Entreri glanced back to see Jarlaxle at the threshold, staring in and appearing equally dumbfounded.
“An illusion,” Entreri said.
Jarlaxle shifted his eye patch from one eye to the other and peered intently into the room.
“No, it’s not,” the drow said, and he glanced back to the tower’s entry room.
With a shrug, Jarlaxle casually stepped into the room, dropping the eight feet or so to the floor. Hearing the clatter of the approaching constructs behind him, Entreri let go of the door, swinging it closed as he dropped. It shut with a resounding thud, and the tumult disappeared.
“It is wonderful, yes?” Ilnezhara asked, stepping out from behind a pile of gold.
“By the gods …” whispered Entreri, and he glanced at his partner.
“I have heard of such treasures, good lady,” the drow said. “But always in the care of-”
“Don’t even say it,” whispered Entreri, but it didn’t matter anyway, for Ilnezhara’s features began to shift and scrunch suddenly, accompanied by the sound of cracking bones.
A huge copper-colored tail sprang out behind her, and gigantic wings sprouted from her shoulders.
“A dragon,” Entreri remarked. “Another stinking dragon. What game is this with you?” he asked his partner. “You keep placing me in front of stinking dragons! In all my life, I had never even seen a wyrm, and now, beside you, I have come to know them far too well.”
“You took me to the first one,” Jarlaxle reminded.
“To get rid of that cursed artifact, yes!” Entreri countered. “You remember, of course. The artifact that had you under a destructive spell? Would I have chosen to go to the lair of a dragon, else?”
“It does not matter,” Jarlaxle argued.
“Of course it matters,” Entreri spat back. “You keep taking me to stinking dragons.”
Ilnezhara’s “ahem” shook the ground beneath their feet and drew them from their private argument.
“I could do without the disparaging adjectives, thank you very much,” she said to them when she had their attention, her voice sounding very similar to what it had been when she had appeared as a human woman, except that it was multiplied in volume many times over.
“I suspect we need not worry about the constructs coming in to attack us,” said Jarlaxle.
The dragon smiled, rows of teeth as long as Entreri’s arm gleaming in the magical light.
“You do entertain me, pretty drow,” she said. “Though I lament that you are not as wise as I had believed. To try to steal from a dragon at the behest of a fool like Tazmikella? For it was she who sent you, of course. The foolish woman can never understand why I always seem to best her.”
“Go,” Jarlaxle whispered, and the assassin broke left, while the drow broke right.
But the dragon moved, too, breathing forth.
Entreri cried out and dived into a roll, not knowing what to expect. He felt the wind of dragon breath passing over him, but came back to his feet, apparently unhurt. His elation at that lasted only a moment, though, until he realized that he was moving much more slowly.
“You cannot win, of course, nor is there any escape,” said Ilnezhara. “Tell me, pretty drow, would you have come here to steal from me if you had known of my true identity?”
Entreri looked past the dragon to see Jarlaxle simply standing there, vulnerable, before the great wyrm. His incredulous expression was all the answer Ilnezhara needed.
“I thought not,” she said. “You admit defeat, then?”
Jarlaxle just shrugged and held his arms out to the sides.
“Good, good,” said the dragon.
Her bones began to crunch again, and soon she appeared in her human form.
“I did not know that copper dragons were so adept at shape-changing,” the drow said, finding his voice.
“I spent many years studying under an archmage,” Ilnezhara replied. “The passage of centuries can be quite boring, you understand.”
“I do, yes,” the drow answered. “Though my friend …”
He swept his arm out toward Entreri.
“Your friend who still thinks he might get behind me and stab me with his puny dagger, or cut off my head with his mighty sword? Indeed, that is a formidable weapon,” she said to Entreri. “Would you try it against Ilnezhara?”
The assassin glared at her, but did not answer.
“Or perhaps you would give it to me, in exchange for your lives?”
“Yes, he would,” Jarlaxle was quick to answer.
Entreri turned his scowl on his friend, but realized that he really couldn’t argue the point.
