Alzadea: Rereading is the highest form of flattery in my book. Prepare for more details.
hakatri: The worst baggage is always the kind you can't see and there is an awful lot of it between the lot of them.
Ariel: I added the exercise bit as afterthought and nod to Witchwolf, but it did work in really well and I'm glad it was well received.
Witchwolf: Casteja couldn't beat Entreri quickly in a fist fight, but then Entreri would be smart enough not to play to Casteja's advantages. But it really wouldn't look good if Casteja landed many punches. Heavyweight boxers can pack over a ton of force behind their punches! Casteja isn't that big, but he knows how to use his mass. As for Entreri's flashbacks, I tried hard to avoid them, but couldn't. And about the coffee; he outlined how to make Saudi Arabian coffee.
A/N: There was a problem with the prior chapter: a scene was somehow cut, giving the appearance that Jarlaxle ran way from two of Casteja's soldiers. I reconstructed the scene (a bit sloppily) from memory and reposted it. If you missed the edit, you might want to backtrack and reread that scene. This chapter is almost purely dialogue. Crazy.
"The centrifugal force was no longer powerful enough to hurl out the thoughts,
which unsuccessfully went around in circles,
without any stimulus,
so my head was denied the silence needed for sleep."
-Einsturzende Neubauten, Der Weg ins Freie
verbal reconnaissance
"I'm afraid I'll make a poor captive."
"You'll make a poor scabbard, too, but that won't stop me from sheathing cold steel in your gut."
"Now, now, Master Casteja knows how these things work; we can skip the threats. In any case, I already made them."
The three males stood thigh deep in the rice fields beyond Chondalwood, the moon shining brightly down to cast them as silver monuments. Many of the circling fireflies had descended earlier in the night to rest on leaves and long stalks of rice, but a few still flew in lingering orbits that Entreri found more mesmerizing than before.
It was difficult to shake the aftereffects of the psionic attacks that had nearly crippled his mind. It was only Jaka's continued catatonia that helped him believe Jarlaxle's insistence that the attack had only last a few seconds; not even half as long as the attack the boy had endured.
Biting insects were as thick as ever and if Jarlaxle hadn't recently found a leach under the hem of his black shirt, he would have been tempted to sink down into the water rather than face the harassing cloud. At least the insects did not seem capable of penetrating the garment nor interested in the patches of dirt on his skin water had turned back into mud.
They had left the bizarre hill in such haste neither he nor Entreri had attempted to clean themselves up. The task seemed nigh impossible without completely disrobing and washing their clothes inside and out. Casteja, of course, had his hands full and wrists bound, and neither Entreri nor Jarlaxle felt inclined to aid him in recovering any sort of cleanliness.
In a remarkably calm mood since his gag was removed, Casteja behaved obediently. He made no effort to conceal his amusement at the regular slapping attacks Jarlaxle levied against his black skin. The dark elf didn't mind the mockery; he had yet to inform the man of what had become of Tan and the rest of the soldiers. Prisoners were more fun when they weren't depressed and he could see signs Casteja Vektch had a sense of humor cruising beneath the surface of his rather formal personality.
More surprising to Jarlaxle was the reprieve in Entreri's brooding the moment the mercenary had acquiesced to the assassin's suggestion to call Kimmuriel to come fix Jaka. He supposed the man's barely hidden smirk was due to anticipating the look on the psionicist's face when he learned he would have to deflect Agrach Dyrr's anger at having damaged their only link to the silent magic. The mercenary almost felt sorry for Kimmuriel; Menzoberranzan's fourth house was deeply ferocious and the lich behind the house's power had a long memory.
The mercenary looked back to Casteja and the delicate figure cradled carefully in his arms. The way the man held the drow youth was interesting but not if one noticed the way the tailor's face smoothed in his catatonic state, betraying his age as his stony façade had not. Vektch seemed capable of sympathy. "Being a difficult captive isn't in your favor, Master Vektch. It would help to know what the sword did to Jaka's mind. I appeal to your sense of fair play as the boy did nothing to you."
