The Servant of the Shard Page 12

  But still, that horrific death….

  Entreri started to reach for the sword, steeling his willpower against the expected onslaught.

  He heard movement in the hallway outside his room.

  He had the glove on in a moment and scooped up the sword in his right hand, moving it to its sheath on his hip in one fluid movement even as the door to his private chambers—if any chambers for a human among Bregan D’aerthe could be considered private—swung open.

  “Come,” instructed Kimmuriel Oblodra, and he turned and started away.

  Entreri didn’t move, and as soon as the drow realized it, he turned back. Kimmuriel had a quizzical look upon his handsome, angular face. That look of curiosity soon turned to one of menace, though, as he considered the standing, but hardly moving assassin.

  “You have a most excellent weapon now,” Kimmuriel remarked. “One to greatly complement your nasty dagger. Fear not. Neither Rai-guy nor I have underestimated the value of that gauntlet you seem to keep forever upon your right hand. We know its powers, Artemis Entreri, and we know how to defeat it.”

  Entreri continued to stare, unblinking, at the drow psionicist. A bluff? Or had resourceful Kimmuriel and Rai-guy indeed found some way around the magic-negating gauntlet? A wry smile found its way onto Entreri’s face, a look bolstered by the assassin’s complete confidence that whatever secret Kimmuriel might now be hinting of would do the drow little good in their immediate situation. Entreri knew, and his look made Kimmuriel aware as well, that he could cross the room then and there, easily defeat any of Kimmuriel’s psionically created defenses with the gauntlet, and run him through with the mighty sword.

  If the drow, so cool and so powerful, was bothered or worried at all, he did a fine job of masking it. But so did Entreri.

  “There is work to be done in Luskan,” Kimmuriel remarked at length. “Our friend Morik still has not delivered the required jewels.”

  “I am to go and serve as messenger again?” Entreri asked sarcastically.

  “No message for Morik this time,” Kimmuriel said coldly. “He has failed us.”

  The finality of that statement struck Entreri profoundly, but he managed to hide his surprise until Kimmuriel had turned around and started away once more. The assassin understood clearly, of course, that Kimmuriel had, in effect, just told him to got to Luskan and murder Morik. The request did not seem so odd, given that Morik apparently was not living up to Bregan D’aerthe’s expectations. Still, it seemed out of place to Entreri that Jarlaxle would so willingly and easily cut his only thread to a market as promising as Luskan without even asking for some explanation from the tricky little rogue. Jarlaxle had been acting strange, to be sure, but was he as confused as that?

  It occurred to Entreri even as he started after Kimmuriel that perhaps this assassination had nothing to do with Jarlaxle.

  His feelings, and fears, were only strengthened when he entered the small room. He came in not far behind Kimmuriel but found Rai-guy, and Rai-guy alone, waiting for him.

  “Morik has failed us yet again,” the wizard stated immediately. “There can be no further chances for him. He knows too much of us, and with such an obvious lack of loyalty, well, what are we to do? Go to Luskan and eliminate him. A simple task. We care not for the jewels. If he has them, spend them as you will. Just bring me Morik’s heart.” As he finished, he stepped aside, clearing the way to a magical portal he had woven, the blurry image inside showing Entreri the alleyway beside Morik’s building.

  “You will need to remove the gauntlet before you stride through,” Kimmuriel remarked, slyly enough for Entreri to wonder if perhaps this whole set-up was but a ruse to force him into an unguarded position. Of course, the resourceful assassin had considered that very thing on the walk over, so he only chuckled at Kimmuriel, walked up to the portal, and stepped right through.

  He was in Luskan now, and he looked back to see the magical portal closing behind him. Kimmuriel and Rai-guy were looking at him with expressions that showed everything from confusion to anger to intrigue.

  Entreri held up his gloved hand in a mocking wave as the pair faded out of sight. He knew they were wondering how he could exercise such control over the magic-dispelling gauntlet. They were trying to get a feel for its power and its limitations, something that even Entreri had not yet figured out. He certainly didn’t mean to offer any clues to his quiet adversaries, thus he had changed from the real magical gauntlet to the decoy that had so fooled Soulez.

