The Servant of the Shard Page 18

  “If she came to believe that, she would likely simply run away,” Rai-guy remarked.

  “She is too full of pride for that,” Kimmuriel came back. “I will also make it clear to her, subtly and through other sources, that Entreri is not in the favor of many of Bregan D’aerthe, that even Jarlaxle has grown tired of his independence. If she believes that Entreri stands alone in some vendetta or rivalry against her, and that she can utilize the veritable army at her disposal to destroy him, then she will not run but will strike and strike hard.” He gave another laugh. “Though unlike you, Rai-guy, I am not so certain that Sharlotta and all of House Basadoni will be able to get the job done.”

  “They will keep him occupied and out of our way, at least,” Rai-guy replied. “Once we have finished with Jarlaxle …”

  “Entreri will likely be far gone,” Kimmuriel observed, “running as Morik has run. Perhaps we should see to Morik, if for no other reason than to hold him up as an example to Artemis Entreri.”

  Rai-guy shook his head, apparently recognizing that he and Kimmuriel had far more pressing problems than the disposition of a minor deserter in a faraway and insignificant city. “Artemis Entreri cannot run far enough away,” he said determinedly. “He is far too great a nuisance for me ever to forget him or forgive him.”

  Kimmuriel thought that statement might be a bit extravagant, but in essence, he agreed with the sentiment. Perhaps Entreri’s greatest crime was his own ability, the drow psionicist mused. Perhaps his rise above the standards of humans alone was the insult that so sparked hatred in Rai-guy and in Kimmuriel. The psionicist, and the wizard as well, were wise enough to appreciate that truth.

  But that didn’t make things any easier for Artemis Entreri.

  CHAPTER

  WHEN ALL IS A LIE

  12

  Layer after layer!” Entreri raged. He pounded his fist on the small table in the back room of the Copper Ante. It was still the one place in Calimport where he could feel reasonably secure from the ever-prying eyes of Rai-guy and Kimmuriel—and how often he had felt those eyes watching him of late! “So many layers that they roll back onto each other in a never-ending loop!”

  Dwahvel Tiggerwillies leaned back in her chair and studied the man curiously. In all the years she had known Artemis Entreri, she had never seen him so animated or so angry—and when Artemis Entreri was angry, those anywhere in the vicinity of the assassin did well to take extreme care. Even more surprising to the halfling was the fact that Entreri was so angry so soon after killing the hated Domo. Usually killing a wererat put him in a better mood for a day at least. Dwahvel could understand his frustration, though. The man was dealing with dark elves, and though Dwahvel had little real knowledge of the intricacies of drow culture, she had witnessed enough to understand that the dark elves were the masters of intrigue and deception.

  “Too many layers,” Entreri said more calmly, his rage played out. He turned to Dwahvel and shook his head. “I am lost within the web within the web. I hardly know what is real anymore.”

  “You are still alive,” Dwahvel offered. “I would guess, then, that you are doing something right.”

  “I fear that I erred greatly in killing Domo,” Entreri admitted, shaking his head. “I have never been fond of wererats, but this time, perhaps, I should have let him live, if only to provide some opposition to the growing conspiracy against Jarlaxle.”

  “You do not even know if Domo and his wretched, lying companions were speaking truthfully when they uttered words about the drow conspiracy,” Dwahvel reminded. “They may have been doing that as misinformation that you would take back to Jarlaxle, thus bringing about a rift in Bregan D’aerthe. Or Domo might have been sputtering for the sake of saving his own head. He knows your relationship with Jarlaxle and understands that you are better off as long as Jarlaxle is in command.”

  Entreri just stared at her. Domo knew all of that? Of course he did, the assassin told himself. As much as he hated the wererat, he could not dismiss the creature’s cunning in controlling that most difficult of guilds.

  “It is irrelevant anyway,” Dwahvel went on. “We both know that the ratmen will be minor players at best in any internal struggles of Bregan D’aerthe. If Rai-guy and Kimmuriel start a coup, Domo and his kin would do little to dissuade them.”

