Road of the Patriarch ts-3

by Robert Anthony Salvatore

  "They are paying for a priest's promise of such a thing?"

  Entreri looked at him and shrugged.

  Jarlaxle looked back over the throng—and it was indeed a throng of poor souls—then focused on the activity near the temple doors. Lines of dirty peasants waited their turn at the desks that had been set up. One by one, they walked forward and handed over a pittance, and one of the two men at the desk scribbled down a name.

  "What a marvelous business," the drow said. "For a few comforting words and a line of text…" He gave an envious laugh, but to the side, Athrogate spat.

  Both Entreri and Jarlaxle regarded the dwarf.

  "They're telling them women that turning over their coins'll help dead kids?"

  "Some," said Entreri.

  "Orcs," muttered the dwarf. "Worse than orcs." He spat again and stormed off.

  Entreri and Jarlaxle exchanged a confused glance, and Jarlaxle set off after the dwarf. Entreri watched them go, but didn't follow.

  He remained at the square for quite a while, and every so often found his eyes drawn to a street entrance across the way, an avenue that wound down toward the docks.

  A place he knew well.

  * * * * *

  "The Fugue Plane is a place of torment," Devout Gositek assured the nervous little man who stood before his desk. The man's hands worked feverishly about a tiny coin purse, rolling the dirty bag incessantly.

  "I've not much," he said through his two remaining teeth, crooked and yellow.

  "The charity given by the poor is more greatly appreciated, of course," Gositek recited, and the devout brothers standing guard behind him both smirked. One even winked at the other, for Gositek had done nothing but complain to them all morning, as soon as the listing had been pegged in the foyer, naming Gositek as one of the indulgence agents every day for the next tenday. He would spend his mornings, collecting coin, and his afternoons offering prayers for the paupers at the smelly graveyard. It was not an envied duty at the Protector's House.

  "It is not the amount of coin," Gositek lied, "but rather the amount of sacrifice that is important for Selûne. So the poor are blessed, don't you see? Your opportunities for freeing your loved ones from the Fugue, and shortening your own visit, are far greater than those of the rich man."

  The dirty old peasant rolled his tiny purse yet again. He licked his lips repeatedly as he fumbled about and extracted a single coin. Then, with a nearly toothless grin that spoke of lechery and deceit, he handed the coin to Devout Gositek's assistant, who sat beside him to watch over the heavy metal box, a slot in the top to accept the donations.

  The peasant seemed quite pleased with himself, of course, but Gositek's glare was uncompromising. "You hold a purse," the devout said. "It bulges with coin, and you offer a single piece?"

  "My only silver," the old peasant wheezed. "The rest're but copper, and just a score."

  Gositek just stared at him.

  "But my belly's growling bad," the man whined.

  "For food or for drink?"

  The peasant stammered and sputtered, but couldn't quite seem to find the words to deny the charge—and indeed, the stench that wafted from him would have made any such denial seem rather foolish.

  Gositek sat back in his wooden chair and folded his arms in front of him. "I am disappointed," he said.

  "But my belly…"

  "I am not disappointed in your lack of charity, good brother," Gositek interrupted. "But in your continuing lack of common sense."

  The peasant stared at him blankly.

  "Twice the chance!" Gositek derided him. "Twice the opportunity to impress your devotion upon sacred Selûne! You can sacrifice greatly, for a pittance, and at the same time better your earthly standing by controlling your impure thoughts. Forsake your coin to Selûne, and forego your drink for yourself. Do you not understand?"

  The man stuttered and shook his head.

  "Each coin buys you double the indulgence and more," said Gositek, extending his hand.

  The peasant slapped the purse into it.

  Gositek smiled at the man, but it was a cold grin indeed, the smug grin of the cat dominating the mouse before feasting. Slowly and deliberately, Gositek pulled open the purse and dumped the meager contents into his free hand. His eyes flashed as he noted a silver piece among the two dozen coppers, and he looked up from it to the lying peasant, who squirmed and withered under that gaze.

  "Record the name," Gositek instructed his assistant.

  "Bullium," the peasant said, and he bobbed his head in a pathetic attempt to bow, and started away. He paused, though, and licked his lips again, staring at the pile of coins in Gositek's hand.

  Devout Gositek pulled a few coppers from the pile, staring at the man all the while. He handed the rest to his assistant for the collection box, and started to put the others in the purse. He paused again, however, still staring at the man, and gave half of that pile to his assistant as well. Three coppers went into the purse, which Gositek handed back to the man.

  But when the peasant grabbed it, Gositek didn't immediately let go.