  When the portal closed he started out of the alleyway, changing once again to the real gauntlet and dropping the fake one into a small sack concealed under the folds of his cloak at the back of his belt.

  He went to Morik’s room first and found that the little thief had not added any further security traps or tricks. That surprised Entreri, for if Morik was again disappointing his merciless leaders he should have been expecting company. Furthermore, the thief obviously had not fled the small apartment.

  Not content to sit and wait, Entreri went back out onto Luskan’s streets, making his way from tavern to tavern, from corner to corner. A few beggars approached him, but he sent them away with a glare. One pickpocket actually went for the purse he had secured to his belt on the right side. Entreri left him sitting in the gutter, his wrist shattered by a simple twist of the assassin’s hand.

  Sometime later, and thinking that it was about time for him to return to Morik’s abode, the assassin came into an establishment on Half-Moon Street known as the Cutlass. The place was nearly empty, with a portly barkeep rubbing away at the dirty bar and a skinny little man sitting across from him, chattering away. Another figure among the few patrons remaining in the place caught Entreri’s attention.

  The man was sitting comfortably and quietly at the far left end of the bar with his back against the wall and the hood of his weathered cloak pulled over his head. He appeared to be sleeping, judging from his rhythmic breathing, the hunch of his shoulders, and the loll of his head, but Entreri caught a few tell-tale signs—like the fact that the rolling head kept angling to give the supposedly sleeping man a fine view of all around him—that told him otherwise.

  The assassin didn’t miss the slight tensing of the shoulders when that angle revealed his presence to the supposedly sleeping man.

  Entreri strode up to the bar, right beside the nervous, skinny little man, who said, “Arumn’s done serving for the night.”

  Entreri glanced over, his dark eyes taking a full measure of this one. “My gold is not good enough for you?” he asked the barkeep, turning back slowly to consider the portly man behind the bar.

  Entreri noted that the barkeep took a long, good measure of him. He saw respect coming into Arumn’s eyes. He wasn’t surprised. This barkeep, like so many others, survived primarily by understanding his clientele. Entreri was doing little to hide the truth of his skills in his graceful, solid movements. The man pretending to sleep at the bar said nothing, and neither did the nervous one.

  “Ho, Josi’s just puffing out his chest, is all,” the barkeep, Arumn, remarked, “though I had planned on closing her up early. Not many looking for drink this night.”

  Satisfied with that, Entreri glanced to the left, to the compact form of the man pretending to be asleep. “Two honey meads,” he said, dropping a couple of shining gold coins on the bar, ten times the cost of the drinks.

  The assassin continued to watch the “sleeper,” hardly paying any heed at all to Arumn or nervous little Josi, who was constantly shifting at his other side. Josi even asked Entreri his name, but the assassin ignored him. He just continued to stare, taking a measure, studying every movement and playing them against what he already knew of Morik.

  He turned back when he heard the clink of glass on the bar. He scooped up one drink in his gloved right hand, bringing the dark liquid to his lips, while he grasped the second glass in his left hand, and instead of lifting it, just sent it sliding fast down the bar, angled slightly for the outer lip, perfectly set to
dump onto the supposedly-sleeping man’s lap.

  The barkeep cried out in surprise. Josi Puddles jumped to his feet, and even started toward Entreri, who simply ignored him.

  The assassin’s smile widened when Morik, and it was indeed Morik, reached up at the last moment and caught the mead-filled missile, bringing his hand back and wide to absorb the shock of the catch and to make sure that any liquid that did splash over did not spill on him.

  Entreri slid off the barstool, took up his glass of mead and motioned for Morik to go with him outside. He had barely taken a step, though, when he sensed a movement toward his arm. He turned back to see Josi Puddles reaching for him.

  “No, ye don’t!” the skinny man remarked. “Ye ain’t leavin’ with Arumn’s glasses.”

  Entreri watched the hand coming toward him and lifted his gaze to look Josi Puddles straight in the eye, to let the man know, with just a look and just that awful, calm and deadly demeanor, that if he so much as brushed Entreri’s arm with his hand, he would surely pay for it with his life.