  Entreri shook his head again, thoroughly frustrated by it all. Alone he believed that he could outfight or out-think any drow, but they were not alone, were never alone. Because of that harmony of movement within the band’s cliques, Entreri could not be certain of the truth of anything. The addition of the Crystal Shard was merely compounding matters, blurring the truth about the source of the coup—if there was a coup—and making the assassin honestly wonder if Jarlaxle was in charge or was merely a slave to the sentient artifact. As much as Entreri knew that Jarlaxle would protect him, he understood that the Crystal Shard would want him dead.

  “You dismiss all that you once learned,” Dwahvel remarked, her voice soothing and calm. “The drow play no games beyond those that Pasha Pook once played—or Pasha Basadoni, or any of the others, or all of the others together. Their dance is the same as has been going on in Calimport for centuries.”

  “But the drow are better dancers.”

  Dwahvel smiled and nodded, conceding the point. “But is not the solution the same?” she asked. “When all is a facade….” She let the words hang out in the air, one of the basic truths of the streets, and one that Artemis Entreri surely knew as well as anyone. “When all is a facade …?” she said again, prompting him.

  Entreri forced himself to calm down, forced himself to dismiss the overblown respect, even fear, he had been developing toward the dark elves, particularly toward Rai-guy and Kimmuriel. “In such situations, when layer is put upon layer,” he recited, a basic lesson for all bright prospects within the guild structures, “when all is a facade, wound within webs of deception, the truth is what you make of it.”

  Dwahvel nodded. “You will know which path is real, because that is the path you will make real,” she agreed. “Nothing pains a liar more than when an opponent turns one of his lies into truth.”

  Entreri nodded his agreement, and indeed he felt better. He knew that he would, which was why he had slipped out of House Basadoni after sensing that he was being watched and had gone straight to the Copper Ante.

  “Do you believe Domo?” the halfling asked.

  Entreri considered it for a moment, and nodded. “The hourglass has been turned, and the sand is flowing,” he stated. “Have you the information I requested?”

  Dwahvel reached under the low dust ruffle of the chair in which she was sitting and pulled out a portfolio full of parchments. “Cadderly,” she said, handing them over.

  “What of the other item?”

  Again the halfling’s hand went down low, this time producing a small sack identical to the one Jarlaxle now carried on his belt, and, Entreri knew without even looking, containing a block of crystal similar in appearance to Crenshinibon.

  Entreri took it with some trepidation, for it was, to him, the final and irreversible acknowledgment that he was indeed about to embark upon a very dangerous course, perhaps the most dangerous road he had ever walked in all his life.

  “There is no magic about it,” Dwahvel assured him, noting his concerned expression. “Just a mystical aura I ordered included so that it would replicate the artifact to any cursory magical inspection.”

  Entreri nodded and hooked the pouch on his belt, behind his hip so that it would be completely concealed by his cloak.

  “We could just get you out of the city,” Dwahvel offered. “It would have been far cheaper to hire a wizard to teleport you far, far away.”

  Entreri chuckled at the thought. It was one that had crossed his mind a thousand times since Bregan D’aerthe had come to Calimport, but one that he had always dismissed. How far could he run? Not farther than Rai-guy and Kimmuriel could follow, he understood.

  “Stay close to hi
m,” Dwahvel warned. “When it happens, you will have to be the quicker.”

  Entreri nodded and started to rise, but paused and stared hard at Dwahvel. She honestly cared how he managed in this conflict, he realized, and the truth of that—that Dwahvel’s concern for him had little to do with her own personal gain—struck him profoundly. It showed him something he’d not known often in his miserable existence—a friend.

  He didn’t leave the Copper Ante right away but went into an adjoining room and began ruffling through the reams of information that Dwahvel had collected on the priest, Cadderly. Would this man be the answer to Jarlaxle’s dilemma and thus Entreri’s own?

  Frustration more than anything else guided Jarlaxle’s movements as he made his swift way back to Dallabad, using a variety of magical items to facilitate his silent and unseen passage, but not—pointedly not—calling upon the Crystal Shard for any assistance.