The man, who stood nearly a head taller than his captors, looked down at the figure in his arms. It was not clear if Jarlaxle's tactic had any sway with the man, but he sensed the human was not as bereft of kindly emotions as Entreri. "Fair play? I was not speaking falsely when I told you I do not know. Vritra is not possessed of a sentience you can understand. I do not know when Vritra feels threatened, curious, or hungry, though I assume those are the stimuli that it acts on. It is enough to have psychic abilities to attract Vritra's attention; such individuals never last long in its presence."
Entreri and Jarlaxle soaked up the information and came to the same conclusion. Jaka had been discovered before he tried to find the sword, and when he sensed it the two must have somehow connected.
"Then this has happened before," Jarlaxle reasoned. "And did the psionicist involved survive?"
Casteja shook his head. "Temporarily. It is my practice to kill the ugly ones shortly after they fall twitching to the ground."
Jarlaxle held his hand in front of his mouth, palm out, and then wiggled his fingers at Casteja. "Do the ugly ones look like this?"
A wry grin pulled at the contours of the man's lips at the amusing display. "Those are the ones I refer to. Sometimes the random person falls down twitching when I come close, though it isn't common."
"Wild talents," the dark elf mused, dropping the hand from his mouth and tapping a finger against his chin.
His train of thought was suspended by a faint blue light that appeared a few meters from the three of them. The subdued blue light joined the moon's silver and the green phosphorescence of the fireflies refracting off the surface of the water and reflecting in strange shapes over the three males as they waited for what the light would bring.
Jarlaxle turned to observe the portal as it appeared, its light refracting over the water and— The dark elf's visible eye narrowed in amusement, seeing that the light also emanated from within the water it was opening. A quick glance at Entreri revealed the true source of the assassin's amusement. A smug smile was glinting in his eyes: Entreri had taken advantage of Jarlaxle's resignation to the wet surroundings.
A flood of water rushed forward as the portal opened, slopping into the dimly lit room Kimmuriel stood within. The dark elf caught the mistake immediately, but not before Entreri was rewarded with a hissed curse, an annoyed expression, and the sight of Kimmuriel Oblodra knee deep in rushing water. The portal's lower lip immediately changed shape, drawing up above the water level, but not before the damage was done. The acting leader of Bregan D'aerthe would have to deal with nearly an inch of standing water in his private study. Entreri hoped that entailed the destruction of many fine hand-knotted silk rugs from the mercenary band's days in Calimport.
"You could have found dry land," the dark elf immediately accused Jarlaxle from the Menzoberranzan side of the portal. Angry aggravation froze on his face when his red eyes landed on Casteja and the unmoving burden in his arms. Entreri noted with relish the slight widening of the dark elf's eyes as he took in the sight.
"His mind seems to be slightly disordered," Jarlaxle supplied helpfully. "We'll need you to see how extensive the damage is before we continue."
"Bring him." Kimmuriel commanded Casteja in his simple command of the Common tongue. To augment his statement, he gestured inward with a wave of his delicate fingers.
Seeing no reason why not, Casteja stepped forward with Jaka's inert form. Entreri, however, grabbed the man by the shoulder. "Give him to me."
Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel both scowled at Entreri's sudden generosity as he took the limp body out of Casteja's arms. Both drow assumed the assassin was moved by a desire to further annoy Kimmuriel, but Entreri had still another reason to keep their prisoner from getting too close to the Oblodran and his shimmering portal.
The assassin took another look at the drow youth as he carried him to his psionic teacher. The lad really looked no different from other drow he'd seen, though it was rare to see youths on the murderous streets of Menzoberranzan; usually young drow employed hoods to disguise the weakness associated with their age. Jaka's piwafwi was loose around his slender form, especially so with apparent loss of a broach the lad used to alter its fit.
