Disclaimer: Product processed in a plant that also processes peanuts.

A/N: I tend to avoid using an 's' to indicate a plural when I think I can get away with it. There will be no drows, samurais, undeads, mustard gases, irradiated particles, bouncing betties or… who let the Geneva convention in here? Eventually, there will be violence, gore, and other fun things that violate the Geneva convention.

Extra special A/N: There is a reference to leopard among jackals in here that will answer a question about a character from that story. (This chapter brought to you by gingko biloba and Ariel's last minute input.)

I spent spring, summer, autumn and winter
and I have always been looking back.
I spent spring, summer, fall and winter
wandering around the dark forest

-Cocco, Sleeping Forest Prince (Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter)

the wild in the wood

Sleep was elusive that night. Entreri found himself envying Jarlaxle for the ability to ease into the elven state of rest called Reverie. He was a light sleeper, but even so, he could not sleep when his mind was occupied with a furious cycle of thoughts. At least in Reverie, as far as he understood it, he could channel those thoughts productively. But, no, the assassin found himself awake most of the night, fortified with suspicions and a low hum of paranoia.

He had known for some time that Jarlaxle kept contact with Kimmuriel; there was no other answer to the way the mercenary leader had handed the reins of Bregan D'aerthe to the psionicist after said psionicist had participated in a coup planned to depose and kill both Jarlaxle and Entreri. The same psionicist could locate them and open a dimension door within mere inches of their location.

Part of Entreri's inability to sleep soundly came from two dimensional doors that had already been created in the room he was residing in. He wondered how long would it take for Kimmuriel to develop the proper drow ambition to try to kill Jarlaxle for undisputed leadership of Bregan D'aerthe. Perhaps he would then seize Entreri's mind and simply slay him for sport. It was a deeply vexing situation and not one that lent him rest.

There was also the small matter of Casteja Vektch and the repeated rumors of his sentient psionic weapon. Entreri was certain what they had heard of the weapon had prompted Jarlaxle to contact Kimmuriel in the first place, not the need for clothes better suited to the region. He supposed the dark elven youth had been tapped for his mind magic and having him show up to make clothes was simply a way for Jarlaxle to get a feel of the boy's personality. It was typical Jarlaxle modus operandi.

Most people knew very little of the silent gift of psionics and Entreri found himself no exception. Through association with Kimmuriel, Entreri knew more about it than most, but even that was of little avail. He had coveted Charon's Claw and corresponding gauntlet in order to be more effective against mages and clerics, but when Rai'gy's push came to Kimmuriel's shove, Entreri had also desired the gauntlet on the off chance it could also capture and return psionic attacks.

He continued to think the gauntlet could, to some degree, react to psionics the way it did to magic, but he had yet to discern how his highly trained body could move to protect him before a psionic blast could explode inside his skull. Entreri knew of few things faster than the speed of thought and fewer yet that could predict a psionicist. At his stage of life, despite the shade's characteristics he'd absorbed through his vampiric dagger, the thought of haste spells no longer held an appeal.

Still thinking, the assassin sighed and turned over on his stomach in order to rise up on his elbows and stare into the blackness of their room. Even without the infravision earrings Jarlaxle had given him long ago or Charon's Claw, which rested in its scabbard on his weapons belt, looped over a bed post, Entreri could make out much of the pitch black room. The shade's life force had, perhaps, slowed his human aging process, but it had also leant him shade characteristics. Characteristics that made his Netherese blade respond to him in a much more benevolent fashion. He wasn't going to hold his breath, but the assassin hoped improved use of the gauntlet would follow the improved relations with Charon's Claw.

Hope. He hoped the gauntlet would be of more help. He found himself remembering how much he despised mention of hope. Hope, he had always thought, was a waste of time and one of many stones that paved the way to certain death. Hope did nothing but foster foolish notions of magical goodwill appearing from nowhere, or, even worse, from a deity of some sort. Hope led lesser creatures to rely on weak and fallible options. Entreri never relied on hope. Either the gauntlet would be of use or it would not against the two psionic drow and Vektch's weapon. He would not put trust in psionic drow or empty hope.

There was also the consideration concerning the drow youth's training. While Entreri knew, and missed, the great advantage in the elasticity of youthful muscles, he wasn't convinced a youthful mind would be as advantageous to a psionicist. Though, according to someone he had known long ago, certain mathematical abilities began to degrade even in relative youth. For a moment, he wondered if she had really become an adventurer after her escape had taken her from the Basadoni Cabal's long reach. He killed the thought when he realized where it would lead.

