Disclaimer: The recognizable characters in this fanfiction were created by R. A. Salvatore in association with the legal entity Wizards of the Coast, who owns relevant copyrights to additional Forgotten Realms material referred to herein. The characters are used without permission but no material profit of any kind is being made from the following work. WotC reserve rights to Forgotten Realms material, but all of the characters and situations unique to this work of fan fiction are property of the writer.
A/N: I promise the next chapter will be better. This one is taking longer, thanks to my difficulty working with more than one character at a time.
Since my FR fics are getting some reviews, I've decided the best place to answer them is in the review screen, since I don't want to distract from the story. I thought about answering them on my profile page, but I already use that for updates. My only problem is that it makes it look like I have more reviews than I have and that feels slightly dishonest.
A man feared that he might find an assassin;
Another that he might find a victim.
One was more wise than the other.
-Stephen Crane
the plot sickens
As far as the unlikely partners were concerned, the night passed uneventfully. Entreri wasn't inclined to question Jarlaxle when he returned, preferring instead to continue to map out the most likely route to the region that saw the most militant action. For his part, Jarlaxle was more quiet than usual which came as a mixed blessing. Entreri had no trouble nodding off with the dark elf silently pondering his mysterious calculations; even if it was a worrisome sign, he was happy enough for the lack of noise.
A light sleeper despite his years, the assassin had no trouble rousing hours later when he heard Jarlaxle's jewelry chiming as he moved around the small room. Entreri had long since learned the noise was the dark elf's unspoken wake up call. Like his hard-soled boots, the jewelry was as silent or noisy as he desired. Over the many miles, both of them had developed somewhat considerate habits toward one another which they never admitted, much less commented on.
The two continued in silence, quickly stowing what little gear they brought with them. Jarlaxle's equipment was considerably less noticeable, thanks to his array of handy magical items. He made up for the fact with his usual visual display. Entreri's rucksack was deceptive only in that the man was ruthlessly efficient and sparing in what he considered a traveling need.
The sun was barely spreading a flush of pink across the cloud-dotted sky when they hit Iljak's streets. Heavy dew smothered the scents of the city, prompting a sigh of relief from Jarlaxle. The excitement of any city pleased his jaded tastes, but the scents often left much to be desired. He observed the city's morning traffic, taking what pleasure he could in watching the brisk business before they moved beyond the city walls.
It wasn't until the two had left their unremarkable inn far behind that any conversation began. Content to let silence reign as long as possible, Entreri was comfortable walking the city streets in the uncommunicative state. He knew Jarlaxle well enough to know it wouldn't last all morning.
"Are we going to get horses?"
Entreri nodded absently, expecting the inquiry. "I already hired them and put down the deposit. You'll pay the other fees."
"That hardly seems fair," Jarlaxle commented dryly. "I lose money and you get yours back later? Who paid for our lodgings?"
The assassin shrugged, showing absolutely no remorse. "If I have to do most of the work, you'll have to spend most of the money."
"You think I didn't do as much as you, my friend?" Jarlaxle shook his head, but didn't take offense. "I've arranged for some help on this adventure and I verified the area our bandit captain will be working in this week. Doesn't that rate?"
Entreri would have been surprised, if he wasn't used to his companion's amazing ability to turn up information and ingenious plans of action at a moment's notice. Instead he nodded casually. "It rates, but fails to inspire my generosity."
The dark elf snorted, but did not respond to the assassin's negativism. In his mind Entreri was still getting the short end of the deal; wealth and comfort were high on his list of priorities and he was uniquely gifted at coming into both. As long Jarlaxle remained amused, he would continue to let Entreri think he was getting one over on him.
The horses Entreri had selected were fine animals, but that didn't stop Jarlaxle from trying to haggle over the fees. The woman holding the horses for them refused to budge an inch on the price. She stood stoically with the proud beasts, staring at Jarlaxle with disinterest as he tried repeatedly to deflate the fees with slight of tongue, claims of dissatisfaction with the animals, and masterful flirtation.
Throughout the whole affair the horse merchant merely stood, answering many of Jarlaxle's claims with logic and his charm with a long-suffering attitude. In the end, the price stood and the dark elf paid it without complaint, though he did advise the young lady to smile a little. She ignored his advice and took his money, never deviating from the same attitude she'd shown the whole time.
