Lord Onisyr: Don't worry, Jaka will continue to get better despite the illithid doctor visit. I think you'll find Casteja even more interesting this time, despite relatively little 'screen time.'
hakatri: You shall soon learn what Jarlaxle did (or didn't do) in order to get into the city. You may want to murder him.
Iceheart Firesoul: Kim's not so bad; but he is fun to abuse, besides, he worries about his protégé. Glad you like Casteja; you never know, he might have already tried to get rid of Vritra.
Witchwolf: The cliffhanger is so severe this time, I'm afraid you'll e-mail bomb my google account. To placate you I added another line about cooking. Hey, and it was a struggle to pull the explanation about the gauntlet out of my ass. And speaking of asses; that was the first time they stole horses.
Ariel: Be patient with Jarlaxle; I promise it will be worth it even though we both want to kill him.
A/N: Welcome to the longest and most unintentionally delayed chapter yet. The cliffhanger is bad, but the next one might be worse. This chapter actually had beta-readers; Ariel and Rezuri helped make sure things weren't too confusing, despite receiving a very choppy draft. Ariel reported that she thought she'd have to read the whole story from the beginning to appreciate what happened in this one. Believe it or not, I started foreshadowing this chapter in the first one, so I encourage you to do some rereading. This was always intended to be read straight through like a novel, so it isn't as cohesive when you go weeks and even (sigh) months between chapters.
"Mommy, can I go out and kill tonight?
I feel, I feel like taking a life.
Please, I want a silver kitchen knife,
And feel, feel like taking a life."
-Golden Boy (featuring Miss Kittin), Rippin Kittin
the iconoclast
The ride to the inn was silent but for the clatter of hooves on cobblestones and a few whispered words from prostitutes of either gender looking to make a few more coins before midnight. Jarlaxle recognized the hush as the quiet before the storm. The assassin was on a level above most drow when it came to concealing or discarding emotion, but rage had always been an emotion Entreri suppressed with difficulty.
Riding beside the assassin, he noted the miniscule hints that portended agitation. There was the infrequent clenching of his jaw, the cold glint in his eyes, and the heightened grace at which Jarlaxle secretly marveled. When the assassin's easy grace became terrible to behold, it was because he was making a conscious effort to keep it smooth. It was the sort of dead giveaway that few lived to witness.
The most obvious clue, of course, was the one Entreri willingly made; the emerald-studded dagger was twirling, a disc of life stealing green and silver, seeming to hang in midair as the killer propelled it with one finger. There was no mistake, even the stiffened body language of the man tied to Jarlaxle's saddle communicated awareness, that the assassin contained a high level of murderous anger. Entreri was at the stage of anger that begged for an excuse to plant the dagger into some unfortunate's eye, where it might bloom from the grey matter contained in the crockery of a skull.
For once, Jarlaxle wasn't completely certain he could convince the man that the bizarre turn of events wasn't his doing. The situation was not as he had foreseen; during the trip to Arrabar he had secretly instructed Kimmuriel to implant a suggestion to make the soldiers bribable, not let them in on the orders of Eles Wianar. He made a note to speak with the psionicist on the 'do's and don'ts' of interpreting orders. If, in fact, Kimmuriel had taken such strange initiative; it wasn't in line with what he knew of the male. The other, more likely, possibility wasn't one he wanted to reveal to the assassin.
When they reached the inn where Kimmuriel had reserved their rooms, Entreri slid out of the saddle immediately and seized Jarlaxle's horse's reins before the dark elf's heels clunked against the stones. A sleepy-eyed girl took the reins gingerly from the assassin's hand as the dark elf untied Casteja from the saddle.
Wisely, Casteja kept his head down to minimize the chances of anyone recognizing him as they ushered him into the dim confines of the establishment. Fortunately, there were few other patrons in the common area to enjoy the warm atmosphere and scent of wood smoke and melting bee's wax.
It came as no surprise the sight of the three travelers spurred the female proprietor's face into a tired smile. She told them in amazingly lucid tones that their room was located at the top of the floor and at the end of the hall. Jarlaxle nodded his thanks and ushered Casteja up the stairs while Entreri received their room key. It took only a moment for the woman to produce the key and when she did, the assassin was baffled at her earnest tone as she told him her wish that they 'have an enduring union, unfettered by secrets or concerns about money.'
He gave the woman a look of strangled bemusement and reminded himself that until he had his glove back, killing Kimmuriel wasn't feasible. He didn't pretend to know what the statement meant unless the wretch had read his mind, though he did recall the psionicist as a connoisseur of sarcasm and cruel irony.
Muffled laughter led the fuming assassin straight up the stairs to their room. He found them at the end of the hall; Jarlaxle had obviously picked the lock on the door. The dark elf was half in the portal with Casteja ahead of him. Entreri could not see the drow's face, but the way the monstrous diatryma feather shook informed him Jarlaxle was the one laughing. The laughter only increased the heat of the assassin's blistering anger.
