Chapter 6

Captain Manfred Jarrol leaned against the rail of Bonfire's quarterdeck and watched the water swirl past the stern of the boat with a white foamy rush. The warm southern winds had been favorable, pushing them ahead of schedule toward Luskan.

Plus, the days had been relatively springlike for the past week or so. He hoped the warm weather had stretched north of them to hurry the thaw of Luskan Harbor. He was more than ready to arrive, unload, and head home again. Despite the pleasure of his son's company for once, he missed his wife and three little daughters very much.

Turning away from the rail and back to the activity aboard ship, he could see the various groups of sailors at work in the rigging, the helmsman keeping her straight and true in their position at the far western edge of the flotilla from Waterdeep.

The flotilla was comprised of at least twenty ships that they knew of, one of the largest in Waterdeep history. Jarrol knew most of the other captains as solid, trustworthy individuals, good seamen, and able tacticians.

They were also escorted by four pirate hunters, none so famous as the Sea Sprite, which lay at anchor already in Luskan, but all experienced crews with able wizards. The nearest, Devil Ray, rode the waves behind them, stationed to intercept any raiders coming at the group from the west.

Their ship's wizard Mellisandra had struck up a friendship with the Devil Ray's wizard, a middle-aged man named Fortescue, and spent most of her time in communication with him by magical means--to the unremitting disapproval of his ship's swordmaster, the incredible Artemis Entreri.

Entreri would much rather Mellisandra spent her time casting additional protection enchantments on the ship or sharpening her fireball skills than flirting with Fortescue.

Jarrol had to laugh at the memory of their latest confrontation. They'd argued in the hallway between their cabins for a full five minutes before Mellisandra stamped her foot and simply disappeared. Then as he recalled the look of deadly fury on Entreri's face, he stopped laughing.

Mellisandra did not return that night, much to the captain's relief. He wanted the swordmaster to have plenty of time to cool down before meeting the wizard again. By the time she showed her face aboard ship again, Entreri's icy control had descended once more. Jarrol was glad he did not need to fear for her life.

He considered the change that had come over Entreri since he first met him so many months ago. When Entreri ran onto his ship just before departure from Calimport, his little wife in his arms, he'd seemed a man whose self-control was running thin. Jarrol had been concerned that he was a possible danger to the ship, in fact.

But within days of their sail, Entreri had settled into a routine, one that included sunrise on deck. Jarrol did not know how many mornings he'd come up to watch it himself and seen the swordsman sitting there alone or with Mistress Entreri in his arms. He'd not approached him any of those days, but watched his own sunrise out of view.

It was during those moments that Jarrol felt as if he were seeing the real Artemis Entreri, and over the next tendays, he decided that Entreri was a man who could be trusted to do what he said he would do. Seeing his prowess with that terrible red sword of his had convinced him that he was both correct to fear him and to trust that he would follow through on any of his stated intentions.

Since then, Jarrol had come to respect him, not only as a swordmaster but as a business associate. None of the merchants in the guild that Jarrol was most closely allied with had anything negative to say about their association with him—with the notable exception of Tolliver, who claimed that his fees were too high.

The rest sang his praises for his honesty and scrupulous attention to detail. The guild had profited by their association with him and Jarrol had never regretted helping him make his entrance into the group.

But Entreri had never become anything that Jarrol would have considered a friend. He was an associate, an acquaintance, but far too reserved for any who knew him to claim friendship. During the long voyage, Jarrol wondered if the man would unbend a little and seek out companionship among the crew, but so far he'd seen little of it.

They spoke pleasantly to one another about the journey, about the concerns of the ship, but neither man ever brought up personal matters. The closest Jarrol had seen Entreri come to having a friendly conversation had been with Emory.

Entreri spent his days instructing the sailors on board, having borrowed a weapon from the ship's armory for sparring practice. Jarrol had not seen the mysterious red blade since its arrival on board at Entreri's hip.

Two of his young sailors, Cullon and Ballantin, sparred with him daily, as did Emory. The rest took up blades with varying degrees of skill and dedication as they had time.

Jarrol encouraged the men to take advantage of the swordmaster's willingness to work with them. He knew first hand how often skill with a sword could mean the difference between life and death. He had never had much time for instruction himself, but had always envied those of his acquaintance who knew how to handle a sword with skill.

He was glad Emory was getting the chance to learn from such a master swordsman. With a little surge of pride he recalled Entreri's statement that Emory had a gift for it.

A gift.

The captain couldn't help the little twinge of jealousy that crept up to join the pride. At thirty-six, Jarrol was watching his youth and prowess fade. At twelve, Emory was just beginning to uncover his.

Jarrol hoped his son would take advantage of every opportunity life offered him, every chance to be all that he could be. He hoped that if he should not be at his side to guide him, other men—men like Artemis Entreri--would step up to guide his son to manhood.

A sudden ringing noise caught Jarrol's attention, and he looked down to the open area before the mainmast where Entreri stood toe to toe with his first student of the day--Emory.

Jarrol watched with interest as his son led out again with the attack, his silver blade glinting in the sun. The captain walked out to the forward rail of the deck and looked down through the maze of rigging to watch.

