Chapter 9

Jarrol saw Entreri's movement out of the corner of his eye, but before he could even fully turn, the swordmaster had knocked the wizard flat of her back and held his jeweled dagger at her throat. Jarrol could see blood beginning to flow down her neck.

But she was alive. Her eyes were wide with terror and her face was pale as Entreri spoke into her ear.

Quickly Jarrol crossed over to do what he could to help her, but stopped when he heard the swordmaster's words.

"So you've come back, have you? Now that it's safe? Now that the lacedons are gone, you think you can come back here and live?" Entreri's voice was icy calm and quiet.

"If you'd been here, Emory might have had a chance," he said quietly, reasonably. "If you'd been here just to cast a spell to allow us to get him home, to a cleric who might be able to pull him back, if you'd been here even for that, Mellisandra, I would let you live."

The jeweled dagger at her throat twitched a little and Jarrol noticed her gasp of breath, her level of terror escalating much more than such a tiny movement should have provoked.

"But you left us to die, didn't you? You left us all to die and now you will die. You will die a piece at a time, in agony, just like that boy did," Entreri's voice was smooth and even in its promise.

Mellisandra's fingers clutched spasmodically at the boards of the deck as if she was trying to cast, but couldn't find the concentration to do so. Another twitch of the blade and she was still again, the whites of her eyes showing clearly in her face, wide in horror.

"I'm going to drain you of life so slowly, so painfully that you'll wish you'd never been born, Mellisandra. You'll wish your mother had drowned you as an infant. Every moment of the life you've lived so far won't make up for a second of the agony I'm going to put you through before you lie dead on this deck," his voice continued, an almost hypnotic sound to it.

However, Jarrol could see that Mellisandra was anything but hypnotized. The dagger twitched again, and she began to whimper, a helpless, awful sound, worse than her screams might have been.

"Emory died bravely, Mellisandra," Entreri chided, a false gentleness in his voice that chilled Jarrol to the bone. "Surely you can too."

Jarrol shook himself free of the sinister trance the swordmaster's voice wove around them and forced himself to step forward. He was also angry with the wizard, but he couldn't let Entreri kill her this way, not without knowing why she left, why she returned.

"Artemis," he called quietly from his side, "killing Mellisandra won't bring Emory back."

It hurt him to say the words, but he could tell it hurt Entreri just as badly to hear them. He could see the swordmaster blink. He could see his hold on Mellisandra waver just a little.

"Let her up, Artemis," Jarrol continued, coming to kneel before him at Mellisandra's head. "There was nothing she could have done for him."

Entreri's hand had begun to shake, the dagger's point making little jagged cuts in her skin until he forced it to be still again. His breath was becoming ragged; his eyes were losing focus.

"Artemis, there was nothing more you could have done for him either," Jarrol added quietly, looking Entreri right in the eyes. "Let her go."

The dagger point slipped away from the wizard's neck, leaving a bloody trail behind it, as Entreri stood up. He took three steps backward, then stood there shaking as Mellisandra struggled to her feet, her hand wiping at her neck.

"You are a coward, Mellisandra," Entreri managed, his voice rough with the effort of speaking. "If you weren't, you'd strike me down now, while you have a chance."

He stood there and looked at her as the world began to swirl and spin around him. Every bone in his body began to ache, from the small bones in his fingers to the long bones in his arms and legs to his teeth to his spine. Every joint in his body burned with the sudden rush of toxins in his system from the ghoul's bites.

He could feel his fever begin to climb, his eyeballs throbbing and burning with the heat. It felt like the air was growing thinner around him, as if some great dragon had burned all the oxygen away, leaving nothing but heat and poisonous fumes behind. He couldn't catch his breath.

His muscles spasmed painfully and the world began to tilt on its axis, but he kept standing, kept staring at her angrily. His anger stood between him and the pain he didn't want to acknowledge, the loss he kept pretending didn't exist. As long as he could be angry with her, he didn't have to grieve.

So he stayed angry all the way to his stateroom, all the way to his bunk, where he fell, unconscious before his body hit the mattress.

When Jarrol went to check on him a while later, he was surprised to see Entreri's door wide open, the man collapsed across his bunk. He shivered convulsively and Jarrol could feel the heat rising from his skin even from several inches away.

He called to Mellisandra, knowing that Entreri would be furious, but willing to risk that. At the moment, the wizard was the only person on board who could help him. She was the only chance he had--if she were willing to help the man who'd just tried to kill her, that is.

Hours later, Entreri awoke to voices. Every instinct called for him to come up fighting, but his body would not obey. He hurt all over. It felt as if every bone had been broken, and he knew just what that felt like. He'd come to consciousness hanging from a cliff outside Mithril Hall once in exactly that condition.

