Servant of the Shard: The Sellswords

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Perhaps I am, though under the guise of a wizard’s spell,” the assailant replied. “But that could not be—or could it?—since no magic will work in this room.” As he finished, he roughly pushed Morik away, then grabbed his shoulder to spin the frightened rogue around as he fell back.

  Morik didn’t recognize the man, though he still understood that he was in imminent danger. He glanced down at his own dagger, and it seemed a pitiful thing indeed against the magnificent, jewel-handled blade his opponent carried—almost a reflection of the relative strengths of their wielders, Morik recognized with a wince.

  Morik the Rogue was as good a thief as roamed the streets of Luskan, a city full of thieves. His reputation, though bloated by bluff, had been well-earned across the bowels of the city. This man before him, older than Morik by a decade, perhaps, and standing so calm and so balanced …

  This man had gotten into his apartment and had remained there unobserved despite Morik’s attempted scrutiny. Morik noted then that the bed sheets were rumpled—but hadn’t he just looked at them, to see them perfectly smooth?

  “You are not drow,” Morik dared to say again.

  “Not all of Jarlaxle’s agents are dark elves, are they, Morik the Rogue?” the man replied.

  Morik nodded and slipped his dagger into its sheath at his belt, a move designed to alleviate the tension, something that Morik desperately wanted to do.

  “The jewels?” the man asked.

  Morik could not hide the panic from his face.

  “You should have purchased them from Telsburgher,” the man remarked. “The way was clear and the assignment was not difficult.”

  “The way would have been clear,” Morik corrected, “but for a minor magistrate who holds old grudges.”

  The intruder continued to stare, showing neither intrigue nor anger, telling Morik nothing at all about whether or not he was even interested in any excuses.

  “Telsburgher is ready to sell them to me,” Morik quickly added, “at the agreed price. His hesitation is only a matter of his fear that there will be retribution from Magistrate Jharkheld. The evil man holds an old grudge. He knows that I am back in town and wishes to drag me back to his Prisoner’s Carnival, but he cannot, by word of his superiors, I am told. Thank Jarlaxle for me.”

  “You thank Jarlaxle by performing as instructed,” the man replied, and Morik nervously shifted from foot to foot. “He helps you to fill his purse, not to fill his heart with good feelings.”

  Morik nodded. “I fear to go after Jharkheld,” he explained. “How high might I strike without incurring the wrath of the greater powers of Luskan, thus ultimately wounding Jarlaxle’s purse?”

  “Jharkheld is not a concern,” the man answered with a tone so assured that Morik found that he believed every word. “Complete the transaction.”

  “But …” Morik started to reply.

  “This night,” came the answer, and the man turned away and started for the door.

  His hands worked in amazing circles right before Morik’s eyes as trap after trap after lock fell open. It had taken Morik several minutes to get through that door, and that with an intricate knowledge of every trap—which he had set—and with the keys for the three supposedly difficult locks, and yet, within the span of two minutes, the door now swung open wide.

  The man glanced back and tossed something to the floor at Morik’s feet. A wire.

  “The one on your bottom trap had stretched beyond usefulness,” the man explained. “I repaired it for you.”

  He went out then and closed the door, and Morik heard the clicks and sliding panels as all the locks and traps were efficiently reset.

  Morik went to his bed cautiously and pulled the bed sheets aside. A hole had been cut into his mattress, perfectly sized to hold the intruder. Morik gave a helpless laugh, his respect for Jarlaxle’s band multiplying. He didn’t even have to go over to his trapped vase to know that the orb now within it was a fake and that the real one had just walked out his door.

  Entreri blinked as he walked out into the late afternoon Luskan sun. He dropped a hand into his pocket, to feel the enchanted device he had just taken from Morik. This small orb had frustrated Rai-guy. It defeated his magic when he’d tried to visit Morik himself, as it was likely doing now. That thought alone pleased Entreri greatly. It had taken Bregan D’aerthe nearly a tenday to discern the source of Morik’s sudden distance, how the man had made his room inaccessible to the prying eyes of the wizards. Thus, Entreri had been sent. He held no illusions that his trip had to do with his thieving prowess, but rather, it was simply because the dark elves weren’t certain of how resistant Morik might be and simply hadn’t wished to risk any of their brethren in the exploration. Certainly Jarlaxle wouldn’t have been pleased to learn that Rai-guy and Kimmuriel had forced Entreri to go, but the pair knew that Entreri wouldn’t go to Jarlaxle with the information.