He decided that, if nothing else, the young drow was disciplined, if not even more guarded with his emotions than other drow he had met. It was obvious Kimmuriel couldn't be spared, leading Bregan D'aerthe as he was and that was just as well. Entreri wondered how much information he could learn about psionics from the boy. Information was always key to success against an enemy.

Then there was Jarlaxle's open admiration and interest in their quarry. He still didn't think it was a casual interest, but something the devious dark elf had prior knowledge about. Was it the sword? Jarlaxle had a vast selection of bizarre magical items; more recently he'd been turning up a new array as if he had an enormous collection with him at all times. Entreri didn't doubt the likelihood, but wondered about the recent use of many he'd never seen before after months of the usual set.

A sentient sword that gave its wielder psionic abilities seemed up Jarlaxle's alley, but for one very glaring fact: the drow had to still be smarting from the sting of Crenshinibon's betrayal. If not for the crystal shard, Jarlaxle would never have made the grievous errors that had, more or less, cost him leadership of Bregan D'aerthe. No, if the sentient sword could use the psionic powers it gave its wielder, then Jarlaxle would not be interested in it, despite the reports of the huge jewel set in the crosspiece.

He didn't discount the thought that Jarlaxle somehow knew Vektch, but if he was honest about turning the man in to certain torture, then he might simply want to pit his skills against the bandit's. Or perhaps, acquisitive Jarlaxle wanted the sword as part of a prior arrangement; was there a drow in Menzoberranzan that desired a psionic weapon the way Entreri had desired Charon's Claw?

"If you keep this up all night, you'll keep me from rest."

Turning his head and brushing black strands of hair from his eyes, Entreri took in Jarlaxle's one-eyed gaze. The drow was lying on his back, head and shoulders propped up on his pillow and the one Entreri couldn't bring himself to use, despite his continued efforts to enjoy life a little more.

"I haven't said anything," Entreri replied, keeping his voice low. He had hardly moved before or after turning onto his stomach. It was easy for him to be comfortable on the hardest, lumpiest beds: he was perfectly used to sleeping on floors or rocky terrain, even in the rain.

"You don't have to," Jarlaxle sighed, "I can feel your tension. Relax; Kimmuriel won't be watching you sleep. He has too much to do in order to prepare our tailor for when we need him."

"But he will be watching," Entreri stated. His remark made it perfectly clear that Jarlaxle had guessed the assassin's train of thought.

"No," the mercenary returned, understanding his cagey partner's concern. "He would need somebody to scry you; Kimmuriel can't do that. And I do remember Rai'gy commenting that you had an uncanny ability to sense eyes on you. I think you'd know if anyone was looking in on you."

Entreri mulled this new information over with interest. If Kimmuriel couldn't scry them, how did he find them to deliver their temporary companion? The image of a silver whistle at the tailor's ebon lips came to mind. If Entreri had not left the room in disgust, he supposed he would have seen the whistle passed back to Jarlaxle. That, or more logically, Jarlaxle had his own.

"Is there an appointed hour the wretches will be returning?" Entreri planned to be absent if there was; he had no wish to set eyes on Kimmuriel if he could avoid it. Entreri was angry enough without outside help.

"Yes," the dark elf lied, hoping Entreri would let it go and get some sleep. "I'll let you know so you can be the first to see our new armor."

It was what Entreri wanted to hear. He understood the possibility the sly drow was lying to him, but he took it as truth for the moment. "I'm afraid I'll be busy getting the horses together. The boy is riding with you, unless you get him a mount."

"Actually, he won't be traveling with us right away." Jarlaxle stretched languidly as he spoke. "We'll bring him in when we get close to Casteja. Until then, Kimmuriel will continue training and imparting his experience of the surface to him."

If not for the second half of what Jarlaxle said, Entreri would have been satisfied with the first part. With his paranoia tamped down, the assassin felt sleep drift into possibility. "In that case, he'll ride with you when we get close to Vektch."