He drew up, pausing in the hallway behind Jarlaxle and took a look inside. His mood was already dark, but it found a blacker shade of jet at the sight that greeted him. The room was indeed the house's finest. The highly polished hardwood floors were strewn with fine carpets, a fireplace with attractive stone facing took a place of honor along one wall, lanterns with glass chimneys were at every corner with mirrored backs to enhance their glow, and candles lined the fireplace's mantle. There were elaborate flower arrangements of local flora in a myriad of glass vases around the room and in the windowsills.
If the flowers were not the first indication of the nature of their room, the bed that dominated the room was the last. The single bed was huge, large enough for a family of four. It had four posts strewn with white gauze drapery and was covered with a quilt with painstakingly executed depictions of love symbols and fertility.
Kimmuriel had thoughtfully reserved the bridal suite.
Wordlessly, Entreri stepped past Jarlaxle and the only slightly less amused Casteja. He made a short round of the room; checked under the bed, investigated two other doors in the room, and tested the locks on the windows. Caution bade him to check the chimney as well, since the fireplace was not lit. Satisfied with what he saw, he dropped his pack on the cushioned window seat and glared back at Jarlaxle.
The mercenary's mirth had faded considerably since Entreri's entrance, but had not fled entirely. "I already performed a spell to check for magical emanations and found the room quite devoid of arcane traces. I suppose that means none of us need fear pregnancy from sleeping here."
Casteja chuckled at the remark, "I should think that we need more than a quilt to risk pregnancy."
Jarlaxle nodded sagely. "True, but you need not fear me, either."
Their prisoner chuckled again, rolling his bright blue eyes. "Have you been hiding a uterus all this time, villain?"
"If he has," Entreri remarked coldly, "it had better be because he was planning on cooking it."
The dark elf sighed and shrugged gracefully. "So much for the romantic atmosphere." He spun his hat off his head and across the room, hooking it perfectly on one of the bed's posts. "Did I catch a glimpse of a private bath behind one of those doors?"
Entreri nodded and began to unfasten his cloak. His intensity did not diminish, his hard gaze continued to cut the drow down. "Filled with warm water."
"Hopefully there is wine in this room as well," Casteja remarked, walking toward a set of oak cupboards. "I'm dry as a wooden god."
"That's a phrase I haven't heard before," Jarlaxle chuckled, glancing at Entreri as he did so. The dark elf cast the assassin a slight nod, accepting the man's unsaid demand that they talk, but turned to open the cupboard for their prisoner. Inside they discovered a fair stock of bottles and conducted a pleasant discussion on the assembled vintages.
Entreri stripped to his undershirt in silence, never losing track of his thoughts or his anger. The assassin wanted nothing more than to soak away the whole situation in the large white basin in the adjoining room, but he wanted more to have his discussion with Jarlaxle. There was no possible way to enjoy anything until the verbal bludgeoning was behind them.
With the light-hearted air he habitually sustained, Jarlaxle took Casteja's suggestion on the wine and poured three glasses full of a faintly beige spirit. "You won't be breaking your glass and causing us trouble, will you?" The handsome drow asked their prisoner as he handed him a wine flute.
"Fortunately for all three of us," the man replied, holding the glass between hands bound from wrists to elbows, "I know when I'm outmatched. My best chance at escape was back at Phosealis' shrine, with Vritra. Now it is in my best interests to conserve my health and energy for imprisonment."
"Imprisonment?" Entreri snorted in disgust, simultaneously filing away the name of swamp shrine's deity. It was utterly unfamiliar to the assassin and Jarlaxle's fleeting expression of curiosity, meant it was esoteric to him, as well. "You should be preparing for torture, for all the good it will do you."
"True," Jarlaxle smiled, the dark gleam of personal experience making his face momentarily as foreboding as his racial reputation. "If they want you alive, you must expect them to torture you for information. Or will you be as pragmatic as you've been this whole time and simply volunteer the crucial knowledge?"
Both bounty hunters studied Casteja's face and body language for answers beyond the words he would give them. "I'm a patient man," he shrugged, giving no hint of falsehood. "I have endured torture before and I have learned that it lasts as long as your tormentor wants, whether your tongue dances truthfully or not. It is in my best interests to say nothing more than that. No one can ever be fully prepared for torture; all you can do is know what to expect."
"I could still take you away from here," Jarlaxle offered. "There is benefit to be had if you are willing to teach your art. The only difficulty would be the transfiguration spell, and that, I assure you, is hardly a problem."
Entreri gave Jarlaxle another harsh look, his annoyance becoming more turbulent than the simmer of before. Casteja shook his head slightly, a hint of a secretive smile twisting his fine lips as he lifted his wine glass between both callused hands in a mock toast. "No."
"We will be talking. Now." The assassin grated in Drow, leaving no room for Jarlaxle's protests. The dark elf noted the trademark dagger was once again in the assassin's hand, turning over and over.
A sigh of carefully sculpted exasperation left the drow as he turned to Entreri and joined him on the other side of the large room. He handed the man one of the wine glasses he'd filled before drawing him a little further away. "I still haven't discovered if the man knows drow sign or if the sword read from Jaka what our intentions were. So let us be quiet."