That miserable halfling Regis had cut him loose from said cliff, hoping he would fall to his death on the rocks below. Granted, the thief did have his reasons, and at that moment the pain had been so bad, he'd welcomed death. Jarlaxle had saved his life that day, but in that moment of misery hanging from the cliffside, he would much rather have died.

He felt much the same lying on his bunk in the Bonfire, wishing he could just die. For one thing, death would cut off the annoying voice of Mellisandra Deneviere. What was she doing in his cabin? He tried to open his eyes, but something lay across them. Something cool and wet. He tried to reach up to remove it, but his hands wouldn't work.

He was paralyzed and in agony. And forced to listen to Mellisandra's explanation of why she'd left.

He listened as she told of seeing the lich through the eyes of her familiar, of seeing the wreck of Devil Ray and its wizard, of breaking down the wall of the hold to allow the grain to pour into the larboard cabins so the boat would appear to be crippled.

And the bubbles from below? he wondered. Fortunately for his curiosity, Jarrol had noted them as well and asked.

"It was a bathwater spell of mine," she explained and her voice sounded sheepish. "I call it 'a bit of the bubbly.'"

Entreri wished he had the strength to roll his eyes. She was officially useless.

He listened as she told of expending all her usable spells, then returning to Waterdeep to hang some new ones, of scrying the boat and coming back to make sure the survivors made it to Luskan safely.

Jarrol asked questions along, but mostly listened, as did Entreri—but not by choice. He still wanted to wring her neck for stubbornness, for laziness, and for lack of initiative.

Then Jarrol said something that surprised him, "You did what you could, Mellisandra. And thank you for coming back. If you hadn't, Entreri and Caplin might be dead right now. Or worse."

"How is Caplin?" she asked quietly.

"Since you broke the curse portion of this wretched disease, he seems to be resting better," Jarrol said. "But he's still not out of the woods." A cold hand reached up to touch Entreri's cheek. "And neither is Artemis. He's still burning up. How long before we'll know?"

"If he lives through the night, he's got a good chance of beating it," Mellisandra replied. "I'm going to check on Caplin myself."

There was the sound of a door opening and shutting again. Someone shifted in a chair beside the bed. Jarrol. Jarrol was sitting with him.

Entreri drifted back into sleep.

Some time later, there was a new set of voices. The cloth was dry now. His throat was dry. He needed water badly. He tried to move his hand, to turn his head at least. The motion set his stomach churning and made his head and neck throb in pain.

"Sir, do you need something?" came Cullon's voice. A hand removed the cloth from his forehead and he forced his eyes to open. The room was dim, but even the lamplight was too bright and made his head ache. He blinked and his eyelids felt dry and scratchy.

"Water," he tried to say.

A cup was pressed to his lips, and Cullon supported his head as he lifted it to drink. Only a few drops managed to get into him before exhaustion and pain caused him to drop his head again. The effort wearied him and he lay back in a haze of half-consciousness as the voices continued.

"I think it's creepy," Ballantin's voice was saying. "Waiting till midnight over Caplin's body like that. I'm glad the captain agreed to do it. I just don't think I could cut off a friend's head even if he had turned ghoulish."

So Caplin was dead of the fever. And at midnight, he'd awaken as a lacedon. If they didn't kill him on the spot, he'd kill them—his former crewmates. He'd kill them and eat them. Just like the lacedons had killed and eaten Emory.

Emory. He could see the boy standing there on the deck, asking yet another question after Entreri had told him no questions. The boy's curiosity was insatiable. But he was willing at least. And he always did as he was told.

Where was Emory, anyway? It was time for his lesson. Entreri said so to Cullon, but Cullon was busy talking to Ballantin about something and didn't hear him. So he repeated himself more loudly.

"What was that, sir?" Cullon finally acknowledged his presence in the room. But there was no need. Emory had come in on his own.

"I'm ready to work, sir," the boy said brightly.

"Good. We'll work on adding the main gauche to the longsword. Cullon and Ballantin here aren't ready for it, but you are," Entreri began. "Did you bring a dagger as I instructed?"

"Yes, sir," came the prompt reply and Emory brought out a beautifully crafted dagger. It looked to be of elven design.

"The main gauche is useful for parry and close work, takes up much less room than a shield and doesn't require as much space as a second longsword," Entreri began to instruct him.

"Sir, I can't understand what you're saying," Cullon interrupted. "Do you need anything?"

"I'm working with Emory," Entreri replied firmly.

"Did he say Emory?" Ballantin asked.

"Sir, Emory's dead," Cullon's voice came to him gently as if from a distance.

