"And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?"

Chapter Six

Entreri forced himself to slow to a walk as he approached Tai's door. He knocked, but when he received no answer, he let himself in. The boy sat at the small dressing table, staring listlessly into the cloudy mirror before him. A single oil lamp burned on the table, leaving the rest of the room in darkness; even the heavy drapes were pulled across the window, shutting out the moonlight. Entreri noted the smell of lye soap hanging in the air, as well as the fact the priest wore new clothes now. Inexplicably, those details troubled him. At the sound of the door opening, Tai had glanced to the side, but upon seeing Entreri, he returned his gaze to the oval mirror.

"Tai?" Entreri approached a step, only to stop. For a moment, the assassin experienced possibly the worst confusion in his life: why was he here? What was this feeling? What was he trying to say or do? And why should he even bother to say or do anything?

Then a mental image presented itself in Entreri's mind—Tai sitting by him on the pew in the abandoned temple after they'd killed Socor. Entreri could see the dilapidated sanctuary so clearly, it was almost as though he'd been transported through time: the sunset, which filtered through fragments of glass hanging in the windows, created tiny rainbows. Dust motes, highlighted by the sun's rays, danced lazily in the air, and birds chirped in the rafters. Tai had been resting his head on Entreri's shoulder, something the assassin had allowed despite the uneasiness it caused him, but then the boy straightened and smiled at Entreri, trying one last time to convert him to the ways of Hoar. "The blessing of an interested god produces miracles," Tai had said with his signature smile as he'd patted Entreri's arm. "Please remember that."

Why did your god not spare you this? Entreri wanted to ask, and all his confusion vanished. That question seems too familiar, he thought. Just as Tyr turned his back on the evil crimes his priest committed upon me, Hoar has . . .

No, Entreri told himself, he was jumping to conclusions. He needed to make sure that his interpretation of Nyx's words had been correct. He stepped up to the dressing table. "Tai?"

The boy looked at him once again, and in his dark eyes Entreri saw a well of fear, humiliation, and guilt. Entreri had never seen such pain. The horror quavering in Tai's facial expression seemed to pierce the assassin like a dozen hot needles being driven through his gut. An angry prickling sensation burned its way up his throat. I was correct! Entreri thought. The assassin's brutal spike of rage seemed to ram a molten-hot rod from his stomach up into his sinuses, making his teeth ache and his eyes burn. "Bastard!" he yelled, slamming his fist upon the dressing table.

Tai jumped and looked away, shame written upon every inch of his body from his red cheeks to his slumped shoulders. He wrapped his arms across his stomach and hunched forward.

Entreri had never seen such pain, but he knew such pain. He reached out to . . . to . . .? To do what? Entreri frowned and simply grasped the boy's shoulder. "Look at me."

But Tai's gaze remained aimed downward.

Entreri gripped the boy's chin in one hand and steadily forced him to look him in the eyes. "Do not behave so. You are not some spineless victim. You are a man who has had the strength to survive another's sickness. You should take pride in that."

Tears now stood in the boy's wide brown eyes.

Entreri grabbed Tai's shoulders with both hands. "Listen to me: Mordecai will pay for what he has done. He will die for it." Entreri released Tai and left the room, unintentionally slamming the door behind him.

Still standing outside the tavern, Nyx leaned against the building and wrapped her arms around herself. The monk stared at the cracks in the wooden sidewalk for several minutes, trying to compose herself. Silence reigned in the shadowy street, broken only by the footsteps of an occasional passerby. Clouds now filled the sky, blocking the half moon, and the hush that had fallen over the normally boisterous village seemed in deference to the horror which had occurred this night.

Nyx was unsure whether she'd done the right thing in confiding in Entreri, but the assassin and Jarlaxle had to know something unusually serious had happened. If they hadn't figured it out yet, they would the next time they tried to speak with Tai. Still, telling Entreri—a man rumored to be a dangerous, cold-blooded assassin—about her friend's experience seemed wrong somehow. On the other hand, Tai had spoken well of the man, had even spoken of him with affection. So if there were the slightest chance Entreri liked Tai as well, the assassin needed to know what had happened. However, if Entreri did not care . . .