>X

The stable hands were more than happy to let Entreri prepare and saddle both horses the following morning. The chore kept the assassin busy while the dark elves conducted their business. Jarlaxle insisted tailors liked to see how their clothes fit their recipient, but Entreri had simply bared his teeth in what was supposed to be a smile, but had all the dimensions of a snarl. He'd told the drow to tell the tailor he had the utmost confidence in his ability to sew to the meticulous measurements he'd taken. He had then left to speak with the innkeeper about finding a group traveling through Chondalwood.

Wanting nothing so much than to get the two out of his sight, the innkeeper made himself helpful, though his voice was little more than a growl. Entreri blamed the man's attitude on Jarlaxle's antics with the man's daughter, but didn't mind, as the man seemed helpful, if only for the sake of pragmaticism. In little time, he advised Entreri of a caravan from Hlath that stopped there the same night with plans to get through Chondalwood on its way to Elbulder.

By the time he had the horses ready to go and was guiding them out of the stable, Jarlaxle was coming up to the door, his usual clothes as blinding as ever. There was only one addition; underneath the vest the dark elf was wearing a simple, tastefully designed garment made of what looked like black linen. Entreri was shocked; Jarlaxle was wearing something both tasteful and sensible. He was tempted to reconsider his opinion of their future helper on the spot.

In one hand Jarlaxle carried a folded rectangle of cloth that was equally black and without the subdued sheen associated with the silks drow seemed to favor. When he reached Entreri he offered the material to him with a smirk. "They aren't identical, thank the gods. I'd hate for us to look like a happy couple."

Entreri snorted derisively at the statement and took the garment. He was surprised by the feel of the cloth, which was not like linen so much as suede. The thread count was unspeakably compressed. Curious despite himself, he handed the horses' reins to his partner and ran his thumbs over the soft black material. "What is this made of?"

Jarlaxle shrugged helplessly. "I would love to know. It is impervious to radiant heat and punctures, though it will not protect you from any bruising impacts."

Stretching and crumpling the cloth did not result in the material losing shape or wrinkling; Entreri was impressed, but a practical question was the first thing out of his mouth. "If this resists arrows and knives, how did he sew it?"

Jarlaxle paused, at a loss for one of those very rare moments in his eventful life. How indeed? Few possibilities came to mind except the obvious. "Magic needles?"

Entreri nodded; it was a good answer, but he didn't understand another part of the protection, either. "What do you mean by radiant heat?"

Here Jarlaxle's smile returned in full flower. He raised one black hand and drummed his fingers on an imaginary surface. "It won't protect you from fireballs, if that's what you're asking." Due to the context of the conversation, Entreri focused momentarily on the reddish gold ring he believed to be in question. "It protects from sunlight."

An amused snort was Entreri's only reply, though he found himself impressed with the idea of a black shirt that did not soak up the sun's rays and proceed to bake the occupant alive. He held up before him, taking into the very simple nature of the garment. Jarlaxle's was equally conservative in cut, but with subtle embroidery in a shiny black floss that created designs in negative space along the cuffs and neck. Entreri's was bare of all ornament, but for pragmatic straps and buckles along the forearms and shoulders where the assassin could, he discovered, convert the garment to a sleeveless affair.

He had thought to postpone wearing the shirt, for the morning was still a bit chill, but he changed his mind when he grudgingly decided he liked it. With Jarlaxle there to watch his back, Entreri stripped off his leathers to his sleeveless undershirt and slipped the sleek garment over his head. He put the leathers on back over it, satisfied they would keep him comfortable until the day warmed up.

As the man adjusted the straps at his wrists, which helped cover the lock picks and stiletto he kept there, Jarlaxle looked on with interest. "A perfect fit if almost intolerably drab. He refused to add any color to mine at all, but I suppose that only relieves a curmudgeon like you."

Entreri shrugged and took his horse's reins back. "I've decided that I don't hate the tailor after all. You've been toned down and I don't look a fool. In fact, I officially pity him for having Kimmuriel as a task master."

The drow frowned looking down at his clothing and patted his covered abdominal muscles. "Toned down? Has it mitigated my looks by hiding one of my best features? Ah! I wondered why there were no lacings or fastenings in the front! At least the embroidery is nice."

Not wishing to further the topic, Entreri made no reply and slipped a foot into a stirrup. As soon as he was in the saddle, he told his partner about the caravan he had heard about. They made haste in order to catch the travelers before they left.

