“Perhaps it thinks of you as more akin to its original makers now,” the drow explained. When Entreri gave him an even more confused look, he added, looking at the fallen enemy, “He was no ordinary man.”
“So I guessed.”
“He was a shade-a creature infused with the stuff of shadow.”
Entreri shrugged, for that meant nothing to him.
“And you killed him with your vampiric dagger, yes?”
Entreri shrugged again, starting to get worried, but Jarlaxle merely laughed and produced a small mirror. Looking into it, Entreri could see, even in the dim light, that his normally brown skin had taken on a bit of a gray pallor-nothing too noticeable.
“You have infused yourself with a bit of that essence,” said the drow.
“And what does that mean?” the alarmed assassin asked.
“It means you’ve just become even better at your craft, my friend,” Jarlaxle said with a laugh. “We will learn in time just how much.”
Entreri had to be satisfied with that, he supposed, because there seemed nothing further coming from his oft-cryptic friend. He bent over and picked up the discarded idol. This time it remained silent.
“We should go and collect our money from the innkeeper,” he said.
“And?” the drow asked.
“And kill the dolt for setting us up.”
“That might not go over well with the Heliogabalus authorities,” Jarlaxle reasoned.
Entreri’s answer was one so typical that Jarlaxle silently mouthed the words along with him.
“Then we won’t tell anybody.”
Wickless in the Nether
The Year of the Banner (1368 DR)
For a long time and across many storefronts and kiosks, he could not be seen because he did not want to be seen. For Artemis Entreri, with so many years of living in the shadows, it was as easy as that. He moved along Wall Way, a solitary figure perusing the mercantile district of the Damarran Capital of Heliogabalus on a stormy night. Torrential rains sent small rivers running along the sides of the cobblestoned street, named because of its proximity to Heliogabalus’s towering outer wall.
A flash of lightning revealed the figure as he stood in front of one of the two opposing collector’s shops set on the road loop known as Wall’s Around. He was wrapped in a slick black cloak, shining with wetness. He had the drape pulled over both his shoulders in the inclement weather, but it was back on his right side enough to show the jeweled hilt of his signature dagger. He wore a flat-topped hat with a tight round brim, quite extraordinary in a land of simple hoods and scarves. Still, that hat paled in comparison to the one worn by the slender figure that drifted past him in the next flash of lightning, a great floppy, wide-brimmed affair, with one side pinned up and a gigantic feather reaching out from it.
“As we thought,” the figure whispered as he passed by, neither of them making any movement that would indicate to even a careful observer that they were conversing. “Third on the right.”
The slender figure continued on his way, his fine boots clicking loudly on the wet cobblestones.
A moment later, Entreri moved to the doorway of the collector’s shop, Tazmikella’s Bag of Silver, and with a look around, slipped inside.
A young couple sat behind one table, giggling and hardly taking notice of him. Across from them, a middle-aged man fidgeted with some small statues, dusting each and grumbling to himself as he replaced them on the shelves. He was plump and as round of face as he was of belly, which was considerable, with apple red cheeks and bright lips. Though his eyes were large, he seemed to be constantly squinting.
“Well, good enough,” he said to Entreri. “If you came in to get out of the rain, then you’re a smart one, not to doubt. Look around-perhaps you’ll even consider purchasing something. Now, there’s a thought that few in this town seem to be having! Yes, yes, why buy anything when one can just walk into the shop and ogle it?”
Entreri stared at him, but did not respond, either with words or any expression.
“As you will, then,” the man went on. “Just do please keep your wetness from the new carpets. Someone might want to actually buy one, after all.”
Hardly paying the little man any more heed, Entreri moved to the right, as he’d been instructed, to the third candlestick set in the shop’s front window. Its base was in the shape of a squatting toad-a most unattractive piece, Entreri thought, though he rarely took the time to consider beauty. He picked up the fourth candlestick first, feigned a quick look over it, then set it down and took the second, then the third. The assassin slid one sensitive finger beneath the base of the candlestick. He felt the variation in texture almost immediately, from silver to wax.