Nyx stopped herself mid-thought, trying to rein in her overprotective feelings. Even in the few months she'd been working with Tai, Nyx had already started thinking of him as her younger brother. She realized this was because Tai reminded her of her real younger brother; their personalities were similar—optimistic, cheerful, and unusually wise for their ages. Of course, the monk had sacrificed her closeness to her family for her skills and duties, so perhaps she'd adopted Tai to fill that void. Still, her reasons hardly mattered to her. All she cared about was the fact Tai had experienced the violation which was her own worst nightmare, and her resulting anger was equal to what she'd feel had Tai been a blood relative. To think that her "brother" had been . . . been . . .!

Nyx unfolded her arms suddenly, punching the building so hard that the window shook. If she had just found Tai a bit sooner, if she had just . . . just . . . There were so many things that had gone wrong this evening!

Wait, Nyx thought. What exactly did happen here tonight? A sudden, horrible possibility presented itself to her, and before the thought even fully formed in her mind, she stomped back inside the tavern.

Jarlaxle, now the only patron left in the tavern, still sat at their table. The barkeep was wiping down the counter, apparently not expecting any further customers, and the man didn't even glance at Nyx as she stormed past him toward the dark elf.

The mercenary glanced up from his glass of wine when Nyx stopped before the table and propped her hands on her hips. "Yes?" he asked.

The monk stared at him. "Level with me."

Nyx paused as she heard a door slam upstairs. Jarlaxle glanced upward at the sound, but the monk kept her gaze on him.

"Level with you concerning what?" Jarlaxle asked, returning his attention to Nyx.

"About tonight, of course." Nyx narrowed her eyes. "Did you know what would happen? Did you even plan for it to happen?" The monk watched Jarlaxle, trying in vain to read his facial expression. "Were you aware that bastard Mordecai would be there with his goons—and did you therefore maneuver us into the position of fighting them while you dealt with him? Because I have a horrible feeling that our purpose was not really reconnaissance—that instead this was some kind of trap you had planned."

Jarlaxle appeared grave. "You know little of me, but consider this: if I had truly known for a fact Mordecai was at the tower, and if I had planned to kill him this night, do you really think he would still live? That any of them would still live? I admit I had several plans and strategies in place should Mordecai and Evendur's murderer turn out to be one and the same person, but—"

"But what?" Nyx asked. "It seems to me that you knew more than you revealed; you had a greater plan than you explained to us. And because you did not adequately forewarn us or trust us with that information—because you kept your suspicions or backup plans from us—Tai has been terribly injured."

Jarlaxle's gaze was cool, unruffled. "Can you so be sure of my guilt, Holy Monk? Especially when one of my objectives was to keep you from rushing headlong into vengeance before you understood what you were facing—or, rather, before we could verify who we were facing?" The elf fingered his wine glass. "But before we descend into some meaningless, pointless argument, do explain what has happened to Tai. I understand he was injured, but what more has occurred?"

For a moment, Nyx was so angry that all she could do was grit her teeth and clench her fists. Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply for several seconds, then fixed Jarlaxle with a penetrating stare. She might as well be both honest and blunt and see how the drow reacted. "This Mordecai of yours raped Tai."

Jarlaxle grew suddenly still. "Raped?"

Nyx leaned over the table. "Raped."

A dozen emotions flashed through the elf's one uncovered eye in that second, but the cool visage of the mercenary returned a mere moment later. "Is that what you just told Entreri?"

Nyx straightened again. "Yes."

Jarlaxle stood gracefully and locked gazes with Nyx. "You may never believe that I did not plan the battle this evening, but you must believe that I would certainly never plan for such a thing to happen to a friend."

Nyx frowned.