  "These are a loan, Bullium," he said, his tone grave and even. "Your indulgences are bought—a full year removed from your time on the Fugue Plane. But they are bought for the full contents of your purse, due to your reluctance and your lie about the second piece of silver. You have back three. I expect five returned to Selûne to complete the purchase of the indulgence."

  Still stupidly bobbing his head, the peasant grabbed the purse and shuffled away.

  Beside the wooden chair, Gositek's assistant chuckled.

  * * * * *

  "You believe that Knellict and his band haven't done worse?" Jarlaxle asked when he at last caught up to the dwarf. They were almost back at their bug-filled shack by then.

  "Knellict's a fool, and an ugly one, too," Athrogate grumbled. "Not much I'm liking there."

  "But you served him, and the Citadel of Assassins."

  "Better that than fight the dogs."

  "So it is all pragmatism with you."

  "If I knew what the word meant, I'd agree or not," said the dwarf. "What's that, a religion?"

  "Practicality," Jarlaxle explained. "You do what serves your needs as you see fit."

  "Don't everyone?"

  Jarlaxle laughed at that. "To a degree, I expect. But few use that as the guiding principle of their lives."

  "Maybe that's all I got left."

  "Again you speak in riddles," said the drow, and when Athrogate scowled at him, Jarlaxle held up his hands defensively. "I know, I know. You do not wish to speak of it."

  Athrogate snorted. "Ye ever hear o' Felbarr, elf?"

  "Was he a dwarf?"

  "Not a he, but a place. Citadel Felbarr."

  Jarlaxle considered the name for a bit, then nodded. "Dwarven stronghold… east of Mithral Hall."

  "South o' Adbar," Athrogate confirmed with a nod of his own. "Was me home and me place, and ne'er did me thoughts expect I'd ever be living anywhere but."

  "But…?"

  "An orc clan," Athrogate explained. "They come in hard and fast—I'm not even knowin' how many years ago it's been. Not enough and too many, if ye get me meaning."

  "So the orcs sacked your home and now you cannot but wander?" asked Jarlaxle. "Surely your clan is about. Scattered perhaps, but…"

  "Nah, me kin're back in Felbarr. Drove them orcs out, and none too long ago."

  Athrogate's face grew tight as he said that, Jarlaxle noted, and he decided to pause there and let Athrogate digest it all. He had started the dwarf down a painful road, he knew, but he did not want to press Athrogate too much.

  To his surprise, and his delight, the dwarf went on without prodding, running his mouth as if he were a river and the drow had just crashed through the beaver dam.

  "Ye got young ones?" Athrogate asked.

  "Children?" Jarlaxle chuckled. "None that I am aware of."

  "Bah, but ye're missing, then," said the dwarf.

  To J
arlaxle's surprise, there was moistness about Athrogate's eyes— something he never thought he'd see.

  "You had children," Jarlaxle surmised, gauging Athrogate's reaction to his every word before speaking the next. "They were slain when the orcs invaded."

  "Good sprites, one and all," Athrogate said, and he looked away, past Jarlaxle, as if his eyes were staring into a distant place and distant time. "And me Gerthalie—what dwarf could ever be thinking he'd be so blessed by Sharindlar to find himself a woman o' such charms?"

  He paused and closed his eyes, and Jarlaxle swallowed hard and wondered if he had been wise in leading Athrogate back to that place.

  "Yep, ye got it," the dwarf said, eyes popping wide. All hint of tears were gone, replaced by the wildness Jarlaxle had grown used to. "Orcs took 'em all. Watched me littlest one, Drenthro, die. In me arms, he went. Bah, but curse Moradin and all the rest for letting that happen!

  "So we were chased out, but them orcs was too stupid to hold the place, and soon enough, they started fighting betwixt themselves. Me king called for a fight, and a fight he got, but meself didn't go. Surprised them all, don't ye doubt."

  "Athrogate doesn't seem one to shy from a fight."

  "And never's he been one. But not that time, elf. Couldn't go back there." He stood with his hands on hips, shaking his head. "Nothing there for me. They got their Felbarr back, but Felbarr's not me home no more."

  "Perhaps now, after all these years…."

  "Nah! Ain't one o' them who was alive when the orcs come is still alive now. I'm old, elf, older than ye'd believe, but a dwarf's memory is older than the dwarf himself. Them boys in Felbarr now wouldn't have me, and I wouldn't be wanting them to have me. Dolts. In the first try on getting the place back, more than three hunnerd years ago, Athrogate said no. They called me a coward, elf. Yep, can ye be believing that? Me own kin. Thinkin' me afraid o' orcs. I ain't afraid o' undead dragons! But to them, Athrogate's the coward."

