"Zhengyi himself was a small matter," Ilnezhara replied. "A temporary inconvenience and nothing more."
Even Tazmikella winced at the obvious and self-serving understatement. Both she and her sister had breathed much easier indeed when the Witch-King had fallen, and not since the time when Aspiraditus the red dragon and her three fiery offspring had flown into the mountains of western Damara four hundred years before had the dragon sisters been that concerned about anything.
"Perhaps we measure our catastrophes in the sense of tendays, or even years, good lady, because that is all we have," Kane countered. "Our time is short by your measures, but eternity by our own. I am not overly concerned about this latest Zhengyian construct, for it is dead now, and I am confident that whatever plagues the Witch-King left behind for us will be handled accordingly by Spysong and the Army of Bloodstone."
"And yet, you are here," reasoned Tazmikella.
"This is how we handle accordingly our catastrophes," Kane answered, and for the first time, a bit of emotion, a dry sarcasm, crept into his monotone voice.
"Then pray tell us of your catastrophe," Ilnezhara stated with a clear air of condescension.
Kane stared at her for a few moments but did not reply.
"Pray tell us why you have come to see us," Tazmikella intervened, guessing correctly that the monk wasn't willing to label the purpose of his visit as such.
"That this drow and human in your employ walked out of that castle, while King Gareth's niece, a knight of the order, did not, is worrying," the monk admitted. "That this drow and human walked out of that castle, while Mariabronne the Rover, a hero of the realm by all measures and a student of Olwen, did not, is worrying. I would be ill-serving my king and friend Gareth if I did not investigate the circumstances of his niece's death. And I would be ill-serving my friend Olwen if I did not investigate the circumstances of his student's death. It is no mystery why I have come."
The sisters looked at each other.
"Do you vouch for the character of the drow and human?" Kane asked.
"They have not disappointed us," Tazmikella said.
"Yet," added her sister.
Tazmikella looked from Ilnezhara to Kane, trying to judge the monk's response, but reading his emotions was like trying to find footprints on hard stone.
"We are not well acquainted with the pair, truth be told," Tazmikella offered.
"You were not responsible for importing them to Damara?"
"Certainly not," Tazmikella answered, and Ilnezhara echoed her words as she was speaking them. "We learned of them in Heliogabalus, and decided that we could put their talents to use. It is not so different from the methods of Spysong, and I am certain that if we had not hired the pair, your friend Celedon would have."
"They are talented at what they do," Ilnezhara added.
"Stealing?" asked Kane.
"Procurement," Tazmikella corrected.
Kane actually offered a bit of a smile at that equivocation. He snapped up to stand on the chair again, and dipped a low bow. Without another word, he turned and walked out of Tazmikella's house.
"Those two are going to get themselves killed," Tazmikella remarked when the monk was far away.
"At least," said her sister, with more concern than Tazmikella expected. She glanced over to see Ilnezhara staring at the open door and the back of the departing Kane.
Indeed, Tazmikella thought, few creatures in all the world could unnerve a dragon more than a grandmaster monk.
"You have heard about the fight at Great Fork Ford?" Ilnezhara said, obviously noticing Tazmikella's stare. "Two reds and a mighty white seemed about to rout one of Gareth's brigades."
"And Grandmaster Kane rushed in," Tazmikella continued. "He dared their breath, fire and frost, and avoided it all."
"And even deceived the dragons into breathing upon each other," Ilnezhara added.
"The white—Glacialamacus, it is rumored—was severely burned, and none know if she has survived her wounds. And both reds were wounded, by the frost and by the blows of Kane, followed by the charge of Gareth's warriors."
"It is all rumor, you know," Tazmikella remarked.
"Perhaps, but a plausible rumor, no doubt."
After a long pause, digesting the implications, Tazmikella added, "I grow weary of those two."
"Jarlaxle troubles me," Ilnezhara agreed.
"Troubles?"
"But he is a fine lover," Ilnezhara went on unabated. "Perhaps I should keep him close."