"I think he's delirious," Ballantin said softly.

"So do I," came a voice from the shadows. Jarlaxle stepped into the room, nudging Emory aside. "I believe you are delirious, Artemis."

"Go, Jarlaxle. I did not send your engraved invitation," Entreri snapped.

"This isn't your house, Artemis. I can come and go here as I please." Jarlaxle took a turn about the room, his huge purple hat taking up far too much space for Entreri's liking. "Hello, boy," he said to Emory. "Nice dagger."

"Thank you, sir," Emory replied politely.

"Don't 'sir' him, Emory. He's not worth it. It's his greed that got you killed," Entreri stated.

"My greed?" Jarlaxle asked innocently, one hand pressed against his heart. "Not greed, certainly Artemis. Opportunity, that's all. Merely opportunity."

"How many people are dead in Luskan to further your opportunities, Jarlaxle?" Entreri asked.

"About half," came the casual response.

"And it was worth that?" Entreri pressed.

"I suppose. Why do you care?"

Entreri had to pause at that and think. "I don't know," he finally stated, but both Jarlaxle and Emory were gone.

"Don't know what?" Jarrol asked. Cullon and Ballantin were gone.

How long ago had they left? Entreri wondered. When had Jarrol come in?

"I don't know why I care," Entreri answered him. Everything came at him from a great distance, as if he stood at the edge of a great cliff and spoke down to Jarrol far below, their voices echoing back and forth.

"Just rest, Artemis. Soon it will be morning," Jarrol replied.

Morning. Sunrise. Where was Dwahvel? Why wasn't she here? He missed her.

"She's at home, safe in Waterdeep, Artemis," came Jarrol's soft reply. He hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud.

He ran his fingertip against the smooth metal of his ring. He could use it. Right now. He could go back home to her. But if he died of this, he'd become a monster and she'd never know why. He could hurt her.

"Caplin?" Entreri asked.

There was a pause. Then Jarrol cleared his throat and said, "It's over now."

"If I die--" Entreri began.

"You aren't going to die, Artemis."

"Listen to me. If I die, take my ring back to Dwahvel. Tell her I'm sorry. She'll be angry, but try to explain to her why I couldn't leave." Entreri took as deep a breath as he could manage.

Then he continued, "Take the red sword, but never ever touch it barehanded. Throw it and the dagger and the pouch of stones in my vest pocket overboard. Do not keep any of it."

"Are you certain, Artemis?" Jarrol asked. "Those blades are extremely valuable."

"I would not wish them on anyone. Throw them overboard," Entreri reiterated firmly. "And tell Emory I am sorry I can't be his teacher any longer. I would have loved to train him. He's going to be so good one day, Manfred. He has a gift and a future ahead of him. Tell him I'm sorry I can't see him fulfill it."

There was another long pause. Then Jarrol said quietly, "I will."

Entreri lay there, exhausted with the effort of speaking.

Jarrol got up and stood before the cabin window, wiping at his eyes. "The sun will be up soon," he stated, his voice a little thick.

"I want to see it. Help me up." Entreri somehow found the energy to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bunk. Jarrol went to his side and helped him stand. Pausing every few steps to rest, the two men made their way out on deck to the spot on the quarterdeck where Entreri usually watched the sunrise.

The morning was a bit on the cloudy side, giving the light something to work with as it began to brighten the sky. The underside of the clouds began to glow purple, then indigo, then rosy pink.

Entreri watched the sun brighten the darkness as it rose. The light gave him strength. It cleared his head, and he remembered.

"Emory is dead, isn't he?" he half asked the man sitting beside him.

"Yes, he is," came the quiet response.

"It's not right, Manfred. It's not right that he should die."

"No, it isn't."

A single tear rolled down Entreri's face. He wiped at it in surprise.

Beside him, Jarrol sat and watched the sun rise, tears rolling freely but quietly down his own face.

The anger had faded, leaving only the loss behind.

Emory was dead, and a piece of the future had died with him. There were things that would never happen now because Emory was dead.

He thought of all he wouldn't teach him, all Emory wouldn't learn, all the questions he'd never ask, all the days that would never come.

He thought of these things and realized he cared.

And for once in his life, Artemis Entreri knew what it meant to grieve. Another tear rolled down, then another.

He wept quietly for the boy who'd never got a chance to live. He wept for the man beside him who'd lost something more precious than his own life.

And he wept for himself. He wept for the boy he'd been that no one would have mourned. He wept because loss was real. He wept because he did care, even if he didn't know why.

The sun rose above them, its light shining down on the ship in the water, on its battered crew, on its tattered sails. The sun washed over them with promise, a promise Entreri had to accept, even if he didn't understand.