Part 7

Inconvenience

            "Do you think this is the reason we will take six days to reach Athkatla?" Jarlaxle asked mildly.

            Specks were approaching from all sides, apparently cloaked magically such that even Iparken couldn't get a focus on them to see what they were. 

            "Well, we're already off schedule, since we're at the halfway mark and it's been about four days," Entreri replied dryly.  The problem with large flying ships was that if the wind, and in this case, wind along with driving sleet, was against them, they seemed to slow to a crawl. 

            "Do you think they are hostile?" Zaknafein asked, idly fingering his swords.

            "I think that may be more than a possibility, considering the mages haven't been expecting any airborne visitors," Entreri replied, watching the increasing nervousness of the mage crew, then looking around at the luxurious finery of There Is No Justice, which would make good money for any raiders.  "Besides, I have heard of people who try to loot Flying Galleons.  They only need to puncture the balloons, and then pick through the wreck later for valuables."

            "And how fragile are the balloons, pray tell?" Jarlaxle asked mildly, looking up on reflex.

            "Well… I believe they are magically reinforced to have the hardness of steel, but wrecks have been known to happen," Entreri admitted.

            "Perhaps this is not a good time to say I dislike flying," Zaknafein said wryly.

            "Really? But you did it quite a few times in Menzoberranzan," Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow, after noting that no one else seemed to be in earshot.  "All those House Raids and levitations."

            "It does not mean that I liked it," Zaknafein said.  Entreri realized belatedly that while on deck, Zaknafein had always looked anywhere but downwards, and always kept as far as possible from the railing while still being possessively near the assassin.  Sam, on the other hand, seemed extremely unconcerned, possibly because her child's mind didn't connect the winds with a possible fall ending in lethal consequences on the ground below.  Sometimes Entreri wished he had that kind of mind, especially in certain circumstances in the past where he had been required to scale high walls without any kind of rope or safety precautions.

            "Where's Kimmuriel?" Entreri asked warily.  The specks – about twenty of them – were now close enough for everyone to see that they were armored humanoids on the backs of what looked like large crows.  Quite a few of the humanoids had crossbows.  Close enough to see crossbows – wait, that meant…

            Entreri, Zaknafein and Jarlaxle dived for cover when crossbow bolts whistled past them, some shuddering to a halt in the woodwork.  Somewhere to the front, there was a choked gurgle as a crossbow bolt found its target in the throat of a mage.  From the shocked, panicked sounds of the mages, it seemed that the bolts weren't supposed to be able to penetrate the ship's 'magical shield'.

            "The bolts are enchanted," Jarlaxle called to Entreri and Zaknafein from where he was, somewhere inside a stack of fixed-down crates.  Somehow, the mercenary leader had managed to retrieve one of the bolts, and was inspecting it with interest.  Entreri nodded – the both of them were in a somewhat safer position just inside one of the structures on the ship that led upstairs to the Captain's quarters or down to the rooms, cautiously looking around the door leading towards the deck. 

            Flashes of light and weird burning smells alerted them to the fact that the mages had retaliated, but the magic seemed to wash off barriers in front of their attackers. 

            "Did you bring ranged weapons along?" Zaknafein asked, poking Entreri, who jumped.

            "Yes, but they're in the chest in our room…"

            "These?" Kimmuriel's voice sounded somewhere behind them.  Turning, they saw the psionist, who was holding three longbows, bowstrings and several quivers, handing two of the longbows to them quickly.  At their questioning look, he shrugged.  "Jarlaxle informed me of the situation."

            "How'd you get into our room?" Entreri blinked, as he and Zaknafein proceeded to string the longbows.

            "The rooms," Kimmuriel said, slowly, as if talking to a retarded child, "Are mage-locked." He concentrated a little, and then the remaining longbows, bowstring and quiver disappeared.

