Iceheart Firesoul: Made up for lost time, didn't you? Thanks for the reviews. Entreri wasn't familiar with Casteja's fighting style because it is basically a form of boxing and from a country he has no experience with.
zdog84: More, as requested.
Ariel: And you can't have muddy Entreri without… shirtless Entreri. This chapter is a rollercoaster of highs and lows for Entreri.
hakatri: This is something of a continuation of last chapter, so more bickering from everyone.
Witchwolf: I hate to admit it, but I'm quite fond of Casteja, too. There's more to love soon. And more Kim abuse.

A/N: Rezuri has gifted this fic with an incredible illustration (that I just got in the mail today) from the second chapter. I have linked her on my profile page, where I usually place all my updates. Follow the link and check out her gallery at Lavender Eyes: you can comment without a membership, so let her know what you think.

If you want more Jaka, I've reposted wasting potential on ff dot net. Second chapter is all new material. Ah, and congratulations to all of you that got the random quiz right. Your answer is in this chapter. Most of you got it.

"Moving, like water
Moving, drifting on the wind
Drifter coming in
Then I dreamt that I awoke
and all around was asleep
with eyes in the back of my head
awake to who is following."
Siouxsie & the Banshees, Drifter

hangover

Entreri's scant hours of sleep were uninterrupted by dreams; a common enough occurrence. Uncommon was the method in which he awoke. He had no idea how long the warmth from a light hand on his shoulder had been soaking through his cloak and into his skin. Any amount of time, in his estimation, was much too long.

Instantly awake, but slow to react, Entreri's right hand flew up to knock the offending grip away. Even in his waking moments, wretched as this one was, the assassin was blindingly fast, but the light touch managed to retreat before contact could be made. Looking up from his cowl, Entreri's dark eyes met a one-eyed look from Jarlaxle.

The dark elf's expression was guarded, but enough concern was evident to turn Entreri's mood far darker. They both knew it was passing strange that the assassin would sleep through any approach.

"Your sleep was quite deep," Jarlaxle said in all seriousness. He dropped down into a crouch before his traveling partner and looked the man's face over. Underneath the traces of dried black blood, underneath the crusted and powdering mud, he saw bone-deep weariness. "I know you have good reason to hate Kimmuriel, but he is the only source of aid we have in this matter."

Hating his weakness more than Kimmuriel, Entreri threw off his cloak violently and stood up over Jarlaxle in the cool night air. "When do you expect the wretch?"

It was the dead of the night, but it wasn't too dark to see exasperation register on the drow's angular black-skinned face. "Before long. If you wish to clean up, you have a limited amount of time. Casteja has fallen into fitful sleep, but even if he were awake I could watch him by myself. The rice fields are not full of the cleanest water, but they are all we have for the moment."

Nodding stiffly more to himself than Jarlaxle, Entreri left his cloak in the grass, but picked up his travel pack. "I don't need long."

As Jarlaxle stood up, the laconic assassin walked away, heading away from the tree line and toward the rice field they had waded out of only a few hours prior. Gauging the distance the moon had moved since he'd fallen asleep, Entreri realized he'd picked up almost three full hours of sleep. He snorted quietly; normally he would feel more refreshed in half the time. The lag was not so much his age, he mused, but the affect of Vritra's attack.

Arriving at the water's edge, he dropped the pack onto the ground among blades of grass adorned in dimly sparkling night dew. Visibility in the area was poor as the chill night air coaxed mist from the warm water and ground. Only a few fireflies remained in flight and they were transformed into eerie balls of light not unlike will-o-wisps. Looking over his shoulder, not even his enhanced sight could penetrate the gauzy veils of fog and reveal Jarlaxle's location.

He didn't require privacy; Entreri had no reason to place any cultural importance in modesty despite Calimshan's strict mores and norms. The body, human, elven, halfling or dwarven, held no mysteries to a killer. An overdeveloped sense of caution kept him from stripping down completely to wash himself off; that was a task he would perform when he and Jarlaxle could guard each other's backs or they found secure lodgings.

Listening closely to peeping frogs and chirping crickets, Entreri pulled off his newly one-sleeved shirt and the undershirt beneath it. He knelt at the edge of the rice feild and dipped half the hand towel from his pack into the water. Entreri brought it up to his face, but was careful not to eclipse his dark eyes as he started to remove what remained of the dirt and blood.