  “No, ye …” Josi started to say again, but his voice failed him and his hand stopped moving. He knew. Defeated, the skinny man sank back against the bar.

  “The gold should more than pay for the glasses,” Entreri remarked to the barkeep, and Arumn, too, seemed quite unnerved.

  The assassin headed for the door, taking some pleasure in hearing the barkeep quietly scolding Josi for being so stupid.

  The street was quiet outside, and dark, and Entreri could sense the uneasiness in Morik. He could see it in the man’s cautious stance and in the way his eyes darted about.

  “I have the jewels,” Morik was quick to announce. He started in the direction of his apartment, and Entreri followed.

  The assassin thought it interesting that Morik presented him with the jewels—and the size of the pouch made Entreri believe that the thief had certainly met his master’s expectations—as soon as they entered the darkened room. If Morik had them, why hadn’t he simply given them over on time? Certainly Morik, no fool, understood the volatile and extremely dangerous nature of his partners.

  “I wondered when I would be called upon,” Morik said, obviously trying to appear completely calm. “I have had them since the day after you left but have gotten no word from Rai-guy or Kimmuriel.”

  Entreri nodded, but showed no surprise—and in truth, when he thought about it, the assassin wasn’t really surprised at all. These were drow, after all. They killed when convenient, killed when they felt like it. Perhaps they had sent Entreri here to slay Morik in the hopes that Morik would prove the stronger. Perhaps it didn’t matter to them either way. They would merely enjoy the spectacle of it.

  Or perhaps Rai-guy and Kimmuriel were anxious to clip away at the entrenchment that Jarlaxle was obviously setting up for Bregan D’aerthe. Kill Morik and any others like him, sever all ties, and go home. He lifted his black gauntlet into the air, seeking any magical emanations. He detected some upon Morik and some other minor dweomers in and around the room, but nothing that seemed to him to be any kind of scrying spell. It wasn’t that he could have done anything about any spells or psionics divining the area, anyway. Entreri had come to understand already that the gauntlet could only grab at spells directed at him specifically. In truth, the thing was really quite limited. He might catch one of Rai-guy’s lightning bolts and hurl it back at the wizard, but if Rai-guy filled the room with a fireball….

  “What are you doing?” Morik asked the distracted assassin.

  “Get out of here,” Entreri instructed. “Out of this building and out of the city altogether, for a short while at least.”

  The obviously puzzled Morik just stared at him.

  “Did you not hear me?”

  “That order comes from Jarlaxle?” Morik asked, seeming quite confused. “Does he fear that I have been discovered, that he, by association, has been somehow implicated?”

  “I tell you to begone, Morik,” Entreri answered. “I, and not Jarlaxle, nor, certainly, Rai-guy or Kimmuriel.”

  “Do I threaten you?” asked Morik. “Am I somehow impeding your ascension within the guild?”

  “Are you that much a fool?” Entreri replied.

  “I have been promised a king’s treasure!” Morik protested. “The only reason I agreed—”

  “Was because you had no choice,” Entreri interrupted. “I know that to be true, Morik. Perhaps that lack of choice is the only thing that saves you now.”

  Morik was shaking his head, obviously upset and unconvinced. “Luskan is my home,” he started to say.

  Charon’s Claw came out in a red and black flash. Entreri swiped down beside Morik, left and right, then slashed across right above the man’s head. The sword left a trail of black ash with all three swipes so that Entreri had Morik practically boxed in by the opaque walls. So quickly had he struck, the dazed and dazzled rogue hadn’t even had a chance to draw his weapon.

  “I was not sent to collect the jewels or even to scold and warn you, fool,” Entreri said coldly—so very, very coldly. “I was sent to kill you.”

  “But …”

  “You have no idea the level of evil with which you have allied yourself,” the assassin went on. “Flee this place—this building and this city. Run for all your life, fool Morik. They will not look for you if they cannot find you easily—you are not worth their trouble. So run away, beyond their vision and take hope that you are free of them.”