“Or perhaps,” said Ilnezhara, “you would instead agree to perform a service for me. Yes, you seem uniquely qualified for this.”
“You need something stolen from Tazmikella,” Entreri reasoned.
Ilnezhara scoffed at the notion and said, “What could she have that would begin to interest me? No, of course not. Kill her.”
“Kill her?” Jarlaxle echoed.
“Yes, I grow weary of our facade of a friendship, or friendly rivalry, and I grow impatient. I do not wish to wait the few decades until old age takes her or renders her too infirm to continue her silly games. Kill her and arouse no suspicion from the authorities. If you can do that, then perhaps I will forgive your transgression.”
“Perhaps?” asked the drow.
“Perhaps,” answered the dragon, and when the two thieves hesitated, she added, “Do you believe that you can find a better deal?”
Entreri watched Tazmikella stiffen when she noticed Jarlaxle sitting casually in a chair in the back of her modest cabin.
“You have the flute of Idalia?” she asked, breathless.
“Hardly,” the drow replied. “It would seem that you did not fully inform us regarding the disposition of your rival.”
From his hiding spot off to the side, Entreri measured Tazmikella’s reaction. He and Jarlaxle had agreed that if the woman knew Ilnezhara’s true form, then they would indeed kill her, and without remorse.
“I told you she would be well protected,” Tazmikella started to say, and she stiffened again as a dagger came against her back.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “I hired you honestl-” She paused. “She sent you back here to kill me, didn’t she? She offered you gold against my silver.”
Entreri hardly heard her question. He hadn’t even pricked her with his vicious, life-drawing dagger, and yet the enchanted blade had sent such a surge of energy up his arm that the hairs were standing on end. Trembling, confused, the assassin lifted his free hand, placed it against Tazmikella’s shoulder, and gave a push.
He might as well have tried to push a mountain.
Entreri groaned and retracted both open hand and dagger.
“For the love of an eight-legged demon queen,” he muttered as he walked off to the side, shaking his head in disgust.
He glanced over at Jarlaxle, who was staring at him curiously.
“Her?” the drow asked.
Entreri nodded.
Tazmikella sighed and said, “My own sister sent you to kill me.…”
“Your sister?” asked the drow.
“One dragon’s not good enough for you, is it?” Entreri growled at his partner. “Now you’ve put me in the middle of a feud between two!”
“All that you had to do was steal a simple flute,” Tazmikella reminded them.
“From a dragon,” said Entreri.
“I thought you quick and clever.”
“Better if we had known the power of our enemy.”
“And now you have come to kill me,” said Tazmikella. “Oh, is there no room for loyalty anymore?”
“We weren’t going to kill you, actually,” said Jarlaxle.
“You would say that now.”
“If we found out that you knew you were sending us into the home of a dragon, then yes, we might have killed you,” Entreri added.
“You’ll note that my frien
d did not drive the blade into your back,” said the drow. “We came to talk, not murder.”
“So, now that you are aware of my … disposition, you wish to parley? Perhaps I can persuade you to go and kill Ilnezhara.”
“My good … lady,” the drow said, and he dipped a polite bow. “We prefer not to involve ourselves in such feuds. We are thieves-freely admitted! — but not killers.”
“I can think of a drow I wouldn’t mind killing right now,” said Entreri, and he took some hope, at least, in noticing that Tazmikella smirked with amusement.
“I would suggest that you and your sister sort this out reasonably. Through talk and not battle. Your king carries Dragonsbane as his surname, does he not? I would doubt that Gareth would be pleased with having his principal city leveled in the fight between a pair of great dragons.”
“Yes, dear sister,” came another voice, and Entreri groaned again.
Jarlaxle bowed even lower as Ilnezhara stepped into view, as if she had simply materialized out of nowhere.
“I told you they wouldn’t try to kill me,” Tazmikella replied.
“Only because that one discovered your true identity before he plunged his dagger home,” Ilnezhara argued.