With the loss, a new piece of jewelry had come loose from the lad's clothing; one that Entreri did not immediately recognize as morbid. Lying tangled in the folds of the piwafwi's wooly silk lay a looped black leather thong with a playing card sized, and shaped, leather ornament. The strange pendant looked smooth to the touch and so well tanned that it looked like living flesh. It was embroidered along its edges in archaic-looking whorls and trimmed along the bottom in silver and gold. A tassle of black hair came down from the center edge and gave the assassin indication of what the necklace was made of: drow.
Entreri deposited the boy on the wet floor at Kimmuriel's feet with a barely constrained look of disgust. The young drow lay unmoving on the floor, his face utterly slack and far more innocent than any dark elf's face had a right to look.
Crouching low, Kimmuriel casually took the macabre, yet beautiful, ornament and tucked it inside the boy's collar. His crimson eyes flashed, but betrayed little more than his ire at having the assassin so close. Dismissing the brief wordless encounter, Kimmuriel took hold of Jaka's jaw and turned his face up. He noted crusted blood around the lad's nose and at the corners of his mouth. "What is this?" His face was clear of emotion; only natural condescension inflected his attractive voice.
"Some call it blood." Entreri replied, his answer every bit as unhelpful and annoying as it could be.
Kimmuriel chose to ignore the assassin's remark as if his question had been answered by the soft breeze. He continued to observe Jaka's face and placed his free hand over the lad's forehead and concentrated. Unlike Jaka, who closed his eyes in order to center himself, Kimmuriel was far more experienced and delved into the other's complex mind with his red eyes open. Several moments passed as he explored the lad's mind and a myriad of expressions passed over the normally impassive drow's face. Astonishment, intrigue, bitterness, and a hint of resignation chased across his handsome features as they watched. Unconsciously, the mysterious drow's hand smoothed up from the boy's jaw to the youthful curve of his cheek.
"Jakadirek will be of no further use on this expedition," he pronounced, eyes glazed as he continued to probe the fallen drow's mind. "Whatever attacked him barreled through his defenses in swift order; no small feat considering the boy's training. It tracked back through his thought patterns and memories, directly to the weakness in his mind. It exploited that weakness and drained him of all his mental reserves in the process."
Kimmuriel's head raised and turned vaguely in Jarlaxle's direction, but his eyes remained glassy, indication enough that his consciousness remained divided. He spoke, remaining in Drow, with strict authority. "Whatever did this is exceptionally accurate. It took me hours to discern Jaka's problem even with free access to his mind. The damage may very well be beyond my ability. It is likely I will have to look outside Menzoberranzan to contract one of our i haszakkin /i allies in order to fix the damage. Agrach Dyrr will be a problem."
"Your problem," Entreri shrugged mercilessly, satisfied he wouldn't have to deal with one of the alien illithids himself. Now that both Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel had brought the tentacle-faced creatures up, it occurred to the man that Vritra reminded him strongly of illithids. If it didn't mean losing his prized gauntlet, he felt it would not be such a bad thing to sever Casteja's hand and drop it in acid.
Red eyes sharpened immediately at the assassin's words and bore into the man with intensity anyone else would find alarming. "How your language skills have improved. But still, they lack; shall I take the conversation to the perfect level of pure thought?"
Entreri stared back at the hated dark elf with similar intensity, his hand drifting casually to the hilt of his famed dagger. "Only if you want to take things a step further to a spiritual level."
Amused laughter broke the growing tension and both males turned their heated gazes to the source. Jarlaxle stood within the strained situation with grace and poise, as if it were all a show staged specifically for his amusement.
"My friends, please constrain yourselves," he smiled, though the slightest hint of iron ran through the undercurrent of his pleasant tones. He waded forward, effectively waving away a cloud of gnats with his great purple hat. "If young Master Dyrr's time with us is complete, then we must consider compensation for his valuable assistance."
The assassin was disappointed to lose the young psionicist; if Vektch managed to remove the glove before they got rid of him, there would be no be nothing to distract Vritra from doing whatever it had done to him while he'd fought to neutralize it.