Jarlaxle turned away, heading for the stairs. "If you'll excuse me, I have an assassin to attend to."

Nyx watched the elf climb the stairs and found herself unsure what she should believe; after all, she'd always heard one should fear and distrust dark elves. She did have Tai's testimony about Jarlaxle to take into account, but since Jarlaxle was drow, her feelings on the issue were a bit confused.

But more confusing still were the elf's parting words. Why did Jarlaxle think he needed to attend to Entreri? The monk wanted to believe that the reason was Entreri actually cared for Tai and would be upset. She wanted to believe Tai's confidence in and affection for Entreri were not misplaced.

Still, this was Artemis Entreri she was placing her faith in. She hoped she wouldn't prove a fool.

Jarlaxle was lost in thought as he climbed the stairs. Four problems demanded his attention, and as per his talents, he dedicated a corner of his mind to each: first, he'd slightly underestimated Mordecai, who apparently had hidden his clerical abilities. This didn't trouble the clever mercenary, though. The problem would be resolved, and Jarlaxle was already formulating a new plan.

Second, the likelihood he would have to return to Menzoberranzan, at least briefly, presented itself again. However, Jarlaxle would wait and see how things progressed with Mordecai before making that decision. For now, he ignored the growing stubborn streak that flared when he considered returning home; instead, he began strategizing for that possibility.

Third, Tai had been raped, which was disturbing. As callous and selfish as Jarlaxle could be, he was also capable of compassion. It was a trait he'd admired in his friend Zaknafein and his son, Drizzt—and a quality he also possessed (though rarely used because of tactical reasons). Of course, there was no tactical disadvantage to caring that Tai had been raped. In fact . . .

This brought him to his final track of thought: Artemis Entreri. Jarlaxle's pet project . . . Jarlaxle's (dare he say it?) friend. The human would deny it to his grave, but Entreri liked Tai. The cunning drow, ever a good judge of others, could tell. So how would a man who had been raped as a child react to the rape of his fledging friend? Would Entreri not care? Would he be angry on Tai's behalf, just as he was on his own? Would he, perhaps, reach out to this young man who was really still a boy? Was Entreri even capable of reaching out?

Jarlaxle saw an opportunity here, if he could bring himself to take it. He was in the position to encourage Entreri to help Tai and to give Entreri the means to help Tai—and, subsequently, himself. But what it required of Jarlaxle . . .

The elf stopped outside the room he and Entreri shared. All his life, Jarlaxle had kept others guessing. He'd never revealed much about himself or his past—it was too dangerous. In a world of paranoia, the crafty elf had woven around himself so many protective webs and illusions that he'd nearly buried his true self. Such was the price of security, of survival.

But could he give Entreri just one tiny piece of himself? Could he do so if it meant fulfilling his self-made promise to help the man who so intrigued him, the man who was becoming a . . . a friend? Could he do it for the tactical advantages which would result from fulfilling the promise? Or was he running too much of a risk?

Jarlaxle was unused to feeling hesitant, and he didn't like it. Committing himself to a decision—and putting all his confidence behind it—he opened the door and entered the room.

Entreri lay on his bed in the near-darkness just staring at the ceiling. A single candle flicked on the nightstand, casting the long, jumping shadows of the bedposts onto the wall. The man's mask of stoicism was firmly in place, his features expressionless.

Jarlaxle wasn't fooled for a second.

The elf closed the door and sat on the edge of his own bed. "So, our friend Tai has had a traumatizing experience."

Entreri did not respond, even to blink.

"I would have never imagined Mordecai would do such a thing." Jarlaxle paused. "On the other hand, Mordecai possesses the typical streak of cruelty and sickness I find in most drow; he'd likely do anything as long as it caused his victim terror and humiliation."

"I am not surprised by anything the drow do," Entreri said, his tone devoid of inflection. "And it was his plan to do the same to me."