The smell of wet grass and earth went farther to calm his mind than the thought of cleaning off some of the grime and blood. His thoughts were far more organized than before he slept. Still, it was normally an effortless task to stay alert for danger, wash, and consider the current and up-coming implications of whatever he was doing. As he ran the cloth over his face and scrubbed at his neck, he could feel an uncomfortable sort of mental tautness when he tried to fall into routine multitasking.

A stubborn man, Entreri stayed alert and willed himself to continue the motions of soaking, wringing out the cloth and rubbing it across his skin, while concentrating on what he could recall of the conversation Jarlaxle had had with Casteja. It irritated him that everything seemed vague and the things that seemed unimportant were the first to surface. The man's mother was a mercenary with a wild streak. It sounded like his country no longer existed, along with said mother. Casteja was actually a mercenary and knew someone in Arrabar, somebody that could be the very person that hired him to start a popular insurgency.

The last bit bothered Entreri; it rang discordant in his mind. When he dissected the thought it fell into several jangling pieces. Human mercenaries were not the patient sort, why would Casteja, who looked to be in his early thirties, waste two years developing the stage for an insurgency that was now in its fifth? Jarlaxle had mentioned that he thought the man had overcome human impatience, but that was before they knew he was a mercenary. Was this because Vritra prolonged the man's life? He supposed the prospective reward had to be astronomical and reliable. But then, why would the mercenary they met on Iljak's dock have mentioned Casteja's earlier penchant for robbing caravans? Was he just a petty bandit back then? Why would he need the money if he had funding? Unless he wasn't hired yet or the reward was to be paid on delivery of the nation?

Then there was the matter of Casteja's mysterious nationality. He was not Chondathan, in fact, he made few attempts to speak like one. The sort of speech patterns he employed reminded Entreri of a cultured speaker and validated the claim that his father was a professional philosopher. Chondath certainly wasn't big on philosophy, though it was quite big on mercenaries. If he was not Chondathan and if his past wasn't known in the country, why would anyone hire him for such an important mission?

Unless the person was likewise not a local. The two foreigners in Arrabar that Entreri knew of were General Ashrei, said to be from Ixinos, and the wizard from Thay she had used against Casteja while his troops couldn't retreat into Chondalwood. He found Ashrei unlikely, for Casteja had been in the fight before she had come into it. Furthermore, from what the sailors said on the way to Iljak, the women of Ixinos wanted nothing to do with the world outside their island, aside from the occasional male in order to produce offspring. It was just hearsay, but if Ashrei really was from Ixinos, she was probably every bit as mercenary as Casteja.

The wizards of Thay were another matter altogether. Entreri wasn't one to trust propaganda, but all he had was Casteja's leaflets to go by when it came to the timeline of the Thayan entry to Chondath. It seemed more likely that they would be interested in creating unrest in the area to keep countries like Sespech diverted from sending their mercenaries to Thay to free the slaves the wizards kept under lock and key. As if neighboring countries didn't have enough trouble with Chondathan nobles raiding outside their borders.

Then there was the matter of recognition Casteja had given voice. The man found Jarlaxle vaguely familiar. Was it because he had met a dark elf somewhere? He didn't seem convinced that all drow were evil, so there was an off chance he'd met some extremely rare goodly drow. That thought led Entreri to the moment the man had ordered his men to attack. Had Jarlaxle's use of hand code given them away? If that was the case, he gave absolutely no sign that he understood the spoken language. The assassin found it hard to believe neither he, Jarlaxle, or Kimmuriel would have missed any sign of that possibility. Perhaps Vritra had plucked their intentions from Jaka's mind instead; it was more likely.

Entreri was momentarily jerked from his thoughts by the fog-muffled report of an open palm striking black skin. He smirked slightly and wondered if Casteja had been schooled in natural sciences by his father. Perhaps he had a cure for the insect problem. Pausing, he also noticed he had been stubbornly rubbing away at his shoulder for nearly a minute. Not a good sign, he mused.

Putting the thoughts out of his head, he continued to crouch over the water. Trading hands only once, he passed the wet cloth over his chest and stomach, finishing up with a two-handed scrub at his face. He hung the cloth over his neck and leaned forward to catch a glance at his vague reflection in the dimly moonlit water. He looked much better, but he still felt the dried spikes of mud in his hair. Too adept to require bracing himself on the bank with one hand, Entreri reached back with the other and scratched vigorously at the back of his head: powdering the mud as completely as possible.