Entreri had already solved this riddle with his own private studies. "He doesn't know the spoken language. His body language is fairly discreet, but not on the deceptive level of dark elves. When Kimmuriel suggested cutting off his hand, he made no indication of understanding. So cut the pretenses and tell me how he knows you and what you did to get us waved through the front gate."
The dark elf's stared at Entreri with unreadable intent, but then his expression gradually turned into a complex blend of amused curiosity and thoughtfulness. The questions were the ones he'd anticipated and he could answer honestly and still manage to mislead the assassin as to his true intentions. A small part of the shifty male reasoned that continued secrecy was going to cause unnecessary trouble, but the undeniably crafty blood running through his veins denied the logic in giving the man anymore information than strictly necessary. After all, unbeknownst to Entreri, at least half of that blood was pure Baenre.
"As to the first, I swear to you by whatever keeps us from killing each other, that I have never met this man before in my life," he stated with honesty and without damning elaboration. The second statement was in the same vein. "As to the second, I suspect that was Kimmuriel's doing."
Iron eyes stared into Jarlaxle's ebony face, boring into the male's uncovered crimson eye with the same cold intensity he gave unflinchingly to the many many victims of his heartless dagger. There was a time Jarlaxle had found the frosty gaze to be perfectly legible and the owner of it to be easily manipulated, but the assassin had long since sealed all the holes Menzoberranzan and desperation had poked into him.
More than ever before, Jarlaxle saw in Artemis Entreri an equal; a traveling partner that could stand fast or give way just enough to keep the far older male on his toes. It fascinated him that a mere human, with the pathetic lifespan allotted to him, could come so far in such a short time. Certainly farther than he, or even surprising Drizzt Do'Urden, had in the same amount of time.
It came as no surprise, however, when the hard-edged man's upper lip curled slightly in a sneer and the dagger he casually spun slammed into the door that led to bath waters. Jarlaxle was impressed; he hadn't even seen the assassin's hand move.
"I don't care if you have to write it down and say it backwards to satisfy your inborn need for secrecy," the man grated. "I want the truth. What are you getting out of this other than half the reward?"
Jarlaxle would have acted casual, but he knew it would only anger the assassin more. Instead, he cautiously retreated to the bathroom door and began to work the emerald studded dagger out of the door's tight grain with his free hand.
"Adventure," the dark elf replied glibly. "I wouldn't do this if I didn't enjoy it. As much as I revel in the chaos and intrigue of my home city, the open-ended nature of excitement on the surface has a refreshing kind of charm I crave."
"And what of the repeated offers to our prisoner?" Entreri demanded. "There's no profit to be had in letting him walk free."
"Paying you half the reward would be worth the education," the mercenary returned with all seriousness as he continued to pry the deeply imbedded dagger from the door. "As doubtful as it all seems, my friend, our prisoner has developed a multi-pronged form of warfare that turns warfare as humans know it on to its head. He's incorporated the target country's very culture into his plans and he is, in all reality, winning. It would be a good business venture to sink a good deal of riches into seeing if he could do the same thing in the Underdark."
As soon as the dagger came free of the door frame, Jarlaxle took the blade in hand and walked back to Entreri. With a deliberately choreographed motion, he presented the hilt to the assassin, the blade pointedly aimed at the dark elf's heart.
The placement of the deadly weapon was not lost on Entreri. The move would have been more impressive if Jarlaxle hadn't been wearing the black shirt Jaka had sewn him. Entreri knew he could still cause significant damage despite the deceptive material. More importantly, he knew his vexing partner understood the possibility, too.
For the space of several heartbeats he stood, unmoving, considering the unspoken sentiments. He knew Jarlaxle was not coming clean; he would continue to keep his secrets, perhaps for the mere sake of having secrets to keep. By the same token, he was making a clear overture with the dagger. It was a question of trust and that was ground Entreri preferred to avoid.
Both males believed trust was indication of an irrational mind, but they also knew there was no other word for what existed between them. Either male could say they trusted the other's sense of self interest, but it was lip service to a far more seductive element; actual friendship. As such, it remained unspoken, only existing in the hard reality of actions.
Meticulously exact motion brought Entreri's callused hand to his signature weapon and curled his nimble fingers around the hilt. The heat of his anger dissipated gradually, though he knew it would linger. "I mean what I said about saying it backwards."
A smile broke out over Jarlaxle's face with the simple statement. He released the dangerous weapon's hungry blade. "I'll buy paper and quill first thing tomorrow morning."
"If you two need time to make up," Casteja called from across the room, managing to refill his wine glass with only a little trouble. "I'll take a bath while you renew your bonds. I can see the room has had an affect on you and I would not like to disturb the tender moment."
The comment did not diminish Entreri's anger, rather it transformed a good deal of it to disgust. Jarlaxle was a far more appreciative target of such banter and smirked. "Ah, but Casteja, you've reminded me of an important duty that all good pet owners must observe."