            "What in the…" Entreri blinked as people seemed to suddenly appear and file out into the deck.  Moving out a hand, he realized they were insubstantial, and in many cases, actually looked the same.  Quite quickly, images of himself, Zaknafein, Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel were also wandering around on the deck, holding weapons. 

            "Illusions," Kimmuriel said critically, looking at his doubles.  "Very good ones, as well.  No doubt from your gnome friend? I have heard that surface gnomes are naturally talented at illusions."

            "Well yes, but still, going out would be risky…"

            Kimmuriel pointed.  Zaknafein was already gone, and somewhere out there.  Squinting, he managed to see a black-skinned one among the gold-skinned ones in the illusion (since Iparken of course only saw them as sun-elves), unhurriedly notching an arrow and shooting, then mingling around before shooting again. The illusions were certainly good… at least five of them always shot at the same target as Zaknafein, and then mingled with the crowd, so it was never certain which one was shooting…

             With a curse at the stubbornness of dark elves, Entreri walked onto the deck nervously, along with Kimmuriel, who immediately went off to search for Jarlaxle.  Taking aim carefully and shooting, he downed a rider, the person clutching nervously at the arrow, toppling off his squawking steed, though missing the second and the third.  From the sounds of it, however, Jarlaxle and Zaknafein were having better luck than he.  It was not his fault – longbows were not his strong point, and the gauntlet made holding a bow feel very odd.  Besides, he'd never really understood the precise mechanics of how the weapon worked, which is never a really good way of progressing to be good at said weapon.

            Another hail of crossbow bolts, which narrowly missed him, stitching through the illusions. 

            The sounds of more arrows – the mages had switched to longbows, especially the few elven ones on deck.

            Then a panicked shout, "They're attacking the balloon!" What was worse, some of the bolts that shot past were burning.  The deck began to catch fire…

            Water elementals appeared, pausing for a long while as the summoning mages gained control of them, then began drenching the flames, though there weren't enough of them, and if the fight continued, Entreri was quite sure that it would end in a burning hulk crashing down into the Starspire mountains.  The heat was uncomfortable, and the smoke was beginning to haze out his vision…

            "We can't hit them without magic!" a mage shouted from somewhere.  "Lances – they're going to puncture the balloon!"

            "Just shoot," Jarlaxle said reassuringly, from somewhere.  Entreri frowned.  "Our mage will guide your arrows."

            That sounded like a lot of work for the mage.  Entreri shrugged, and shot.  His arrow flew straight and true – then abruptly curved upwards.  A squawk, and a giant crow plummeted past, arrow embedded inside one eye, its rider fiddling madly at the straps of the saddle.  More crows plummeted past, until only those who had not been above trying to puncture the balloon were left. A few more shots, and even they turned tail to leave.

            The illusions stayed until the raiders were out of sight, and then dissipated, and mages raced around, hastily creating water to put out the fires.  Entreri lowered his bow, then saw Zaknafein approaching, apparently unscathed.  Zaknafein looked him over quickly, checking for injury, then said critically, "I had not thought your skill with other weapons was so… unpolished."

            "My normal occupation does not involve shooting at moving targets on a flying ship," Entreri said dryly.  "I normally get to fight close up, on solid ground."

            Zaknafein snorted.  "That is no excuse.  You should be proficient in all weapons, just in case."

            "Well, I haven't needed to use a longbow since as long as I can remember," Entreri retorted.  "Bows are not truly required in a city, where they can easily hit bystanders."

            Thankfully, an extended argument with Zaknafein about weaponry was delayed when Iparken appeared next to him, the gnome captain looking tired but relieved.  "What was that all about?" Entreri asked him.

            "They looked like any Air Corsair, but those normally attack the non-Halruaan Flying Galleons," Iparken said, "I don't know why these decided to attack here, though they must have been well-funded.  These bolts had an anti-shield dweomer on each of them, and that's very expensive.  All these bolts can probably pay for the repairs and still make a tidy profit.  If we ever manage to get them out of the woodwork."