  So Entreri had played message boy for the two formidable, hated dark elves.

  His instructions upon taking the orb and finishing his business with Morik had been explicit and precise. He was to place the orb aside and use the magical signal whistle Rai-guy had given him to call to the dark elves in faraway Calimport, but he wasn’t in any hurry.

  He knew that he should have killed Morik, both for the man’s impertinence in trying to shield himself and for failing to produce the required jewels. Rai-guy and Kimmuriel would demand such punishment, of course. Now he’d have to justify his actions, to protect Morik somewhat.

  He knew Luskan fairly well, having been through the city several times, including an extended visit only a few days before, when he, along with several other drow agents, had learned the truth of Morik’s magic-blocking device. Wandering the streets, he soon heard the shouts and cheers of the vicious Prisoner’s Carnival. He entered the back of the open square just as some poor fool was having his intestines pulled out like a great length of rope. Entreri hardly noticed the spectacle, concentrating instead on the sharp-featured, diminutive, robed figure presiding over the torture.

  The man screamed at the writhing victim, telling him to surrender his associates, there and then, before it was too late. “Secure a chance for a more pleasant afterlife!” the magistrate screeched, his voice as sharp as his angry, angular features. “Now! Before you die!”

  The man only wailed. It seemed to Entreri as if he was far beyond any point of even comprehending the magistrate’s words.

  He died soon enough and the show was over. The people began filtering out of the square, most nodding their heads and smiling, speaking excitedly of Jharkheld’s fine show this day.

  That was all Entreri needed to hear.

  He moved shadow to shadow, following the magistrate down the short walk from the back of the square to the tower that housed the quarters of the officials of Prisoner’s Carnival as well as the dungeons holding those who would soon face the public tortures.

  He mused at his own good fortune in carrying Morik’s orb, for it gave him some measure of protection from any wizard hired to further secure the tower. That left only sentries and mechanical traps in his way.

  Artemis Entreri feared neither.

  He went into the tower as the sun disappeared in the west.

  “They have too many allies,” Rai-guy insisted.

  “They would be gone without a trace,” Jarlaxle replied with a wide smile. “Simply gone.”

  Rai-guy groaned and shook his head, and Kimmuriel, across the room and sitting comfortably in a plush chair, one leg thrown over the cushioning arm, looked up at the ceiling and rolled his eyes.

  “You continue to doubt me?” Jarlaxle asked, his tone light and innocent, not threatening. “Consider all that we have already accomplished here in Calimport and across the surface. We have agents in several major cities, including Waterdeep.”

  “We are exploring agents in other cities,” Rai-guy corrected. “We have but one currently working, the little rogue in Luskan.” He paused and glanced over at his psionici
st counterpart and smiled. “Perhaps.”

  Kimmuriel chuckled as he considered their second agent now working in Luskan, the one Jarlaxle did not know had left Calimport.

  “The others are preliminary,” Rai-guy went on. “Some are promising, others not so, but none are worthy of the title of agent at this time.”

  “Soon, then,” said Jarlaxle, coming forward in his own comfortable chair. “Soon! They will become profitable partners or we will find others—not so difficult a thing to do among the greedy humans. The situation here in Calimport … look around you. Can you doubt our wisdom in coming here? The gems and jewels are flowing fast, a direct line to a drow population eager to expand their possessions beyond the limited wealth of Menzoberranzan.”

  “Fortunate are we if the houses of Ched Nasad determine that we are undercutting their economy,” Rai-guy, who hailed from that other drow city, remarked sarcastically.

  Jarlaxle scoffed at the notion.