Even from that distance, he could see the concentration in Emory's dark blue eyes, the same color as the ones that met his every morning in the shaving mirror. Jarrol was glad though that Emory had inherited his mother's straight wheat-colored hair rather than his own unruly brown mop.

The sun shone off the boy's head and Jarrol realized that his hair would be bleached nearly white by their return. He had already tanned deeply from his daily exposure to sunshine and had put on a good ten pounds of muscle from hard work both for Entreri and as a member of his crew.

Emory had been so excited to come on this trip and Jarrol had to admit, the boy had not disappointed him. He'd worked harder than any two of his regular hands, and the men had come to respect him, not for being the captain's son, but for his own willingness to serve the ship however he was needed.

He watched as the two crossed blades, as Emory studied his opponent for subtleties in body language, in stance, and in balance that would give away his plans. Jarrol knew swordsmanship enough to realize that Entreri fed him those clues carefully, sometimes allowing Emory to make the parry, sometimes leading him astray enough to teach him how to compensate.

The two went at it steadily for a good quarter hour. Jarrol had no idea how Emory held out so long against the steady rhythm of the assault coming at him. Toward the end, Entreri even sped up the pace of the lesson until Emory's chest heaved visibly with the effort of merely keeping breath inside his body.

Then with a tap to the side of his chest with the tip of his blade, Entreri ended the match, declaring, "You're dead, Emory."

"Yes, sir," Jarrol heard his son's breathless voice acknowledge as the boy leaned back heavily against the wall of the forecastle.

But rather than sit and rest for himself, Entreri turned to Cullon and Ballantin and asked, "Are you two ready?"

The older students looked at each other in disbelief and Ballantin ventured, "Sir, wouldn't you like to rest a moment?"

"Why?" Entreri replied indifferently as he motioned the two before him with the tip of the jeweled dagger in his left hand.

"Both of us?" Cullon asked.

"Certainly. You two need more work in fighting as a team," Entreri answered. "And even together you won't be much of a workout for me." The crew watching the show laughed at that, but within moments everyone realized Entreri was not bragging—he was speaking the truth.

The two young men came at him from opposite directions, each pressing the swordmaster as hard as he could, but Entreri stopped their blades with his easily. Then from the front, Cullon lunged at him while Ballantin slashed at him from the back.

The blade of Entreri's sword countered Ballantin's and pushed it away even as he half-blocked Cullon's lunge with the dagger, stepping away from the blade and nearly bringing the two men together to score hits on each other.

Then Entreri turned with the move and placed the two men in front of him. Cullon pressed ahead, working to gain an advantage in footing by avoiding the obstacles of the deck. Ballantin quickly moved beside him, leaving Entreri to maneuver past the anchor capstan and through a maze of coiled ropes, buckets, cleats, and lines as their blades clashed again and again in a fury of steel.

The two young men had underestimated him, however, and the surefooted swordmaster danced his way easily through the maze to place himself at the base of the steps that led to the upper deck. Jarrol moved to the side out of the way as the fight ranged up the steps and onto the wide quarterdeck.

Entreri looked to Jarrol to be somewhere near his own age, but he moved with the speed and agility of a man much younger. The two students began to work more earnestly in tandem with each other, one pressing his blade in high for the other to try to take advantage with a strike from below.

But Entreri could not be touched. Jarrol perched on the forward rail of the deck and watched as the two continued their assault, varying the speed and angle of their maneuvers, trying to get the master off balance by continued advances and retreats.

Soon sweat poured off Cullon and Ballantin, but Entreri didn't even appear to be breathing heavily. He countered their attacks and fended off their advances almost lazily. Jarrol could see that the swordmaster was teasing the two younger men, allowing them to run the fight because it pleased him to do so.

But the two students picked up the pace again and pressed him toward the aft rail of the ship in a desperate attempt to corner him and actually land a hit on the elusive master. The drop from the rail to the ocean below was a good twenty feet at least and the water rushed by the ship with a trail of foam.

Anyone who fell over at that point would be long in the water before the ship could tack around and try to retrieve them. It would be folly, the two young men each thought, to take too many chances that close to disaster.

So they drove the swordmaster backwards to the edge of the deck, until the rail was all that stood between him and the dark water. Then without warning, Entreri nimbly jumped backwards up onto the rail, balanced perfectly against the wind and motion, before executing a forward somersault over their heads to land behind them.

"Come on, boys," he taunted them as they looked around to find him, their eyes wide with astonishment. "Let's finish this sometime today."

The two launched into him again and the air rang with the sound of clashing blades. Cullon was the first to fall, taking an elbow into the nerves of his shoulder that numbed his arm and caused him to drop his sword. A light tap on the side of the neck with the tip of Entreri's dagger told him he was dead.

Ballantin kept up the fight for a few more seconds until his throat too felt the cold flat of Entreri's steel. However behind the two fighters, Cullon had rearmed himself and was just waiting for the right moment to press his advantage, unethical though it might be.