“That is not entirely true,” said Entreri, but they weren’t listening to him.
“I suppose I could not blame them if they did try to kill me,” said Tazmikella. “They were instructed to do so by a dragon, after all.”
“Self-preservation is a powerful incentive,” her sister agreed as she moved next to Jarlaxle.
Ilnezhara reached up and unbuttoned his shirt, and again began tracing lines on his chest with her long finger.
“You wish to play with me before you kill me, then?” Jarlaxle asked her.
“Kill you?” Ilnezhara said with feigned horror. “Pretty drow, why would I ever wish such a thing as that? Oh no, I have plans for you, to be sure, but killing you isn’t in them.”
She snuggled a bit closer as she spoke, and Jarlaxle grinned, seeming very pleased.
“She’s a dragon!” Entreri said, and all three looked at him.
There usually wasn’t much emotion in Artemis Entreri’s voice, but so heavily weighted were those three words that it hit the others as profoundly as if he had rushed across the room, grabbed Jarlaxle by the collar, lifted him from the ground, and slammed him against the wall, shouting, “Are you mad?” with abandon.
“That one is so unimaginative,” Ilnezhara said to her sister.
“He is practical.”
“He is boring,” Ilnezhara corrected. She smirked at Entreri. “Tell me, human, as you walk along the muddy trail, do you not wonder what might be inside the gilded coach that passes you by?”
“You’re a dragon,” said Entreri.
Ilnezhara laughed at him.
“You have no idea what that means,” Ilnezhara promised.
She put her arm around Jarlaxle and pulled him close.
“I know that if you squeeze harder, Jarlaxle’s intestines will come out of his mouth,” Entreri said, stealing Ilnezhara’s superior smile.
“He has no imagination,” Jarlaxle assured her.
“You are such a peasant,” Ilnezhara said to Entreri. “Perhaps you should get better acquainted with my sister.”
Entreri rubbed a hand over his face, and looked at Tazmikella, who seemed quite amused by it all.
“Enough of this,” Tazmikella declared. “It is settled, then.”
“Is it?” Entreri asked.
“You work for us now,” Ilnezhara explained. “You do show cleverness and wit, even if that one is without imagination.”
“We had to learn, you must understand,” added her sister.
“Are we to understand that this whole thing was designed as a test for us?” asked Jarlaxle.
“Dragons.…” Entreri muttered.
“Of course,” said Ilnezhara.
“Then you two do not wish to battle to the death?”
“Of course not,” both sisters said together.
“We wish to increase our hoards,” said Tazmikella. “That is where you come in. We have maps that need following, and rumors that need confirming. You will work for us.”
“Do not doubt that we will reward you greatly,” Ilnezhara purred.
She pulled Jarlaxle closer, drawing an unintentional grunt from him.
“She’s a dragon,” Entreri said.
“Peasant,” Ilnezhara shot back. She laughed again, then pulled Jarlaxle around and released him back toward the door. “Go now back to your apartment. We will fashion some instructions for you shortly.”
“Your discretion is demanded,” her sister added.
“Of course,” said Jarlaxle, and he bowed low again, sweeping off his feathered hat.
“Oh, and here,” said Ilnezhara. She pulled out a plain-looking flute of gray driftwood. “You earned this,” she said. She motioned as if to toss it to the drow, but turned and flipped it out to Entreri instead. “Learn it well, peasant-to amuse me, and also because you might find it possessed of a bit of its own magic. Perhaps you will come to better appreciate beauty you cannot yet understand.”
Jarlaxle grinned and bowed again, but Entreri just tucked the flute into his belt and headed straight for the door, wanting to get far away while it was still possible. He passed by Tazmikella, thinking to go right out into the night, but she held up her hand and stopped him as completely as if he had walked into a castle wall.
“Discretion,” she reminded.
Entreri nodded and slipped aside, then went out into the foggy night, Jarlaxle right behind him.
“It worked out quite well, I think,” said the drow, moving up beside him.