  “I cannot deny the profitability of Calimport,” the wizard lieutenant went on, “yet when we first planned our journey to the surface, we all agreed that it would show immediate and strong returns. As we all agreed it would likely be a short tenure, and that, after the initial profits, we would do well to reconsider our position and perhaps retreat to our own land, leaving only the best of the trading connections and agents in place.”

  “So we should reconsider, and so I have,” said Jarlaxle. “It seems obvious to me that we underestimated the potential of our surface operations. Expand! Expand, I say.”

  Again came the disheartened expressions. Kimmuriel was still staring at the ceiling, as if in abject denial of what Jarlaxle was proposing.

  “The Rakers desire that we limit our trade to this one section,” Jarlaxle reminded, “yet many of the craftsmen of the more exotic goods—merchandise that would likely prove most attractive in Menzoberranzan—are outside of that region.”

  “Then we cut a deal with the Rakers, let them in on the take for this new and profitable market to which they have no access,” said Rai-guy, a perfectly reasonable suggestion in light of the history of Bregan D’aerthe, a mercenary and opportunistic band that always tried to use the words “mutually beneficial” as their business credo.

  “They are pimples,” Jarlaxle replied, extending his thumb and index finger in the air before him and pressing them together as if he was squeezing away an unwanted blemish. “They will simply disappear.”

  “Not as easy a task as you seem to believe,” came a feminine voice from the doorway, and the three glanced over to see Sharlotta Vespers gliding into the room, dressed in a long gown slit high enough to reveal one very shapely leg. “The Rakers pride themselves on spreading their organizational lines far and wide. You could destroy all of their houses and all of their known agents, even all of the people dealing with all of their agents, and still leave many witnesses.”

  “Who would do what?” Jarlaxle asked, but he was still smiling, even patting his chair for Sharlotta to go over and sit with him, which she did, curling about him familiarly.

  The sight of it made Rai-guy glance again at Kimmuriel. Both knew that Jarlaxle was bedding the human woman, the most powerful remnant—along with Entreri—of the old Basadoni Guild, and neither of them liked the idea. Sharlotta was a sly one, as humans go, almost sly enough to be accepted among the society of drow. She had even mastered the language of the drow and was now working on the intricate hand signals of the dark elven silent code. Rai-guy found her perfectly repulsive, and Kimmuriel, though seeing her as exotic, did not like the idea of having her whispering dangerous suggestions into Jarlaxle’s ear.

  In this particular matter, though, it seemed to both of them that Sharlotta was on their side, so they didn’t try to interrupt her as they usually did.

  “Witnesses who would tell every remaining guild,” Sharlotta explained, “and who would inform the greater powers of Calimshan. The destruction of the Rakers Guild would imply that a truly great power had secretly come to Calimport.”

  “One has,” Jarlaxle said with a grin.

  “One whose greatest strength lies in remaining secret,” Sharlotta replied.

  Jarlaxle pushed her from his lap, right off the chair, so that she had to move quickly to get her shapely legs under her in time to prevent falling unceremoniously on her rump.

  The mercenary leader then rose as well, pushing right past Sharlotta as if her opinion mattered not at all, and moving closer to his more important lieutenants. “I once envisioned Bregan D’aerthe’s role on the surface as that of importer and exporter,” he explained. “This we have easily achieved. Now I see the truth of the human dominated societies, and that is a truth of weakness. We can go further—we must go further.”

  “Conquest?” Rai-guy asked sourly, sarcastically.

  “Not as Baenre attempted with Mithral Hall,” Jarlaxle eagerly explained. “More a matter of absorption.” Again came that wicked smile. “For those who will play.”

  “And those who will not simply disappear?” Rai-guy asked, but his sarcasm seemed lost on Jarlaxle, who only smiled all the wider.

  “Did you not execute a Raker spy only the other day?” Jarlaxle asked.

  “There is a profound difference in defending our privacy and trying to expand our borders,” the wizard replied.

  “Semantics,” Jarlaxle said with a laugh. “Simply semantics.”

  Behind him, Sharlotta Vespers bit her lip and shook her head, fearing that her newfound benefactors might be about to make a tremendous and very dangerous blunder.