"Pet?" The tactician had the decency to look slightly concerned by the dark elf's statement and paused to awkwardly replace the wine bottle on the mantle. "Is this going to be the sort of thing I'll find amusing only after saturating my liver in alcohol?"
"Possibly," Jarlaxle grinned maliciously. It wasn't an expression most sane creatures wanted to see on a dark elf's face. "Think of it as a contest of wills: how far can you buck the norms and mores of your society in order to make somebody else uncomfortable?"
"You're proposing to bathe me, aren't you? On my honor, if you free my hands I'll do it myself without attempting escape." The blue-eyed man stared at Jarlaxle's unwavering look with clear challenge before putting the wine flute down and taking the bottle back instead. "If your kind are as bad as you say, I'll need a head start."
Entreri turned to Jarlaxle, unenthused about the prospect and desiring no part in the challenge whatsoever. "You're in this on your own."
Three bottles of wine and a soaked floor later, all three were clean, though two of them were newly bruised, and had availed themselves to a deck of cards found in one of the room's many drawers. Casteja had suggested they set stakes in order to win rights to sleeping arrangements. Entreri had only agreed because he had long since decided that he would be opting for the room's single chair; the stakes were totally unimportant to him. Jarlaxle, of course, was up to any sort of game of chance or cheating.
Despite arms that were trussed from wrists to elbows, Casteja did an excellent job of winning. The man was awkward with his bonds and at one point movement under his skin had reflexively thrown the cards into disarray. Entreri supposed he was simply lucky; he could barely shuffle and dealing the cards took so long Jarlaxle was happy to pass them out instead. The match was a challenge, more so when the one-eyed mercenary began cheating. He was a master of all the tricks Entreri knew, but far more skilled a hand than he'd seen for years.
After six rounds, all three were evenly matched, though the seventh put Jarlaxle ahead. He was in the middle of shuffling the deck when his head cocked to the side, an obvious indication that he'd heard something out of place. A dark red eye flickered momentarily toward the room's entrance. He continued to shuffle without pause, letting Entreri rise from the edge of the bed and drift toward the door on infinitely silent bare feet.
Halfway across the room Entreri heard the slight scuff of light footsteps outside the door. The assassin marked the soft noise as belonging to somebody familiar with quietude, but making no attempt to be silent. He covered the sound of unsheathing his dagger with the staccato rapped out on the hardwood door.
Jarlaxle halted his shuffling and called lightly, "I'm sure you have the wrong room; please move on."
Before the interloper responded, Entreri held up one finger, indicating their visitor was alone. Unspoken agreement was reached between the two males and Jarlaxle stood to answer the door. Though the dark elf was barefoot, his jewelry made enough noise for both Casteja and Entreri to forget the previous clunking of his hard-soled boots.
"Your guest has business with Eles Wianar." The speaker's voice betrayed his gender as male. "And if you wish an audience with the vast treasury he commands, you may wish to accompany that guest."
The dark elf nodded to Entreri and the man responded by unlocking the door with his free hand; this was a scenario with which the two males were acquainted. His other hand was ready with the dagger, simply waiting for the door to open and for Jarlaxle to act as the visual block he probably didn't need in order to seize their mystery speaker if needed.
The person on the other side of the door was too cautious to open the door, which spoke well of him. However, Entreri and Jarlaxle were confident in their ability to assume the dangerous role of initial action. The assassin's hand reached out, turned the latch and pulled the door back. Entreri had the advantage of the door, while the dark elf's hands were free for whatever mischief he deemed most useful.
There was no mischief; just a young soldier in officer's livery. To Entreri's instant consternation, the serious man looked oddly familiar. It wasn't his unremarkable short-cropped brown hair, his tan skin, or hazel eyes, though they were all Chondathan staples. It wasn't his expression, which bespoke the typical Chondathan stoicism and mask of patience. Mentally the assassin cursed Vritra's influence; he had thought himself thoroughly over the weak episode.
"Captain Sora," the young man stated, nodding civilly to Jarlaxle and then to Entreri as the assassin stepped back into the man's direct sight. "I am General Ashrei's aide and her liaison to the Shining Lord. I have a small escort waiting outside to escort you to an audience."
"Well met," Jarlaxle beamed, looking the man over inquisitively before presenting his hand. "I am Jarlaxle and this is my partner, Artemis Entreri."
"Yes, of course." Sora ignored Jarlaxle's offered hand, and flicked his gaze past the bounty hunters to Casteja, who had moved to the window seat and was looking down through the curtains. "If you wish to leap through the glass, Captain Vektch, the escort will be ready to catch you."
The man, doomed as he obviously was, smiled winningly over his bare shoulder. "Truly? Would they catch me before I hit the street or only after the initial bounce?"
"That's part of the challenge," the General's aide replied flatly, seeming so bored with the conversation that most people would take bets on an imminent yawn. "If you'd like to take the chance, I'll cover the cost of the window. And perhaps later, I'll feed you the fragments."
Noting the absolute lack of humor, Jarlaxle tossed a look at Casteja. "You should have agreed to come with me."
