Chapter 6

Entreri was tired of thinking. For a solid half-hour, he sat in a seedy tavern several blocks from his inn and sipped carefully at his drink, watching the drunken patrons make fools of themselves. They tripped; they fell. They laughed and accidentally snorted ale up their noses, which they then spewed all over their tables. They tried to dance, mimicking something like bellydancing, and ended up showing off their hairy beer bellies to the rest of the room. And through it all, the assassin refused to consider his argument with Jarlaxle for even a second.

What was there to think about? Entreri had never been the type to reflect, preferring action to inner debate. Yet from time to time he found himself caught on a thought, much like he had been prior to his and Jarlaxle's 'adventure' with the highwaymen, and he allowed himself to ponder recent effects. Perhaps, then, it was a true sign of the assassin's irritation that once he'd slowly consumed his ale, he found himself face-to-face with the question of whether he and Jarlaxle would soon be parting ways.

Why a "better" man? Of all the questions, jabs, and explanations that had passed between them, Entreri found his attention most caught by that concern. After all, the assassin could ultimately deal with acts of manipulation; what he didn't understand was the goal of the attempted manipulation.

Jarlaxle had thrown into the assassin's face the truth of his empty existence, and though he seldom stopped to acknowledge it, Entreri was all too aware of that truth. Yet his words to Dwahvel, so many months ago, still rang true to him: "I know not yet where I hope to go, what challenges are left before me, but I do understand now that the important thing is to enjoy the process of getting there."

But remembering those words brought Entreri up short. He had, for the most part, been in an utterly foul mood for months now. He'd gained an insight, yet he was failing to use it.

Entreri frowned, trying to push away his thoughts. He focused on a barmaid as she slapped a drunken man's hand. When the man persisted in reaching for her breast, she dumped her pitcher of ale right on his head. The entire uproarious crowd laughed at the man, and although Entreri felt the man deserved his humiliation, he didn't join in the laughter.

Then again, Entreri rarely did laugh, and perhaps it was the man he had always been that brought on a second unsettling thought: if his life had been empty before, a meaningful life would have to be one quite different. That realization alone made Entreri scowl. He believed he'd been comfortable with himself, after all, and had not been seeking change, but learning what he'd learned had forced him to consider this truth. The concept of becoming someone else made him distinctly uncomfortable and unhappy.

Wait, he thought, backtracking. The thought of becoming someone different, someone—admittedly—with a more meaningful life, put him in a foul mood.

He had been in a foul mood for months.

He had been undergoing the change for months.

More specifically, Jarlaxle had been pushing him down that path for months. Jarlaxle had been—

Had been what? Ushering him down the path he already knew he had to take but just didn't want to accept?

The thought seemed to drop an anvil into the pit of Entreri's stomach. A hundred thoughts hit him at once: Even though I've faced this truth, I don't wish to lose the essence of who I am. A new path doesn't mean I have to sacrifice everything I am! But is Jarlaxle trying to make me someone else? Surely he's not truly trying to make me a hero.

One thought took precedence: he did not want to be a hero. Entreri had no use for heroes. Heroes were fools who got themselves killed or were hypocrites who chopped the hands off of petty thieves while the people who really were suffering evil were being—

Entreri stopped his thoughts abruptly. Instead, he focused on Jarlaxle's earlier words: "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 frowned. He thought back to the incident with the serving girl. Jarlaxle had said, "Do not pretend that you don't care. Artemis Entreri is a better man than to whip a serving girl." Oddly enough, the drow had spoken as though all Entreri were really doing was violating his own inner code of conduct. His request, it would seem, was merely that Entreri be himself instead of feigning apathy.

Was it possible, then, that the older drow, in the name of friendship or mutual benefit, was simply challenging Entreri to uncover a part of himself that was already there? It was a strange thought, given the life he'd lived and the choices he'd made.

And what was Jarlaxle gaining from this? Did that matter as long as Entreri was not being harmed? After all, nothing in life was ever free, so Entreri could hardly be offended if the mercenary profited from it. Within reason, that is.

The questions had to go unanswered, for Entreri's warrior's intuition screamed in his mind. From the corner of his vision, he caught the slightest movement. He obeyed the instincts that a lifetime's worth of experience had distilled in him and ducked under his table, yanking it over and using it as a shield.

Just in time for a fireball to explode through the room.