  From an alley not so far away, Entreri listened to the shouts and confusion coming from the tower. When he had entered, he’d gone downstairs first, to find a particularly unpleasant prisoner to free. Once he had ushered the man to relative safety, to the open tunnels at the back of the dungeons, he had gone upstairs to the first floor, then up again, moving quietly and deliberately along the shadowy, torch-lit corridors.

  Finding Jharkheld’s room proved easy enough.

  The door hadn’t even been locked.

  Had he not just witnessed the magistrate’s work at Prisoner’s Carnival, Artemis Entreri might have reasoned with him concerning Morik. Now the way was clear for Morik to complete his task and proffer the jewels.

  Entreri wondered if the escaped prisoner, the obvious murderer of poor Jharkheld, had been found in the maze of tunnels yet. What misery the man would face. A wry grin found its way onto Entreri’s face, for he hardly felt any guilt about using the wretch for his own gain. The idiot should have known better, after all. Why would someone come in unannounced and at obvious great personal risk to save him? Why hadn’t he even questioned Entreri while the assassin was releasing him from the shackles? Why, if he was smart enough to deserve his life, hadn’t he tried to capture Entreri in his place, to put this unasked-for and unknown savior up in the shackles in his stead, to face the executioner? So many prisoners came through these dungeons that the gaolers likely wouldn’t even have been aware of the change.

  So, his fate was the thug’s own to accept, and in Entreri’s thinking, of his own doing. Of course, the thug would claim that someone else had helped him to escape, had set it all up to make it look like it was his doing.

  Prisoner’s Carnival hardly cared for such excuses.

  Nor did Artemis Entreri.

  He dismissed all thoughts of those problems, glanced around to ensure that he was alone, and placed the magic dispelling orb along the side of the alley. He walked across the way and blew his whistle. He wondered then how this might work. Magic would be needed, after all, to get him back to Calimport, but how might that work if he had to take the orb along? Wouldn’t the orb’s dweomer simply dispel the attempted teleportation?

  A blue screen of light appeared beside him. It was a magical doorway, he knew, and not one of Rai-guy’s, but rather the doing of Kimmuriel Oblodra. So that was it, he mused. Perhaps the orb wouldn’t work against psionics.

  Or perhaps it would, and tha
t thought unsettled the normally unshakable Entreri profoundly as he moved to collect the item. What would happen if the orb somehow did affect Kimmuriel’s dimension warp? Might he wind up in the wrong place—even in another plane of existence, perhaps?

  Entreri shook that thought away as well. Life was risky when dealing with drow, magical orbs or not. He took care to pocket the orb slyly, so that any prying eyes would have a difficult time making out the movement in the dark alley, then strode quickly up to the portal, and with a single deep breath, stepped through.

  He came out dizzy, fighting hard to hold his balance, in the guild hall’s private sorcery chambers back in Calimport, hundreds and hundreds of miles away.

  There stood Kimmuriel and Rai-guy, staring at him hard.

  “The jewels?” Rai-guy asked in the drow language, which Entreri understood, though not well.

  “Soon,” the assassin replied in his shaky command of Deep Drow. “There was a problem.”

  Both dark elves lifted their white eyebrows in surprise.

  “Was,” Entreri emphasized. “Morik will have the jewels presently.”

  “Then Morik lives,” Kimmuriel remarked pointedly. “What of his attempts to hide from us?”

  “More the attempts of local magistrates to seal him off from any outside influences,” Entreri lied. “One local magistrate,” he quickly corrected, seeing their faces sour. “The issue has been remedied.”

  Neither drow seemed pleased, but neither openly complained.

  “And this local magistrate had magically sealed off Morik’s room from outside, prying eyes?” Rai-guy asked.

  “And all other magic,” Entreri answered. “It has been corrected.”

  “With the orb?” Kimmuriel added.

  “Morik proffered the orb,” Rai-guy remarked, narrowing his eyes.

  “He apparently did not know what he was buying,” Entreri said calmly, not getting alarmed, for he recognized that his ploys had worked.