  This was it, the drow leader realized, the true test of his newest partnership. It had struck Jarlaxle that perhaps the Crystal Shard had been gaining too much the upper hand in their relationship, and so he had decided to set the matter straight.

  He meant to take down the crystalline tower.

  Crenshinibon knew it, too. Jarlaxle could feel the artifact’s unhappy pulsing in his pouch, and he wondered if the powerful item might force a desperate showdown of willpower, one in which there could emerge only one victor.

  Jarlaxle was ready for that. He was always willing to share in responsibility and decision-making, as long as it eventually led to the achievement of his own goals. Lately, though, he’d come to sense, the Crystal Shard seemed to be altering those very goals. It seemed to be bending him more and more in directions not of his choosing.

  Soon after the sun had set, a very dark Calimshan evening, Jarlaxle stood before the crystalline tower, staring hard at it. He strengthened his resolve and mentally bolstered himself for the struggle that he knew would inevitably ensue. With a final glance around to make certain that no one was nearby, he reached into his pouch and took out the sentient artifact.

  No! Crenshinibon screamed in his thoughts, the shard obviously knowing exactly what it was the dark elf meant to do. I forbid this. The towers are a manifestation of my—of our strength and indeed heighten that strength. To destroy one is forbidden!

  Forbidden? Jarlaxle echoed skeptically.

  It is not in the best interests of—

  I decide what is in my best interests, Jarlaxle strongly interrupted. And now it is in my interest to tear down this tower. He focused all his mental energies into a singular and powerful command to the Crystal Shard.

  And so it began, a titanic, if silent, struggle of willpower. Jarlaxle, with his centuries of accumulated knowledge and perfected cunning, was pitted squarely against the ages-old dweomer that was the Crystal Shard. Within seconds of the battle, Jarlaxle felt his will bend backward, as if the artifact meant to break his mind completely. It seemed to him as if every fear he had ever harbored in every dark corner of his imagination had become real, stalking inexorably toward his thoughts, his memories, his very identity.

  How naked he felt! How open to the darts and slings of the mighty Crystal Shard!

  Jarlaxle composed himself and worked very hard to separate the images, to single out each horrid manifestation and isolate it from the others. Then, focusing as much as he possibly could on that one vividly imagined horror, he counterattacked, using feelings of empowerment and strength, calling upon all of those many, many experiences he had weathered to become this leader of Bregan D’aerthe, this male dark elf who had for so long thrived in the matriarchal hell that was Menzoberranzan.

  One after another the nightmares fell before him. As his internal struggles began to subside, Jarlaxle sent his willpower out of his inner mind, out to the artifact, issuing that singular, powerful command:

  Tear down the crystalline tower!

  Now came the coercion, the images of glory, of armies falling before fields of crystalline towers, of kings coming to him on their knees, bearing the treasures of their kingdoms, of the Matron Mothers of Menzoberranzan anointing him as permanent ruler of their council, speaking of him in terms previously reserved for Lady Lolth herself.

  This second manipulation was, in many ways, even more difficult for Jarlaxle to control and defeat. He could not deny the allure of the images. More importantly, he could not deny the possibilities for Bregan D’aerthe and for him, given the added might that was the Crystal Shard.

  He felt his resolve slipping away, a compromise reached that would allow Crenshinibon and Jarlaxle both to find all they desired.

  He was ready to release the artifact from his command, to admit the ridiculousness of tearing down the tower, to give in and reform their undeniably profitable alliance.

  But he remembered.

  This was no partnership, for the Crystal Shard was no partner, no real, controllable, replaceable and predictable partner. No, Jarlaxle reminded himself. It was an artifact, an enchanted item, and though sentient it was a created intelligence, a method of reasoning based upon a set and predetermined goal. In this case, apparently, its goal was the acquisition of as many followers and as much power as its magic would allow.

  While Jarlaxle could sympathize, even agree with that goal, he reminded himself pointedly and determinedly that he would have to be the one in command. He fought back against the temptations, denied the Crystal Shard its manipulations as he had beaten back its brute force attack in the beginning of the struggle.