            "Your illusions were very impressive," Zaknafein said, complimentarily, interrupting Iparken before he could mourn about the damage done to his beautiful vessel.

            "Thank you.  Your skill with the bow is also very impressive," Iparken replied, though he grinned impishly at Entreri.  "I believe it was worth all the damage to my ship to know that the Great Assassin of Calimport is not infallible in his weaponry skills."

            Entreri groaned.  "All right, all right…"

            "In any case, we're going to be delayed longer in Athkatla than I'd thought.  We'd need to get more crew – they killed quite a few of ours, and it'd be touch-and-go getting to Athkatla as it is – and although the balloon isn't damaged, the fire hit some of the equipment.  You might have to ride to Cloakwood – it'd be faster.  Once we reach the Wealdath we'd be safer – the elves there keep a watch out, and we've paid our fees to them already."

            Entreri sighed.  "Just what we needed."

            "So long as your Corsairs do not return," Zaknafein replied, turning to see Jarlaxle approach, supporting – half-carrying, actually – a very exhausted-looking Kimmuriel, who was leaning heavily on his master.  On closer inspection, the psionist was actually unconscious.  "You're alive." For some reason, that statement sounded vaguely disappointed.

            Jarlaxle grinned.  "So are you, I see." He nodded at Iparken in greeting.

            "You have friends of great power," Iparken told Entreri.  "I have never seen anyone guide more than three arrows before.  Is it a new Elven spell?"

            "He just managed to tire himself out for the whole day," Jarlaxle said blandly, ignoring the question, "So if the Corsairs return, you may be on your own." With a nod at Entreri and Zaknafein, he disappeared down below.

            Zaknafein and Entreri exchanged a glance.  No doubt Kimmuriel had purposefully pushed the limit with that endeavor… for whatever reason.  "Can you ride?" Entreri asked Zaknafein curiously.

            "Of course," Zaknafein said icily.  The coldness of his tone could have frozen over the Calim Desert.

            Iparken laughed.  "All elves can ride, Entreri," he said, winking at Zaknafein. "Like all of them can shoot a bow and wield a longsword."

            Before Zaknafein could say anything that would break their cover – thankfully, Kimmuriel's illusion was binding on them and did not depend on his state of consciousness – Entreri muttered something hasty about having to check on their 'friend', and dragged Zaknafein off, leaving the mages to reparations.

            Once safely in their room, Zaknafein sprawled onto the sofa, closing his eyes.  "That was interesting," he commented.

            "Didn't you say you didn't like flying?"

            "The danger always adds to the thrill."

            Entreri prayed for patience, closing the door.  "Do you think they will come back?"

            "That is what I would have done," Zaknafein said thoughtfully.  "Preferably once night falls."

            "Thank you for boosting my confidence," Entreri said sourly, "And I was hoping everything would go well on this trip."
            "So you might as well rest till night, then keep a lookout," Zaknafein said, slipping out of his armor, cloak and boots while still in a recumbent position on the sofa, to Entreri's mild astonishment, then beckoned to the assassin.

            "I don't think we can both fit on that," Entreri replied dryly.  "And besides, it's going to be damned uncomfortable even for just one of us."

            "Try."

            A short while later, and a considerably less-dressed Entreri could feel a cramp forming on his right leg and arm.  Zaknafein, on the other hand, seemed perfectly comfortable, half on the sofa and half on top of Entreri, head supported by a pillow.  Entreri muttered irritably, squirming, then felt Zaknafein grip his right arm.

            "Move your leg like that any longer and we will not be getting any rest," Zaknafein murmured.

            "And whose idea was this, precisely?" Entreri retorted.  "Considering the bed is only over there…"

            "Mmmm.  Because once we do get on the bed together, sleep is normally the last thing on my mind."

            "Right…" Entreri drawled.  "So why doesn't one of us sleep there, and one of us sleep here?"

