Beside him, the young girl screamed and cried.
Jarlaxle had his arms bent, hands by his shoulders, ready to thrust them down and call forth a pair of blades from the magical bracers set on his wrists. He could summon daggers with a thought, then elongate the magical weapons into long swords with a snap of his arms.
But he didn't, because at least the girl's reaction was all wrong. The man, predictably, slumped down to the floor, his eyes rolling back into his skull, froth spilling from his slack jaw.
"Jarlaxle!" Piter cried, scrambling out beside his investor. "What have you done? Oh, Clairelle! Oh, Mischa!"
Jarlaxle cleared his throat as Piter wobbled his way to help Clairelle support the limp form of her lover.
"You know them?" the drow asked.
A troubled Piter looked back at him. "This is Maringay's daughter and her husband-to-be! They live right next to you. They are to be wed in the spring, and I am… I was to bake… oh, what have you done?"
"I have put him to sleep, and nothing more," Jarlaxle explained as he moved past the trio to the door. "Keep them inside, for there are killers about."
Clairelle slapped at him, then grabbed his pant leg as he moved past.
"It was for his own good," the embarrassed drow lied. "Your gallant lover would wish to play the role of hero, no doubt, and now is not the time. Lock your door, Piter, and keep all inside. On pain of death, do not go out!"
Jarlaxle tugged his leg away, spent the time to tip his hat at the distressed young lady, then quickly took his leave. He burst onto the street, suddenly doubting all that he had seen and inferred.
But he heard the tumult a bit farther down, across from his apartment. A man staggered out of the alleyway, white—frosted—from head to toe and walking awkwardly, stiffly. He crashed into the fruit cart, and the jolt sent a pile of apples spilling onto the street.
Apples frozen so solid that some of them shattered like glass when they hit the cobblestones.
"Entreri," the drow whispered.
He slipped a ring onto his finger and clenched his fist, releasing its magic. Up he jumped, a dozen feet and more, to land lightly on the roof of Piter's shop, where he fast melted from sight.
* * * * *
Entreri staggered down to the end of the alley, which was blocked by a wall and fronted by a pile of broken crates and some old wooden furniture. He had thought to use the pile to go over the wall and sprint out across the street parallel to his own, but his legs were barely working, one of them shifting from complete numbness to a pervasive, burning pain. He looked back to see the phony vendor and his «son» lying very still on the ground, covered in frost. A third killer, one of the pair who had feigned shopping at the cart, leaned up against the alley wall, seeming frozen in place, eyes open and unseeing, eyelashes white with ice. His companion staggered back out in the street behind him then tripped over the partially frozen fruit cart and tumbled hard to the cobblestones where he lay shivering and helpless, likely dying.
But more were coming, Entreri realized as a pair of forms darted left to right across his field of vision, on the other side of the street.
Entreri knew that he was in trouble. He used the pile of debris to pull himself up, and he tried to walk, but his numb foot flopped forward and he tripped over his own toes. He kept his balance, though, and did not fall down. Instead he used the stumble to propel himself back behind some of the crates, turning as he went.
A dark form slipped in around the left-hand corner of the alley exit, hugging the wall and using it for support as he inched down across the icy surface. A second killer came in a bit faster, and skidded across the ice. When his feet hit dry ground, he jolted forward several steps.
Had his legs been capable, Entreri would have leaped out to intercept, laying the overbalanced fool low before he ever came out of that bent-over stumble.
But his legs were not capable, and and he could hardly stand, let alone move to attack.
The man regained his balance and straightened to face the assassin, a gleaming long sword in one hand, a small buckler strapped to his other arm. He stayed out of reach and remained in a defensive crouch, glancing back repeatedly at his slowly approaching companion.
"Hurry it on, then," he whispered harshly. "We got the rat cornered."
"The rat that spews like a dragon of white," the other replied.
"Yes, come and freeze," Entreri bluffed.