Jarlaxle paused beside Entreri, placed his hat back on his head with a flourish and then held his hand out politely before the man. Rolling his eyes, the assassin slipped a hand into a mud caked pouch and produced an equally muddy object. The item dropped into Jarlaxle's waiting palm. With great dignity, the mercenary stuck his hand into the portal and transferred the item to Kimmuriel's graceful and spotless hand. "You will need this."
A look of disgust hovered at the corners of the psionicist's expression. "Please tell me this is not the Agarach Dyrr insignia."
"None other," Jarlaxle nodded gravely. "I would hate for you to return the boy without it. It may need a little cleaning."
"I hardly call this compensation," Kimmuriel said, looking at the chip of mud doubtfully. He shot a venomous look at Entreri. "You have nothing else of his?"
The assassin snorted in reply.
"Compensation," Jarlaxle continued, as if there was not another confrontation brewing, "will be paid just as soon as the mission the boy aided in has reached fulfillment. In other words," the male jerked a ring bedecked thumb at their patiently amused prisoner, "just as soon as we hand him over in the coastal fortress at the heart of a city known as Arrabar."
A vague smile met Jarlaxle's pronouncement. Entreri noted the look with a spike of anger; obviously Kimmuriel knew something of what his infuriating partner was up to. He pushed down the anger and bit his tongue, mindful to take as much from the exchange as possible.
"If you would like," Kimmuriel offered, "I could open a portal directly into the city. However, I would need time and a small amount of aid to do so."
A sly grin spread across Jarlaxle's face. "I would like nothing better." Switching suddenly to the common tongue, the mercenary looked directly at Casteja. "When is the last time you were in Arrabar?"
The question had the unlikely affect of surprising the man somewhat. That surprise swiftly melted into suspicion. "Not recently."
"Recently is such a relative term! How long? Years, months…" the male's visible eye glittered in wicked amusement. "Weeks?"
"Years," Casteja stated, with the conviction of a man whose answer bears more weight than it should. The significance of the delivery was not lost on Entreri who knew the hallmarks of a lie inside and out. The thing of real interest was why the man had been in Arrabar recently?
Raised in a culture built on lies and experts in every version falsehood, Kimmuriel and Jarlaxle observed Casteja with growing smugness. Entreri shook his head at the predatory looks the dark elves were fixing on the stubborn man. "Vektch, I suggest you do not play games with drow when you are in a position of helplessness."
Slow deliberation characterized Casteja's attitude as he brought up his chin, easily placing it above all three of his opponents' eyes. He looked down at them with calm, yet slighly mad defiance. "I am no easy mark."
"Prideful," Kimmuriel remarked in surprisingly clear Common, unimpressed by defiance or madness. "But not if peel his mind."
The human smirked, the smile was on his lips but made no appearance in his eyes at all. The challenge was clear.
Jarlaxle raised a placating hand, speaking in drow again. "No, he carries the item, rather the creature, that reduced Jaka to the state you witnessed."
Kimmuriel's brow furrowed immediately, causing Entreri to wonder when he had ever seen the psionicist behave with such open emotion. "He has it still? Then how…?" And then the male nodded in understanding, his eyes darting to Entreri's bare right hand and then Casteja's covered left arm. "Clever. But in that case, it does not matter how recently he was in the city; I can't lift the layout from his mind. I will need to research it before I can open a portal to hasten your travel."
As an afterthought, the cunning dark elf and acting leader of Bregan D'aerthe added, "Though I am sure that he must have a very interesting reason for going to his enemy's city on the sly. Do you suppose that somebody within that city is helping to fund his military action out here?"
"That, my dear Kimmuriel," Jarlaxle replied with a chuckle, "is probably why our friend remains so prideful. He thinks he has an ally with a few tricks back in the city. Of course, on the other hand, he might just be the delightful type of person that ever sees the opportunity for amusement in any given situation."
The pronouncement, obviously nothing more than preening, joined Entreri and Kimmuriel long enough to hit Jarlaxle with twin stares of pure disgust. The expressions nearly bent Jarlaxle double in a hearty laugh that only increased the sourness in both faces. Wiping moisture from the corner of his uncovered eye, Jarlaxle straightened up when Kimmuriel began to speak again.