---
The young soldier waited outside the inn with the men under his command while Entreri and Jarlaxle took their time preparing to leave. By unspoken agreement the two joined Casteja at the window and watched Sora as he stood, arms crossed over his chest. The soldier had a face that knew a thousand shades of disinterest and boredom. Jarlaxle couldn't help but wonder if Entreri was not unlike the young man when he was in his early twenties.
Few words were exchanged, but the two bounty hunters felt the tension that came right before the beginning of dangerous action. Neither expected things to go smoothly during the handoff, but neither doubted themselves. Entreri no longer entertained lingering doubts about his mental preparedness; his expectations were high, but only unreasonable when applied to others.
When they joined Sora for the journey to the fortress, the soldiers with him fell into step behind them. Entreri found it interesting that they made no attempts to lay their gloved hands on Casteja, but allowed him to walk with some semblance of dignity. Of course, the tactician wasn't as stoic as he wanted; a shudder ran down his body and a gasp ripped from his throat. Vritra had moved less and less over the journey, but apparently was making itself known more often again. The assassin idly wondered if the creature could die while under the man's skin.
Jarlaxle looked back at Casteja with interest, but said nothing to draw attention to the mishap. Ashrei's aide made no sign he even noticed; he only walked on staying slightly ahead of both bounty hunters. With Sora a few steps ahead, Entreri had ample time to study him while marking the direction they walked on their way through the darkened city.
The sense of familiarity was back and without a clear view of the young man's face, the assassin realized his recognition had nothing to do with physical features. Observing Sora on the sly, he was hit with a one-two punch of double recognition. He'd seen the institutionalized grace and the casual cruelty before and it only brought a resurgence of damning anger.
Heat surged through his veins, threatening the periphery of his eyesight with dim red. The rage was sudden and nearly complete. A glance at his scheming partner nearly sent him over the edge in vengeful fury. It was a difficult thing, but Entreri controlled his anger, began to retreat into the cold calculations of necessity and hard logic. The only solution he could see to Jarlaxle's continued secrecy was betrayal. Not a forgiving man by any stretch of the imagination, Entreri revised his strategy options to include his ally as a possible aggressor.
The good news, he decided with cold efficiency, was that he really was over Vritra's attack; he was seeing and thinking clearly again.
The fortress was a worthy opponent against time's powers of erosion. Massive and solidly built, the huge structure was an ominous form rising out of the city like a dark god. Arrabar's fortress unleashed a wave of intimidation against her enemies and arrogance in those loyal to her. Entreri looked on it as a typical assassin and waited for time and proximity to unveil all its weak points.
Sora's uniform and face were recognized by the garrison and they were not delayed entry. The inside of the fortress was just as dark and foreboding as the outside; it reminded Entreri of Mithral Hall far to the north, only with the addition of the distant sound of the sea. It was a comparison that did not warm his heart or cause him to think kindly on it. The assassin thought little of such things; his dark eyes were scanning the corridors, marking the frequency of guards, numbering the locks on the gates they passed, and finding every nook and cranny available to one of his special skills. What served to make him uncomfortable, though it did not surprise him, was a strong feeling of being watched. He made no move to tip off his watcher, just as he had done over the years in Calimport.
By the time they ascended several floors and penetrated deeper levels of security, Entreri was convinced the architects of the great fortress had planned for invading armies to the exclusion of assailants attacking in the singular. Possible escape routes or future entries were plentiful for someone possessed of his nearly ridiculous level of skill. The assassin did not let down his guard, but he found himself feeling more comfortable with the surroundings rather than the situation. Increased security informed him of the imminent audience with Eles Wianar and his cruel general.
Entreri and Sora were a center of non-noise within the vaulted acoustics formed by the concussions of the rest of the party's hard boots; an open-ended cage of noise that rebounded from stone walls and soaked into closed doors. The young soldier halted outside one such door and rapped his knuckles against it. The lack of heavy ornamentation tipped the assassin off that the rooms beyond would not open onto the lush and spacious apartments of a man known as a 'Shining Lord.' The feeling of being observed grew stronger, but Entreri doubted it was the doing of Wianar's wizard from Thay.
The assassin noted the sound of the latch being thrown and the click of tumblers as a lock was freed. Were he possessed of Jarlaxle's sense of humor, Entreri would have found it amusing that the door was not immediately opened. Sora sighed, his released breath the embodiment of long-sufferance. Instead of waiting patiently outside as he had at the bounty hunters' door, he nudged it wide open with the reinforced toe of his boot.
The feeling of eyes boring into him faded to a low level the moment they walked into the foyer. There they met two more soldiers, both of whom were unremarkable in everyway except the aura of danger they wore like comfortable coats.
On the other side of the entry they saw a living area that was, predictably, dimly lit. What light there was to be had came from a glass and iron chandelier. It was a curious blend of rough iron scrollwork and delicate glass globes which held dancing gold and amber lights. The dark stained furniture was of sturdy Turmish make, though comprised of fragrant hardwoods from Chondalwood. What tapestries or cloth used in the furnishings were all of an equally dark and sensual red.