            "Because I want to sleep with you.  Now, do you want to talk, or sleep?"

            Entreri was just about to say he didn't feel like sleeping, but since that might cause Zaknafein to proceed to do things to his person, he replied instead, "Do you know Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel very well?"

            "Sadly, yes."

            "So do you understand why Jarlaxle is treating Kimmuriel like… like a…"
            "Toy?" Zaknafein supplied.

            "Well yes, but I wouldn't have put it that badly."

            "Why not? I would."

            "Because I think he actually does feel something for Kimmuriel, that's why."

            "He does?" Zaknafein sounded amused.  "Actually, you may be right, but not the way you think."

            "Well?"

            "Jarlaxle has talked to me about Kimmuriel before, repeatedly.  I cannot remember when," Zaknafein hesitated.  "Probably because I hardly ever listen to him closely unless it involves things I am interested in."

            "What did he say?"

            "A lot of things." Zaknafein replied thoughtfully.  "He said that… when he first saw Kimmuriel, Kimmuriel was still one of the favored sons of Kyorl Oblodra. He had gone to Oblodra on business, and Kimmuriel had been standing just over to the right.  Jarlaxle had actually thought Kimmuriel hated him on sight."

            "Really."

            "Because Kimmuriel immediately seemed as though he wanted to leave the area," Zaknafein chuckled.  "Though there are obviously other ways of interpreting that."

            Entreri cursed himself silently for blushing.  "What about Jarlaxle?"

            "What about him?"

            "Did he dislike Kimmuriel on sight, too?"

            "Actually… He said he wanted to possess Kimmuriel on sight, and it was all he could do to stop himself from dragging Kimmuriel off immediately," Zaknafein said, apparently very amused.  "I found it incredibly amusing, especially since he had a hell of a time trying to keep that from all the psionists in the room.  It took him a while to orchestrate Kimmuriel's fall from his Matron's grace, and his subsequent entry into Bregan D'aerthe.  Perhaps he is… bored now that he has Kimmuriel just where he wanted him from the beginning."

            "I doubt it," Entreri mused.  "He said some things the past few days which hinted that he feels something more.  Which is why I don't understand how he can keep hurting Kimmuriel."

            "Because he finds it amusing?" Zaknafein said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "And besides, how are you so sure that he is referring to Kimmuriel, or whether he is just lying between his teeth?"

**

            Kimmuriel woke up hazily, and winced at the pain immediately apparent at his temple.  Probing the spot gingerly, he turned over, realizing he was on the bed, and as far as he could tell, under the blankets he wasn't wearing anything. The next thing he did, of course, was to check for Jarlaxle – thankfully, his master seemed fine, and was sitting at the desk, busily writing, and dressed only in his hat, some bits of jewelry and pants.  Reassured, the psionist closed his eyes.  How had he gotten knocked out? The last thing he remembered was trying to guide all the arrows at once, knowing he'd burn out if he did it for more than one wave, but also knowing that he wanted to die. 

            Last night's conversations had been particularly bad.  Jarlaxle had returned extremely late, and the psychic blocking due to the eye patch had just caused Kimmuriel to worry so much he couldn't sleep. Somehow one thing had led to another, ending with Jarlaxle's flat announcement that not only did he only see Kimmuriel as a plaything at the most, he also found his professed love 'inconvenient' and 'tiresome' if all it did was to make Kimmuriel try and restrict Jarlaxle's actions.  Jarlaxle had proceeded to ignore him the entire night, and it was worse when in the morning the mercenary acted as though nothing had happened…

            He'd wanted to die, but he wanted to die doing something for Jarlaxle, so at least… at least what? He very much doubted that it would cause the mercenary to care.

            "Are you awake yet?" Jarlaxle asked from the table.

            "Yes," Kimmuriel said, looking at him.  "How did I…"

            "I knocked you out," Jarlaxle explained calmly.  "It was rather obvious what you were attempting to do."