So we've returned to being cold and factual again, Jarlaxle thought. "Indeed, I walked in on the end of that. Mordecai's pride will not recover soon from the thorough attack you launched upon him as a result."

"I suggest we hurt his pride a great deal more." The sudden icy gleam in Entreri's eyes would have unnerved a lesser person. "I suggest we remove all external organs which identify him as male."

Jarlaxle stroked his chin with one finger. "I'm sure that could be arranged." He paused. "In the meantime, we have a badly injured priest to deal with—and by injured, I don't mean physical wounds."

The icy expression vanished from Entreri's face, and he just continued staring at the ceiling.

"It is in our best interests to help Tai," Jarlaxle pointed out. "We'll need both Tai's and Nyx's help if Mordecai acquires the Kagaor ki Tamal—and I entertain no doubts that it is he who searches for the relic. Not to mention that having a cleric in one's arsenal is always advantageous . . . although if Tai loses his faith, he will no longer be a cleric."

Entreri smirked. "And how do we help Tai?"

"We need to make sure Tai does not get caught in a lie," Jarlaxle said, hoping the strange declaration would capture Entreri's interest.

The ploy worked. The assassin sat up and considered the drow's odd words. "A lie?"

"Yes." Jarlaxle paused. "You spent enough time in Menzoberranzan to know that power and pain are a function of the intricate webs the drow weave—intrigue, deception, lies. All the internal hells that beings—human or drow—reside in are the result of believing some lie is truth. If you expose and let go of the lie, you will both rid yourself of the hell and empower yourself."

Entreri looked skeptical. "I'm not sure I can agree." Still, he found his full attention riveted to the drow, whose words had shocked him with their sincerity . . . and air of wisdom.

Jarlaxle took off his hat and set it on his bed. The elf seemed for a change so earnest that Entreri found himself leaning forward. "It's true," the drow said. "For example, there are many lies the priestesses and matrons try to instill in drow males: you're a lesser being just for being male; you're worthless; you're powerless; you should be passive and obey blindly."

Entreri nodded.

"These lessons are taught to males from an early age and are reinforced throughout a male's life. They're taught through brainwashing and torture." The mercenary grinned wickedly. "But do you think I believe any of these lies?"

Entreri blinked, overcome by the powerful implications of Jarlaxle's words. "No, you don't." He considered the confident, charismatic drow before him. "And how did you manage to escape the typical male's fate?"

Jarlaxle was unusually quiet for a moment, almost as though he were considering not continuing. "It started with the fact I was dissatisfied. I traced the dissatisfaction back to its roots and asked myself serious questions about why I thought and believed what I did. Then I pulled it all apart: every assumption, everything about myself and my world that I took for granted as true. And I asked myself, 'Is this really so?' It wasn't."

Entreri's brow furrowed. He momentarily considered the possibility that Jarlaxle was playing some kind of joke on him. However, the drow sounded so serious, and what he described sounded so appropriately thorough and cunning, maybe . . . The assassin hardly knew what to think.

"I make it sound simple, but it takes work," Jarlaxle said, still seeming genuine. "However, the alternative was to live a miserable, boring life in which I was forever limited, my potential wasted. I wanted to be successful, prosperous. So I picked away at the lies and replaced them with self-empowerment. Then I simply made my thoughts reality." Jarlaxle shrugged gracefully, as though it were that easy.

Entreri snorted. Still . . . Clinging to a lie, he thought. Like believing that if I navigated alone this hell that is life, everyone else should also.

This hell that is life . . .

This hell.

"Everyone visits the nine hells—or the abyss—at least once in their lives," Jarlaxle said, an odd, wry smile upon his face. "But it is an individual's choice whether they remain there."

For a moment, Entreri feared the elf had somehow read his mind, but Jarlaxle's peculiar smile hinted at a different reason for his comment. "Life is hell," the man whispered, both believing it and seeing it as an assumption.