"Call me in a few hours— on dry land," the dark elf narrowed his gaze on the human assassin, "and I will open a portal. That should give me time to stabilize Jaka's mind and find the city you seek."
Nodding his agreement, Jarlaxle added, "Good luck with House Agrach Dyrr."
"And you should consider a bath," Kimmuriel replied icily, his lip twitching toward a sneer as he leaned over to pick up the motionless youth. He ignored the ridiculous encouragement from the male he continued to think of as his superior officer. The dimension door closed instantly, opening the view back up to the shining moon and leaving them alone in the water.
"The joy of having my mind peeled is denied me?" Casteja asked wryly. The man did not seem concerned or overly anxious that he hadn't understood even a quarter of the conversation.
"I'm sure you already know about that," Entreri snorted, thinking back to what little he could remember of Vritra's attack; what he did recall wasn't anything he wanted to share. "Little wonder a dark elf wishing to vivisect your mind does not illicit any traces of fear."
By way of acknowledgement, Casteja shrugged his broad shoulders. "I fail to see why I should so fear the evil of black-skinned elves. They can be no worse than a wood elf with a wicked bent."
Entreri's expression, carefully schooled into a mask of near boredom, gave away none of the surprise he was feeling. A subtle glance toward Jarlaxle revealed the slightest hint of intrigue on his black-skinned features. Casteja could have said nothing more bizarre if he had tried. Rumors and speculation, especially in a country as homogenous as Chondath, had to be rampant about the outrageous evil dark elves engendered. An evil so virulent that rumors barely began to scratch the surface of the deep rooted wickedness they embraced.
"Forget whatever you've heard of Do'Urden," Entreri commented, gesturing for Casteja to begin walking again. "He's the only drow I know of that presents himself as a champion of whatever he calls goodness. If the boy you carried softened your heart, consider that he thinks of all living creatures as skin-bearing animals; including his own kind."
The man shrugged, but began to walk through the marsh in front of Entreri. "Speaking in absolutes is a fool's occupation."
"And where did you get such a notion, friend Casteja?" Jarlaxle quickly fell into step ahead of Entreri, at their prisoner's right side. The assassin wondered if this was half to protect the man from the possible insult. Entreri suffered few people to call him fool. "I've never heard a Chondathan speak about matters of philosophy."
"You know as well as I that I am no son of Chondath," Casteja replied casually, a knowing look on his calm features.
"Ah, you see, now you've opened yourself up for sensitive inquiries," the dark elf smiled, his expression a caricature of speculation. "What country claims you as son? Not Sespech, surely."
"Surely not," the man replied, no hint of offense in his voice but a knowing look in his intelligent gaze. "No country claims me as its own at this time but Chondath."
"Outcast?" The mercenary inquired, his delight obvious as their captive proved more intriguing. Entreri rolled his eyes but said nothing; it seemed the irrepressible Jarlaxle had found himself another opportunity to amuse himself despite the wretchedness of his surroundings.
"No," Casteja said, this time turning to look at the dark elf as he replied. Entreri groaned internally at the sly look in the man's expression; their captive was enjoying the game just as much as his captor. The assassin shook his head slightly, certain that he had somehow wandered into one of the upper layers of hell.
"Then where would a man such as you receive a philosophical education?" the dark elf continued, completely at ease with the ins and outs of the game they were playing.
"My father was a professor," Casteja admitted, prompting another openly intrigued expression from Jarlaxle.
"He taught philosophy?"
"And natural science."
"And natural science… and who taught you of war?"
"My mother," the man replied with a laugh. "She was a fierce woman. In a land where women were considered ill-suited for war, she thrived as the brightest star on a war torn horizon."
