Chapter Five

Bright morning sunlight lit the white lace curtains hanging in the window and cast a cheerful glow into the parlor. A rich, intricately-woven rug added a luscious, earthy feel to the polished wood floor, and a fresh bouquet of yellow roses sweetened the air. The scene would have been idyllic except for the sobs of the young woman on the sofa.

Hector Macatos frowned at the young woman before him—the latest of Socor's victims. Poor soul. Her body had already healed from the damage Socor had caused her, and fortunately, she wasn't with child. However, it would likely take years for her to recover emotionally. He placed a comforting hand upon her small shoulder. "Please do not cry, milady."

Blood-shot blue eyes peeked up at him through tousled blonde ringlets. "But, good priest, I—"

"Trusted the man too much, no doubt, and perhaps gave into your desires. But your sin is one of naivety and is not a grievous one, my dear." He smiled at her kindly. "Protect yourself from ever suffering such an experience again, for unfortunately there are many more men like Marrin Socor."

Hector turned his gaze upon the young woman's father, who stood behind the sofa. He had been introduced to Hector as a wealthy merchant of the small city. The gentleman was nearly six feet tall, so Hector was able to meet him eye to eye. The grim disapproval there concerned the priest. "Your daughter is neither the first, nor likely the last, young woman to fall prey to Socor, I fear. Her story is one I have heard many times."

The father frowned but refrained from comment. He was obviously equally angry at his daughter as he was concerned for her.

"If you'll forgive my saying so, sir, it is actually one of the better stories I have heard," Hector said, venturing a dangerous tactic. He needed to get the father to focus on the larger issue. "Some of Socor's victims have been as young as twelve years old, and he does not always bother to charm his victims into submission first, if you take my meaning."

The man growled. "Detestable! This man must face judgment and punishment."

Hector bowed. "I, along with many others, am seeking to do just that. We will not rest until the man is brought to justice." He met the man's gaze. "In addition to his crimes against girls and young women, he has killed several people with backfired spells, apparently by accident at first. However, recently he is believed to have killed an entire tavern of people on purpose while seeking revenge upon a single man."

"Then I pray that Socor will face the full weight of Tyr's judgment," the father replied, "not only for my own daughter, but for the other victims and their families as well."

Hector inclined his head respectfully. "Yes, good sir, as do we all. Now I beg you to see to your daughter, for she has had a terrifying and traumatic experience at this evil man's hands."

"I will," the father said, and Hector now felt certain that he would.

The priest looked back at the young woman before he left the parlor and found her blue eyes sharp with anger. He nodded to her before stepping through the doorway, hoping that her anger would ensure that she would not continue to see herself as a victim.

Once outside, Hector took a moment to stroke the nose of his poor horse. He would have to trade soon, for his companion was growing overly weary. Still, he could not afford to rest the horse just now. He had lost time answering the summons of the local Tyrran temple, and this was not the first time he'd been called in by a local priest to hear a new story about Socor. He was now at the point where he could predict which story he would hear; truly, Socor needed to be brought to justice immediately.

For just a moment, a single second, Hector entertained the idea that it would not be too terrible a thing if Artemis Entreri and his companions reached Socor first. At least then the man would be dead and would hurt no one further.

But no. An evil man such as Entreri did not deserve the chance to do something so honorable, even if it were indirectly and for money.

Hector sighed and mounted his horse, wishing not for the first time that he'd never heard of Artemis Entreri. But until ten years earlier, Hector had lived in Almraiven and had even spent some time in Calimport. During that time, he'd heard of Entreri more than once, and it had never been good. Upon his wife's death, however, Hector had traveled northeast to join his brother and his family in taming one of the less civilized countries. And uncivilized this region was, indeed! It seemed an outrage to Hector that Socor had not been captured and brought to justice yet.

Yet now this uncivilized region had one more detriment—it had Faerun's most feared and hated assassin running loose through it. And when Hector considered this bit of information, he wasn't sure which criminal he wanted to catch first: Socor or Entreri.