He angled himself so that he did not appear as if he was leaning quite so heavily on the wall, but in truth, had it not been for that solid barrier behind him, Entreri would have toppled over. He brought his impressive sword out in front of him, waving the red blade tantalizingly.
The nearer man straightened a bit and took a step away.
"It was a trap set in the alley, and nothing he's got to play again," the man closer to Entreri deduced, calling the assassin's bluff.
"As you wish," Entreri said with an evil little chuckle, and he waved the blade in invitation.
He held his sigh of relief when the man backed another half a step, for he felt the tell-tale tingling in his legs to indicate that the feeling was beginning to return, that his blood flowed once more. It took all of his training to hold back his grimace in the next few moments, but he knew that he couldn't let on how weak he still was.
If they attacked boldly, he was dead.
"Knellict sent you, of course," Entreri said. "He promised me that he would utilize me as a trainer, though he may decide, after the six of you lie dead, that I take my task far too seriously."
The two men exchanged nervous looks. More importantly to Entreri, they held their ground and did not advance.
But then one of them, the second who had come in, straightened and relaxed, and began to laugh a bit. "He thinks there's but six of us," he said, and he slapped his friend on the shoulder, and that fool, too, began to giggle stupidly.
Entreri got the meaning, and he lamented that he would die in such a way—struck from above, no doubt, and without any means to defend himself from that quarter.
* * * * *
Despite his speed, despite his stealth, despite the uneven grades and facings of the various rooftops, Jarlaxle kept his bearings. He knew exactly where he was at all times, and when he saw the two men standing overlooking one alleyway, one hunched over and with crossbow in hand, aiming down, he could well imagine the target.
The drow's hand came up fast and steady from under his cloak, holding a favored weapon of his race, a hand crossbow. He let fly and watched with satisfaction as the archer twitched from the sting of the tiny bolt. The other man looked at the archer in surprise, but the crossbowman couldn't answer, for he was already swaying from the sleep poison, leaning forward, sure to tumble.
The other man grabbed at him.
Jarlaxle reached into himself, summoning forth his innate dark elven magic in the form of a globe of absolute darkness that covered both would-be killers.
Jarlaxle heard the shuffling, the grunt, and the shout. He was quite pleased, but hardly surprised when he saw the movement over the lip of the ledge, just below his stationary globe, as the archer pitched forward, taking his grabbing companion with him.
"Entreri, what have you done?" Jarlaxle whispered.
The drow faded into the shadows of the jumble of jagged, multi-pitched rooftops, looking for a way to get a safe view of the alley below.
* * * * *
Entreri reacted on instinct when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He threw himself across to the opposite side of the narrow alleyway. He took care to stay on balance, though, for the pair of ruffians advanced. Apparently emboldened by the arrival of their reinforcement, they charged.
Entreri started forward, sword leading, in a sudden rush. The newcomers crashed down beside him. He pulled up short, though, for his attack was no more than a feint, an attempt to buy time so that he could take care of the newest threat. Had he been a lesser fighter, a desperate charge would have been the only course, an at
tempt to burst through the pair and run off.
But Entreri wasn't about to flee any fight.
He nearly fell over when he stopped so abruptly, though, for the feeling had not yet fully returned to one leg. Still, he covered the stumble, falling against the wall of the alley, and bouncing back to center balance.
He spun around, and nearly froze in confusion when he noted the tangle of the two newcomers, who had crashed through some of the debris. One lay perfectly still and limp and the other squirmed in pain, grabbing at his wrist, ankle, and knee alternately, having done serious damage to all three. Entreri understood a moment later, when he glanced up from where they had come, to see a globe of enchanted blackness hovering in the air.
Jarlaxle.
With the other pair coming on fast, Entreri leaped at the reinforcements and stabbed hard, driving Charon's Claw right through the top, unconscious man and into the fellow below him. The first made no sound, as though he was already dead, but the bottom man screamed and thrashed.