Just as Ballantin lowered his sword in defeat, Cullon sprang ahead. Jarrol heard a voice cry out in warning, "Sir, watch out!" But Entreri had already turned to meet the attack he knew was coming from the previously defeated Cullon.

He slapped Cullon's blade aside easily with the flat of his own and ran the young man backward into the rail with a forearm across his neck. The swordmaster easily undermined Cullon's balance and sent him flailing backwards over the rail.

A collective gasp rose from the crew as Entreri reached out to catch him by the wrist just in time to keep the young man from falling overboard.

However, before he pulled his student back to the safety of the deck, he asked him, "Are you truly dead this time or do you need to be deader?"

At Cullon's quick affirmation that he was indeed dead enough already, Entreri called back over his shoulder to Ballantin, "And are you dead enough back there, Ballantin? Or do I need to come kill you further as well?"

"No, sir," Ballantin maintained from a safe spot mid-deck, "I am plenty dead enough, sir."

Then and only then did Entreri pull the panting Cullon back onto the deck to safety to the sound of applause from the highly entertained crew.

Jarrol watched as Entreri walked down to the main deck again toward the boy who had tried to warn him of Cullon's treachery. Emory stood there, his eyes wide. "Sir, how did you know Cullon was coming to attack you?" the boy asked.

"I trained him," came Entreri's answer. "Always take advantage of every opportunity against your foe."

"Even when it is cheating?" Emory asked.

"In life and death matters there is no such thing as cheating," Entreri cautioned. "Pirates do not play fair and neither do orcs nor goblins."

"Have you fought orcs and goblins as well as pirates?" Emory asked in wonder.

Entreri just looked at him for a moment. He'd fought so much worse than orcs and goblins in his day that the question seemed incredibly insipid.

"Tell me about it, sir," Emory persisted in amazement. "Tell me about the monsters you've fought."

And to Entreri's deep and abiding surprise, he found himself telling the boy about his encounter with the red dragon Hephaestus. Once that tale had been well and almost truly told, he realized his audience had grown from one boy to several sailors, including Cullon and Ballantin.

Well, he thought with an inward shrug, not all instruction is physical, and launched into a telling of some of his best swordwork done as a team effort. To his chagrin, the best examples of those happened to be with Drizzt Do'Urden at his back. He refused to give in to naming him, however, referring to him only as "the elf" and closing off their history with their escape from the Underdark.

"So, did you ever team up with the elf again?" Emory asked, excitement in his voice.

"No," came the terse reply.

"Why not? It sounds like you made a great team," the boy persisted, and Cullon and Ballantin were half-witted enough to agree with him.

"A man can fight beside you one day and against you the next," Entreri warned. But in his heart he knew that Drizzt Do'Urden would never have fought against him that last time if Entreri hadn't forced his hand.

All the animosity between them in that encounter could be laid firmly at Entreri's door.

And Jarlaxle's, he recalled grimly.

But his response was sufficiently harsh to put off further questions and he rose to head back to his stateroom.

Captain Jarrol met him in the companionway. "Some stories," he commented.

"Indeed," Entreri stated and made to walk past him.

"Did you and this elf eventually come to blows?" Jarrol asked.

"We did."

"I assume I am looking at the victor of that battle, then."

"There was no victor. Do'Urden did not fall by my blade."

Jarrol looked at him curiously. "Do'Urden? Drizzt Do'Urden? The drow elf that serves with Captain Deudermont?"

"Serves?" Entreri heard himself ask. He'd always wondered if Jarlaxle had spoken truth about that day. If his old nemesis had truly died in that crystal tower.

"Yes," Jarrol stated calmly. "He serves alongside Captain Deudermont in Luskan. There was rumor that he'd been killed when the Hosttower fell, but according to the latest news, he survived the explosion and went to Icewind Dale with his halfling companion. They are to return in the spring."

"Then there was no loser in our battle either," Entreri commented and passed by the captain and into his stateroom.

He sat on the edge of his bunk and considered Jarrol's words.

How ironic.

Drizzt Do'Urden alive. And headed to Luskan. With his halfling companion. A thief from Calimport.

Idly, Entreri twisted the ring on his finger that would send him away from Luskan. To Dwahvel. His halfling companion. A thief from Calimport.

Did the ironic reversals end there? Entreri wondered.

Was Drizzt Do'Urden losing himself in the same ways that Artemis Entreri was finding himself? Had the drow discovered his inner assassin? Was he busily searching for ways to make his life mean less rather than more? Was he throwing away his life as earnestly as Entreri was seeking his?

Entreri twisted his ring and thought about Dwahvel. He tried to hear her voice, to see her face, to feel her next to him. And without intending to he nearly opened the portal between them.

But even as he pushed the enchantment away from him, he wanted to bring it back. He didn't want to go to Luskan. He certainly did not want to face Drizzt Do'Urden again, to dredge up that part of his past long buried, long ignored.

But Luskan lay only days away.

And he'd given his word he would see Captain Jarrol and Bonfire safely to Luskan.

A word he would not break. Not for Dwahvel. Nor for himself. Certainly not for Drizzt Do'Urden.

Not for anyone.