In Hector's mind, the priest of Hoar was wrong. Whatever had produced the twisted soul of Artemis Entreri had destroyed him forever. A man such as that could never be redeemed, didn't deserve to be redeemed, didn't deserve anything more than death. As Hector saw it, a crime was a crime, and criminals had to be punished. Such was Tyr's decree, and to not follow Tyr's decree was to let the land be overrun with chaos.

Besides, it would be unjust to have compassion on a man who offered no compassion to others, even if that man had never received any compassion in the first place. The time for teaching people the right way was past; punishment was the only option. And Hector would see that Artemis Entreri paid for each and every one of his crimes.

The belt connecting solidly with his upraised arm, instantly drawing a welt. Plush red pillows, stained with alcohol and other things, thrown randomly across the floor. A portly figure kneeling above him, food stains on his robes and whiskey glistening in his beard. A hand reaching for him, stretching out to touch him in a way that his child's heart understood was wrong, even if his child's mind couldn't understand the experience.

"No, Father!" He knew what would happen next.

The hand kept coming, kept coming, kept coming.

"Shhh, child." The voice slurred. "You want to be a good boy for Daddy, don't you?"

The hand kept coming, kept coming, kept reaching, reaching.

"No!" He was backed into the corner of the room, the hand nearly upon him. He kicked, punched with his tiny fists, but the man towering above him laughed drunkenly at his efforts. The child's gaze seemed to catch on the saliva shining on the man's lips as he clumsily dropped the whiskey bottle on the floor and pushed him down onto the pillows. The hand was now upon him, and all his desperate hits couldn't seem to push it aside. The anger and horror burned in his chest, and he yelled, but the hand did not relent. The sound of heavy breathing seemed to echo in his head.

Artemis Entreri bolted upright in his bedroll and instantly scanned his surroundings: campfire, Tai asleep, Jarlaxle keeping watch. Sensing no danger, he relaxed; it had only been a nightmare. Still, he was very nearly gasping for breath, and a sheen of sweat covered his entire body. His skin burned with the sensation of the ghostly touch; he could almost smell the whiskey. How he hated these nightmares! He hadn't experienced one in two tendays, and they hadn't been frequent, but the indignity of it! To be subjected to such torture when he had been sure he'd conquered these nightmares in late childhood, only to have them return—however briefly!—now.

Reminding himself that he was in no real danger, that the nightmares would soon fade away, Entreri cursed and looked suspiciously at the drow. Had Jarlaxle seen this time? Usually Entreri just awakened without sound or movement, but this time he'd jerked awake violently. The elf, however, seemed lost in his own thoughts and was staring out at the moon. Good. Perhaps he hadn't noticed.

Unlikely.

Entreri sighed and climbed out of his bedroll. There'd be no more sleep for the rest of the night now, he knew from long experience. He glanced at Tai as he passed, but the boy was deep asleep, and by the relaxed look on his face, not having nightmares. Entreri fought off a second sigh and sat beside Jarlaxle on the fallen tree trunk he was occupying.

"Difficulty sleeping?" the drow asked absently.

Unlikely, indeed. "Perhaps." Entreri nodded in the direction Jarlaxle was staring. "Maybe the full moon is responsible," he said in an attempt to deflect the elf's curiosity from himself.

The elf glanced at Entreri. "What would the moon have to do with sleep?"

"Likely nothing. There's an old wives' tale that the full moon makes a soul restless."

"Fascinating." Jarlaxle looked back at the large yellow orb which seemed to fill nearly half the night sky.

Entreri watched him for several minutes. The assassin had been joking the day before when he'd suggested Jarlaxle would ever pout or mope, but for all the realms, the elf almost seemed to be doing just that: brooding about something.

Not for the first time, Entreri wondered about his companion. It was an old habit he thought he'd killed long since. He remembered having the impulse to wonder about the origins of people, to wonder if the other thugs in the street came from homes as bad as his. He'd always blamed his mother for the impulse and had beaten it away . . . he thought. The last time he remembered having such thoughts was over the assassin Theebles had sent to test him. He'd stopped himself then and as a result had survived the fight. But now the habit seemed to be back.