Entreri had no time to finish him off. He yanked Charon's Claw free, a gush of blood following its retraction, and spun around. His blade crossed just in time to bat aside a thrusting sword then force the other man's dagger arm up and out. The assassin pressed his advantage, shuffling ahead and stabbing repeatedly, not in any real hope of scoring a hit on his skilled opponents, but more to drive them back and give him some room to maneuver—and to react in case the man on the bottom of the pile had any fight left in him.
He turned his back foot perpendicular to both enemies and to his front foot. He brought it forward and tapped his heel, then planted and stepped ahead. Then again and again, quick-stepping in perfect balance and driving the two killers back. He still couldn't feel one foot, but his every plant was solid and certain, and bolstered by the coordination of foot against foot, using the leg he could feel to guide the leg he couldn't.
Finally, and just before they hit the still-slick area where the white dragon's breath had struck, the pair managed to coordinate a counter stance. They moved wider apart, each turning slightly to better their angles of attack.
Entreri recognized that his momentum had played out. He fell back in a defensive crouch, legs wide and balanced, though one remained a bit stiff and more immobile than he let on.
"Ah, but he killed Wyrt!" cried the knave on the right, the one with the sword.
"Shut your mouth, fool!" his companion snapped at him.
"You'll meet him again, and soon," Entreri promised. He wasn't fond of speaking to his opponents in battle, but he had to buy time. His leg tingled and burned, and it was all he could do to hide his winces.
The man with the dagger lunged, and Entreri slapped Charon's Claw out to intercept. The man was fast, though, and he retracted his arm inside the reach of the sword, and came ahead with a cunning second strike.
He didn't understand.
For even on one leg, even distracted by the pain and the numbness and off balance, Entreri easily brought his blade back in—indeed, it moved to such a position even as his opponent began to pull the dagger back.
And Entreri knew that feint wasn't all of it.
To the side came the other man, sword thrusting, but Charon's Claw slashed across smoothly, slapping the blade and driving him back.
Entreri brought all his weight over his numb left leg. He had to trust it, and he locked it in place, pivoting his right leg back with the coming of the anticipated second dagger thrust.
The knife came in short, its tip just brushing his backing hip.
To the attacker's credit, the man recognized his miss quickly enough to leap backward from any coming counter.
That, too, Entreri anticipated, and instead of pursuing, he brought Charon's Claw back across the other again. Calling forth the magic of the sword, he hung a line of opaque ash in the air to shield himself from the swordsman's sight.
He knew the man would instinctively straighten before he managed to shuffle his feet back. In that instant, Entreri dropped to one knee and slashed his sword across under the wall of ash.
The assassin felt the impact, then the tug of ligament and bone resisting the cruel cut, and the swordsman howled in agony.
Entreri came up in a complete spin, around left to right, that left him squared up to the man with the dagger. A crash to the side told him that the swordsman had fallen back hard, and was out of the fight for a little while at least.
Entreri instinctively brought his sword across to block, and sure enough, the dagger flew at him, clanging harmlessly off of Charon's Claw's blood-red—and bloody—blade.
The killer drew another dagger.
Entreri grinned.
The man turned and ran, howling for mercy with every step. He only got a couple of strides before he hit the ice and went sprawling to the ground. Crying, screaming, and scrambling, he continued away as if expecting the killing blow to fall at any moment. He finally got back to dry ground, and went flailing down the street.
Entreri just stood there, amused.
A sharp cry from behind, followed by a gurgle, had him turning around. There stood Jarlaxle, wiping the blood from a dagger, having finished off the bottom man.
The drow looked at Entreri for a long while, silently asking him what it was all about. Entreri just returned the stare, offering nothing. Finally, Jarlaxle looked away, just a bit.
"Oh lovely," the dark elf said.
Entreri followed the drow's gaze to the side, where the ash wall began to drift apart. There, right where the man had been standing, remained both of his feet, severed at the ankles. The rest was back from there, slumped against the wall, bloody hands in the air, trembling. He didn't even try to stem the flow any longer.