            Kimmuriel flushed, biting his lip.  "You did not… want me to die?"

            Jarlaxle sighed.  "Perhaps you are a lot less intelligent than I gave you credit for.  Do you know how difficult it is to find a good psionist to genuinely join Bregan D'aerthe without any outward intentions? Now that Oblodra has been destroyed?"

            "Is it only that, then?" Kimmuriel asked sadly.

            "What did you think it was?"

            "I…. It doesn't matter." Kimmuriel turned away, to try and hide his grief.

            "Were you hoping I secretly… loved you?" Jarlaxle sounded amused.  "That I cared enough for you personally such that I could not bear the thought of you dying?"

            Kimmuriel refused to answer that, instead, he pulled up the blankets and pretended to sleep.  Jarlaxle, however, continued.  "There is some of that." Kimmuriel blinked at this, but the next few words dashed his hopes.  "Where else can I find such a beautiful toy?"

            Kimmuriel closed his eyes, hoping Jarlaxle would stop talking, wondering if he could die from the pain the mercenary was causing him.  Jarlaxle, however, had put down his pen, and walked over, sitting down next to Kimmuriel on the bed, gently stroking Kimmuriel's cheek.  "Someone so strong and so vulnerable, and so damned beautiful… so much like a doll." He hooked his fingers through the collar, forcing Kimmuriel to open his eyes and face him, lowering his own head downwards.  "Even your little attempted rebellions are delicious."

            Unable to stop himself, Kimmuriel's lips parted, begging for a kiss.  Jarlaxle teasingly brushed his mouth against the other elf's, briefly, before letting go of the collar.  "I will not tolerate such behavior from you in the future," he said pleasantly, steel under the silky tone. 

            "You drive me to it," Kimmuriel said, without thinking, then flinched at Jarlaxle's darkening expression.  "I… apologize.  I did not mean that."

            "I would have thought you old enough to take your own responsibility for your own actions," Jarlaxle said coldly.  "And certainly old enough not to require someone to tell you this."

            Kimmuriel shrank back as far as he could.  "Please, just forget I said that."

            "So you can carelessly make accusations then assume others would overlook them?"

            "N-no…"

            "If I 'drive you' to self-destruction, then would it not be better if I spoke with you as little as possible? I could even arrange for separate rooms, if you wished." Jarlaxle caught the collar and used it to drag Kimmuriel closer, kissing him roughly before saying, "You begged to come along," he reminded the psionist harshly.

            "I know," Kimmuriel breathed, helplessly trying futilely to obtain another kiss, gripping Jarlaxle's shoulders.  "No separate rooms… I love you – I want to be with you so much…"

            "You do not seem to be enjoying the experience very much." Jarlaxle kept Kimmuriel just out of reach, "Are you?"

            "I…"

            "And dying would be quite a permanent way of leaving me, yes? Since I have no intention of dying if I can help it, you might end up spending the afterlife… alone."

            "I just wanted the pain to stop," Kimmuriel said, forcing that notion out of his mind.  "An eternity of solitude seemed better than your contempt."

            "Contempt?" Jarlaxle asked thoughtfully, "I do not feel contempt for you. Just the occasional exasperation, but mainly…" he slid one hand down Kimmuriel's chest in a way that caused the psionist's breathing to quicken.  "You amuse me."

            "You enjoy watching my pain?"

            "In a sense," Jarlaxle said, kissing Kimmuriel more leisurely, and then pulling him into his lap.  "But I enjoy watching your pleasure as well."

            "It has been at least four days," Kimmuriel said pleadingly, gasping as Jarlaxle's hands began wandering.

            "Has it?" Jarlaxle smiled.  "I did not notice."

            "Please…"

            Jarlaxle pushed Kimmuriel off his lap, then got off and walked back to the desk.  "Perhaps later."
            "Master…!"

            "You are quite free to seek satisfaction with someone else," Jarlaxle replied mildly, as he began writing.