And was shocked to discover himself off balance. Hands a blur, the assassin threw his arms out to steady himself while he made a subtle shift of weight to consolidate his weight. More astonishing than losing his balance was his overcompensation for the oversight.

It was a dripping wet Entreri that came stalking toward the impromptu camp. To his further irritation, Kimmuriel had already made his appearance. He heard Jarlaxle and the psionicist before he saw them through the thick fog.

"That shouldn't complicate matters," Kimmuriel was saying, "but it is interesting to know. By the way, I must thank you for introducing mosquitoes into our headquarters and the human for providing all the standing water in my study. Did you know these insects can gestate in a matter of… hours?"

"My, that does sound bad," Jarlaxle was laughing. "Does this mean your study is under quarantine?"

"Why do you think I am speaking to you from the unlit confines of my bedroom; as some form of enticement?"

"As the leader of Bregan D'aerthe, you can afford a much larger bed! Think big, Kimmuriel. How will the soldiers be able to respect you if you don't have enough room on your bed for all the lovers your position and power bring you? Truly, after a week of hard packed or muddy earth as my bed, I find the sight intensely enticing, though the bed might be a bit crowded. Artemis would probably volunteer to sleep on one of your carpets."

Entreri came through the mist, a disgusted look on his face. Kimmuriel smiled in amusement as the man walked dripping past. "Of the lot of you, I think the assassin is the cleanest, but even he isn't coming into this portal."

Jarlaxle turned to regard Entreri, giving the man a questioning look as soon as his face was diverted from Kimmuriel's view. In answer the assassin said nothing, only picked up his travel worn cloak and began using it as a towel. As he dried off he took note that Casteja was no longer asleep. He was sitting against a maple, free hand traveling up and down his left forearm in the same way Entreri had seen Pasha Pook pet his big cats. Every now and again, the man would flinch slightly, as if in pain, but kept his focus on the dark elves.

Sighing, the assassin turned his attention back to the two drow that had jumped into discussing points of interest in Arrabar. "You are most welcome."

Both dark elves again paused, but Jarlaxle caught the reference first and snickered. "For the standing water in your study."

Kimmuriel ignored the remark completely. "I've located an inn for the three of you. It was no easy thing to reserve a room for three people at this time of night, I assure you. Even more challenging was finding one that didn't ask questions of hooded figures. In the end, I managed to do a little convincing."

"Did you do anything about entertainment?" Jarlaxle asked, stretching mightily, sending a cloud of dusty mud to drift from his black skin and clothes. "I'm going to need a good masseuse before we charge up to that fortress with our valuable prisoner."

"You'll need a bath more," Kimmuriel shot.

Entreri didn't pay attention to the two, looking instead for a way to broach the topic he wanted to talk about. He thought a moment about Casteja's flinching, perhaps Vritra could move under his skin without using psionics. That was a possible opening. Glancing past Kimmuriel, he saw a better opening he didn't expect to see.

Laying listlessly on a bed against the far wall of Kimmuriel's quarters was Jaka Mi'iduor. The boy was flat on his back, his eyes were half-lidded and his arms had fled the black and beige sheets to weave in the air. His fingers danced along an invisible loom, weaving patterns into a tapestry only a psionicist could see.

"What is he weaving?" Entreri asked, bringing both dark elves' attention back to him. Kimmuriel's crimson eyes narrowed in suspicion at the unexpected query.

"The beauty would be lost on you," the psionicist stated. "He has been set on weaving the damaged web of his mind. It was the best analogy for one of his skills."

"How long will it take him?" Entreri continued.

Kimmuriel's expression did not deviate from suspicion, in fact the look intensified. "The better part of a day, if he is not interrupted."

The better part of a day was not what the assassin wanted to hear, since he was trying to gauge his recovery time by Jaka's. Entreri had seen weaving before, but it wouldn't do him any good in the same situation. "Did you get the aid of an illithid?"

Dark red eyes glanced at Jarlaxle in question. Entreri could understand Kimmuriel's confusion; he did not know Entreri as one to express any sort of concern. Jarlaxle's answering shrug prompted the psionicist to reply. "Yes. You might say he provided the loom, found the threads, and helped Jakadirek start the weave."