  He felt it, as tangible as a snapping rope, a click in his mind that gave him his answer.

  Jarlaxle was the master. His were the decisions that would guide Bregan D’aerthe and command the Crystal Shard.

  He knew then, without the slightest bit of doubt, that the tower was his to destroy, and so he led the shard again to that command. This time, Jarlaxle felt no anger, no denial, no recriminations, only sadness.

  The beaten artifact began to hum with the energies needed to deconstruct its large magical replica.

  Jarlaxle opened his eyes and smiled with satisfaction. The fight had been everything he had feared it would be, but in the end, he knew without doubt he had triumphed. He felt the tingling as the essence of the crystalline tower began to weaken. Its binding energy would be stolen away. Then the material bound together by Crenshinibon’s magic would dissipate to the winds. The way he commanded it—and he knew that Crenshinibon could comply— there would be no explosions, no crashing walls, just fading away.

  Jarlaxle nodded, as satisfied as with any victory he had ever known in his long life of struggles.

  He pictured Dallabad without the tower and wondered what new spies would then show up to determine where the tower had gone, why it had been there in the first place, and if Ahdahnia was, therefore, still in charge.

  “Stop!” he commanded the artifact. “The tower remains, by my word.”

  The humming stopped immediately and the Crystal Shard, seeming very humbled, went quiet in Jarlaxle’s thoughts.

  Jarlaxle smiled even wider. Yes, he would keep the tower, and he decided in the morning he would construct a second one beside the first. The twin towers of Dallabad. Jarlaxle’s twin towers.

  At least two.

  For now the mercenary leader did not fear those towers, nor the source that had inspired him to erect the first one. No, he had won the day and could use the mighty Crystal Shard to bring him to new heights of power.

  And Jarlaxle knew it would never threaten him again.

  Artemis Entreri paced the small room he had rented in a nondescript inn far from House Basadoni and any of the other street guilds. On a small table to the side of the bed was his black, red-stitched gauntlet, with Charon’s Claw lying right beside it, the red blade gleaming in the candlelight.

  Entreri was not certain of this at all. He wondered what the innkeeper might think if he came in later to find Entreri’s skull-headed corpse smoldering on the floor.

  It was a very re
al possibility, the assassin reminded himself. Every time he used Charon’s Claw, it showed him a new twist, a new trick, and he understood sentient magic well enough to understand that the more powers such a sword possessed, the greater its willpower. Entreri had already seen the result of a defeat in a willpower battle with this particularly nasty sword. He could picture the horrible end of Kohrin Soulez as vividly as if it had happened that very morning, the man’s facial skin rolling up from his bones as it melted away.

  But he had to do this and now. He would soon be going against the Crystal Shard, and woe to him if, at that time, he was still waging any kind of mental battle against his own sword. With just that fear in mind, he had even contemplated selling the sword or hiding it away somewhere, but as he considered his other likely enemies, Rai-guy and Kimmuriel, he realized that he had to keep it.

  He had to keep it, and he had to dominate it completely. There could be no other way.

  Entreri walked toward the table, rubbing his hands together, then bringing them up to his lips, and blowing into them.

  He turned around before he reached the sword, thinking, thinking, seeking some alternative. He wondered again if he could sell the vicious blade or hand it over to Dwahvel to lock in a deep hole until after the dark elves had left Calimport and he could, perhaps, return.

  That last thought, of being chased from the city by Jarlaxle’s wretched lieutenants, fired a sudden anger in the assassin, and he strode determinedly over to the table. Before he could again consider the potential implications, he growled and reached over, snapping up Charon’s Claw in his bare hand.

  He felt the immediate tug—not a physical tug, but something deeper, something going to the essence of Artemis Entreri, the spirit of the man. The sword was hungry—how he could feel that hunger! It wanted to consume him, to obliterate his very essence simply because he was bold enough, or foolish enough, to grasp it without that protective gauntlet.