"This town is a sad place," he remarked further down the road. "I've not felt like the city guard would be after me any second for my race, but the blank stares I see after the initial looks of shock are getting dull."
"Everyone here hides their emotions," Entreri replied. "A sensible enough society."
A smug grin spread across Jarlaxle's face at the words. "Spoken like a truly cold-hearted man. What happened to your prospects of joining a paladin's holy order?"
Entreri shot the dark elf a poisonous look. "Keep up the judgmental diatribe and I'll personally deliver you to a paladin's holy order."
Jarlaxle chuckled in response. "Point taken, my friend."
Despite Jarlaxle's confirmation of where their quarry would be that week, Entreri inquired about Vektch on their way out of the city gates. The plentiful soldiers manning the gate were helpful, but they didn't relent casting watchful looks over the drow. They reported sightings of the wanted man in the southern reaches of Chondalwood, but advised he didn't always stay with the same group of bandits. One of the soldiers even produced a few papers he described as the man's printed lies. He gave them to Entreri, wishing him luck in capturing the bandit.
The vast fields outside the city were heavy laden with morning dew. An ocean of green stalks bowed under the weight of the moisture and shone brightly, refracting the sun's rays until they gleamed golden-green. As it evaporated, the dew enhanced the earthy smell of good soil and fragrant greenery. The scent was much more to Jarlaxle's taste and even Entreri managed to note the pleasant morning ambience.
In the early morning chill, crickets droned rhythmically, dragonflies buzzed, and ground fowl called out to one another. Overhead, patches of windswept clouds scudded along beneath a washed out sky. It was easy to forget the bustling port wasn't far distant. The only reminder came if they looked over their shoulders or when a breeze brought the smell of salt water to mingle with the scent of the earth.
As they rode toward Shamph, the large city at the crossroad of the Emerald Way and the Old Road, Entreri read one of the notices over and handed Jarlaxle another to peruse. He wasn't surprised at the straightforward message or the ease in which the author made his points. The character of the propaganda was concise and logical, even when detailing instances that described the governor of Iljak as Arrabar's stooge. No wonder the city guard had proved so helpful. Each handbill was an interesting new piece to an over-arching picture that he felt he was only beginning to see.
"He's published handbill after handbill detailing evidence of Wianar's corruption and continuous self-serving behavior," the assassin remarked. "He's literate, at least."
"And articulate," Jarlaxle mused, eyes quickly scanning the page Entreri had handed him. "I need to add this to his list of dubious admirable traits. I knew he was a thinker, but a propagandist as well? Perhaps we shouldn't take him in, rather, let's join his cause!"
Entreri sucked in a deep breath of earthy morning air and released it in a long-suffering sigh. The last time they had joined a gaggle of bandits had left a bad taste in his mouth and Jarlaxle on a high horse. "Revolutionists don't pay as well as the governments they try to overthrow."
"That's right," the dark elf smirked, "we're doing it for money this time. I'd prefer to do it for fun, but profit is nice, too."
The latter comment drew a sidelong glance from Entreri. He was certain Jarlaxle was already enjoying the situation; it was a bizarre ability. As they rode, he continued to read his handbill but another part of his mind was devoted to the situation. Was a morning ride prefacing a journey into militant infested country really enjoyable? Or was it anticipation of the challenge to come?
His train of thought was interrupted when he read another claim from his second page. "Does yours mention the Shining Idiot of Arrabar allowing the Red Wizards an enclave?" The assassin stared at his handbill, contemplating the possibility of falsehood. "That must have doubled Casteja's sympathizers overnight."
"No." Jarlaxle raised a finger at the pronouncement of the wizards. "Wait, do you mean those mad slavers from Thay? That is ill-advised. Most of the dour ho-hum people around here stare terribly at signs of magic."
Entreri didn't bother asking how the ostentatious drow managed to figure out the last bit; one less tale of moronic exploits suited the assassin well. "The same. This sheet accuses Wianar of being a Red Wizard flunky. That might be possible, but as Vektch has yet to man a full scale assault on Arrabar, Wianar can afford to make unpopular decisions."
"Wianar obviously wants the Wizards' magic on his side as added security. That means he doesn't think our bandit is really so far from assaulting Arrabar," the surprising drow responded.