"There are many lies Tai could come to believe because of his experience," Jarlaxle continued as though Entreri had never spoken. "He could decide he is weak or is to somehow to blame for what happened. He could decide his god has abandoned him. But none of these things are true. In believing them, all Tai would achieve is self-hatred and bitterness, and his resulting anger and misery would inevitably cause him to lash out and hurt others. It achieves nothing. There is no profit to be had in it."

Entreri frowned. "What you say sounds logical, but how do you stop someone from believing a lie?"

"By counteracting it with the truth, for one. And in Tai's case, he needs to spend time communing with his god about these things—healing is one function of a goodly or just god, after all."

Entreri snorted once more, but he didn't bother to disagree since Tai was a priest.

"But you, Artemis, need to be the one to assure Tai that he is not weak or to blame," Jarlaxle said, his manner still gravely serious.

Entreri's expression turned skeptical again. "Me?" he asked, a note of irritation working into his voice.

"Yes, you. Tai looks up to you, cares for you, as though you are his older brother. Your words have the power to help him . . . or hurt him."

Entreri scowled.

Jarlaxle grinned, the air of the cunning mercenary suddenly back in place, and put his hat back on. "You actually listened to everything I said! I'm impressed. Your attention span outside of battle is sometimes lackluster."

Entreri graced the elf with a less than complimentary gesture.

Jarlaxle laughed and stood, heading out of the room. "Now if you'd apply all the wisdom and lessons I've honored you with, you might actually become witty and clever."

The elf had to jump through the door, then, to dodge Entreri's dagger as he threw it at him. The assassin could hear him laughing as he walked down the hall. Still, it was not lost on the man that Jarlaxle had just given Entreri more of himself in this one short conversation than he had in all the time they'd known one another. And try as he might to not care, to not react, to push it away, Artemis Entreri could not stop himself from feeling deeply complimented. Still . . .

"If Jarlaxle only ever reveals half of the truth, what about his past has he left unsaid?" Entreri wondered aloud. To his surprise, he found the implications discomforting.

It was half past midnight when Entreri softly knocked upon Tai's door and entered the dark, silent room. Only one candle burned, so with the cloudy night, the room had been overcome by a mass of shadows which seemed to bunch in the corners and loom overhead. At the man's entrance, Nyx glanced up from her post by Tai's bed and gestured for the assassin to be quiet. Entreri walked up to her chair and whispered, "Asleep?"

She nodded. "Finally." She hesitated, a trace of sadness flitting across her features. "He asked me to stay with him," she whispered. "He didn't want to be alone."

Entreri frowned to himself for a moment, wondering if he could even begin to untangle his motivations for being here if he were inclined to do so—and he wasn't. However, it hardly mattered. As Jarlaxle had said, there were benefits to helping Tai. "I'll watch him now."

Nyx shook her head. "I'll stay. I couldn't sleep if I tried," she whispered.

"I didn't mean for you to sleep," Entreri whispered back with a smirk. "I want you to visit your friend Aedelvana and see if she can scry Mordecai."

"In the middle of the night?"

Entreri gestured to Tai. "Do you feel that the situation does not warrant it? Jarlaxle says that since we have one of Mordecai's falchions, Aedelvana shouldn't have trouble. And we really can't afford to waste any time." Entreri's smirk grew. "Jarlaxle kindly requests that you take the falchion to your friend as soon as possible."

Nyx stood abruptly—if silently—and scowled at the man. "Very well. But you best take good care of Tai while I'm away."

"Or what?" Entreri whispered with dark amusement.

Nyx grinned and patted the nunchaku which hung on her belt. "You'll see." As if to underscore her point, she kept her hand on the weapon as she left the room.

With a quiet snicker, Entreri sat in the chair by Tai's bed and gazed at the sleeping boy. The priest had twisted and turned so badly that the sheets were wrapped around him and he lay at an odd angle, mostly on his back. His breathing was labored—no doubt he was having a nightmare—and a fine sheen of sweat covered his brow.

Did I look like this in my sleep when I was a child? Entreri wondered, then killed the thought instantly.