"What kind of damage did he take for this to be necessary?" The assassin continued to question, face as bland and emotionless as ever.

"The creature tunneled through his mind and memories," Kimmuriel stated coldly. "It drained all his reserves as it went back, exploiting memories and gathering clues to ultimately break the boy's mind. I believe Jarlaxle's eye patch saved him from complete burn out."

It all sounded too familiar to Entreri and though he was a master at subterfuge, Kimmuriel was just as masterful at guessing motives. "I see. I thought you were more offensive than usual."

Jarlaxle looked at Entreri with what most would consider concern, but the unfamiliar expression only made the assassin paranoid. "It only had you for a few seconds, it had Jaka for at least a full minute. How far did it get?"

The sudden clenching of teeth and the strain of muscle along the assassin's jaw told the dark elf mercenary far more than a verbal report. It had gone far indeed, or the stubborn man would never have chanced bringing the attack up. Jarlaxle wondered, not for the first time, what a man possessed of such darkness and determination could have to hide?

"It affects you even now," Kimmuriel murmured thoughtfully. He too, knew the assassin would not question the issue unless he had something to worry about. "Since you are, by no measure, possessed of psionic talent there is little to fear. This Vritra attacks divinity and devours the psionic. As Jaka is both devoted and psionic, he had much more to lose than a man with a dead mind and no religion."

With the authority his knowledge and experience afforded him, Kimmuriel looked to Jarlaxle. "The human needs rest; his years are getting faster and after an attack from that thing even a young man would need considerable time to recover."

Jarlaxle took the advice to heart even as Entreri fumed at the condescending treatment. "I'll see he stays in our room until tonight, barring a trip to the baths."

With no more need to keep his silence, Entreri shook his head casually. He was more than happy to burst both dark elves' bubbles. "No matter how nice it sounds, we won't be staying the night in a tavern tonight."

Two faces of blackness and shadow fixed red-eyed gazes on the human after his surprising statement. The drow did an impressive job of looking blank, if long suffering. "Aren't you?" Kimmuriel asked quietly.

"Aren't we?" Jarlaxle echoed, voice betraying just a touch of annoyance and the weariness he felt threaded through his bones.

"No," Entreri replied, enjoying the many attempts Kimmuriel was making to sublimate his irritation. "You have my deepest thanks for all your efforts, Kimmuriel, but we cannot use your portal."

"You can," the psionicist snorted, "but refuse."

"True," Entreri nodded, gaining a look of open shock from Jarlaxle. "Jarlaxle and I can, but we'll refuse on the grounds that our prisoner cannot."

"He can't?" Kimmuriel echoed.

From the side Jarlaxle mouthed the same, He can't? His confused expression only lasted a moment, but it was enough to amuse the assassin.

"No, not while he wears my gauntlet," Entreri remarked flatly.

"You've worn that thing through my portals before," Kimmuriel scoffed, waving a hand in dismissal. "What has changed since then?"

"The fact that this gauntlet isn't a fake," the assassin smirked, enjoying the psionicist's reaction.

Kimmuriel's white-haired head drew back at a tilt as if the human he was looking at had suddenly sprouted another head that was espousing charity and goodwill. "Fake?"

Again the psionicist looked to Jarlaxle for verification, but the wily mercenary wasn't looking Kimmuriel's way at all. He was studying the assassin with avid curiosity. "The notice did read that he did not have to be in one piece. In fact, it read that he did not have to arrive with the sword. Why, it even said there would be no questions asked, though I find that the least likely sentence of all."

"Indeed," answered Kimmuriel, who did not like to see his efforts and valuable time put to waste. "Cut off his hand and get rid of it."

Entreri flicked a look back at Casteja as Kimmuriel pronounced the casually cruel solution. The man showed no recognition of their speech, despite the civil discussion centering on the removal of his hand. Either the man did not care or he did not understand what they were saying. Entreri guessed the latter.

"I do not choose to lose my gauntlet," the assassin shrugged. "We will cross over to Sespech, where Chondathan troops, rebels, and bounty hunters won't be a problem. From there we'll make our way to Arrabar by boat, foot or horse."

Kimmuriel cast yet another glance at Jarlaxle and was incredulous to see the surprising dark elf nodding. "That's the way of it, then. Personally, I don't like the idea of throwing perfectly good magic items after bad. You'll have to put a hold on that room for us until we get there."