A flash of lightning outside sent his thoughts back to the tavern and the napkin the serving wench had put down on the table. He recalled the verse on that old, dirty rag, and felt the wax again.
“Wickless in the nether,” he whispered.
“What’s that?” asked the little man.
“I said that I do enjoy the feel of this piece,” Entreri lied. “The storm has ruined my candles. I came only to replace them, but now I find this most interesting candlestick.”
“You want to buy that?” asked the merchant, his tone showing that actual sales really weren’t a common event.
“Fifty silver pieces?” Entreri asked.
The little man scoffed at him and said, “Its weight alone would take twice that melted down.”
“It is pure silver?” Entreri asked, feigning surprise, for of course, he already knew that it was and had already estimated its worth to within a few coppers.
“Nothing but the best,” said the little round man as he hopped over. “Fifty gold would be closer to the price than fifty silver.”
Entreri moved to replace the candlestick, but stopped just before it went down on the window sill. He stood holding it for a few long moments.
“I will offer thirty gold,” he said. “A fair price.”
“Fair?” said the shopkeeper. “Why, it cost us forty just to acquire it!”
“Forty, then.”
“Forty-two,” insisted the little man.
Entreri shrugged and pulled a pouch from his belt. He tossed it up and down in his open palm for a moment or two, then tipped it over and spilled out a few coins. Another toss to test the weight, and he flipped it to the little man.
“Forty-two,” he agreed. “Perhaps even forty-three.”
Tucking the extra gold into another pouch, the assassin took the candlestick and moved for the door.
“Wait,” said the little man. “Is there anything else I might interest you in? You haven’t even purchased a candle, I mean, and the night is dark. And did you not come for candles? How fine that candlestick shapes the shadows when a proper light is placed atop it.”
Giggling at another table made the little man realize that he was speaking to himself, however, for Entreri was already gone.
Outside, another lightning flash illuminated the street, so bright and prolonged that Entreri could read the sign on the collector’s shop opposite: Ilnezhara’s Gold Coins.
With a glance each way, Entreri moved off, his boots not making a sound on the wet cobblestones. He had a long way to walk, all the way to the southern section of the city, but he moved swiftly with little foot traffic to hinder him. He arrived at the unremarkable building a short while later and looked around, as had been his habit for many years, before moving up the back staircase to the second floor and the door to his apartment. Another look confirmed that he was alone, and he slipped through.
The room was warm and inviting, with a fire blazing in the hearth and candles burning in the many arms of the decorated candelabra that seemed everywhere. Entreri shrugged off his cloak as he entered and flipped it onto the rack by the door where a similar fine traveling cloak hung, drying. His hat went up next, taking its place before its more sizeable companion.
Entreri wiped the remaining moisture from his face w
ith one arm, while he unfastened his belt with his other hand. He stopped short, though, and pulled out his jeweled dagger, launching it into an end-over-end flight across the room. It crossed over his small bed and dived into a silhouette he had painted on the wall-a representation of a lithe figure with a ridiculously large hat. As always, the dagger struck true, just a few inches above the bed and right in the groin area of the silhouette.
“Ouch, I suppose,” Jarlaxle said.
“At least,” said Entreri.
When he looked at his partner, Entreri nearly stepped back in surprise, for Jarlaxle had his eye patch up on his forehead, showing Entreri both his eyes at once for the very first time.
“I do find it rather unsettling,” said the drow, “that you would wish something from that region protruding over your bed.”
“If I awakened under threat and reached for my dagger, and it was anything other than that hanging over my bed, rest assured I would tear it out.”
“Ouch again, I suppose.”
“At least.”
Jarlaxle laughed at him and asked, “Why the foul mood, my friend?”
“Personality trait.”