Before the assassin or dark elf mercenary stepped fully into the room, they heard the soft growl of a pleasantly feminine voice. "This is so much more than I hoped."
"Lady-General Ashrei," Jarlaxle smirked unnecessarily. Entreri was too deep into his professional calm to scowl at the mercenary for the commentary.
Even though she was seated, it was apparent Ashrei was tall, long of limb and waist; probably towering over both Jarlaxle and Entreri, putting her down-turned nose on a level with Casteja's bright blue eyes. She was dressed in soft soled boots that stretched over her knees and clambered up her lean thighs. Her shirt was little more than a thin shift of flesh-tone silk that lay over her skin without disguising her figure in the least. The material was not transparent, but the way it stretched invitingly over the peaks of her breasts left little to imagine.
Judging the direction of his partner's gaze, Entreri had no doubts that Jarlaxle appreciated the view. The assassin noticed, but remained aloof. It wasn't a topic he gave much thought, but if he were to admit his tastes, Ashrei's body fit the bill. Sweeping curves and lean muscle were an exotic mix in Calimport, where softness was the ideal women were expected to pursue. He understood that she oozed sensuality, but he was far from affected.
Seated beside her on an up-ended vase that looked too expensive to be used as a stool, a young boy of approximately eight years was studiously packing a delicate black pipe of exotic make. He fed the pipe from a tin balanced on the woman's muscular thigh. As she watched them enter, she leaned back in her seat with her arms behind her head and against a knot of formed of half her black satin hair held in place by two long tasseled sticks. Without looking away, she jogged her leg so the box jumped from her thigh. The child was forced to sweep a hand out to catch it before it dove for the floor. He snatched it out of the air with surprising alacrity and placed it safely on the desk with a peevish expression. The ease of the boy's movement, the lack of surprise, made it obvious he was not unused to unexpected movements.
Eyes the color of citrine looked curiously at Entreri, hungrily at Casteja, and finally at Jarlaxle with open suspicion. A graceful and callused hand opened to her side and the child placed the stem of the pipe into her fingers. When she tilted her head and led the stem to her full lips, the boy mumbled a few words and made exact motions with his small hands. A brilliant blue spark jumped into the pipe's small bowl, caught in the tobacco, and she sucked it to life with casual ease. Sitting up again, she blew streams of smoke through her nose, reminding more than one of the males of a scheming dragon, and tousled the boy's black hair playfully.
"Kiretheo, get our guests glasses and that special wine I've been saving: fetch water for you and Soraze." She commanded him in generous tones laced with a firmness they could easily imagine brooked no rebellion. "Be quick."
Obedient to the letter, the agile boy practically flew from the vase, but not before the woman slapped his backside with a delighted chuckle. He only ran faster, his bare feet padding softly across stone and silently over rugs.
"Isn't he cute?" She asked, looking over at Jarlaxle. "He has the delightful imagination Soraze lacks. Cunning boy. Not that Soraze completely lacks creativity, but it is a dour thing that has little use. And his sense of humor is flat."
Considering the conversation and her familiarity with the young boy, Entreri realized one or both might be her offspring. He noted the young officer didn't look the least bit insulted by his mistress', possibly mother's, insults. All the assassin detected was the barest twitch of the young man's left shoulder; the suggestion of a shrug. He saw little resemblance to the green-eyed female, but considering their tawny skin and dark hair, he didn't expect them to look alike. There was a spell of some sort disguising them.
When Jarlaxle replied his words confirmed everything the assassin already knew or suspected. He spoke in smooth, natural, flawless Drow. "He's adorable, but that's not why I'm here." Just as abruptly, he switched back to Common. "I'd rather talk about the reward for Master Vektch."
"You can cut the act," Entreri said, voice low and caustic, iron eyes piercing his partner only for a moment, before turning back to the general. "I'm sure we all speak Drow, though Vektch seems to only know the hand code you taught him."
Ashrei made no indication she heard either bounty hunter. "As much as I love to talk about my boys, we should turn to business."
Her proclamation came with smoke curling up on either side of her mouth. The assassin noted her expression softened slightly when she turned it from Jarlaxle to Casteja, but he wasn't convinced she was not purposely contriving the effect.
"'Steja." She stood from her chair in a languid motion embodied by tone muscle and feminine curves. She moved past Jarlaxle, her free hand trailing over the male's closest hand as she went. He watched her closely, mystifying calculations playing in his clear crimson eye. "I'll deal with you in a moment, mercenary."
When she reached Casteja, she took his bound hands and observed the strange wrapping around his left hand. "How is it that the only person in the room suffering Vritra's attacks is you?"
"Sneak attack," he whispered, though not a soul in the room misheard him. "I feign disability and allow myself to be captured in order to trick you into bringing me in past all your defenses. Now that I'm here, it won't be long before Vritra takes Eles and makes him surrender."
