Chapter Two
Marrin Socor turned away from the window of his inn room and smiled at the young woman on his bed. He imagined that the sunset lighting the room was bathing his small form in a soft red glow, imagined that the crimson rays awoke auburn highlights in his pale brown hair. He fantasized that the shadows created by having his back to the window elongated his otherwise squat facial features. In short, he visualized himself as handsome and dashing.
"Why are you crying, milady?" he asked, tossing his cloak over one shoulder. "Have I not shown you a good time? Was that not why you allowed me to court you these past two tendays?"
The young woman, perhaps seventeen years of age, stared at him with a mixture of fear and hatred. Her soft golden ringlets were now frizzy and matted to her neck; her red nose accentuated her blood-shot eyes. She clutched the bedsheets to her chest. "You . . . hurt me," she whispered, her voice raw.
Socor turned his most charming smile upon her. "That was not my intention. It is only that you inspired such great passion in me."
"I told you . . . to stop!" she gasped, tears streaking down her face.
"But you sang your pretty song for me, did you not?" The wizard smiled at his own metaphor. "You are simply too demure to admit to your own pleasures." He conjured a rose and tossed it lightly at her feet. "Good day, milady. I fear I have overstayed my welcome now." He bowed and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. He stopped for just a moment and listened to see if the young woman would collapse into heart-broken sobs. Instead, he heard her pray.
"Please, Tyr, God of all that is Just," she wept, "I know I have sinned, but please, please, send someone to bring that man to justice."
Socor snorted and walked away. Just like broads, he thought, to beg one moment and condemn the next. Why did they play such flirting games if they did not want him?
Still, it was just as well that he left. His obsessive scrying told him that the assassin and drow who had defeated him—twice!—were on his trail again. Damn the bounty hunters! Socor clenched his fists in pure rage. They had humiliated him, interfered with his revenge on Mayor Ligon, destroyed his protective token, and now they were after him again! No matter. He'd hidden from them long enough. He meant to punish them, so if they brought the fight to him, all the better.
He would be better prepared this time. This time he would be perfect.
Jarlaxle surveyed the crowded tavern where he and Entreri had secured rooms for the night. The companions had traveled almost nonstop for most of the day, heading south toward where Kimmuriel had indicated they should go. The road had been busy, full of pedestrians, horses, and wagons, and now their inn was brimming full of dusty travelers as well. Laughter bounced off the wooden walls and floor as the jostling crowd of men and women vied for food, drink, and conversation. All the merriment, of course, had a negative effect on Jarlaxle's moody partner, who sat sipping a glass of wine.
Jarlaxle swished his wine about his glass with a graceful turn of his wrist. "A nice, full-bodied flavor, don't you agree?"
Entreri grunted.
"A lovely bit of steaming mutton and some fresh-baked bread, and this will be a perfect meal," the elf continued, undaunted.
The assassin's glance was rather neutral, at least.
"And perhaps a touch of flirting with one of the pretty serving girls," Jarlaxle finished with a grin.
Entreri snorted.
"They're not pretty?"
"They're pretty," the assassin said, apparently reluctantly, "but they'd likely be too afraid to climb into bed with a drow."
"But some people like exotic lovers. I'm exotic!"
Entreri's second snort erupted into a laugh. "Indeed. You are quite . . . exotic."
"Besides, I said 'flirt.'"
"That you did." Entreri paused for only a moment. "Lecher."
Jarlaxle's gaze had fallen upon a young man sitting two tables over, and, before replying to Entreri, he paused to consider the furtive demeanor of the youth. The young man, dressed in a beige riding outfit and a royal blue cloak, seemed to stand out in the crowd, which would be unfortunate if he truly desired secrecy. The youth had a distinctive appearance—chin length black hair, overly-large brown eyes, a small stature, and a brownish complexion almost as dark as Entreri's, except a touch more sallow. Even more interesting was the symbol stitched upon the breast of the young man's cape: a gloved hand holding a coin depicting a two-faced head.
Jarlaxle filed the mental note away and began to reply to Entreri's jibe, but his attention was diverted by the approach of a small boy, approximately five years old by the look of him. The child stopped right in front of Jarlaxle and smiled at him shyly. Green eyes sparkled with curiosity from under a mop of reddish-blonde hair. "Mister, are you an elf?" he asked in a soft, high-pitched voice.
Jarlaxle chuckled. "Why, yes I am, young sir."
The child's smile widened, but he ducked his head, turning halfway away from Jarlaxle in a bashful gesture. After a moment, the boy pivoted back and looked up at the drow again. "But you are all black. Why are you all black?"