They found the caravan at a crossroads between two inns the members had stayed at. In truth, there was only one wagon going through Chondalwood from the large caravan, but was separating from the larger group which had decided to brave the trade war between Iljak and Hlath. They were continuing to Iljak that day. When Enteri asked why the traders had traveled by road instead of sea, they cited the dangers of piracy and the possibility of the trade war slopping over into the waterways.

The two merchants with their solitary wagon had already hired a group of six mercenaries, but had no qualms hiring two more with Entreri doing the negotiating. The merchants balked when they caught sight of Jarlaxle, who had wisely hung back while the assassin did the talking, but were too afraid of the black-skinned elf to protest. The two merchants, the Entreri noted, were not stone-faced Chondathans.

The cargo was mostly comprised of exotic teas, cooking spices, and some medicinal herbs, but Jarlaxle seemed to think there was more to the proclaimed wares than met the eye. The enterprising drow failed to interest Entreri with the possibilities. The assassin was more interested in riding alongside one of the mercenaries and gathering as much information about the dangerous wood they would be entering the next day.

Chondalwood was everything a mysterious wood should be, from the vaulted canopy of old trees to the ground mist that took most of the morning to disperse. Jewel toned birds sped from the road into the deep brush as the group approached and scolded them from hidden places. The spring foliage of the wood matched the birds perfectly in a joyous outpouring of green, pink, and yellow. The heady smells of jasmine, clover and fragrant hard woods added to the forest's overwhelming appeal and assault on the senses. As they traveled deeper into the wood, the sunlight became a dappled, unreliable thing; it was almost impossible to find a place to stand where shadow would not be cast over some portion of the body.

The first day in the wood, Jarlaxle was ready to raid the horse drawn wagon in search of something that would drive away the incessant insect population. Entreri took pity and asked the two merchants if they had any garlic with them; popular talk in Calimshan maintained that eating the pungent herb was a natural remedy against biting insects. The assassin wasn't sure this was anything more than a myth. He hadn't often been a victim to mosquitoes in his native country which he could blame on either the almost excessive use of garlic in Calishite cuisine or the lack of standing water in Calimport for the annoying pests to breed in.

The merchants denied possession of the herb, but suggested that it might grow wild along the road. Having never seen the plant in anything other than in clean white heaps of cloves or cut into various forms in his food, Entreri was at a loss. As the most frequent target of the insects, Jarlaxle wasted no time getting a description of wild garlic from one of the mercenaries and extracting a promise from their ranger to help look for it.

Meanwhile, the dark elf had found, to his relief, the new shirt saved his torso and arms from the tiny pests, but his neck and hands were open game. At night he found Reverie difficult with the annoyingly loud sound of mosquitoes strafing his head, despite draping the shirt over his face and neck from beneath his hat and offering his bare arms up for sacrifice.

Entreri found the mosquitoes and biting gnats annoying, but his strong discipline made it much easier for him to ignore them. He occasionally considered telling Jarlaxle to move into their campfire's smoke to escape the pests, but decided two could play the game of 'perpetual annoyance.' He marked it down as comeuppance for the drow's endless efforts to needlessly rile him. He took a perverse pleasure in the chronic slapping of Jarlaxle's be-ringed hand against black skin. It wasn't until the morning after the first night in Chondalwood that Entreri suggested his remedy to the uncommonly miserable drow until garlic could be found.

It took a significant mustering of will for Jarlaxle to refrain from slipping the miniature war hammer from his hatband and pulverize the assassin for the omission. Fortunately for both of them, the dark elf didn't revel in anger. He converted his sudden intense ire into good humor and shook his head in good nature.

"Ah, my sneaky friend," the dark elf chuckled, as they broke camp, "I admit, I've had this coming for some time. Unfortunately, I will be avenging myself for your ungentlemanly cruelty."

"No one has ever accused me of being a gentleman," Entreri smirked, kicking dirt over the last of the fire's coals.

"Now whose fault is that?" Jarlaxle returned, uncovered eye glinting in the morning light. The eye patch, the assassin noted, had been switched to the dark elf's opposite blood red eye. "It is never too late for an old dog to learn a few more tricks."

Shrugging off yet another barb concerning his age, Entreri moved away from the dark elf to discuss riding order with the other mercenaries. He found most of the group in a discussion that instantly caught the assassin's interest. The group's ranger, while scouting ahead, had found several sets of tracks that seemed at first glance to belong to a group of riders. On further examination the ranger, Shir, noticed the front set of the horse's legs had scored the ground in the grass and across the road much deeper than a normal rider would.