Smiling, she dropped his hands and kissed his forehead. "You leave me few choices, 'Steja. I'll negotiate with your captors and then see what I can do for you." She ran fingernails down his chest with affectionate suggestiveness. "It is going to be far more difficult to get time alone with you despite how skillfully you've penetrated my defenses.
"I'm quite surprised you're in such good condition," she added warmly. "No visible limp, both arms, and likely they've fed you. Or did you cook for them? You better not have made that lotus root thing; I'll get jealous."
The man shook his head. "No, but I taught Master Jarlaxle at least eight ways to prepare bull rushes. Tan and Narbeli were rather sick of those. Ah, yes. Your poison didn't kill my second."
"He survived, did he? And Narbeli?" She asked, casually reaching out to remove one of his heavy earrings. "You cooked for that elf? Tell me we slaughtered her or some especially beloved forest creature."
"Souvenir?" he snorted, as she took the other earring as well. "I don't believe I'll be giving you free information."
"Memento, actually. As for your allies, we can discuss that later, hopefully without the presence of hot irons and thumbscrews." She idly prodded at his left arm and noted his flinch. "I'm shocked you still have that arm, 'Steja. Whether Jarlaxle is craftier than he is greedy is the subject of much conjecture where I come from. I was certain he would have cut it off and still showed up for the reward."
"A subject I debate with myself," the dark elf mercenary interjected. "But never spend too much time on. If you come up with a well-documented hypothesis, please share it with me."
Ashrei snorted softly and looked over Casteja's broad shoulder at the doorway where the two soldiers that guarded her door stood. "Have him escorted downstairs and ironed while I settle payment with his captors."
Entreri didn't like allowing the two soldiers to take Casteja from the room, but doubted he had much choice. Based on Jarlaxle's set up in Bregan D'aerthe he could easily see all the markings of a firmly installed female. She was confident, amused, and they were standing in the middle of a web of her construction. The magical eyes on them weren't those of the Thayan wizard; likely they belonged to her allies. There was no doubt in his mind they were hemmed in and would have to rely on Jarlaxle's cunning to escape.
If he'd known what was at the center of Jarlaxle's scheming, he would have refused the mission from the start. That, of course, was why the frustrating male had kept the secret to himself and why Entreri felt manipulated and betrayed. Information was more than power, it was the key to survival; Jarlaxle had taken him into Arrabar blindfolded.
The room was silent as Ashrei walked back to her desk. Her lovely, disguised eyes swept over the maps and supply charts on her desk as well as a neglected mug of Chondath coffee. "Let's get down to the real business," she began, leaning back in her chair, gaze suddenly snapping up and colliding with Jarlaxle's smug expression.
Her short-nailed finger pointed at the male with lazy accusation. "You owe me, male. Soraze has no ambition, no initiative, no drive or determination. Considering his sire he should have some imagination, but I'm too attached to him to, shall we say, carve him up and feed him to the rest of my pride."
"I already said that's not why I'm here," Jarlaxle laughed, taking her accusations as he took almost everything else; without revealing his inner calculations. "But in the interests of keeping good relations with your so-called pride, we could discuss this after we receive our reward for the capture of Captain Vektch."
The soft pad of Kiretheo's footsteps on stone announced the boy as he arrived with two bottles and several crystal glasses. Entreri looked at the boy and recalled Bregan D'aerthe's brisk trade in live bodies. Jarlaxle's personal dealings with clients of the slave and skilled labor trade were usually limited to people of great importance. The assassin knew Ashrei was a skilled commander of troops, but he'd never heard of her in Menzoberranzan. Her accent in the Common tongue was perfectly Chondathan, but after several years of living in the country, that wasn't surprising. There was no telling where she was from or what kind of power she was used to wielding.
The ebony charger holding the boy's burden was placed on the upended vase he'd sat on earlier. Swift efficiency was in the lad's nature as could be seen as he poured chilled white wine and clear water into the crystal glasses. Grace that was completely drow elevated his movements from those of a child to those of a budding dancer.
Ashrei smiled at Jarlaxle, a wicked glint turning her expression malevolent. Things appeared to be moving along. Entreri dropped a hand to his dagger the moment she reached down to her desk and pulled open a drawer. Her hand came away with several coins that reflected the dancing gold and amber light from the magical chandelier. The assassin kept his hand on his dagger hilt all the same. With exact motions, she placed individual coins on the edge of the desk closest to the bounty hunters.
While Ashrei placed the coins, Kiretheo gave Jarlaxle a glass. When he came to Entreri the assassin turned the boy back without a glance. Obviously the female had gotten a better deal with the child; even better if he was a product of her relationship with Casteja. As far as the assassin was concerned, if the child was capable of magic, he was more a possible target than an object to grant mercy. Rolling his eyes at the lack of recognition, the Kiretheo took Sorave a glass of water instead.
The flow of coins stopped the moment the broadside of the desk's edge was lined. She smirked at Jarlaxle through narrowed eyes. "I think fifty should cover the bounty after I take what is rightfully mine."