Entreri watched the exchange with the oddest expression, but said nothing. The drow could feel the grin nearly split his face. The child was so . . . cute. "That was simply the way I was made."
The child pressed his tiny fist against his lips, partially hiding his smile. "Why do you have so many necklaces?"
Entreri laughed.
"Because I like gold."
"Why do you have pointed ears?" The child had edged closer, but he stared at his feet as he asked the question.
"So I can hear better." So inquisitive! And unafraid! Jarlaxle had the oddest urge to pat the boy on the head, but he didn't dare touch the child.
The child turned one foot, then the other, to the side before straightening them. He glanced up at Jarlaxle and wiped his bangs out of his eyes with the back of his small fist. "Can I touch them?"
Jarlaxle chuckled, but he noticed that the look on Entreri's face had turned to one of near pain. It seemed an odd reaction to such a sweet child. "Well . . .." The drow wasn't sure what to do, especially if the parents were nearby. They might get the wrong idea.
The decision was delivered from him just as he suspected it would be. A man stomped through the crowd and snapped his fingers at the child. "Stop pesterin' them, boy!" Then his gaze fell upon the drow. "I said get away from them, now!"
Just for a moment, Jarlaxle felt a stab of unfamiliar pain, but he reflexively brushed it away.
The boy squeaked in fright and skittered toward his father. "Fool!" The man yelled, and the boy cowered. "Don't ye ever speak to a dark elf ever again."
The man's yelling didn't overpower the din of noise in the tavern, but it did draw the attention of the closest tables. Noticing this, the man grew even angrier and grabbed the child by the arm, yanking him forward. He let go a moment too soon, though, and the boy, knocked off balance, fell to the floor and burst into tears.
"Stop yer cryin'!" the man yelled. "Are ye a boy or a girl?" He reached down and snatched the child by the collar, jerking him to his feet. "I don't raise ye to be some weak prissy snot! Now buck up, or I'll give ye somethin' real to cry 'bout."
Jarlaxle watched Entreri's eyes narrow dangerously at the scene. His sword hand twitched, and the flash of anger that lit his dark grey eyes was so profound Jarlaxle instinctively sat back in his chair. Will he act? the elf wondered. He watched Entreri smolder. Why did this spark his anger and interest when so many other things do not? the drow thought, and he found himself genuinely hoping the assassin would act, although he hoped the man would retain enough of a cool head to not kill the father in front of his son.
The father was dragging the boy out of the inn, and Jarlaxle realized that the young man sitting a few tables over was also watching the man with ire. The youth stood and, with a stride that bespoke great determination, followed them out. Entreri apparently noticed this as well. He stared after them for a moment, seeming caught in indecision. "Hm," he said, and stood with one fluid motion that had him four steps away from the table before his chair scooted to a halt.
Jarlaxle hid his smile and remained seated. Several minutes and muffled yelling later, Entreri and the young man entered the inn together. Talking! Jarlaxle chuckled to himself.
"Do you make it a habit to barge into other people's business?" Entreri was asking, seemingly with sincere interest and with little sarcasm.
"All the time," the youth replied with a smile. "There are no injustices too small to set aright. And I'm not sure I consider such abuse a small matter."
"What you said was quite ingenious," the assassin commented with just a touch of approval.
Jarlaxle's eyebrows nearly climbed off his forehead in surprise.
"And I meant it, no matter what it might cost me," the young man said, suddenly grim.
Entreri sneered in a way that could actually be described as appreciative. The two had reached Jarlaxle, who stood and bowed to the young man. "Greetings, good sir. Would you join us?"
The youth considered Jarlaxle carefully for several moments. "Thank you, I will."
Jarlaxle gestured to a chair, and the young man sat across from him. Entreri gave Jarlaxle a slight scowl, then took his seat. "I am Jarlaxle," the elf said, "and this is Artemis Entreri." He titled his head to the now thoroughly scowling assassin. "And you are?"
"Tai Vatoshie," the young man replied. "Priest of Hoar."
"Priest of Whore?" Jarlaxle echoed with a small, mischievous smile. "I do not believe I have heard of this goddess."
Tai grinned, and Jarlaxle realized he wasn't much beyond boyhood. Maybe fifteen or sixteen years of age. "God. Hoar is the god of poetic justice. He's an ancient Untheric deity and is also known as Assuran."
"Poetic justice?" Entreri asked incredulously. Jarlaxle could tell that the assassin's opinion of Tai had been revised downward at the news of his being a priest.