The ranger concluded a group of five or six centaurs had not only noticed them, but were hanging around the area. Entreri stared at the woman for a few moments with the rest of the group. The assassin let the others ask his questions for them.

"Have you guessed their intentions?"

She shook her head, "They're either small for their kind or young. I think they're young, which could be a problem if they decide we're a good target to prove themselves on. Chondalwood centaurs are tribal and the young often prove themselves adults through physical and mental battles."

"Will our employers' agreement with the Emerald Coalition do us any good?"

Entreri was quick to recall the coalition in question was one comprised of Chondalwood's famously savage druids; they were not to be taken lightly by any stretch of the imagination.

Shir shrugged at this question and rubbed the cropped hair at the back of her head. "As a follower of Chaundea, I'll have more sway than those two and their little agreement. I'm more concerned they'll have a problem with the black elf."

At this, all eyes turned to Entreri. The assassin was hardly surprised by the semicircle of blank faces around him; none of the mercenaries spoke to Jarlaxle beyond answering him in mono-syllabic replies. In the beginning, Chondathans seemed more immune to the dark elf's race than most, but it hadn't taken long to understand the deceptive appearance. The people of Chondath were overwhelmingly human; Entreri had only seen a few other races in Iljak, even though it was a port town.

Despite the clear stamp of his Calimshan heritage, Entreri was treated with respect among them, which he assumed had as much to do with his demeanor and age than anything else. If the Chondathans had use for terms like 'good' and 'evil,' the dark elf might have had a much worse reception in Chondath.

For all that, the assassin didn't feel like caving to the unspoken demand the six mercenaries undoubtedly had in mind. He didn't acknowledge their looks; he didn't respect them and they didn't intimidate him. If he so desired, he could kill each and every one of them at the time of his choosing. His level of confidence and security gave him power over them, whether they knew it or not.

"Well then, follower of Chaundea," Entreri stated with a calmness that hinted directly at his low level of concern. "I'm sure I speak for all of us when I say, if the centaurs have a problem with my partner, they will find us all learned in the art of armed negotiations. I'm confident we will stand together or fall divided."

The eyes trained on the assassin became pointed, but Entreri's will was even more impenetrable than the black shirt he wore. "Divided," he added, driving his threat home, "into very small pieces and cast onto stone, where they will nourish nothing."

For nearly a full minute the six hardened mercenaries stood staring at the assassin. Even as a group their will faded before the iron gaze that stared at them as if they were nothing more than another breed of annoying insects. His eyes seemed to suggest that even if they did get a taste of his blood, they would not only dislike the taste, but die for the honor.

In the end, they turned their eyes away, some wondering if Calimshan was so dry that its people had adapted a talent for blinking less than any other nationality. They continued to discuss the centaurs without mention of Jarlaxle. It was decided the centaurs, at the very least, would probably follow them for a while before attacking or abandoning them for something less formidable.

Riding order was agreed on and camp completely broken. When Entreri finally found his way back to Jarlaxle to update him on the centaurs and riding arrangements, the dark elf listened with a smug grin on his face. The assassin didn't like the look and began to wonder if the drow's vengeance for the night of mosquitoes was close at hand.

The dark elf didn't say a word, but continued to give him the infuriatingly pleased expression. Determined to ignore Jarlaxle, but painfully paranoid, Entreri urged his horse a good distance from the drow. This reaction only drew the dark elf into a chuckle. Jarlaxle shook his head, monstrous red plume swaying back and forth with the motion. "Artemis, I'm deeply touched by your sentiment!"

"Don't be," the assassin replied, thinking the male was referring to Entreri's sudden caution. "The day I trust you will be the same I dig my own grave with the bridge of my nose."

Laughing again, this time at the image the assassin inspired, Jarlaxle put his hands up in a gesture of helplessness. "No, no, I mean the way you threatened to vivisect everyone on my behalf!"

Entreri's lip curled in response. "That wasn't for you, it was because they were being fools. If I can't get you to disguise yourself in so-called goodly lands, there's no way to get you to do so in malicious ones. It would be easier to kill them than get a bag over your despicable black head."

Jarlaxle continued with his smug expression and shrugged. "Who cares? The important thing is that you defended me. Now I wish Jaka had made us matching shirts; evidently we're a happy couple after all!"