"Ashrei, my bewitching beauty, I can see you won't rest until the matter is put to rest," the wily male sighed. He took the monstrous hat off his head and held it over his chest while bowing ingratiatingly. "Let's don't be difficult. If you would recall our contract from some fifty years past, you will remember the clause that specified that Bregan D'aerthe absolutely, under no circumstances, can be held liable for goods and services rendered."
A feline smile curved over the general's face as Jarlaxle wove his disclaimer with an air of patience and a hint of Soraze's long suffering. Ashrei leaned forward on her elbows and took the pipe away from her lips in order to sip the chilled white wine Kiretheo had poured.
"Soraze has displayed nothing but intelligence and even cunning the entire time we have been in his company," the mercenary continued, sipping at his own glass. "Therefore, even if there was some liability, which none can be construed, I and my lieutenants would still deny your claim. However, if you wish to make a new contract, I'd be more than happy to facilitate new arrangements at a discounted fee."
"Tell me something, Jarlaxle," she murmured around the stem of her pipe. "I first caught word of you when our spies saw you in Iljak. You made no effort to disguise yourself. Why is that?"
"Disguises were suggested," Entreri snorted, glaring at his partner yet again. It seemed Kimmuriel hadn't invaded the city guards' minds at all; she'd been waiting for them the whole time. The thought triggered a recent memory; hadn't Jarlaxle laughed when he'd sarcastically suggested the key to the city was available to the first drow that came to the city? The assassin made a mental tally. Jarlaxle had lied by omission; he must have suspected Ashrei's influence more than Kimmuriel's at the gate. No wonder they had yet to see Eles Wianar; this part of the game was between dark elves alone. Entreri was far beyond pleased and learning to hate drow more by the second.
"You obviously knew I was here and in the interests of scouting you out, I left you alone. And yet, there you were, accompanying my poisonous stab at 'Steja's commanders." Her eyes sent a glance to where the tactician had previously stood wrestling with the pain writhing under his skin. "I knew he'd give the potions away, even though he can't control when Vritra heals him. He always survives, calculating and lucky male that he is."
She turned again to Jarlaxle, never giving Entreri a glance. Despite the lack of eye contact, Entreri did not feel as if she were not keeping tabs on him. The intensity of the gaze he'd felt on them since before they entered the room meant she wasn't the only one. Her refusal to notice him made sense; all he wanted was the bounty and Jarlaxle was in the way. She was likely counting on plans of insurrection. Plans she had no part in inspiring.
"You came here for a reason," she laughed softly, one short fingernail drawing a curl of wood up from her desk with careless and destructive abandon. "Traveling in Chondath with a Calishite and without a disguise? You wanted me to notice you. Of course, I'm the type of girl that doesn't play those games. Tell me what you want, my spurious little spider-kisser?"
Jarlaxle feigned a wince at the derogatory remark. "Please, Ashrei, such bitter regard for Lolth; little wonder you have no female children. You could be a high priestess if you weren't so irreverent."
She snorted smoke. "Pluck that creature's legs for all I care; I never wanted to be a priestess. I won't fuck dog demons with pincers for kicks. Vhaeraun's male-only priesthood crap was just as limiting, though planning wars with and against his people was entertaining. I almost threw in with Kiaransalee, just for the challenge, but her priestesses didn't like my inconstant reputation. So leave the powers-that-be out of it; I do."
Enjoying himself, Jarlaxle placed his hat back on his head and leaned against the corner of her desk. "As for me not using a disguise; who goes by her name up here in the sunshine? Is that not the drow calling the kettle black? Honestly, I wanted to see what you were doing up here. Last I heard you were with Vhaeraun's crowd. What brought you so far from home?" Entreri recognized Jarlaxle was using the same tone of voice the wretch had used with Sharlotta, though it was never necessary to get the woman's shapely legs askew.
"You don't already know?" The feline grin stretched into something far more wicked, limned as it was in smoke. She reached across the desk and ran weapon toughened fingers up the inside of Jarlaxle's hand, along the skin between his thumb and index finger. "As they say around here, there's no such thing as a free lunch."
She pulled lightly at the soft skin beside his thumb, her citrine eyes dark with something Entreri wasn't sure he would identify as desire. Her hand retreated, fingertips caressing the back of Jarlaxle's hand lingeringly. "Your power has always rested within possibilities. No one ever knows when Jarlaxle is bluffing. Who is lined up this time behind mercurial Jarlaxle and Bregan D'aerthe? You've demonstrated time and again what happens to those who don't sort out the right possibilities. You've always been smart that way."
"You are far too kind," Jarlaxle replied smoothly, easily capturing her retreating hand by her long weapon-toughened fingers. "Such behavior only makes me wonder what you're up to."
"And I am here to tell you," she continued, her fingers curling into Jarlaxle's grasp so it was hard to say whose hand gripped whose, "that you must have considered that I know the game, but thought me an unskilled player." Her light green eyes crinkled in amusement, like a cat playing with her prey. "After all the possibilities are destroyed, mercenary, all that is left is reality. I'm ready to hold you here until I have broken all your graven images."