Totally uninterested in the man's past even though the man had referred to his country in obvious past tense, Entreri began to unconsciously drift away from the conversation. He had his own internal situation to settle and external situation to consider. He wasn't sure how to gauge if his mind was suffering from Vritra's baffling attack. The best plan, he decided, was to ask Kimmuriel more details about what happened to Jaka when Jarlaxle summoned him next.
The only symptoms of attack Entreri had an easy grasp on were physical conditions. He was terribly drained, without much energy, and his head ached badly. Internally, he was having a difficult time focusing his thoughts. Not one for introspection or bouts of ennui, Entreri knew the frequent periods of vacant staring where not normal. Using his weapons helped focus his concentration and channel his discipline, but he could not go through those motions constantly. If the situation persisted, he knew he would have no choice but to involve Jarlaxle and that would result in hated Kimmuriel examining his mind. The situation almost made insanity appetizing.
It was a question he would have to settle before Kimmuriel opened a portal to Arrabar, because in his continued pettiness, Entreri had decided not to mention that they could not actually take Casteja through a portal.
Kimmuriel operated under the assumption that Entreri could walk through one of his portals while wearing the red stitched glove. This assumption came as the result of a con Entreri had played back when the psionicist was allied with the cleric-priest Rai'gy.
The two had believed Entreri's magic and psionic dispelling gauntlet would not allow him to walk through a portal while he was wearing it. To their astonishment, Entreri had done exactly that, but unknown to them, he had worn a fake gauntlet Dwahvel Tiggerwillies had prepared for him. Kimmuriel obviously had not discerned the truth of the glove in the meantime and Entreri, who would always hold a grudge against insults and attempted murder, had no problem letting the dark elf prepare extensively for a trip that simply wouldn't happen. Best to inquire about Jaka's condition and possibly get his mind looked at before the dark elf discovered his petty treachery.
"No, I shouldn't imagine she would have enjoyed being born a dark elf."
The dark eyed assassin narrowed his eyes as the conversation began to permeate his consciousness again. Normally he could have listened and thought about his situation at the same time, complicated as it was, but his concentration continued to suffer.
"Most drow don't enjoy being born drow," Jarlaxle was saying in a sage voice, "That Drizzt Do'Urden you've heard about spends most of his time denouncing the evil of the society that birthed him. No, most drow are not happy with their lot in life and that is part of what drives them."
"I think my mother enjoyed being a woman in a society dominated by men," Casteja mused, "and would have preferred being male if she'd been born in yours. She was very contrary and loved most sorts of confrontation. She enjoyed the scandal that erupted when she came to my father's house to give birth. According to rumor, which fast became legend, she threw open the front doors at an ungodly hour, barged into my father's living quarters, kicked him and his wife out and held the rooms by virtue of her blade until she was done birthing."
Jarlaxle chuckled heartily at the description. "Sweet Lolth, you've an origin to match the legend of your military exploits. It is unfortunate that with so many losses in your upper organization General Ashrei has finally defeated you."
Casteja shook his head, the hard gray tendrils of his muddy hair rasping against his stiff shirt. "She hasn't won at all. I structured this movement carefully. Each of the different divisions is networked and capable of independent movement. Just because the divisions I put together to help the rice farmers have been decapitated by removing their leaders, doesn't mean they won't melt back into all those other divisions. They don't need me, though they are better off with my direction and leadership. The military action will continue, but it will take longer."
It seemed to Entreri that when Jarlaxle looked at their prisoner after his denial of losing the war, the mercenary seemed to have the greedy expression that came to his eyes when obscure magic items were waved under his nose. "I've half a mind to keep you for myself. If I agreed not to take you to Arrabar, would you be willing to teach me your style of warfare?"
"You better come up with my half of the bounty if you plan to keep him," Entreri shot at Jarlaxle. "I didn't take a head full just to suit your sense of greed."
The taller man looked over his shoulder at the assassin shadowing him in the moonlight, but answered Jarlaxle all the same. "Have you an army to command?"
The dark elf's answering grin was shining white in the late night gloom. "Why? Do I have a commanding air about me?"
