You have not given me any reason why you put up with me, and try as I can I cannot really guess at that reason." Entreri stared at him – was it possible for a dark elf to be that dense, or was Zaknafein purposely trying to force him to say it?

            "Humans aren't always rational," Entreri muttered.

            "Ah, so therefore putting up with me is an irrational choice?"

            "You are so beginning to sound like Jarlaxle."

            "The Gods forbid."

            "It isn't irrational.  I think you give yourself far too little credit."

            "And why not? Relatively speaking, nothing in this world matters.  Existence is as fickle as the winds on your Surface world, and no one can actually make anything of worth to survive the ages."
            "And is that how you measure how something 'matters'?"

            "How would you do it?"

            "As to whether, at any present moment, anything else cares about what you do."

            "Do you care?"

            "Yes."

            "Why?"

            "Haven't we had this conversation before?"

            "And we will keep having it until I get an answer."

            "Why is that so important to you?"

            "Then I can tell whether you will continue to care."

            "Do you care? About me?" Entreri retorted.

            "Yes."

            "Why?"

            "Because I love you," Zaknafein said shortly, and turned into Sam.

**

            Being her first trip on a Floating Galleon, Sam was actually very excited, and was a little, brightly-dressed ball of energy, asking the mages on the ship all sorts of strange questions, at times even teetering precariously over the railing.  Entreri wasn't very sure how Zaknafein and Sam had gotten over to Calimport, but Sam had said something about Zaknafein having assaulted some sort of wizard and they'd gotten teleported here.  He was not really sure how much credence to give that story, since to his knowledge no wizard could actually teleport anything to such a distance.  It was just one of the suspicious aspects to this entire venture which he hoped that a visit to Cloakwood would clear up.

            Other things that he wished would clear up were situations like his present one with Zaknafein, who had not only refused to come out, but had refused to listen to anyone other than Sam, of whom he did so out of necessity since they essentially shared the same body.  Entreri didn't even want to talk to Jarlaxle about it, even though he had (to understate things) been extremely shocked by Zaknafein's last announcement.

            But even if Zaknafein did decide to return… Entreri wasn't sure if he could say the same thing, or whether it was indeed love on his part.  A lifetime spent learning the blade for him hadn't included much lessons on the heart (metaphorically speaking, of course), other than how to stop it.

            "That's the last of it," one of his assassins returned from the hold where they had put their horses and travel necessities.  "Are you sure you don't want any of us to come with you, sir?"

            Entreri shook his head.  "It will be a lot faster this way, and I can always ask for help.  I'm more worried about what you lot will do in Calimport when I'm away."

            The assassin grinned.  "We'd be fine." He kneeled down to pat Sam on the head.  "Hey, have fun now!"

            "Yup, thanks!" Sam grinned.  Dressed in a straw hat with a bright yellow ribbon and a pastel blue and pink frock with matching gloves, shoes and socks (in miscellaneous pastels) she looked like a young, female follower of the Fashion House of Jarlaxle, and Entreri made a mental note to check his followers for colour blindness when he came back.  Perhaps it was because their professions all required them to wear dull, unassuming greys and greens.

            Jarlaxle walked up to him when all of Entreri's minions had left the ship, and they were about to take off.  To everyone other than Sam and Entreri, apparently Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel – who had seemed strangely subdued today, were just two Sun elves, and Jarlaxle was having fun showing off his perfect Elvish speech to the few mages who were not busy enough to ignore him. 

            "How long will it take?" Jarlaxle asked, watching as the mages magically pulled the ropes up, as well as the anchor, and ponderously, sails pushed by large, barely visible air elementals, fire roaring air into the huge balloons, the ship rose high into the air.

            "Depending on the weather, maybe two weeks or less.  I generally don't leave Calimport, let alone sit on Floating Galleons."

            "It's interesting that Zaknafein did not want to show up to see this," Jarlaxle said, but when Entreri looked at the mercenary, Jarlaxle only seemed to be admiring the view as the ship soared up at an angle, picking up speed, giant, bladed propellers whirring. 

            "Well… Sam was a lot more interested," Entreri gestured at the little girl, who was standing as close as she could to the propellers, alarming its attendants.  "And Zaknafein was balking at the idea of having to spend this long closeted on a ship with you."

            Jarlaxle chuckled.  "I expect I'd see him soon enough, then."

            "What about you? I'm surprised Kimmuriel isn't following you around closely."

            "He does not like the sunlight," Jarlaxle shrugged, unconcerned.  "Even with spells."

            "I'm surprised you took him along.  Didn't you say he might cause problems?"

            "I convinced him not to," Jarlaxle said, with a grin.

            "And… just don't tell me what you did," Entreri winced.  "One day I think you'd go a little too far."
            "Eh, do not worry.  As I said… I always know what I'm doing."

            "What would you do if he leaves?" Entreri challenged.
            Jarlaxle held on to his hat as a gust of wind threatened to steal it.  "Would he?"

            "If you push him too far, he might."

            "I doubt it.  He seems to have very large limits."

            "But he does have limits."

            "I know.  Testing them is one of my sources of amusement.  What would you do if Zaknafein left?"

            Entreri grimaced.  The sudden stab of pain was decidedly unsuspected.  "I don't know."

            "If he left Calimport, then?"

            "I don't know," Entreri looked down at the city.  "If I could, I would stay in Calimport for the rest of my life.  Far too hot as the city is, it does have its charm."

            "That is one of Zaknafein's little faults.  If he thinks you are placing too much emphasis on something when you ostensibly feel a certain way, he'd interpret it in a certain manner.  He is a little too given to imposing his own views on others, quite unthinkingly." Jarlaxle glanced at Sam, who was, due to the whistling winds, out of hearing and still bounding around near the propellers.  "I think that was part of his problem in his previous life.  The Matron he was with also had a very strong character, and there came a point where she refused to put up with his own opposing character."

            "So what are you saying?"

            "That 'life with' Zaknafein, as a couple – might end up just being a dream."

            "Some dreams can be made reality."

            Jarlaxle glanced at Entreri.  "Well then, why do you not do what has to be done?"

            "Which is?"     

            "Tell him how you feel?"

            "How do you know how I feel, anyway?"

            "Your face, your voice, when you talk about him, your body language when you're with him… and you forget who I have as a lover," Jarlaxle grinned.

            "Why is it so important to you anyway?"

            Jarlaxle shifted his eye patch, a sure sign that he was interrupting anyone actually trying to see past his surface thoughts.  "Because I know what it feels like when someone whom you hope – would feel a certain way about you – actually tells you what he feels like.  Sometimes it is not enough to just see him act as though he feels that way."

            Was Jarlaxle talking about Kimmuriel? After all, who else could read minds on the ship? Puzzled, all Entreri could say was, "Did you say anything to that someone in return?"

            "No, nothing of importance," Jarlaxle looked away and outwards over the horizon as the rose over the (very) sparse clouds (the rainy season was just ending, and all there would be soon would be clear blue desert sky).  "Sometimes I wonder if I should have.  But, it was a long time ago," Jarlaxle slapped Entreri on the shoulder.  "And there is no use in regretting the past.  Did you think to bring good wine?"

            "The mages have that," Entreri replied, mulling over Jarlaxle's answer. 

            "Then I suggest we drink to the possible success of our trip."

**

            I sold my soul to you in the Marketplace of ghosts and dreams and pretty beads, and received nothing in return. 

            But I am content, no, what makes you think that is the source of my pain?

            It remains to be seen whether you are the Devil… or merely mortal, with a mortal's failings.

            For there are no Angels to be had.