Tazmikella just rolled her eyes at that, hardly surprised.
* * * * *
From the outside, the black hole in the mountainside seemed like just another of the many caves that dotted the region of towering stones and steep facings of the high peaks of the Galenas, east of the Vaasan Gate. Anyone who entered that particular cave, though, would find it to be much more, full of comforts and treasures, inviting aromas and magically lit walkways.
Of course, anyone who entered it uninvited would likely find himself dead.
Chased from Heliogabalus after the fall of Zhengyi, Timoshenko, the Grandfather of Assassins, and his mighty advisor Knellict, had moved the band to their remote, well-defended location. Suites of rooms went far back into the mountain, some carved by hired stonemasons and miners, and many others created by Knellict's magic. Timoshenko's band lived in comfort and security, but were not too remote from their dealings in Damara, for Knellict and his mage companions had also created and maintained a series of magical portals to strategic locations within Gareth's kingdom.
Through one of those portals, Jailiana, the mage who had survived Entreri's betrayal at Wall's Around, had arrived back at the citadel, trembling with outrage. She had delivered her report quickly, and had asked for support that she might go right back to Heliogabalus and slaughter the traitor. As angry as she was, however, Jailiana knew better than to act without the express permission of Knellict, and so when he had ordered her to stand down, she had quietly gone, sulking, to her chambers.
Knellict came out into the sunlight on the natural stone balcony of the cave, staring west along the northern foothills of the stony mountains. He still held Mourtrue, and had taken quite a liking to the purring cat, and was even considering creating a magical wizard-familiar bond with the animal.
It pleased Knellict to know that one of those who had tried to deceive him was making his way through this creature's intestines.
"Jailiana trembles with anger," came a voice behind him, one of his lieutenants, a dependable if unremarkable fellow named Coureese.
"I have a spell prepared that can cure that," Knellict absently replied. "Of course, it would freeze her solid in the process."
"She knows that she failed you," Coureese said.
"Failed?" Knellict turned, and Coureese looked at him, at the white cat, with obvious surprise. "She did not fail."
"She was to ensure the death of Beneghast."
"She was to witness the loyalty, or lack thereof, of Artemis Entreri," Knellict corrected. "She did not fail."
"But he got away, and two men were slain."
"Where can he run, I wonder? And we lose young recruits almost daily. There are always more to take their places, and if we did not lose so many, then how would we ever know which ones were worthy of our efforts to train them?"
Coureese's lips moved, but he didn't say anything, and Knellict smiled at the man's confusion.
"Perhaps I should go and tell Jailiana of your feelings," Coureese offered.
"Perhaps I should telekinese you over the cliff."
The man blanched and fell back a step.
"Let her stew in her anger," Knellict explained. "It is a fine motivator. And let us set an order of elimination on the head of dear Artemis Entreri. Perhaps our female friend would seek the coin."
"She would go after him for free," Coureese replied. "She would pay us for the opportunity."
"Well, that is her decision to make. She has seen this man at his craft. I would expect
that a woman wise enough to dabble in the arcane ways would also be wise enough to recognize the difference between opportunity and suicide."
Coureese wagged his head for a few moments, digesting all of that. Finally, he asked, "The bounty?"
Knellict considered it for a moment, thinking it might be a good training exercise for the younger members, and a good way to truly measure the prowess of Artemis Entreri. "Fifty pieces of platinum," he replied.
Coureese licked his lips and nodded.
"Your thoughts?" Knellict prompted, seeing, and expecting, his discomfort. After all, a man of Entreri's reputation—even the little bit that was known in Damara, which was likely only a very minor piece of the intriguing killer's history—would normally bring a bounty of ten times that offering.
"Nothing, my lord Knellict. I will post the order of elimination." He bowed quickly and turned to leave. Before he reached the cave, however, the magical stone door slid out from its concealment at the side, sealing the entrance in a camouflaged manner that made it seem as if no cave existed there. Coureese spun back to face Knellict, for he knew that the archmage had closed that door with a minor spell.