For a handful of seconds Kimmuriel only stared at Jarlaxle in disbelief and then he shot a venomous glare at the assassin and made a dismissive gesture with the wave of his slender hand. "If that's how you like it. I hope the reward for this man is worth all the trouble you're going through. Lolth knows, I'd never trust a human male or female to give a reward like that for one male."

"Humans are not drow," Jarlaxle replied as if that answered everything. "Even so, I'd sooner trust my own mother than a human politician. I'm sure an attempt to cheat us will be made, but Artemis and I are much too sly for tricks."

Kimmuriel raised an eyebrow as if to say he trusted only Jarlaxle to be that intelligent, but let the matter drop. "I won't be surprised if you both end up dead this time." He turned to Entreri to warn him to never waste his valuable time again on pain of mental evisceration, but was interrupted by a soft voice behind him.

"If you die," Jaka whispered hollowly, from a sitting position. He swung his thinly clad legs over the side of the bed; his bare feet hit the floor without a sound. The strange necklace slipped down his collar and swayed gently on his chest. It almost blended in with his skin but for a few gray scars underneath it. He stood, swaying slightly, and reverently pressed his left hand against the drow skin ornament with the silken tassel of ebony Ilchathmyr hair. "If you die, tell my mother I'm working—"

Whatever Jaka wanted them to tell his mother was kept in Menzoberranzan within the secretive confines of Kimmuriel Oblodra's room; the portal disappeared abruptly as the more experienced psionicist turned on his heel to presumably deal with the young male. For a split second Entreri had an unobstructed view of the Kimmuriel's back and then he was gazing into the murky depths of moon-kissed fog.

"Interesting place to keep one's mother," Entreri stated dryly, keeping to the dark elven language even though Kimmuriel was gone. There was no way he was going to give the insightful observation any more thought than necessary.

"In some Houses," Jarlaxle replied in an equally toneless voice, "Matron mothers pretend to care for their offspring in order to foster slavish bonds of loyalty. Lolth does not always approve of such behavior, because many of the offspring that result venerate their matrons more than their goddess."

"Kimmuriel has a soft spot; he gave me a clear shot at his back." The comment came with a careful lack of interest as both males stared absently at the shifting vapor around them.

"He's not like most," Jarlaxle admitted. "He was loyal to Rai'gy out of whatever passes for friendship in Menzoberranzan. Certainly they made an excellent team and had more to gain as allies than enemies, but there was something more I doubt either ever mentioned to the other. Kimmuriel has capacity for what drow consider luxury items: true loyalty and honest, if unspoken, friendship. Doesn't make him any less of a bastard, does it?"

There was an underlying sentiment to Jarlaxle's words that Entreri could appreciate, something that came with a feeling he couldn't quite name. Relief? Security? Whatever it was, the feeling was not directed at the departed psionicist, but the dark elf beside him. It took him longer than usual, but he understood that Jarlaxle was verbalizing his normal double-thinking. In this case, he was speaking about Kimmuriel and Rai'gy, but also about the surprising friendship between himself and the assassin.

Entreri wanted to simultaneously punch the maddening drow and… and he didn't know what. It was hard to define the uncomfortably benevolent feeling writhing in his chest. It felt dangerous and ugly, but also vaguely important. As an unknown, he wanted nothing more than to destroy it utterly.

"It doesn't make me want to kill him any less," the assassin finally shrugged. The feeling of overall diffusion remained with the human fighter. He didn't want to think about complicated introspection; it was making him uncomfortable within his own skin.

"Of course not," Jarlaxle smiled, clapping his hands together in quiet amusement. "But that's not really what's on my mind. I simply must learn your plan for getting us to Arrabar. It must be amazing for you to keep it such a secret and equally brilliant if I haven't figured it out yet."

Entreri swiveled his head to give the dark elf a squinting stare. "What do you mean? I already told you the plan."

Jarlaxle nearly slapped the man's shoulder in good nature, fortunately he stopped just short, his hand hovering inches away. The serious look in Entreri's eyes told him all he needed to know. "You don't have a plan."

"I told you my plan. We're going to travel through Sespech where he," Entreri gestured at their half-awake prisoner with a violent slash of his hand, "is not a wanted man and where Ashrei's troops won't be found."