Jarlaxle walked up to him and looked him over. "You are bleeding to death," he calmly explained. "It will be slow, but no more painful than that which you experience now. You will get cold, however, and do not panic when the world goes dark before your eyes."
The man whimpered, shaking his head, hands up, pleading.
"Perhaps if you are willing to divulge…" Jarlaxle started, and the man wagged his head furiously—or started to, until Entreri stepped up beside his friend and plunged Charon's Claw into the fool's heart.
Entreri pulled the sword free, glanced at Jarlaxle only briefly, and offered nothing more as he started out of the alleyway to retrieve his dagger and the dragon statuette.
"You seek no answers because you know them already, I must presume," Jarlaxle said.
Entreri kept walking, and fortunately, the feeling in his leg had returned enough for him to manage his balance across the slick surface of the frozen alleyway.
CHAPTER 8
TO SLEEP WITH DRAGONS
Bwahaha, ye just keep the drink flowing," Athrogate howled. He hoisted his foamy mug and gulped it down in one swallow—at least the contents of it that didn't pour all over his braided black beard. He dropped the mug back on the table and drew his sleeve across his beard, taking only a bit of the foam from the frothy mess.
Jarlaxle started to slide the next mug of ale across the table. "I know they were Knellict's men," he said, holding the ale just out of Athrogate's reach. "Else, he has a rival band operating right in Heliogabalus."
"Goblin snot. Any rival band'd be lying dead in a day's time," the dwarf blustered, and gave an exaggerated wink.
Jarlaxle slid the ale the rest of the way, and the mug never even stopped in its slide before it went up into the air and overturned into the dwarf's mouth.
"Bwahaha!" Athrogate howled as he slammed it back down, gave an enormous belch, and slapped his arm across his mouth yet again. As he moved to retract his arm, he noted that the cuff of his sleeve was sopping wet, so he put it in his mouth and sucked the ale out of the fabric.
Jarlaxle shook his head, looked at the lines of empty mugs covering more than half the large tavern table, and nodded to the serving girl who watched him from the bar. He'd known he'd have to get Athrogate drunk to get his tongue wagging, of course
, but he hadn't quite realized how expensive a proposition that might be.
"Shall I order more?" he asked, and the dwarf howled at the absurdity of the question.
Jarlaxle chuckled and held up his open hand, indicating five more of the large mugs, then saluted the nodding serving girl with a tip of his wine glass—the only drink he had imbibed while Athrogate had gone through a dozen ales.
"So it was Knellict, and the target was Artemis Entreri," Jarlaxle remarked.
"Never said it was Knellict," Athrogate corrected, and he belched again.
"A rival within the Citadel of Assassins?"
"Never said it weren't Knellict," Athrogate added with an even louder burp.
The waitress began placing the full mugs on the table then, so Jarlaxle paused and offered a disarming smile. She cleared her tray and began scooping some of the empties, and the drow dropped a pair of shiny gold coins on the platter beside them, drawing a wide smile from her.
"Then say," he said to the dwarf as soon as the girl had gone. The drow kept his hand tight on a mug, holding it hostage.
"Entreri got himself a job to kill a merchant," Athrogate said, then he paused to stare at the mug. After a moment, Jarlaxle slid the ale over, and Athrogate wasted no time studying it.
"Knellict believes that Entreri kept the spoils from that job?" Jarlaxle reasoned. "He would have no reason. We are still fat on the bounties collected in Vaasa, and as a knight of the order, coin is hardly Artemis Entreri's concern."
"Bwahaha, knight of the order!" the dwarf howled.
"Apprentice knight, then."
"Bwahaha!"
"He would have no incentive to keep the booty from the slain merchant," Jarlaxle said.
"Weren't no slain merchant, so I'm hearing," Athrogate replied. He motioned to another mug. Jarlaxle slid one to his waiting grasp, but he didn't flip it right up to his mouth. "Not until Knellict caught up to the merchant, at least. Seems yer friend got his identities all crossed."
"He killed the wrong merchant?"
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