            "I would not do that!" Kimmuriel wormed back under the blankets, suddenly feeling very cold.
            "Your loss, then."

            Kimmuriel bit his lip.  "Do you… have others?"

            Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow.  "If I said 'yes', would it hurt?"
            Kimmuriel hesitated, and then said, "Yes, it would." The very thought of the possibility hurt like a knife wound, and Jarlaxle twisted it by not giving him an answer.

            "But I do not belong to you."

            "That is true, but…"

            "As you are free to have your way with any other than myself, so am I," Jarlaxle pointed out.  "I will not be tied down to anyone, or anything."

"I know that," Kimmuriel said quietly.  "Was that not what you were trying to prove by leaving to the Surface for so long?"

Jarlaxle seemed to ignore that. "I have not as yet found any other playthings as amusing as yourself, however.  Though if you were to die… then obviously I would seek my amusements elsewhere."

            "So it would not matter to you if I died?"

            "Have you been listening to me, Kimmuriel?" Kimmuriel was stubbornly silent, so Jarlaxle continued, "Of course it would matter to me.  It would be extremely inconvenient to…"

            "Inconvenient." Kimmuriel pronounced slowly, as if tasting the word, filling it with a wealth of misery, pain and self-mockery. 

            Jarlaxle looked up and stared at Kimmuriel for a while thoughtfully.  The psionist was actually trembling, eyes tightly shut.  With a sigh of exasperation, the mercenary stood up and walked over, then sat on the bed and leaned over the psionist.  "Must you force me to talk to you?" he asked, in a low voice, suddenly menacing.

            "I am not forcing you to talk to me," Kimmuriel replied, refusing to open his eyes.

            "Then stop it."

            "Stop what? Stop hurting? I cannot help it!"

            Jarlaxle took a deep breath, as if trying to be patient.  "I am this close to finding another room, Kimmuriel…" He blinked as Kimmuriel abruptly pulled him down into an embrace.  Shifting a little, he decided to humor the other elf, and somehow managed to maneuver under the blankets to a more comfortable position.  The skewed hat he placed carefully on the bedside table, before settling next to Kimmuriel. Thankfully, the psionist kept silent, and they both managed to drift off into fitful dreams.

**

            Despite Zaknafein's gloomy predictions, there were actually no nighttime attacks, and the ship managed to limp to Athkatla without incident.  The warrior actually seemed disappointed when they docked at the merchant city.  The wind had changed, and they had made good time, though they would now have to purchase horses.  Travel documents, forged and otherwise, had been examined by the authorities, and other than suspicious looks at Entreri, they strangely enough managed to pass.  Money made for the best diplomatic language.  To his great relief, Kimmuriel's use of illusion slipped by the magical sensors that Athkatla had – here, one had to pay to use magic, and Entreri did not feel like sponsoring Kimmuriel to the tune of five thousand gold pieces.

            Getting rooms at the Crown Inn, currently the best inn in Athkatla, were somewhat more challenging, especially when Zaknafein asked for a shared room with a single bed for him and Entreri, and Jarlaxle followed suit.  Still, these were more modern times, and other than an extremely odd expression on the innkeeper's face, they managed to get rather good rooms for the night.  Tomorrow they would go to the marketplace to find horses for the ride to Cloakwood.

            Iparken had apologized to Entreri about the delay, but he said he hoped to get to Baldur's Gate as soon as possible; therefore they would try and meet there as planned.  If they took longer than expected – well, a short holiday in that city would not be too bad.

            News traveled fast in a city where information was gold, and Entreri looked up after an extremely good dinner into a politely grinning, black-hooded face.  Zaknafein frowned, and put his hand on the hilt of his sword in reflex.  Even Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel seemed to react subtly…

            To head off anything violent, Entreri spoke up first.  "Are you from the Shadow Thieves?" he asked conversationally.  Whispers attracted attention.