The man snorted softly, his eyes narrowing to set off grudging respect. "Perhaps you do. There is a certain familiarity about you. Have I met you under some disguise?"
Recalling earlier suspicions, Entreri's gaze instantly shot to Jarlaxle's sly face to see what sort of reaction the drow had to the sudden claim. He was intrigued to see the drow's previous smile stretch thin and his visible eye gleam, but it was not quite the expression the assassin expected. From the years of their acquaintance when Jarlaxle was leader of Bregan D'aerthe and months of traveling together he knew that gleam. Somehow, Casteja had freely given the cagey dark elf a tidbit of information Jarlaxle wanted.
"It seems doubtful," the dark elf replied, frustrating both men with his elusive answer.
"If you have an army to command," Casteja continued, seeking to minimize the mysterious loss he felt he had inexplicably incurred, "perhaps we could reach an agreement."
"You would easily give up on Chondath?" Entreri looked as dubious as his statement. "Do you expect to lose?"
"I won five years ago," the man shrugged.
Both Jarlaxle and Entreri snorted at the statement, though Jarlaxle's derision was much less potent. The offhand manner in which Casteja pronounced himself the victor sounded convincing, if grossly over confident.
"If victory sounds so unbelievable, then we've nothing more to discuss concerning my freedom." The man was utterly confident in his ability and with that confidence and the interest in commanding a different army, Entreri suddenly made a surprising conclusion.
"You're a mercenary."
"Like his mother," Jarlaxle chimed in, showing Entreri that the drow had figured it out long before him.
Casteja's shrug confirmed the statement more firmly than any agreement or denial would. "Not like my mother; she was a brutal fighter with a penchant for penning poetry with the tip of her sword. I'm more of a tactician and planner."
"Who hired you to fight in Chondath?" The question couldn't have been more blunt if Entreri had pasted it to a club and beat the man with it.
"Somebody in Arrabar," Jarlaxle chuckled, "if I'm to guess."
The man gave no answer to Entreri and no indication if Jarlaxle's guess was true. His expression turned grim as he changed the subject to one Jarlaxle had wanted to avoid. "What happened to Tan?"
The light hearted mood Jarlaxle had skillfully engendered was wiped out immediately, leaving the dark elf with no more free information. "I had hoped to spare him."
Entreri knew the full truth of Jarlaxle's statement. Before collecting Entreri's belongings and Jaka's comatose body, the mercenary had returned to the shrine and finished off all the survivors. Tan had already died, but three of the six soldiers were gravely wounded or otherwise still kicking. The assassin remained unmoved by death, he also remained exhausted from the ordeal with Vritra and not a little worn out by the late hour.
Not five years ago, staying awake and active for more than twenty-four hours hardly phased him. After roughly four decades of life, Entreri was disgusted to learn he needed more time more often to recover from his daily expenditures of energy.
Unaffected by the tension Casteja's question had brought on, the assassin preempted Jarlaxle's continued conversation by cutting in just as the male's mouth opened to speak. "I need rest."
Jarlaxle reacted with guarded surprise, shutting his mouth abruptly. Entreri had spoken in Drow, in order to keep their prisoner unaware of his condition, but the mercenary did not mistake the significance of the statement. "If we head for the tree line, will we not find dry ground? Let's go that way. It isn't like you to admit weakness; did you stop me before the orb was done healing you?"
"No," Entreri replied stiffly. "You said it yourself, the orb cannot heal a mind. I have a headache that would split a mountain."
The dark elf decided not to press the issue, for all he wanted to know what his partner had experienced when Vritra had attacked him. He knew the assassin wouldn't be forthcoming on that topic, which was fine since Kimmuriel would undoubtedly be taking a look into Jaka's mind at what he might have suffered instead. "Very well, when we get out of the rice field, I'll volunteer to take first watch. He's definitely too tired to try to make an escape tonight."
"That makes two of us," Entreri admitted. "I'm going to sleep in this dirt."
A small laugh was his reply. "I also, but only because these tedious insects can't penetrate the muck."