  Morik stood there, encapsulated by the walls of black ash that still magically hung in the air, his jaw hanging open in complete astonishment. He looked left and right, just a bit, and swallowed hard, making it clear to Entreri that he had just then come to realize how overmatched he truly was. Despite the assassin’s previous visit, easily getting through all of Morik’s traps, it had taken this display of brutal swordsmanship to show Morik the deadly truth of Artemis Entreri.

  “Why would they …?” Morik dared to ask. “I am an ally, eyes for Bregan D’aerthe in the northland. Jarlaxle himself instructed me to …” He stopped at the sound of Entreri’s laughter.

  “You are iblith” Entreri explained. “Offal. Not of the drow. That alone makes you no more than a plaything to them. They will kill you—I am to kill you here and now by their very words.”

  “Yet you defy them,” Morik said, and it wasn’t clear from his tone if he had come around yet truly to believe Entreri or not.

  “You are thinking that this is some test of your loyalty,” Entreri correctly guessed, shaking his head with every word. “The drow do not test loyalty, Morik, because they expect none. With them, there is only the predictability of actions based in simple fear.”

  “Yet you are showing yourself disloyal by letting me go,” Morik remarked. “We are not friends, with no debt and little contact between us. Why do you tell me this?”

  Entreri leaned back and considered that question more deeply than Morik could have expected, allowing the thief’s recognition of illogic to resonate in his thoughts. For surely Entreri’s actions here made little logical sense. He could have been done with his business and back on his way to Calimport, without any real threat to him. By contrast, and by all logical reasoning, there would be little gain for Entreri in letting Morik walk away.

  Why this time? the assassin asked himself. He had killed so many, and often in situations similar to this, often at the behest of a guildmaster seeking to punish an impudent or threatening underling. He had followed orders to kill people whose offense had never been made known to him, people, perhaps, similar to Morik, who had truly committed no offense at all.

  No, Artemis Entreri couldn’t quite bring himself to accept that last thought. His killings, every one, had been committed against people associated with the underworld, or against misinformed do-gooders who had somehow become entangled in the wrong mess, impeding the assassin’s progress. Even Drizzt Do’Urden, that paladin in drow skin, had named himself as Entreri’s enemy by preventing the assassin from retrieving Regi
s the halfling and the magical ruby pendant the little fool had stolen from Pasha Pook. It had taken years, but to Entreri, killing Drizzt Do’Urden had been the justified culmination of the drow’s unwanted and immoral interference. In Entreri’s mind and in his heart, those who had died at his hands had played the great game, had tossed aside their innocence in pursuit of power or material gain.

  In Entreri’s mind, everyone he had killed had indeed deserved it, because he was a killer among killers, a survivor in a brutal game that would not allow it to be any other way.

  “Why?” Morik asked again, drawing Entreri from his contemplation.

  The assassin stared at the rogue for a moment, and offered a quick and simple answer to a question too complex for him to sort out properly, an answer that rang of more truth than Artemis Entreri even realized.

  “Because I hate drow more than I hate humans.”

  Entreri again teamed with Jarlaxle?

  What an odd pairing that seems, and to some (and initially to me, as well) a vision of the most unsettling nightmare imaginable. There is no one in all the world, I believe, more crafty and ingenious than Jarlaxle of Bregan D’aerthe, the consummate opportunist, a wily leader who can craft a kingdom out of the dung of rothè. Jarlaxle, who thrived in the matriarchal society of Menzoberranzan as completely as any Matron Mother.

  Jarlaxle of mystery, who knew my father, who claims a past friendship with Zaknafein.

  How could a drow who befriended Zaknafein ally with Artemis Entreri? At quick glance, the notion seems incongruous, even preposterous. And yet, I do believe Jarlaxle’s claims of the former and know the latter to be true—for the second time.

  Professionally, I see no mystery in the union. Entreri has ever preferred a position of the shadows, serving as the weapon of a high-paying master—no, not master. I doubt that Artemis Entreri has ever known a master. Rather, even in the service of the guilds, he worked as a sword for hire. Certainly such a skilled mercenary could find a place within Bregan D’aerthe, especially since they’ve come to the surface and likely need humans to front and cover their true identity. For Jarlaxle, therefore, the alliance with Entreri is certainly a convenient thing.