Tai's breathing evened out a few moments later, leaving Entreri to draw up battle plans in his mind—all the strategies and techniques he could use against Mordecai. The drow was a fine swordsman, and wicked with his daggers, but he fell short of Drizzt's caliber.

Then Mordecai's words returned to Entreri once again—not the sexual threats, but his speech on Jarlaxle: "You do realize, don't you, that Jarlaxle calls everyone 'friend.' That you are not anything special. Jarlaxle is using you—just as he's used you several times before. Have you not seen all the ways he's manipulated you?"

Entreri frowned, remembering the argument he'd had with Jarlaxle months ago after hearing the mercenary speak with Kimmuriel. Indeed, sometimes Entreri wondered how he'd ended up traveling at Jarlaxle's side, given that the drow had once held him prisoner in Menzoberranzan. Yet when Jarlaxle had come to Calimport, there had been an odd undercurrent of . . . of almost happiness in Jarlaxle's mood when around Entreri. A real sense of camaraderie, a sense that Jarlaxle was fascinated by Entreri and enjoyed his presence—most of the time. The assassin had never known anyone to react to him in quite such a fashion.

And now there was this semi-revelation of self which Jarlaxle had bestowed upon him earlier in the night.

Could Mordecai be both right and wrong? Entreri wondered, unsure how far he should extend his trust to Jarlaxle. After all, the thought that he'd been studied and manipulated did not appeal to him.

Mordecai wants you to doubt Jarlaxle, Entreri's strategic mind whispered, and the assassin recognized the truth in it and dismissed the thoughts.

The room remained quiet for a few minutes longer before Tai jolted out of his sleep with a yell, sweat pouring down his face. Even as Tai sat up, the assassin could tell he was going to be sick, so with the toe of his boot, Entreri calmly caught the lip of the clean bedpan by his chair and deftly flipped it up and into Tai's lap. Sure enough, the instant the boy grasped the pan, he vomited into it.

Just like me, Entreri admitted to himself, remembering years of nightmares which had plagued him until roughly age fifteen. He's experiencing my level of suffering, the assassin thought with sadistic satisfaction. I endured it, and now he has to, also. It's only fair that I not be the only one targeted for such torture.

Yet even as Entreri thought the words, they seemed somehow . . . unfitting? Inaccurate?

Tai set the pan on the nightstand without meeting Entreri's eyes. "Sorry," he mumbled, his voice flat. A blush joined the general flush in the boy's cheeks.

"Forget it. Just go back to sleep," the assassin ordered Tai. "Don't succumb to the nightmares, and don't worry about being attacked in your sleep. I'm sitting right here."

Tai gave him a half smile, then stared at his lap for long moments. He picked at his fingernails, and the flush in his cheeks moved down his neck. "You should know," he whispered, "that . . . he said . . . he said . . ." The boy's words trailed off as he bit his lip, and for a moment his jaw clenched, as though he'd experienced a flash of anger.

Entreri frowned at Tai. "Who said what?"

Tai lay back down and rolled over, presenting his back to Entreri. Still, the assassin could clearly hear the whispered words—and the faint undercurrent of anger behind them—when the priest finally spoke again. "Mordecai said that . . . what he did to me . . . to tell you . . . it was for you."

For a moment, Entreri was so furious his thoughts became a haze. "He what?"

At Entreri's second uncharacteristic outburst of the night, Tai turned to face him again, but whatever ghost of anger had surfaced in the boy moments earlier seemed to have already faded back into numbness or shock. Tai stared at the assassin with an empty, hollow expression and did not reply.