"I don't want to hear it," the assassin growled, touching his mount's flanks and pulling its reins to direct it around and past the drow in order to bring up the rear. Unfortunately, he wasn't out of earshot of Jarlaxle's chuckling.

Coming up behind didn't bother the assassin. For one, he was well-used to watching people from behind before knifing them in the back. For two, he found he preferred the view of a collection of horse's asses to further conversation with the drow or any of the mercenaries.

As he rode, the assassin's senses were heightened, looking for any signs of pursuit from centaurs or otherwise. The trip through the wood had seen little in the way of encounters. The first day they had come across a strange thing the mercenaries called a shambling mound that reminded Entreri of an animated compost heap. At the night the wood was alive with nerve wracking sound, punctuated with terrible silences.

Entreri didn't think their luck, the merchants' agreement, or the ranger's association with Chaundea, were going to amount to a completely unmolested journey through a wood that captured even the guarded Chondathans' imagination. He could maintain his heightened state of alert for months without end; it had been a constant way of life in Calimport. Indeed, it had been the same for what little he recalled of his short time as a child in Memnon. Such was life for predators and prey in the city wilds, worse than nature with the added dangers of depravity and humiliation.

Balancing on the edge of awareness and almost supernatural acuity, the assassin sifted through the wood's cacophony listening for the acoustic picture surrounding him. The sounds of the wagon, pulled by the team of four sturdy percheron, was an object that drowned out many of the noises coming from ahead, so the man's main focus remained in his immediate vicinity and far behind.

At least the gelding Entreri was sitting had been trained to achieve a smooth, reasonably quiet gait. The assassin was more than skilled enough as a rider to direct the animal to stay in that gait, even though it had shown a dogged determination for cantering early in the trip. It had since learned, like a variety of others before it, Entreri was the master of their relationship. It made no more attempts to alter its steps to suit its own pleasure.

It wasn't long before the audible surroundings of the wood began to occasionally speak of the presence of another traveler or group of travelers. The birds and squirrels that were more than happy to alert the wood to the wagons and horses with chattering and sharp cries, didn't always discriminate from the pursuit moving through the woods. The lack of discrimination meant whatever was following was something predatory. The animals heralded nothing more, perhaps, than a fox, nothing less than a few curious, possibly hostile, centaurs.

Ever cautious, Entreri got Jarlaxle's attention by calling out 'pursuit' in drow; he didn't want possible enemies distracting the dark elf by learning his name. The drow in question twisted back halfway in order to get his hands in Entreri's sharp sight. Where?

If they were on the road, I'd say short bow distance, northwest.

Entreri noted Jarlaxle's nod and knew what the drow was up to when he casually spurred his lovely roan mare up to make delighted conversation with the mercenary closest to him. While the news spread, the assassin continued to stay attentive to the sounds surrounding them; especially those behind him and to his left. The disturbances were far enough away that he thought it plausible their pursuer didn't know he was on to them.

Whether they were or not, they continued on until noon without seeing anything new. When the sun was at its zenith, the group came to a halt to rest the horses and have a quick meal together. The group's ranger came out of the woods a few minutes later, picking dirt off what Entreri recognized as a bulb of garlic. He smirked wryly when she handed it to Jarlaxle and the dark elf proceeded to shower her with his thanks. The assassin suspected that he was not the only person the drow enjoyed annoying.

While they ate cold soup cut with vinegar and hard bread, their ranger told them she'd found a fresh evidence of two or three centaurs running along ahead of them. The two merchants were torn between the confidence they had in their agreement with the druids of Chondalwood and concern about the centaurs. Finally, one of them quipped that centaurs were better than thieves. The comment brought a few snorts of laughter from the mercenaries. After all, few thieves would brave the wrath of the Emerald Coalition or the divisions of Vektch's Chondathan Liberation Forces that took cover from Wianar's armies in the wood and lent their aid to the Coalition in order to cement good relations.

Living up to their warlike reputation, the Chondathan mercenaries voiced hopes that they would be attacked. Entreri found he wasn't opposed to a conflict that might alleviate the stress that came from having to deal with dark elves, mind readers, and a bandit captain he had yet to lay eyes on. Jarlaxle was less interested in conflict, choosing instead to relate his curiosity in seeing a creature that could be equally miserable as a drider. The drow feigned disbelief when Entreri explained centaurs were 'born that way.'