"Yes. We are traveling priests who seek revenge and retribution for those unable to attain it. We have very few temples—just a knack for getting under the skin of the church of Tyr." Tai laughed.
"Indeed?" Entreri seemed suddenly interested again.
"Oh, yes. We uphold the true spirit of the law." Tai's eyes flashed with anger. "We don't cling to the letter of the law blindly like the Tyrants."
Entreri smirked at the use of the slur. "'Tyrants.' Yes, that's a good name for them."
Jarlaxle watched the exchange with growing fascination. His theory that Entreri had had a relative or close family friend who was a priest of Tyr was gaining momentum.
Tai smiled. "Actually, I'm on a mission of vengeance at the moment."
"Against whom?" Jarlaxle asked, mostly to sound out the youth. He was terribly naïve to be so open!
"Oh, I doubt you've ever heard of him." Tai leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. "But you may have—he's got quite a bad reputation now. Marrin Socor."
Entreri eased forward at this proclamation. "Oh?"
Tai had simultaneously leaned backward. "Uh . . . yes. He's wanted for several murders, among other things. Why? Have you heard of him?" He looked to Jarlaxle.
Jarlaxle's first impulse, apparently like Entreri's, was to consider this too much of a coincidence, but since they were hot on Socor's trail, perhaps it was not. The mercenaries knew they weren't the only ones out to capture or kill Marrin Socor. "We are tracking him as well."
Tai bit his lip for a moment. "Bounty hunters?"
Jarlaxle nodded. "Ones who have already fought Socor twice before, I might add."
Tai seemed lost in thought for a moment. "Well, I have no interest in money, so I am no threat to your endeavor." A flash of anger crossed his face. "Actually, I truly don't care who kills him as long as I see him die."
"And this death meets the requirement for poetic justice?" the drow asked lightly, studying the young man's face, getting a gauge of his character.
"He killed my cousin," Tai bit out, brown eyes glittering with rage.
Jarlaxle nodded, having completed his initial assessment. "Well, if you do not care about the money, then you are free to join us in our hunt."
"He is?" Entreri's voice carried a warning note.
"Why not? A little divine help cannot hurt us, now can it?"
Tai grinned—it really was disarming on such a boyish face. "The Doombringer smiles on all those who punish the unjust."
Entreri groaned, and Jarlaxle laughed. "Well, the Doombringer, Master Entreri, and I should get along well enough."
"Then you do not . . ." Tai frowned momentarily. "You do not follow . . . Lolth?"
Jarlaxle waved away Tai's concern with one delicate hand. "I have never slaved for the Spider Queen. I have a proper drow's love of chaos, I suppose, but servitude to the Lady of Chaos does not truly gain one anything. Especially if one is male."
Now Entreri and Tai were both looking at Jarlaxle with interest.
"But let us speak of more delightful things, such as the many beautiful women present tonight." Jarlaxle gestured to the nearest barmaid, a young woman with brown curls and a wide smile. "Surely two such fine-looking men as yourselves should spend a relaxing night prior to such a tedious hunt?"
Tai blushed deep red, the heat collecting high upon his cheekbones, and Entreri shook his head and sighed.
Jarlaxle chuckled. "And perhaps one debonair elf should also?" he suggested, the mirth twinkling in his eyes.
"You lech," Entreri said, his exasperation only half-feigned.
"Truly! How does the human race manage to propagate itself with such shy men to represent it?" Jarlaxle teased them.
Tai's blush was now working its way down his neck as well. "Then do you agree with your partner?" he asked Entreri, obviously trying to change the subject. "Do you accept me as a temporary traveling companion?"
The assassin sighed again, this time more profoundly. "I suppose I can tolerate anything that helps lead to the fall of Mouse Man," he replied, for Socor had been reduced to the unflattering nickname due to his small, squinty hazel eyes and tiny protruding ears. That, and the fact Entreri had nothing kind to say about anyone who so utterly failed to gain even a fraction of his respect.
Jarlaxle smiled, reflecting that traveling with Entreri was indeed one of the more enjoyable experiences of his long life despite the man's sour moods. When he returned to the Underdark, he'd miss the man's endless quips, even his sarcastic humor.
Jarlaxle's thoughts brought him up short as he realized he really didn't want to return to Menzoberranzan—but what would that mean about him and his life if he did not?
And was it something he could accept?
A/N: I'd like to thank darkhelmetj for sharing with us her story, "A Good Thing," which provided the inspiration for the child in this scene. DH, it's priceless!