“We deciphered the verse correctly, obviously,” said Jarlaxle, motioning for the candlestick Entreri held. “ ‘Wickless in the nether,’ indeed.”
Entreri walked toward him, but stopped short and placed the candlestick on the table as he went by.
“And all this time, I thought that remark aimed at your virility,” Entreri said as he moved past and fell onto his bed.
“The tavern wench placed the napkin on the table equidistant to us both,” Jarlaxle reminded. He produced the dirty old cloth from a pocket and held it up before Entreri. “ ‘More valuable in practical, a better bargain found,’ ” he read. “ ‘A careful eye will find the prize in sight of Wall’s Around. For pretty things that serve no use, the true art finds its tether. To those who know, illumination comes wickless in the nether.’ ”
With a sly grin as he finished, the drow mercenary inverted the candlestick and picked at the wax set in its base, in the arse of the squatting toad.
“The second line was key, of course,” he said as he popped the plug free. “Silver is more practical than gold, and so our choice of shops was settled.” Jarlaxle’s smile widened as he dipped his delicate little finger into the cavity and pressed his nail against the side, pulling forth a thin rolled parchment as he retracted the finger. “Our correct choice.”
The drow mercenary leaned forward over the table and spread the parchment before him.
“Interesting,” he said, and when no response came forth from his roommate, he said it again, and again.
After many frustrating minutes, Jarlaxle said it yet again, then nearly jumped out of his seat when he was answered by Entreri, who was standing right behind him.
“It’s a map.”
“A map?” the drow asked. “It is a series of dots, a circle, a single line, and a drop of blood. How is that a map?”
“The dots are buildings … locations. All the buildings that have played a part in this riddle we have entered,” Entreri explained. He leaned forward, indicating each as he named them. “The tavern, our apartment …”
He paused there and glanced around, not pleased to learn that whomever was behind it all knew where they lived.
“And the Wall Around,” said Jarlaxle, catching on and pointing to the circle. “Bag of Silver and Gold Coins. Indeed, the proportions of the distances seem fairly accurate.” He measured each with his fingers as he spoke, confirming his guess. “But all of this was known to us already.”
“Except for that,” said Entreri, pointing to the one mark on the far edge of the long parchment, a drop of blood very far removed from the other indicators.
“Blood?” asked the drow.
“A destination.”
The pair found the spot of blood-a rather unremarkable cabin on the side of a rocky hill far outside the wall of Heliogabalus-in the light drizzle of the following morning. The city was not visible from the cabin, for it was on the far side of the hill, nor was it near any roads.
Entreri eyed the abode suspiciously, scanning the surroundings for signs of ambush, but no threat presented itself. The roof was not high-the back side of the house, abutting the hill, rose no more than five feet above the stony ground-and there were no trees close enough to afford any archers an easy shot.
So caught up was the wary assassin in scouting the surrounding area that he was caught somewhat by surprise when a woman’s voice addressed the pair right from the small porch of the house.
“Clever and quick,” she said. “Better than I expected, really.”
The companions took a step away from each other, each sizing up the woman from a different angle. She was not unattractive, though certainly not beautiful. Her face was rather plain, and unadorned with the many powders and colors that had become all the rage in Damara among the women of the court. That face seemed a bit short, too, or perhaps that was because her shoulders seemed too wide for the rest of her frame. She appeared a little older than Entreri, probably nearing, if not already past, her fiftieth birthday. Her thin, shoulder length hair was a soft blend of gray and strawberry blond, though certainly not as lustrous as it once might have appeared.
She wore a modest dress, powder blue and simply tailored. Her shoes were low cut, quite impractical for the muddy, harsh terrain between the cabin and the city. They were shoes more common within the city gates, Entreri noted, and certainly nothing a hearty hermit so far out of town would wear.
Entreri felt Jarlaxle’s gaze upon him, so he turned to take in his friend’s smirk.