"When I ask for your thoughts, you would do well to offer them," Knellict explained. "All of them."
"Your pardon, master," Coureese begged, bowing repeatedly and awkwardly. "I only…"
"Just speak them," the mage demanded.
"Fifty pieces of platinum?" Coureese blurted. "I had thought that I would try to collect this bounty myself, but to go after this Entreri—who walks beside a drow! — for such a price is not enticing."
"Because you are intelligent."
Coureese looked up at him.
"Only a fool would go after Artemis Entreri for this price, agreed. So let us see what fools we need to remove from our ranks. Or I should say, let us see what fools Entreri will eliminate for us. And in the process, perhaps he will leave a trail of bodies that King Gareth cannot ignore. We can only gain here."
"But Entreri will not likely be killed," Coureese dared to remark.
Knellict snorted as if that hardly mattered. "When I want him to die, he will die. Athrogate is close to him, do not forget, and the dwarf is loyal. Better to enrage Entreri—or should I call him 'Sir' Entreri? — and embarrass King Gareth. And perhaps one of those who seek him out will show unexpected promise and actually slay him. Or perhaps several will prove resourceful enough to work together to win the bounty."
Coureese began to nod, catching on to all the potential gains.
"Every so often, we must put such a test before our young recruits," Knellict explained and shrugged. "How else are we to know who is worthy and who should be dead?"
Coureese offered a final nod then, hearing the door magically sliding open behind him as Knellict simply waved a hand, he bowed and took his leave.
Knellict chuckled and stroked the purring Mourtrue. "Ah, cat, how am I ever to survive with such fools as that serving me? And he is one of the better ones of late!"
He went back to the ledge and stared out over southern Vaasa. He missed the days of glory when Zhengyi had occupied the troublesome Gareth and the Citadel of Assassins had thrived.
He hated living in a cave—even one magically furnished.
CHAPTER 7
SHADOWS
To a surface dweller, they were called shadows, patches of confusing darkness made all the harder to decipher because of the splotches of light beside them. But to Jarlaxle, who had spent centuries wandering the lightless abyss known as the Underdark, these «shadows» were really just dimmer areas of lightness. And so the drow had no trouble at all in discerning the man crouched beside a pile of debris in the alleyway beside the building where he and Entreri shared their second-story apartment. So painfully obvious was the fool that Jarlaxle had to work hard to keep from giggling at him as he walked past the alleyway to the wooden staircase that would take him to the outer door of his apartment.
At the foot of those stairs, the drow casually glanced all about. Sure enough, he spotted a second man, slipping along the rooftop of an adjoining building.
"What have you done, Artemis?" Jarlaxle whispered under his breath.
He started up the stairs, but stopped short and turned around, acting very much as if he had forgotten something. He even went so far in his deception as to snap his fingers in the air before starting off quickly back the way he had come. They were all watching him, he knew, and there were likely more than two.
But how could they question his decision to enter Piter's Bakery, given the sweet, sweet aroma emanating from its open door?
* * * * *
The drow's turnabout might have fooled the would-be ambushers, but it revealed much more to Artemis Entreri, who watched from his apartment, from the corner of the small window overlooking the street. He understood the significance of Jarlaxle's somewhat exaggerated movements: the finger snap and the feigned expression of forgetfulness.
Agents of the Citadel of Assassins were nearby, no doubt, and Jarlaxle had spied them.
After waiting a bit longer to see if anyone followed Jarlaxle's detour to Piter's shop—and no one did—the assassin moved back into the center of the room and considered his course. He was most certainly outnumbered, and the first rule when so outmanned was to never allow oneself to be cornered. He moved swiftly to the door, drew his sword and dagger, and kicked it open. He went through in a rush, speaking the command password, "White," so that the magic of his trap didn't kill him where he stood.