Discomforted by his further show of emotion, Entreri gazed into Tai's glazed eyes and tried to swallow his anger, to stop any other reaction from showing; however, he found himself clenching his fists and grating his teeth so hard his jaw hurt. Jumbled thoughts seemed to race and crash against each other in his mind. Sick! And weak! That bastard—he should have—why did he not—the battle was between the two of us! Entreri couldn't seem to relax his jaw. If Mordecai were even half a warrior, he would not have . . .! He—

Entreri reached up with one hand and roughly rubbed his face. He just couldn't seem to order his thoughts. Everything seemed wrong. Mordecai's actions seemed wrong, Entreri's own reaction to the knowledge seemed wrong. That he should react at all seemed wrong, and yet it seemed equally wrong that he shouldn't react. After all, it was unjust for Mordecai to not keep the battle just between the two of them. But winning was more important than fairness in a fight! Still, what Mordecai had done was sick. Entreri shouldn't care if it was sick or not! But Mordecai was weak. Yes . . . he was weak. It was only natural for Entreri to feel disgust toward Mordecai; nothing as weak and pathetic as Mordecai could fail to invoke revulsion in someone as strong as Entreri. Yes, of course. How could he have doubted himself?

Yet a sigh welled up in the assassin's chest and forced its way out. He dropped his hand into his lap and just looked at the wide-eyed boy lying before him. Entreri was experiencing it once more, he realized. That strange sense of resignation, of sadness he'd felt as a child living in the streets. He hadn't understood those feelings then, and he wasn't sure he understood them now. But . . . "This is the way the world is," Entreri said quietly. "Brutal, violent, and unfair." Yet there it came again—this anger that had followed him almost his entire life.

Tai's brow furrowed, his numb shock apparently momentarily shaken by distress. "It doesn't matter to you that—that . . ." The words seemed to choke in his throat. "It doesn't matter?"

He said it was for you.

That means I was your surrogate.

It doesn't matter?

The anger, the rage in Entreri welled up even further. Faintly, it seemed, a voice screamed from deep inside the assassin's soul. A voice that had perhaps been screaming all these years. The impulse came, then, to push it away. Always. Act. Don't reflect, just act.

It doesn't matter?

If you can't save yourself, you deserve your fate.

Life is hell.

It doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter that life is hell.

Clinging to a lie.

"It . . . matters . . ." Entreri whispered, but the words were spoken to himself, really.

Tai had knotted the sheets in his hands and seemed on the verge of tears. He looked away. "I am . . . glad . . . to hear you say that."

The assassin focused on the boy at those words and felt the strange urge to lash out at him, to invalidate the boy's relief. There is no comfort to be had! Life is hell; conquer it and grow stronger!

But the voice in Entreri screamed still, and the assassin did not speak, did not allow even a hint of anger onto his face.

Tai glanced back at Entreri, and the assassin could see the anxiousness and total sense of loss on the boy's face. "Why did this happen?" the boy whispered.

Entreri snorted. "Because drow are evil," he snapped, instantly irritated. Even if Tai's clerical powers were needed, did the assassin really want to spend his time and energy pulling this boy about of his hell? He should pull himself out of it!

Tai ducked his head into his pillow, and the assassin realized how pointless his cynicism and empty words were. His thoughts fell flat, then, leaving Entreri confused and tired.

"Where would I even begin?" Entreri asked aloud, although the flamboyant drow to whom the question was aimed was nowhere nearby. "How do I even start?"

Tai looked back at the assassin with a frown of confusion. "Start what?"

To explain something I never understood. To explain something that can never be explained. To provide a reason where there is none or to teach you my attitudes or to . . . Entreri sighed. "Sleep. That damn drow will die ten thousand deaths before he'll reach you again."

A tiny, sad smile curled up one corner of Tai's mouth. "I don't doubt it." He closed his eyes, and the angry, bitter assassin wearing the mask of stoicism found himself feeling odd.

Entreri stared into the darkness and listened to Tai's breathing as the significance of what he'd said sank in. Protection or vengeance for another? Surely not. Yet he held no doubt in his heart or mind that Mordecai had to die.

But, then again, why would he doubt it? Mordecai wanted him dead, so the drow had to be eliminated. It was as simple as that.

Was it not?