Jarlaxle reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder, and in the cover of that shake, the drow’s other arm snaked behind his back, reaching out and gently lifting the flute from Entreri’s belt.
“Dragons.…” Entreri argued.
He shoved Jarlaxle’s arm away, and used the cover of the movement to flash his other hand across and secretly take back the flute, even as Jarlaxle set it in his belt.
“Are you so much the peasant, as beautiful Ilnezhara claims?” asked the drow, moving back beside his partner. “Your imagination, man! Have we ever known wealthier benefactors? Or more alluring?”
“Alluring? They’re dragons!”
“Yes, they are,” said a smug Jarlaxle, and he seemed quite entranced with that notion.
Of course, that didn’t stop him from sliding his hand across to relieve Entreri of the magical flute once more. The drow brought it farther around his back to a waiting loop on his belt-a magical loop that would tighten and resist thieving fingers.
Except that what Jarlaxle thought was the loop was really Entreri’s cupped hand and the man wasted no time in bringing the flute back.
Such was the fog in the friendship of thieves.
The Dowery
"You’re sure this is the building?” Drizzt Do’Urden asked his companion, and he turned from the plain, nearly windowless wooden warehouse to consider Catti-brie as he spoke. Once again, the sight of her knocked him off balance. With her thick auburn shoulder-length hair, huge blue eyes and soft features and lips, the woman was undeniably attractive-to Drizzt, she was the most beautiful woman in all the world-but now, dressed in the revealing outfit of a bowery tavern wench, practically an invitation, it seemed, the dark elf was much more afraid of what the many rakes and ruffians of the great city of Waterdeep’s bowery might think of her.
“Are you sure?” he asked again.
“I have watched them for three days,” she reminded. “And every time is the same?”
“Every one so far has gone into the warehouse,” Catti-brie confirmed in a voice thick with dwarvish brogue. They had been out of Mithral Hall for almost two months now, riding along the wide and wild expanses to the west, past the Trollmoors and the unwelcoming city of Nesme, whose guardian riders would not suffer Drizzt, a dark elf, to walk among them. When t
hey had left Mithral Hall, they had agreed to chase the lowering sun, and so they had, all the way to the Sword Coast and Waterdeep, the greatest city in all of Faerun.
Drizzt was allowed in here, though hardly welcome. But here they could set up their base and await the arrival of one of the few men in all the world who would fully accept this particular drow. They had sold their horses, rented a small flat down by the docks, and learned the lay of the land, the sights, the smells and most importantly, the hierarchy of the various thugs who lorded over their private little domains down here in this forgotten section of the wider city.
Drizzt looked back to the left, to the smaller structure across the alleyway and the hastily-boarded window that faced this structure’s second floor.
“It is empty,” Catti-brie said.
“You have checked that one as well?”
Catti-brie walked up beside Drizzt and led his gaze with a pointing finger to the one window, and Drizzt caught on from the variations in hue along the side panels that a strategically-placed board had been recently removed.
“A clear view into the interview chamber.”
“Right to the leader’s seat, no doubt,” the drow said dryly, and when he glanced at his companion, her wry smile told him that he was, of course, correct.
They were face to face then, and barely a couple of inches apart. The two, human woman and drow elf, were almost exactly the same height, and though he was more heavily muscled, Drizzt’s lean frame put him only a score of pounds heavier than the woman. The connection between them, the almost-magnetic pull, was surely there, but neither would take it farther than friendship, for Catti-brie had just lost her fiancee, Wulfgar, the giant barbarian man who had been Drizzt’s protege in battle, and who had given his life in sacrifice so that she and her adoptive father, the dwarf Bruenor Battlehammer, could escape the clutches of a demon yochlol.
The pain of that loss resonated deeply within the two. With the threat from the Underdark eradicated, they had put Mithral Hall behind them, had physically distanced themselves from the dwarven homeland. But emotional distance was usually measured in time, not miles.
The Collected Stories, The Legend of Drizzt (forgotten realms) Page 14