"It depends on how you look at the timeline. I believe Vektch had this all in mind when he showed up on the scene seven years ago. Humans are so obsessed with time; they always want things done as soon as possible, especially human politicians. I think Casteja has transcended this basic human shortcoming."
Entreri gifted Jarlaxle with a quizzical look. He was far from offended by the drow's blanket criticism of the human race; patience was hardly an exclusive trait, but most of humanity had little in stock. It was Jarlaxle's sudden use of the bandit's given name that seemed odd. He wondered if this was the answer to his sense that Jarlaxle had an ulterior motive in bringing them to Chondath. Did they come in order to meet some old friend? If so, why the secrecy and games?
Finding he didn't really care one way or the other, Entreri did not grow alarmed or irritated. The situation was undeniably novel and satisfyingly challenging. If the man was known to Jarlaxle, the question wasn't whether or not they would really be capturing him, but whether they would be turning him in.
"Wianar and his general probably want him alive for information," the assassin commented, watching his partner surreptitiously. "If Vektch is really so patient, he might find himself enduring years of torture while they try to coax his tongue."
To the assassin's surprise, Jarlaxle chuckled in response. "I dare say he will! Especially after all the trouble he's caused. The man's in for more than his share of hardship and suffering. It is unfortunate for him that our desire for coin is stronger than our sympathy."
Without an answer, but again not worrying about it, Entreri shrugged his suspicions off. He would continue to work at the edges of the issue, doing his best not to alert the sly dark elf to his interest. Getting to the most conflicted region they had heard their quarry was located was their current goal and what Entreri concerned himself with. He kept them on the road from Iljak with plans to shadow a Chondath army in order to see the so-called bandits at work.
The quickest route was through Chondalwood by the Old Road. Neither of them was enthusiastic about venturing into the monster infested area. It was hardly suitable for Arrabar or Iljak's armies to travel by, even if the local druids or other creatures were disposed to let something like that happen. It was far better for an army to march outside and away from a forest's natural cover. However, Entreri was certain it would take little time to locate an army once they cleared the wood: armies weren't easily hidden.
The heat and humidity of Chondath's late spring was hard on both partners, more so the dark elf. Temperatures had risen with the sun, evaporating the rest of the dew and filled the air with heat and high humidity. Jarlaxle found himself unaccountably relieved his wide brimmed hat shaded his head and much of his shoulders from the sunlight. It was his tight-fitting clothing that seemed more of a bother. He'd been in humid areas of the Underdark, of course, but that experience did not compare with the exacerbation of the sun's rays. He scowled at the fine perspiration on his dark arms.
As the day heated up, Entreri casually shed layers of clothing from his upper body. The heat still had little affect on him, but the humidity stuck to his skin and glued his clothing, suited for a cool Northern spring, to his flesh. By late afternoon, he was down to a loose sleeveless tunic with his cloak bundled neatly on the back of the saddle blanket and his leather shirt draped across his thighs. He was more concerned about Jarlaxle and the way his black skin absorbed the sun's heat than he was about his own Calishite hide. Not because he cared, he told himself, but because he didn't want the drow to slow them down by succumbing to something like sun stroke or heat exhaustion like some foolish tourist in his native Calimshan.
Eventually he wordlessly tossed the drow a sand colored Calishite shirt he'd taken for the desert escape out of Calimshan many long months ago. Jarlaxle caught the loose shirt with a look of pained disgust, but dropped his hat on the saddle horn long enough to pull the garment over his torso. Not so different in size or build, the shirt fit the male quite well, but his expression made it clear he wasn't happy with such a drab solution; even if it was meant to save his arms and the expanse of bare skin beneath his vest from burning.
The many people they passed making their way to Iljak seemed to stare far less at Jarlaxle after he donned the sensible garment. This was a source of relief to Entreri, who felt he'd achieved a small victory against his partner's overstated war on eyesight. He knew the drow would shed the shirt as soon as they reached the city.
The horses were used to the weather conditions and made excellent time on the road toward Shamph. They made the large city by early evening and were again lodged by nightfall. Jarlaxle's presence continued to be met with stony silence, but it was preferable to the outright aggressive displays they met in other lands. Good gold went a long way to securing hospitality, though news of their quarry was of a different character outside Iljak.
