Chapter 6

Jarlaxle sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor and experienced something uncomfortably close to fear. Over the years, he'd liked several of the soldiers under his command, had given them friendly advice, had called them "friend." Never, though, with the possible exception of Zaknafein, had he ever had an actual friend. Such things were just not possible in a world of betrayal, a world in which every relationship hinged on convenience and manipulation.

However, Jarlaxle had realized long since that he liked Entreri better than the others, liked him as well as he'd liked Zaknafein, and that he'd gone out of his way to stabilize the assassin's sanity when he came to the surface. It was business, but it was more than business: first of all, the human was fascinating, and Jarlaxle enjoyed puzzles. Secondly, Entreri was his only excuse and resource for staying on the surface, and he desperately wanted time away from Menzoberranzan, time spent exploring the surface world. But even more important, for all the control and influence he could bring to bear upon the man, Entreri still surprised him at times, which could be delightful . . . within reason.

Jarlaxle sighed to himself, propping his elbow on one knee and resting his hand on his fist. Admittedly, Entreri was special—he had done one thing that surprised Jarlaxle above all others. He had gone to great personal risk to save the dark elf physically from his traitorous lieutenants, and to save him mentally from slavery to the crystal shard. Jarlaxle snorted to himself, knowing in no uncertain terms that he'd never confess that truth to Entreri or thank him for it. And why would he, since there had to have been a pay-off for the assassin? Yet although Jarlaxle had no doubt at all that the human had solid reasons for his actions, the reasons didn't completely hold up under careful scrutiny, and the mercenary had spent hours, while the human slept, pondering the question.

Normally, the elf would laugh at this point in his line of inquiry, for he had ensured that the human would need him. And he had succeeded: Entreri had needed him for his own safety. Yet Jarlaxle didn't see that that entirely accounted for the man's actions, and more to the point, Jarlaxle had held no doubt that the human would not reject his offer of friendship. In fact, that need for friendship, that control, was all that enabled Jarlaxle to choose him as a traveling companion. But Jarlaxle, after centuries spent in the paranoia of drow society, could not trust the human past the point of that control. Could not stay beside him unless he knew for certain that his many magical tricks could ensure his survival should they ever fight.

But sitting alone in his cell, other memories came back to the elf. He and Entreri sitting outside of the Spirit Soaring, and the assassin asking, with personal interest, where Jarlaxle would go next. The human's surprising choice to remain with Jarlaxle at all. The foul-tempered but still ultimately compliant way Entreri stayed by him no matter how insane the elf's adventures became.

To the best of his ability, Jarlaxle realized with a shock, the human was being his friend.

Entreri's ability, of course, was the question, but his ability was exactly what Jarlaxle was manipulating. He smiled, momentarily, at his own jest after he'd pressed the man into apologizing to a serving girl he'd scared: "I will have you in a paladin's order within a year!"

But did either one of them really know what it meant to be a friend?

No.

Yet the look on Entreri's face before the soldiers took him away caused the mercenary's stomach muscles to clench. Such a look! The man had been struggling with a terrible question, and in the end, he'd decided to send himself into danger. Oh, the elf knew that Artemis had to have a plan, but that look!

And the mercenary knew, too, that the concern he felt for his friend was for once quite real, and in his mind he could hear the voices discussing his old friend Zaknafein's death. Voices that laughed with scorn or snorted with skepticism at the possibility that the warrior had sacrificed himself for his son.

He had, Jarlaxle knew, although at the time he couldn't understand it.

But now that Entreri had pulled this stunt, however less than perfect in motivation it might be, Jarlaxle had to stop and consider a few things about the nature of . . . of . . .? The elf shook his head in confusion and pushed his thoughts ahead.

Zaknafein, despite his self-sacrifice, had never been the good man that Drizzt had become, but Drizzt had had his father as a resource to build upon.

Jarlaxle was not the good man that Drizzt had become, nor could he imagine himself as such, even if—like Zaknafein—he could not be entirely like the other drow. He had not had any resources other than himself to build upon, and now that he was free of Menzoberranzan, he hadn't the desire.

And Artemis Entreri could never become a good man, either. He likely had not had the resources of Drizzt, and regardless, he had spent a long, long time pursuing the path of darkness. Yet the man had come so much farther than anyone, even Jarlaxle, could have ever predicted, and the mercenary meant to push him further still. Of course, the man would never accept help outright, but the mercenary was a master manipulator. And Entreri already knew deep inside what Jarlaxle was trying to get him to accept: that his life was empty and a lie. Surely it would not be so hard to get the man to face that and move past it, and besides, the mercenary hardly meant to actually create a paladin.

But what the mercenary had not counted on, because it seemed so unlikely and because he didn't understand the concept too well himself, was that the human might prove to be a friend to him. And even as Jarlaxle's suspicious drow side discounted the possibility, the odd streak that made him more like Zaknafein countered with a simple image: Entreri, leaving with the soldiers. Still, to attempt any genuine friendship with Entreri, Jarlaxle would first have to protect himself well, but if the human really did . . ..

Did what? And Jarlaxle's thoughts crashed into a mental brick wall so hard that his endless darting calculations evaporated. However, the mercenary knew, without conceit, that he was a clever elf and that he would figure it out with time.

Time that neither he nor Entreri had. And the worry hit him again, squarely.

The dungeon door opened, and a single guard entered and approached the cell. Jarlaxle watched the man carefully as he tossed a hard roll through the bars.

"Here's breakfast," the guard laughed. "Eat it before the cockroaches do."

How to find out what fate Entreri might be facing? A plan hit the mercenary. "Is it true Merrick is dead?"

The guard chuckled. "Oh yeah. He's dead all right."

"And what lovely tortures, may I ask, did Waylein use upon him?" the elf asked carefully, feigning morbid interest.

The guard leaned against the bars and leered at him. "I guess a drow like yerself would enjoy it, huh? Enjoy watching it, and enjoy the experience, too, perhaps?"

"What experience?"

The guard chuckled again. "Old Waylein raped the pig up the ass then repeated the process with a hot poker."

"Ah." Jarlaxle was careful to sound bored, but in truth his mind was whirling. That was what Entreri would face if he didn't escape! That was what Jarlaxle would have faced if he had gone and had been unable to escape?

The guard snickered and left, and the mercenary found his concern so thick that for a moment he couldn't breathe—an unprecedented and odd reaction, indeed. The torture was worthy of the drow, all right, but what did it mean that this particular mode of torture would cause someone as cold and stoic as Entreri to have nightmares? And immediately the elf's mind launched two separate lines of thought: one, a new plan on how to escape and rescue his friend; two, the line of thought he'd just finished, with the new information added in.