            "Yes, and our leader, Thorkin, would like to speak to you," the Shadow Thief said.  "We got your message that you would be visiting."

            At Jarlaxle's questioning look, Entreri shrugged.  "To make things easier the Rogues guilds – that is to say, thieves, assassins and us other unsavory sorts, often inform the guild of the territory we visit.  It is a little inconvenient in Calimport, since there are still quite a few guilds, but in other areas it's easier."

            "Ah," Jarlaxle nodded.  "Will we be required to go with you?"

            "Your friends weren't invited, but they can come," the Shadow Thief offered, still very politely.  All the Rogues Guilds were now very polite to each other, since they hadn't all figured out what to do with the lawyers and the continent-wide Courts systems, and therefore were more or less united under a flag of confusion against a common foe.

            "Does Thorkin want to speak to me now?" Entreri asked.

            "Whenever it is convenient.  I will wait for you."

            "I will accompany you," Zaknafein said firmly. 

            Entreri raised an eyebrow at him, and then shrugged.  "Fine, whatever." Besides, the Shadow Thieves' strange and convoluted headquarters always made him feel a little nervous.  Come to think of it, so did most Rogues headquarters he had visited all over Faerun when he had still liked to travel.  "Kelend'ril?" He asked, using Jarlaxle's faked name.  The Crown had a system of guest book-signing, and strangely enough, either Kimmuriel had guided their hands, or all three Dark Elves could write Elvish, signing off their assumed names in its characteristically beautiful script.

            "Iana'thas and I are tired," Jarlaxle said, leaning back in his chair.  Kimmuriel looked up at him, questioningly.  "I think we will withdraw for the night."

            "All right," Entreri nodded, signaling the waiter to come with the bill, and then taking care of it before standing up.  "Let's go, then." He shot a backward glance at 'Kelend'ril'.  "Don't do anything… disruptive."

            Jarlaxle smiled mischievously. "You worry too much, Entreri."

            "And no wonder."

**

            The streets of Athkatla at night heading down towards the Docks, where the Shadow Thieves' headquarters were located, smelled more and more of fish, like docks all over the world.  Entreri hated the smell of fish, despite the fact that Calimport traded in them, and he was carefully trying not to show it, but Zaknafein seemed unconcerned, instead sweeping the area with suspicious eyes as if expecting the shadows to attack him.  However, since that was natural behavior for Zaknafein, probably conditioned through years of living in a world where piwafwis were relatively common, Entreri managed to ignore it.

            The streetlights' lamp oils were more refined than the last time he had been here – ten years? Fifteen? They did not add their greasy scents to the other smells of the docks – the fish, unwashed sailors, the sea, and the filth dumped into the waters.  Civilization had advanced, but people still had to learn that their rubbish when thrown into the waters would simply stay there and haunt them.  Athkatla had not changed much – uniform, sandstone-hued flagstones paved gracefully wide curved staircases down to the docks, slimy at portions and speckled with seagull droppings and miscellaneous offal.  The difference was – now that due to the Courts, the Guilds all had to become 'official', the Shadow Thieves' headquarters was somewhat more apparent.  Some renovations had been done to the previously precariously stilted, many-storied building, making it look slightly more respectable.  A tattered black flag, its insignia no longer apparent, floated in the sea breeze atop the slated roof of the gaunt-looking set of buildings, and the guards in front of the building looked somewhat more becoming in their uniform.

            The interior seemed exactly the same, though – dimly lit, smelling of lamp oil, weapons, food, wine and something which was probably illicit drugs, with a strangely large number of hooded people talking, playing cards, or caring for their equipment, with no one directly staring at the newcomers, but Entreri could feel the sudden weight of their attention.  Following his guide inwards into the guild, he pretended not to notice, though Zaknafein seemed somewhat tenser than usual.