Jarlaxle had continued to stare at the moon, and the assassin admitted to himself it would be a fairly awe-inspiring sight to a creature of the Underdark. But why was the elf brooding? "It will not disappear if you blink," he commented quietly.

Jarlaxle turned and smiled at him. "No, but it rarely looks so."

Entreri watched his face. "True." He was definitely upset about something. The assassin had finally learned him well enough to be able to detect that much, but he couldn't tell how upset or what kind of upset it was. Entreri reviewed the past two days' events and couldn't recall anything that would concern the elf. Hector Macatos certainly wouldn't. Thirty orcs wouldn't. Nothing he or Tai had said should. Of course, Jarlaxle was mostly one large mystery.

"So what do you think of our new friend?" Jarlaxle asked at length.

Entreri frowned. "He's an interesting boy. Seems inexperienced on one hand and mature on another."

Jarlaxle chuckled. "Yes, a real dual personality."

Much like you, Entreri wanted to say.

"Perhaps Hoar abides deeply in this one's heart," the elf said.

Entreri snorted. "Perhaps. But no god could ever abide deeply enough to truly affect the human heart."

"Really?" Jarlaxle's curiosity was evident.

Oops, Entreri thought. He'd said more than he should again. Too late now. "Really. No god would care enough to do such a thing, either."

"Really?"

Entreri let his silence speak for him.

"Perhaps you should not be so quick to . . . ah . . . overgeneralize. After all, my friend, some so-called gods are not deities at all, but rather demons."

"And we are the players on their stage, their entertainment, their diversion from eternal boredom," Entreri snapped. "Life is the petty play we produce for them, and all at our own expense." Sarcasm blackened his tone.

"I play no part for the watching gods, my friend," Jarlaxle stated grimly. "No part at all. To the best of my mortal ability, I play only for myself." He sighed and paused for several moments. "Surely you are correct where it concerns the evil 'deities.' Surely the worshippers of such demons as Lolth are nothing more than pawns in her game, agents of her chaos. But I do not live to be a pawn. But for all of that, would even I say that all deities are as Lolth is?"

Entreri felt his eyes widen. Jarlaxle was rarely so forthcoming. "No, I cannot see you as a willing pawn of any god. I cannot imagine you as anything other than the master of the game, for while you are diplomatic and cooperative, you are no one's fool. After all, those like Lolth do not strike genuine bargains or make trustworthy deals. They do not work for mutual benefit or care at all about diplomacy, and you would not enslave yourself to one even for the sake of greater power or gain. You are too wise, too much of a survivor, to put yourself in such a dangerous position or to allow yourself to be at the mercy of their treacherous whims."

Jarlaxle smiled at the assassin and bowed his head in agreement. "Your intelligence and powers of observation serve you well, my friend."

"Surely," Entreri continued, "of all those I have ever known, you have worked to be the master of your own fate. But it is not what you can see, what you can predict in order to avoid, that must concern you. It is the influence the deities have over those around you, the power they hold over what you cannot see that you must watch. And if not the gods, then it's your own failing, for surely you can erect a prison of your own making—a prison of your own fears or vices or beliefs—and hold yourself there forever. If I have any wisdom, that is what I can say."

Jarlaxle stared at Entreri with a look he'd never seen, a look that bordered on surprise to be sure, but a look that held some emotion the assassin could not even begin to identify. "And what would my prison be, Artemis Entreri?"

Entreri snorted and stood. "What could it ever be, Jarlaxle of No Matron's House? You once said to me that given my skills, I could make my home anywhere. And now I say to you, given your intelligence and skills, is there any prison that should ever be able to hold you? Even your dark skin has not kept you from going where you've wanted to go on the surface. Is there anywhere that you cannot go or anything that you cannot do if you wish it?" Entreri raised an eyebrow at the drow's lack of response, then continued. "You have told me again and again in so many words to not live in the prison that is my life—that I should escape the coffin I lie in, if you will. See that you do not dwell in one yourself, my friend. The world does not like hypocrites."

For the briefest of moments, Entreri smiled, even if it was not the most pleasant of ones. Then he turned and walked away, taking the remainder of his thoughts with him.