Their inn keeper was tight-lipped on the subject even though Jarlaxle tipped extravagantly when paying for their evening meal. It took sharing a bottle of wine with the man's daughter and more of Jarlaxle's mellifluous charm before they began to hear a new side to the uprising.
According to the young woman, who was either not as skilled at concealing her curiosity as her father or cared less about doing so, Casteja Vektch was the brave leader of the Chondathan Liberation Forces; an army fighting to depose Eles Wianar. Entreri tried not to roll his eyes at Jarlaxle's ability to keep the girl's glass full. It seemed a wonder she had shown interest in them at all, but as she continued to add heroic details to the 'army of liberators,' he put the puzzle together. She was what he thought of as a moth: a person attracted to excitement and danger.
The girl seemed young and foolish, but Entreri knew that her interest signaled support for Vektch close to an important port and an even more important city. It was a situation that boded badly for Arrabar. Jarlaxle's speculation of why Wianar allowed the Red Wizards an enclave suddenly became more valid.
Annoyed by the girl's infatuation with their target and the seductive danger his traveling partner was all too happy to play, Entreri stood and excused himself. He said nothing to the girl, but signed to Jarlaxle in drow code; If the girl disappears from her father's sight, we'll lose what little welcome we have.
I'd be happy to let him watch, came Jarlaxle's witty reply.
Entreri snorted, satisfied his partner knew what he was doing and would do a perfect job of squeezing the young woman of all the information she had. When the dark elf was done separating the kernels of truth from the chaff, he would probably finish by pumping her ego a bit and then leave her pining. Anything else the assassin did not want to hear about from Jarlaxle or their temporary landlord.
The assassin headed for their room with the intention of studying the map again in order to plan their trip on the Old Road through Chondalwood. He preferred to hook up with a caravan heading through the wood or perhaps even a band of mercenaries. The locals would know better what to expect from the wood other than the amorphous warnings about vicious satyrs and a vengeful coalition of druids. There was also the small matter of Jarlaxle's heritage possibly stirring up trouble among the rumored wild elf population.
Even though he had a room key, Entreri almost picked the lock to their room by sheer force of habit. Shaking his head, he slid the key from the leather band at his wrist and into the sturdy lock. The heavy tumblers thudded within the mechanism, creating a substantial noise in the hall that irritated the assassin. His annoyance fled when the noise triggered a rustle from within the rented room.
The scenario was nothing new to the assassin; he continued smoothly without the slightest hesitation. He turned the latch and pushed the door in, never missing a beat. Just as naturally, he walked into the room, ready for the ambush; jeweled dagger at his side in an overhand grip.
The attack did not come from either side of the door. In fact, there was no immediate attack at all. Entreri could see the intruder through the gloom the hallway's lights did little to pierce, sitting still on one of the two hard beds in the small room. It was a short, too slim vision of textured blackness that stared morosely up at Entreri with pale yellow eyes. Unlike most wretched drow, and they were all wretches by Entreri's estimation, this one had hair dyed to an obsidian blackness. The jet locks fell over a soft-featured, coal black, face that held an expression of somber patience.
It took a concerted expenditure of will not to immediately unsheathe Charon's Claw and shear the creature in half, despite the lack of threatening body language. If there was anything Entreri did not want to see, it was another drow.
In less time than it took to enter the room, the assassin had taken the dark elf's measure. By all appearances, the creature was quite young, an advantage in Entreri's favor. Negating the advantage, and immediately disturbing the man, was the male's lack of visible weapons. His whole body tensed and was ready to either leap back out of the room or surge forward to slaughter the motionless form.
"Please close the door." The drow's voice was soft as it was quiet and strongly accented, though not the sort of accent he came to expect from drow. The creature did not appear to be of Menzoberranzanyr stock.
Entreri made no move to close the door, simply continued to stare at the intruder with an expression that promised he would slit the young male's throat if he made any sudden moves. In response, the drow shifted his head slightly to one side; an obvious indication of curiosity that was not reflected in his pale eyes.
"Even though you are a human," the odd dark elf spoke, again quietly, and with little inflection, "I'm not skilled enough to kill you. I could only leave you with lasting damage before you ended me."