The bald mercenary slapped a hand to his forehead and stared momentarily at Entreri. The assassin was certain the move had roots in disbelief rather than the sting of another mosquito. "I can scarcely believe you forgot. Do you not remember the day we escaped Crenshinibon? I against my will?"

"How could I forget?" Entreri snorted dismissively, "I had one of your daggers bleeding me dry. I have the scar to remind me daily."

"How did we get out of Crenshinibon and away from Kimmuriel and Rai'gy?" The dark elf's query held all the patience Entreri did not.

The assassin began to reply in acid vein, but stopped short, utterly speechless. They had fled through one of Kimmuriel's portals while Entreri had been wearing the red and black gauntlet. The real gauntlet, not the fake. Entreri was keenly aware that he had just done the unthinkable: he had outsmarted himself.

"You aren't thinking clearly," Jarlaxle said quietly, "and possibly aren't in complete control of your body, either. How did you come to fall into the water? No, Vritra affected you more than you're letting on. Kimmuriel was right that you need more rest."

Entreri wanted to deny the mercenary's accusations, but knew better than to try with all the evidence stacked against him. Mouth set in a grim line, the assassin rocked back on his heels with a low sigh; it was the only indication he was willing to give to show he would not argue the point. He had more than enough on his mind as it was and had no energy to waste on a debate with somebody of Jarlaxle's cunning.

"However," the dark elf shrugged, taking off his hat to wave away more blood-thirsty insects, "it works out better this way."

"Really." The assassin looked at the male dubiously, absently noting the way the fog swirled with the movement of Jarlaxle's obnoxious hat. "I'm waiting for the punch line."

"No joke," the dark elf returned, dropping the hat back onto his smooth scalp. "Our prisoner is an interesting man; a week together may not satisfy my curiosity, but it is better than a day or so."

Entreri's suspicious expression turned doubtful. "A week seems unlikely without horses. I think it would be better to look into taking the river to Arrabar after crossing into Sespech. Of course, the river might be problematic since it is used by both countries."

"Either way," the dark elf said, staring again into the fog, "time may not heal all things, but it should help this psychic injury of yours. I wouldn't like to meet the Shining Lord of Arrabar without the full partnership of Artemis Entreri."

With nothing to add to Jarlaxle's statement, Entreri made no move to respond. They stood quietly for a few more moments, both thinking over different complications that stood in the future. As they stood, the cacophony of birdsong began to filter through the fog and nighttime chill. The heralds of morning were rising and all three males knew the sun would follow before long.

-

Over the days that followed, Entreri saw and felt improvement in his physical and mental response times. Evading the Sespech border guard was no challenge for the two bounty hunters, despite the awkwardness traveling with Casteja presented. Taking the river became a problem when the small crew of the Sespech cargo boat recognized Casteja and opted to poach him from the bounty hunters. Jarlaxle and Entreri sustained few injuries commandeering the vessel, but ended up running it aground within hours on the Chondathan side of the river as the assassin and drow knew little about vessels much more complicated than a rowboat.

Only a few days outside Arrabar at that point, Entreri stole two horses from the first farmhouse they encountered and had little difficulty evading the inevitable pursuit. Common sense dictated they risk travel at night, with Casteja traded between them. The man was in better humor since his capture, but was increasingly taken with fruitless clawing at his covered arm. As Entreri suspected, Vritra was capable of moving underneath the man's skin without its psionic powers, at the price of incredible pain to the tactician.

Tampering with the covering prompted Entreri to rethink the design of his impromptu prison for the creature. With Jarlaxle's help, Entreri managed to keep the glove over the man's hand while removing the sleeve and decorative bracer. The sleeve was much more effective secured underneath the bracer, rather than over it. The operation also enabled the two to see that Vritra's tentacles had speared halfway to Casteja's elbow, but never pierced the skin. The skin immediately near the channels forced into the man's flesh was loose and flushed with black bruising. They rippled suggestively as the two looked on, causing their prisoner another round of cursing and thrashing. Neither Jarlaxle nor Entreri found the display particularly comforting.

All told, the trip to Arrabar took ten days, and would have taken less if they had opted to risk daytime travel. In order to minimize encountering problems with locals and travelers recognizing their cash cow, they had taken to brisk movement during night time hours.