            The air got cooler as they descended down narrow flights of stairs into a winding room, where whispered phrases and strange paths on apparently perfectly clear corridors led them past hidden traps into a wide square room, in which an elderly halfling male sat on a high chair, examining a brown lacquered box under mage-lights, wearing well-crafted leather armor and pants that nearly flowed over his small, uncovered feet.  Guards at the doors looked at them, gazes lingering disapprovingly on their weapons.

            "Thorkin?" their guide asked respectfully.

            "Yeah I know," Thorkin waved a hand, holding the box up to one eye.  "You can go."

            The guide bowed, and left.  Thorkin finally put the box on a neat, organized desk and smiled at Entreri.  "How're you doing?"

            "Fine," Entreri nodded, exchanging pleasantries with the halfling, "You don't seem to be doing too bad for yourself, either."

            "Eh, the previous owner had little ability involving guild profits," the halfling said pleasantly, "Blackmailing adventurers to get rid of supernatural threats is all very well, but adventurers are just as quick to turn on blackmailers, and that was that.  It was such a mess.  You know, I think before he died the previous owner actually offered to just hand over his magical artifacts if they would spare his life, but – don't quote me on this – they said something about 'experience', and killed him anyway."

            "Yes, I heard about that," Entreri said wryly.  It had taken years for the Shadow Thieves in Athkatla to get back together, and if he remembered correctly, there had been rumors of Drizzt's presence mixed up somewhere in the battle against the supernatural threat, whatever it had been. He had actually vaguely considered going down to Athkatla to take a look, but hadn't bothered. Besides, he didn't really like the merchant city.  "What did you want to see me for?"

            "Well, just a friendly discussion as to what you're planning to do in Athkatla, that sort of thing."

            "Didn't I say in my message that I was just passing through?" Entreri asked curiously.

            "Well yes, but your ride seems a little disabled at the moment."

            "Oh." Entreri and a bored but thankfully quiet Zaknafein sat down at the tattered, suspiciously stained dark in patches chairs that Thorkin waved them to.  "We were planning to solve that by purchasing horses at the Marketplace tomorrow, a few travel supplies, then leaving immediately."

            "So short a stay in my fair city?" Thorkin grinned.

            "You'd forgive me, but your fair city is only fair in the rich merchant's quarters," Entreri said dryly.  "The rest of it requires a good lesson in sewage disposal."

            "So does Calimport… and just about every Human city, I should think," Thorkin smiled.

            "And how would a halfling construct a city?"

            "More neatly.  But we prefer your cities, anyway.  More places for someone small to hide and steal.  If you're just really passing through, then I guess there'd be nothing much I should do.  By the way, what are you doing, if you don't mind me asking?"

            "Checking out a group of inconvenient mages along the Sword Coast."

            "Which one of a million?"

            Entreri grinned.  Rogues generally had a deep suspicion of magic, which could steal items without much 'skill' or 'effort', if need be.  "This one hasn't gotten to the naming stage yet, I think."

            "Oh good.  One more group named 'Silver Shadow of Wisdom' or something like that, and I'd start putting bounties on their heads."

            "You rogues do not have particularly drab names, either," Zaknafein commented dryly.

            Thorkin looked at him curiously, then at Entreri.  "I heard that you've been attracting a lot of friends lately."

            Entreri wondered if the halfling had put emphasis on the word 'attracting', but didn't remark on it.  "Everyone has to start sometime."

            "Is this Zaknafein?" Thorkin chuckled and held up both hands when Zaknafein suddenly sat up straighter, feet flat on the ground, hands on his swords.  "Don't worry, it isn't public knowledge."

            "Just about all the large Rogues guilds know about it already, I would think," Entreri said wearily.

            "The same way you know about all our dirty little secrets, as well," Thorkin grinned.  "Updated information about each other is always a necessity."

            "So do you know what we're doing, really?"

            "No.  As far as I gathered, it had nothing to do with Athkatla, only with Cloakwood, so I didn't pay for the rest of the information.  Now, something more important," Thorkin paused.  "Do you want some tea, or spiced wine?"