The rest of the day passed under the scrutiny of their four-legged pursuers. Toward evening, the centaurs were no longer making any attempt at secrecy. Jarlaxle was pleased to sight them down the road under the canopy of Chondalwood's huge trees. He watched in interest as three of the beasts capered and reared on their way from one side of the road to another, playing some sort of heavily physical game.

Shir joined him for a time; she had to squint to see much of what came clearly to Jarlaxle's naturally keen sight. "Lost interest in being secretive, but every time I get near them they move off. I got very close to a stallion and while his shock was clear when I called to him, he wouldn't speak to me."

The dark elf nodded; he had already processed what the centaurs' behavior could mean. He continued watching the occasional beast dart across the road far ahead, often chased by another one, out of pure curiosity. "What are they doing now?"

"Playing," she shrugged. "One of them was carrying a metal orb around that I think they're using for some sort of game. I suppose you could always ask them to let you join."

When she saw the widening of his eyes and the smile blooming across his face, the woman immediately took hold of his elbow. "That's a joke! They'd trample you flat."

He smirked at her and looked down at his arm where her hand clutched his elbow through the smooth fabric of his black shirt. Not easily intimidated, she did not release her grip. "Perhaps they don't want to speak to you, because they're planning on slaughtering us when reinforcements arrive."

Her grip on his elbow loosened and her hand fell away slowly. "No," she replied, shaking her head for emphasis, "none of them have left the group. They haven't decided what they're doing yet. They're a motley group of youngsters and most of the games you see involve a fair bit of roughhousing to impress the two mares in the group. They're going to try something, but I doubt they're reckless enough to attack.

"If anyone is going to attack us, it will be the druids of Silvanus and that, I assure you, will not be pretty."

Adding violent druids to his running equations, Jarlaxle nodded and watched down the road for more sightings of the large beasts. Driders, he mused, were solitary in their misery, and only played with their prey; centaurs were nothing like them after all. He stood watching down the road long after the centaurs had stopped crashing through the forest on either side, wondering how many drow he had known in his many years that were unfortunate enough to be turned into driders.

Entreri didn't question his partner's sudden melancholy. Once again, he didn't think it would last the night. As was his custom, he opted not to look the gift horse in the mouth and let the dark elf think to himself. Beyond cooking up the wild garlic with scavenged potatoes and lemon peel Entreri had pilfered easily from the wagon, neither of them had much to say that night. It was as if the stoic mercenaries were dampening the dark elf's mood, though Entreri knew otherwise.

In the morning, Jarlaxle was back in high spirits and chatting amiably, mostly with the two merchants as they had grown impressed with the drow's gift of speech. He only left them when they started hitching the four draft horses to their wagon. At that point Jarlaxle mounted his mare and rode up to tease the assassin.

"What do you think of these Chondathan steeds?" Jarlaxle asked, his tone carefully innocuous.

Entreri was anything but fooled by the question or tone. "They aren't as spirited as horses from Calimshan. If you were thinking of the conversation we had the other night, I regret to inform you I haven't bought the pillow sheets yet."

"No, I was just thinking that if we find a Calishite centaur," the dark elf mercenary smirked immediately, "I will tell her how highly you think of her people."

Entreri stared blankly at the drow. It was bad enough when his partner teased him about women; women with horse bodies was substantially worse. "This is not a good way to start the day, Jarlaxle."

"Of course, even if I could be your matchmaker, the fact remains that a centaur might find you woefully inade—"

Uninterested in hearing the rest of Jarlaxle's lewd commentary, Entreri slapped his palm across the roan mare's flank, signaling the horse to take off in a short but effective burst. A few of the mercenaries' grim facades cracked into small smiles as the dark elf laughingly did his best to rein his mount in. Those expressions faded in the next instant as a thunderous sound came rumbling toward them from further up the road.

The centaurs were not as large as Jarlaxle had thought, though he conceded that they were quite impressive charging toward him at full gallop while he was just getting his mare under control. Their humanoid upper bodies were not bloated or tortured at all. The humanoid torsos moved in harmony with their equine bodies and were powerfully built or wiry according to the breed of horse they seemed to most resemble. They had no trouble hefting spears and slinging huge sling bullets as they bore down on him in a thundercloud of dust and powerful battle cries.

On account of his quick mind, he took in many interesting details while readying his defense.