The most annoying aspect of the first few days was Jarlaxle's incessant complaints concerning the boring nature of the journey along Chondath's back roads. Entreri was considering throwing away what bonds of friendship bound him in order to gut the male, until Casteja came to a semblance of rescue. In order to take his mind from the agony of a physical creature making a bloody soup under the skin of his left arm, the tactician began to tell Jarlaxle of the many virtues of the plant life they encountered on the way.

The lecture included a lesson on natural insect repellent easily employed by rubbing one's skin with a common herb. Entreri picked this tidbit up and tried it covertly when he saw it did not in fact poison his partner. More amusing was the discovery that their prisoner, the leader of a successful insurgency, a brilliant tactician, a man who preferred to fight with his bare fists… was also a talented field cook. He amused himself and Jarlaxle by teaching the dark elf the subtleties of outdoor cooking. Again, Entreri waited to make sure Jarlaxle was not poisoned before partaking of the fruits of the drow's amused labor.

When they finally saw the moonlit walls of Arrabar, Jarlaxle's complaints of boredom had completely dissipated and Entreri's mind had settled. There were memories he was trying to forget again, but they did not affect the steadiness of his hands when his blades were in his professional grip.

Standing with their horses on the outskirts of the road leading directly to the fortress city, Jarlaxle and Entreri studied the monolithic walls. The fortress rose menacingly from beyond with towers along the perimeter wall that revealed no immediate blind spots. It was a masterful edifice designed to withstand the most draconian siege.

"It's doable," Entreri remarked without a trace of concern. "You have your levitation and probably some form of invisibility and I can simply climb. The problem is our prisoner. He's heavier than either of us, but his ungainliness is the real issue."

Jarlaxle nodded sagely. "True. I think we should just bribe the guards."

"Of course," Entreri replied sarcastically, "they are probably holding the keys to the city for the first dark elf they meet."

The comment had Jarlaxle smothering laughter under his black hands. "Then I suppose Drizzt Do'Urden should come claim them if they're still available."

The assassin rolled his eyes. "That would be a difficult feat from the grave. Now, do you want to take our prisoner or shall I?"

The dark elf's moonlit smile was blinding in the darkness of his face. "Let's share the duty. After all, neither of us has a trusting nature; we can't trust the other not to go running up to the castle to claim the reward for ourselves."

"Can't we?" The assassin was hardly amused. "How would we go about sharing this burden?"

"You take one arm, I'll take the other," Jarlaxle began, "and we drag him to the front gate and bribe the guards."

"Do I have to bribe you to get a serious response," Entreri asked sarcastically. "Or do I just take him and get started?"

With a show of unnecessary graciousness, Jarlaxle turned to Casteja, who was staring at the city absently. "What do you say, friend Casteja? Front door or over the wall?"

The man had long since gotten used to Jarlaxle's eccentricities and was not surprised by the question. "If you take me to the gate you run the risk of losing your reward to the city guard. You don't have to trust me on this, but I've found the city guard to be remarkably resistant to persuasion. Their superiors are another matter, but the guard themselves are unswerving in their loyalty. You will not find any goodwill there; likely they'll see me as an instant promotion.

"But if they see you on the walls and shoot us down, I won't have a chance at becoming a political prisoner, I'll just be dead. Therefore, I prefer the direct approach."

"Well, there it is," Jarlaxle proclaimed, "you are outvoted, Master Entreri, by a full third of the assembly."

"Hardly," the assassin returned. "For one, the prisoner doesn't have any say in this matter. For two, I will never let something as petty as a show of hands have any control of my life. We're going over the wall."

"Rot," Casteja sighed. The taller man looked down at his bound wrists and the ingenious knots the assassin had tied there; he'd had no luck whatsoever in loosening them. "I find myself forced to remind you that, though I have been a model prisoner up to this point, I should now begin to be desperate to avoid entry to the city. This means, of course, that as you carry me up the wall I will feel it is my duty to struggle in the hope we fall. Dying alone isn't high on my agenda and I'm no longer disposed to make things easy on you."

Jarlaxle smiled at the man's statement. Not only did he enjoy the complicated phrasing of Casteja's reply, but he was arguing convincingly in favor of Jarlaxle's plan of action. "Well said, Master Vektch."

Entreri gave the tactician a level stare. "You'll do as I say or I'll start removing your fingers."