The blunt comment put Entreri at odds. Was this genuine respect or a ploy? He hated the endless onion skin of dark elven plots and intrigue. One never could tell where one stood with the deceptive creatures. "Why are you here? I warn you, I tolerate lies less than unwanted guests."
No expression moved the drow's handsome features; he continued to sit quietly on the bed, legs out straight and crossed at the ankles. If anything, he seemed almost bored. "Jarlaxle requested me. Kindly fetch him or take off your shirt and let me start."
This statement put Entreri back on his heels in an instant. What the hell was Jarlaxle playing at? Entreri's narrow gaze had been hateful before, but now it positively burned with baleful intensity. He wondered how upset his partner would be to find the youthful drow's corpse outside the door.
Fortunately for the intruder, the audible report of hard heeled boots on the flooring sounded down the hall. To indicate his extreme ire, Entreri began to casually twirl his jeweled dagger in a stationary circle with one finger. It was not a nervous habit, but a clear sign made to burn angry energy.
Jarlaxle was not unprepared for the tension he was entering; he'd known Kimmuriel would deliver the boy that night. Furthermore, he had allowed Entreri to find him just for the sport of riling him. When he saw the level of the man's irritation he sighed internally and made a note to be less vexing in the future. He walked smoothly into the tense atmosphere, pulling the door shut behind him and smiling congenially between the two. Entreri glared quickly at Jarlaxle, while the unfamiliar drow swiftly stood and threw his gaze to the floor in immediate respect.
"I see you've met the charming Jaka Mi'iduor," the flamboyant drow chuckled, amused both by Entreri's familiarity and the lad's contrasting respect. "He'll be doing some work for us."
"What work will he be doing that requires disrobing?" The demand was as blunt and angry as could be expected.
Jarlaxle smiled grandly, showing a crescent of perfectly white teeth in an expression the assassin knew preceded dreadful things. He was suddenly less sure he wanted a straight answer. "He's not a masseuse or prostitute, if that's your prudish worry. Though, I really think you could use both. Rather, he's a tailor!"
"I'd prefer a masseuse and prostitute!" The assassin exclaimed instantly, his gray eyes flew pointedly to Jarlaxle's horribly bright array of clothing. There was no way in all the Realms he was going to consent to being clothed by any tailor Jarlaxle used. He'd carve said tailor's fingers for bloody red ribbons first.
His response, also not unexpected, keyed Jarlaxle's sudden laughter. The assassin's angry incredulity was everything that made traveling with him enjoyable. "No, no," the maddening drow laughed, gesturing helplessly at the obediently silent dark elf standing by the bed. "I have my own tailor! The boy hasn't sewn a stitch for me."
Entreri turned a suspicious look from Jarlaxle to the black-haired male. "We can get tailors here in Shamph to sew clothes appropriate to the weather."
The logical statement prompted a subtle sneer from the drow across from them. Entreri filed the singular reaction away for future taunting, should he feel the need to do so. Beyond the simple reaction, Jaka kept his face averted.
"We could," Jarlaxle commented. His mirth had subsided but his spirits were obviously still quite high. "But, they wouldn't protect us like Jaka's would. Would they, my dear boy? And by our lady's eight legs, lift your head, would you?"
The lad's head came up, though his gaze never quite focused on Jarlaxle. "Of course, but I don't have much material left. It is a good thing your human is an agreeable shape."
"I'm remembering why I hate drow," Entreri growled at the possessive phrasing.
"You forgot?" Jarlaxle quipped, then advised the new drow to keep in mind that Entreri was not part of a skin-yielding herd. The assassin followed the uniquely drow conversation with half an ear, wondering instead what exactly his partner had in mind. He was interested in the prospect of light clothing with protective qualities and willing to give the dark elf his measurements to get them. The real issue was that he doubted Jarlaxle had called the lad in strictly for protective clothing.
When the short, but effective exchange ended, the black haired drow withdrew a long length of red measuring cord from the coarse black silk of his piwafwi. He moved toward the assassin with smooth caution.
Used to tailors above and below the surface world, Entreri simply recited his measurements in Drow, for the young male. The thought of anyone touching him was unwanted enough, but a drow's touch was worse. It was like having his flesh scouted for the optimal location for a spider's venomous bite.