As he went under the arch of the door, he jumped up and hooked his dagger inside the looped silver chain that held a small statuette of a dragon rampant, its eyes shining like white moonstones. A flick of his wrist had the dragon safely dangling on the blade of his dagger, a second fluid twist dropped the figurine safely away in a pouch, and a third, executed with such precision and speed that it all seemed as one swipe, replaced the dagger in its scabbard with the fine chain from the statuette still looped around it.
Three running steps took Entreri down the hall, to the outer door, the balcony, then the stairway to the street. He thought to pause and inspect whether his uninvited guests had placed any traps on the door, but suspecting that he didn't have that much time, he just lowered his shoulder and crashed through. On the balcony, he cut fast to the left, to the stairs, and he started down—one, two, three strides. There, still more than halfway up, he slipped over the waist-high railing, catching it with his free hand, sliding down its angled decline for a moment, then dropping to the ground. He rolled as he landed to absorb the shock, and came back to his feet already into his run. As he ran across the street, he could feel the eyes of archers upon him.
A small two-wheeled cart of fruit had been placed across from Entreri's stair. The jovial vendor and his teenage son chatted easily with a young couple who were inspecting the wares—a scene very typical for the streets of Heliogabalus.
Or not so, Entreri realized as he approached, for he noted that the foursome were not fast to react to his sudden and unexpected appearance and his obvious urgency—or even to the fact that he held a red-bladed, fabulously designed sword in one hand. He locked stares with the bearded vendor, just for a moment, but that was enough for him to see a flicker of recognition in the man's dark eyes. Not the recognition of a common vendor who might have seen him pass by a dozen times, but the look of a man who had found what he was seeking.
Entreri broke into a charge just as he heard the click of a crossbow releasing from somewhere to the side—and he heard the bolt hum through the air right behind him. He drew his dagger back out as he went, but again kept the blade carefully tipped so that it did not allow the silver chain to slide off as he pulled the statuette free of the pouch.
The young couple next to the cart threw off their peasant cloaks and spun around, weapons at the ready, but Entreri charged through with a quick back-and-forth slash of his sword that had them both falling aside in opposite directions.
A leap brought Entreri to the ed
ge of the cart. A second spring brought him past the «vendor» and the younger man, sailing through the entryway to the alley. Up snapped Entreri's dagger arm as he crossed just under a trellis beam that joined the buildings. He set his dagger into the wooden beam, the dragon statuette bouncing beneath it. He hit the ground in more of a dive than a run, for he understood how little time he had, how close came the pursuit.
And those pursuers, he knew, wouldn't utter the password, wouldn't properly identify the dragon.
He was still rolling and scrambling—anything to move down the alleyway—when the trap went off right behind him and he felt a blast of frost that chilled him to the bone and left a red burn on his trailing ankle. He tried to stand, but his leg had gone numb, and he quickly found himself face down on the cobblestones. He thrashed and rolled, sword slashing across, for he was certain that another of the killers would be fast upon him.
* * * * *
Pie in hand, Jarlaxle leaned casually on Piter's counter and watched the couple, a man and his petite and pretty lover, come through the door. They looked into each other's eyes, giggling all the while.
Jarlaxle knew a put-on when he saw one.
"Ah, young love!" he cried dramatically. "Good Piter, I will gladly pay for their sweets."
The two looked at Jarlaxle, expressions correctly confused. He tossed the pie to the man, but up high. When the man went to catch it, the movement lifted up the hem of his waistcoat, revealing a pair of well-worn dagger handles.
The second pie Jarlaxle threw came in harder, and was not meant to be caught—except by the man's surprised expression.
"What?" the woman yelled as the pie splattered across her lover's face, and he gave a yell, as well, but one of pain.
"Jarlaxle, what are you about?" Piter demanded.
"I am killed!" the surprised man cried. He slapped at his face, sending cream flying and eventually revealing a small dart that had been concealed within the pie, protruding from his cheek. He reached for it, hands trembling, but he couldn't quite seem to grasp it.
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