Casteja shrugged. "Threats are meaningless. I believe you would torture me, but I fail to care. I've endured far worse than mundane pain to my flesh."

The comment struck a nerve Entreri couldn't deny; callous threats were a knee-jerk reaction for the human fighter, but they had never made any sort of dent in his personal armor. More important was the implication of Casteja's claim to pain worse than physical torment; it reminded him instantly of Vritra's psychic attack. It seemed likely that Casteja had been through something of the same, perhaps when he gained the repulsive thing in the first place.

"I see another knot in the back of your head in the near future," the assassin snorted, unsheathing his life stealing dagger. "Moderate condition is free to interpretation."

To Casteja's guarded relief, Jarlaxle carefully placed a black hand on the emerald pommel of Entreri's signature blade and pushed it down toward its sheath. "If we do it my way, you have me to blame when everything goes wrong. We agreed to do this job for profit rather than fun, but I'm certain I've enough coin to bribe the gate. Let's not take chances on the wall. You may have had little trouble climbing over Baenre's fence with the lovely Catti-brie on your back, but Master Vektch is larger and less willing."

The assassin wasn't certain whether the sudden spike of anger that surged under his skin was due to Jarlaxle's attempt to get his way or the subtle innuendo concerning Drizzt Do'Urden's female companion. Either way, his teeth clamped together in annoyance and his jaw became very tight. The bald interest on their prisoner's face did nothing to improve Entreri's disposition.

"Fine," the assassin sneered, taking his stolen horse by the reins. "You bring him to the gate. I'll head up there first in case you need back up from behind their immediate lines."

Without looking back to see if Jarlaxle agreed, Entreri swung up into the saddle and headed straight for the city's front gate. He was seething as he rode, something that made the horse slightly skittish. More interested in the city and its high walls, Entreri gave little thought to the animal's behavior but focused on what he could see of the city. Despite his enhanced night vision, the assassin couldn't see much of the city or the fortress that resided within.

What he could see only reinforced the sense of his smallness in relation to the monstrously huge walls and thick gates. He didn't fancy Jarlaxle's chances of making it into the city were even remotely realistic. Not only was it dark out, but sight of the drow's equally dark skin would likely preface a bloody battle and a pursuit substantially more serious than what they'd seen from the farmer whose horses they were riding. The assassin was working through how they could take advantage of the confusion and get Casteja into the city. If nothing else, the assassin could slip into the city and wait for Kimmuriel to deliver Jarlaxle.

When he was close enough to see the city guard clearly, he slipped from the saddle and led his horse the rest of the way. He found the garrison heavily armed, armored, and defended by the typical contingent of crossbow men on the walls. All business, Entreri noted every possible militant and began to plan how to most efficiently kill and evade them all.

As usual, he was met sufficiently far from the gate and told that he would have to wait until morning to enter unless he could produce proof of urgent intent. The assassin began to explain in clipped tones that he didn't fancy the idea of spending another cold night sleeping in dirt, when Jarlaxle's horse came into easy range. He listened with half an ear to the usual citation of the rules of entering the city, which, of course, were mainly a precursor to the strong hint that Entreri would have to pay the requisite bribe to enter at night.

Entreri was much more interested in what the guards would make of Jarlaxle. Rather than continue listening to the soldier's recitation, the assassin simply reached back behind his cloak for his coin purse while telling the man to save them both time and just name the price. Meanwhile, his other hand was slipping over the hilt of Charon's Claw and Jarlaxle's loud jewelry and boots were turning up a racket as he hailed an Arrabar soldier for entry.

What happened next was unexpected enough that the assassin, who was prepared for every imaginable situation, was momentarily surprised. The soldier he was speaking with looked up at Jarlaxle and while the first expression that crossed his face was revulsion, the second one was recognition. It was the second expression that saved him from a hideous end at the hands of the incredulous assassin.

"Are you with the… black elf?" The guard asked, his eyes darting from Jarlaxle to the black haired man nowtied to the drow's saddle.

Letting gravity resheathe his partially drawn blade, Entreri's first and most logical instinct was to deny all association, but he quelled the urge and nodded. "You don't seem particularly surprised to see a drow at your doorstep."

"Of course not," the soldier snorted, his lip curling in distaste. "Times are strange; I've the order of the Shining Lord, Eles Wianar, to allow you entry."

Next chapter, things get a little crazy.