Jaka shook his head slightly, switching to Drow since the assassin had indicated his understanding of the complicated language. "If I am to judge by the fit of your current attire, those measurements aren't exact. Human bodies change with age; muscles retreat, fat deposits encroach, the skin becomes less elastic and harder to work with…"
The lad trailed off, seeming to remember that he was supposed to be respectful to the human, which was just as well; Entreri didn't like where the conversation was leading. Not a saint by any standards, the assassin was disgusted by the thought of working with a creature that obviously had an intimate knowledge of working with human skin.
Throwing another glare at Jarlaxle, Entreri wordlessly stripped off his shirt and tossed it onto one of the bed posts. Like most drow, the tailor was diminutive in height, the top of his head barely reaching the bottom of Entreri's nose. Also like most drow, Jaka was swift with his hands, quickly drawing his cord across the breadth of the assassin's bare chest and along and around his arms in graceful extensions. As the tailor went about his impersonal work, his lips mouthed measurements, but he made no noise.
Entreri watched the dark elf's progress hawkishly in the room's only mirror as he moved to the assassin's back. It took less than a minute for him to complete the process and when he was done he approached Jarlaxle directly. The flamboyant dark elf had been watching with a faint smile while undoing the closures of his tight vest. He let the garment slide backwards down his arms without Entreri's looks of dire warning.
His work on Jarlaxle took almost half the time since the older drow knew the routine very well and gave the tailor's professional hands greater freedom. Jarlaxle was at home in the situation, even chatting with the boy throughout the measurements. Entreri noted that the lad only replied in short phrases in his distinctive accent.
When he finished with Jarlaxle, he coiled the red cord and slipped it back into his piwafwi. "I don't have enough material for trousers. I will use what I have to create shirts."
Jarlaxle's fine eyebrow rose in a unique expression of light hearted suspicion. "You aren't telling me this because you don't like wasting the last of it on a human, are you?"
For a long moment, the lad stared at Jarlaxle in his odd, unfocused way before answering simply. "No."
The older dark elf nodded, as if he believed the boy. "Good, because you'll be working with him in the not-so-distant future and you don't want the experience to be marred by a dagger to the back."
Both Entreri and Jaka narrowed their eyes in reaction to Jarlaxle's casual comment. The assassin didn't like the tailor and the idea of baby-sitting him held little appeal. The young drow made no reply, choosing to show his disdain by slipping his dull gaze back to the floor.
"We don't need a tailor to go with us," Entreri ground out. He was quite convinced Jarlaxle had made an impulsive decision in order to further entertain himself.
Jaka continued to say nothing, though the muscles underneath his smooth black jaw clearly bunched. His reaction gave the assassin the impression that the boy knew something Entreri did not. This was anything but an atypical reaction; the human turned his hard gaze back on a pleased Jarlaxle.
"You're right," Jarlaxle announced, slipping his vest back on. "What we really need is somebody who can protect you from a psionic weapon."
Entreri slowly reached up to the side of his own head and placed two fingers on his temple as if to assuage a sudden, and very intense, headache. "He's one of Kimmuriel's family?"
The assassin wasn't clear who he hated more; pontificating Drizzt or creatively malicious Kimmuriel. He decided on Kimmuriel since he was more immediate and insidiously difficult to predict.
"Possibly," Jarlaxle replied, watching the lad's careful lack of reaction. "He's from a far removed city that recently ceased to exist. Kimmuriel is training him in return for future favors and because I think he may genuinely like the boy's quiet demeanor."
It was another hard call to decide if he felt sorry for the young drow having to deal with Kimmuriel or hate him simply for learning he would have to rely on him. The thought of depending on anyone but himself inspired the assassin's ire and disgust. He had hoped his gauntlet would be more effective against psychic attack, but it was difficult to protect against something that hit with the speed of thought.
The young drow finally sighed and withdrew an item Entreri had seen, and used, before. It was a whistle, not unlike Jarlaxle's, only instead of summoning silence, it signaled the drow the assassin hated most in Bregan D'aerthe: Kimmuriel, current leader of Jarlaxle's mercenary band.
"I'll have the work done by this city's morning," the dark elf soberly assured them before he raised the whistle to his lips and gently exhaled.