Chapter 4

Entreri waited further up the trail from the clearing where Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel were meeting. Leaning against the broad truck of an oak tree, Entreri folded his arms and watched with eerie calm for Jarlaxle's approach. His anger blazed under his skin like the sting of frostburn, but he clapped his iron will down upon it and waited. Waited.

A better man, Kimmuriel had said. What kind of game was this? As Entreri thought about it, he realized that Jarlaxle had indeed manipulated him into doing several "good" deeds over the last few months, among them the apology to the barmaid and the saving of the girls from the highwaymen. Although Entreri had been aware of Jarlaxle's tugging and pulling, he growled deep in his throat. The drow was being more brazen than he'd realized. And what was Jarlaxle trying to do? Turn him into Drizzt? What did a drow care? Or was this some sort of perverse game for the mercenary's amusement? Was it that he could somehow secure a better market in a future, second business venture to the surface if he had a more respectable Entreri as his front? Entreri growled again, clenching his fists. Not for the first time in his life he envisioned himself slashing open Jarlaxle's throat.

Upon seeing the mercenary's approach, Entreri's first impulse was to just kill him outright, but he found he couldn't—he had to have an explanation first. Besides, a mere month earlier he'd learned all too well what losing his temper could cost him.

Jarlaxle neared, absently twirling his cane in one hand and seeming unconcerned to find Entreri there. However, once he was within five feet of the man, he stopped suddenly, apparently sensing the assassin's dangerous mood. "What is wrong, my friend?"

At Jarlaxle's choice of words, Entreri had to rein in his temper, but he felt so angry and threatened it was a struggle. The urge to strike out at Jarlaxle was almost unbearable. "I heard part of your discussion with Kimmuriel." Entreri spoke in a deadly calm tone. "Pray tell me, what kind of creature do you plan to 'mold' me into?" The bite of sarcasm in his voice was vicious. "And how many laughs have you shared with Kimmuriel over this plan?"

Jarlaxle grew very still, much in the way people played dead with attacking bears. "Laughs? I—we—certainly were not laughing at you," he stated outright.

Entreri's eyes narrowed. "Not laughing? Why not? You have been manipulating me! Have you not been amused by your game?"

"No, my friend," Jarlaxle said, chuckling. When Entreri's scowl increased, he held up a hand in an attempt to calm the man and exert some diplomacy. "This is no game. And have we not both manipulated each other? Is that not why you carry your beautiful sword?" He dropped his hand. "Is my influence so terrible? After all, I'm trying to help you."

The assassin clenched both of his fists in an attempt to control his rage over this proclamation. "Help me? How? Through this 'molding'? What are you trying to make of me? This 'better man'? A hero?" Entreri spat the word. "For what purpose!"

"I am not endeavoring to make you into a hero. As I said, I'm simply trying to help you find your way, your purpose in life." He held his arms wide, smiling as though the answer should make everything clear.

"Help me?" Entreri repeated incredulously and stepped away from the tree. "By making me such a 'better man'? By determining what way I should go? How does a mercenary leader—a drow who kills and brazenly uses and manipulates all around him for his own profit—make me a better man or provide purpose for my life? Are we so different, you and I, that you can judge or guide me? Have we not done what is necessary to survive in our respective worlds? Where am I so much more wicked than a drow who stops at nothing to acquire wealth and power? And yet here you stand saying that Drizzt was correct about my life being empty and meaningless."

"Am I wrong?" Jarlaxle replied. "Is that not something that you yourself came to realize?"

"Does that not also mean your life is empty—a life spent killing and manipulating others for material gain? Except for our difference in goals, the only distinction between us that I can see is that you enjoy your miserable life."

Jarlaxle grinned. "And that is what I am trying to show you!" When Entreri snorted, the drow grew more serious. "Would you now try to judge me in return, then? I have lived in a world far darker and more dangerous than your own. I have simply done what is necessary in order to survive."

"As have I. And yet here you are, manipulating me." Entreri stopped for a moment, consciously controlling his anger again. "I am no fool. I know all too well how you see people as tools. I've followed your agenda by my own choice; I've been content to allow myself to be guided by your machinations because I currently have nothing better to do. But recreating me into an image of your own choosing? Tell me, my 'friend,' what profit do you find in that? A fun game? Puppetry? Something even more sinister?"

Jarlaxle chuckled once again, but his grin seemed a touch strained. "Why, I am trying to help you better understand yourself," he explained, "that you may find your path and come into some peace! There is, as you say, one difference between us—I enjoy my life and you don't. Am I not the one person most likely to teach you to smile?" The drow paused, a frown briefly crossing his face. "Whether you really become a better man—or even a hero—is hardly my concern. But whatever you do, be true to yourself—and I mean what is really in your heart and not this bitter mask."

Entreri started to say something caustic about "teaching," but the flash of concern which flickered across the elf's face as he spoke stopped him. Was it possible? Was this drow so much of a kindred spirit that he could see what Entreri was searching for and point it out? Was this meddlesome creature enough of a friend to be concerned with his happiness? Had it instead been Dwahvel, the answer would've been obvious.

Lies Entreri could understand. Everyone was a liar. And in all fairness, everyone was a manipulator, too, including the assassin himself. Likely, if the drow really were trying to help him, it was simply meant in part to further secure the drow's own safety or to further their adventures and profits. Still, knowing there was an ulterior motive made Entreri uncomfortable, and he hated to be controlled.

"Cautiously, I have trusted you as an associate," the assassin stated, choosing the blunt approach. "I did so believing I was your partner in mutual profit. Not your puppet. And now I find you have thoroughly manipulated me with your secret games—one of the things I have most hated about drow. Yet still you dare to argue that it has been for my benefit?"

"It has." Jarlaxle smiled once more, but there was a touch of resignation in his voice. "And you are not my puppet. I told you before I have no use for puppets. People who work together, who are truly profiting from the association, are the ones who are working harder to reach higher goals. That we are doing. We are both benefiting from our alliance, Artemis Entreri. And besides, you are my friend."

"Friends might influence, give advice, and listen, but they don't try to control each other," Entreri stated with conviction. Then what he said stopped him cold. Given how little he had known of real friendship, how did he know that? From his time spent with Dwahvel?

Then the second realization: given drow society, could Jarlaxle really know what a friend was? Perhaps this over-enthusiastic meddling was the best he could offer. Could Entreri damn him for that? No, and yet the survivor instinct in him screamed warnings: this drow will continue to manipulate you!

At Entreri's words, Jarlaxle had gone very still and silent. Entreri watched, even as his mind whirled with thoughts, as some emotion leaked onto the elf's face. Was it sadness? Disappointment? Suddenly, Entreri felt very tired and wished the conversation to be finished, but he couldn't just leave it like this.

Deep within, in the place where Artemis kept his most dangerous, painful, and conflicting emotions and realizations, he had known for some time that Jarlaxle was truly his friend. This understanding and the need that accompanied it now spoke. "If you really are my friend, find a different way. I'm not here for your amusement." He spun on his heel and stalked away, aware of the myriad implications behind that statement and just not caring.

He left a very surprised Jarlaxle in his wake.