“Greetings, Lady Tazmikella,” the drow said with a great flourish and a deep bow, sweeping his wide brimmed hat off as he bent low.
Entreri, surprised by the remark, looked to the woman, noting her sudden scowl.
“Do you always take such presumptive chances?” she asked, and Entreri couldn’t tell if she was annoyed because Jarlaxle had guessed correctly, or insulted because he had so labeled her.
“Deductive reasoning,” explained the drow.
The woman didn’t seem very impressed, or convinced, when she said, “I have your interest, it would seem, so come inside.”
She turned and walked into the cabin, and with another shared look and a pair of concerned shrugs, they moved up side by side, Jarlaxle’s enchanted boots clicking loudly even on the soft ground, and Entreri’s skilled steps making not a whisper of sound, even on the hard wood of the porch stairs.
Inside, they found the facade of the cabin wholly misleading, for the room was spacious-too much so, it seemed-and well-adorned with fabulous tapestries and rugs. Most were stitched with designs depicting the gentler pleasures of life in Damara: a shepherd with his flock on a sunny hillside, a woman singing while cleaning laundry at a stream, a group of children playing at the joust with long poles and the pennants of well-known heroes.… Candelabra and fine, sturdy plates covered the table. Dry sinks lined every wall, full of plants and flowers neatly and tastefully arranged. A chandelier hung over the center table, a simple but beautiful many-limbed piece that would have been more fitting in one of the mansions of the great city, though not in its more formal rooms.
Looking around at the decor, at the distinctive silver flavor, Entreri realized that Jarlaxle’s guess had been correct.
“Please, sit,” the woman said.
She motioned to the simple but elegant carved wooden chairs around the central table. It was hardly inexpensive furniture, Entreri noted, as he felt the weight of the chair and let his finger play in the deep grooves of superior craftsmanship.
“You have moved quickly and so you are deserving of similar effort on my part,” the woman said.
“You have heard of us and wish to hire us,” said Jarlaxle.
“Of course.”
“You do not look like one who would wish another killed.”
The woman blanched at the drow’s suggestion,
Entreri noted. For that was Entreri’s role whenever they met a new prospective employer and Jarlaxle posed that very same question. Jarlaxle always liked to start such interviews in a blunt manner.
“I was told that you two were skilled in … procurement.”
“You seem to do well in that area yourself, Lady Taz …” Jarlaxle stopped short, looking for cues.
“Tazmikella,” she confirmed. “And yes, I do, and thank you for noticing. But you may have also noticed that I am not alone in my endeavors in the fine city of Heliogabalus.”
“Ilnezhara’s Gold Coins,” said Entreri.
“It is a name I cannot speak without an accompanying curse,” the woman admitted. “My rival, once my friend. And alas, she has done it again.”
“It?” the two asked together.
“Procured a piece for which she is not worthy,” said Tazmikella, and when doubting expressions came at her, she sat back in her chair and held up her hands to stop any forthcoming inquiries. “Allow me to explain.”
The woman closed her eyes and remained silent for a long while.
“Not so long ago,” she began tentatively, as if she wasn’t sure if they would get her point, “I happened across a woman sitting on a rock in a field. She did not see me, for she was wrapped in memories. At least, it seemed that way. She was singing, her eyes closed, her mind looking far away-to one she had lost, from what I could tell from the few words I could decipher. Never have I heard such passion and pain in a voice, as if every note carried her heart and soul. She touched me deeply with the beauty of her art and song.
“For me, there was simple appreciation, but my counterpart-”
“Ilnezhara,” Jarlaxle reasoned, and Tazmikella nodded.
“Ilnezhara would never have understood the beauty of that woman’s song. She would have cited how the words strained to rhyme, or the lack of proper technique and the occasional warbling in that untrained voice. It was just those imperfect warbles that pulled at my heart.”
“Because they were honest,” said Jarlaxle.
The Collected Stories, The Legend of Drizzt (forgotten realms) Page 12