  "Because you would not partake of the retribution?" Not wanting to break the dwarf's momentum, Jarlaxle didn't speak the other part of his question, regarding Athrogate's recounting of time. Few dwarves lived three centuries, and none, to Jarlaxle's knowledge, could survive for so long and still retain the vigor and power of one such as Athrogate. Either he was confused with his dates, or there was even more to the creature than Jarlaxle had assumed.

  "Because I wouldn't be going back into that cursed hole," Athrogate answered. "Seen too much o' me dead kin in every corner and every shadow."

  "Athrogate died that day the orcs came," said Jarlaxle, and the dwarf's look was one of appreciation, telling the drow that he had spoken the truth. "But if that was centuries ago, perhaps now…."

  "No!" the dwarf blurted. "Ain't nothing there for me. Ain't been nothing there for me in a dwarf's lifetime and more."

  "So you set out to the east?"

  "East, west, south—didn't much matter to meself," explained Athrogate. "Just anywhere but there."

  "You have heard of Mithral Hall, then?"

  "Sure, them Battlehammer boys. Good enough folk. They lost their place a hunnerd years after we lost Felbarr, but I'm hearing they got it back."

  "Good enough folk?" asked Jarlaxle, and he filed away the confirmation of the timeline in his thoughts, for indeed, Mithral Hall had been lost to the duergar and the shadow dragon some two centuries before. "Or too good for Athrogate? Does Athrogate think himself unworthy? Were the barbs of your kin striking true?"

  "Bah!" the dwarf snorted convincingly. "But what's good and what's bad? And what's mattering, elf? It's all a game with them gods laughing at us, ye're knowing as well as meself's knowing!"

  "And so you laugh at everything, and hit whatever appears to need a hit."

  "Hitting it good, too, but ain't I?"

  "Better than almost any I've ever seen."

  Athrogate snorted again. "Better'n any."

  * * * * *

  Jarlaxle received more than a few curious stares as he walked through the streets of the human-dominated city. They were not like the suspicious glares to which he had grown accustomed when he had walked as a drow, however, for there was no hatred, just curiosity, and more than a passing interest in his garments, which appeared far too rich for that poor section of Memnon.

  In truth, the sum value of Jarlaxle's garments, just those he wore as he walked across the city, would have made a Waterdhavian lady of court jealous.

  The drow shook all the distractions from his thoughts, reminding himself that the man he secretly followed was no novice to the ways of the thief. He knew that in all likelihood, Artemis Entreri had already detected the covert pursuit, but the man didn't show it.

  Which of course meant nothing.

  Entreri crossed the square before the temple with determined strides, making a beeline for an avenue on the southern side, a dusty way that sloped down and overlooked the southern harbor. With no cover available, Jarlaxle skirted the edge, and he feared that he'd lose the swift-moving Entreri because of his longer route. As he came around the southern edge of the square, though, he found that Entreri had slowed considerably. As the assassin made his way, Jarlaxle paralleled him, moving with all speed behind the row of shacks.

  Within a few yards onto the avenue, Jarlaxle noted the visible change that had come over his friend, and never had he seen the sure and confident Entreri looking such. He seemed as if he could barely muster the strength to put one foot in front of the other. The blood had drained from his face, giving him a chalky visage, and made his lips seem even thinner.

  With hardly an effort, the graceful drow climbed up to the roof of a shack, and shimmied across on his belly to overlook the avenue.

  A few feet down the road, Entreri had stopped, and stood staring. His hands were by his sides, but they weren't at the ready near his weapon hilts.

  Jarlaxle knew it beyond any doubt: Artemis Entreri, as he stood there, was helpless. A novice assassin could have walked up behind him and dispatched him easily.

  That unsettling thought made Jarlaxle glance around, though he had no reason to suspect that any killers might be nearby.

  He silently laughed at himself and his irrational fit of nerves, and when he looked back at Entreri, he only then fathomed the absolute strangeness of it all. He rolled over the edge of the roof, dropped lightly to his feet and walked over to stand beside Entreri—who didn't notice him until the very last moment.

  Even then, Entreri never bothered to cast a glance Jarlaxle's way. His eyes remained fixed on a shack down the way, an unremarkable structure of clay and wood, and with the skeleton of a long-rotted awning jutting out in front. Beneath that, a ruined wicker chair was nestled against the shack, beside the open entrance.

  "You know this place?"

  Entreri didn't look at him and didn't answer. His breathing became more labored, however, telling Jarlaxle the truth of it.

  This had been Entreri's home, the place of his earliest days.

  CHAPTER 23

  MISERY REVISITED

  If I am to help you, then I need to know," Jarlaxle argued, but Entreri's expression alone showed that the drow's logic was falling on deaf ears. They were back at the house with Athrogate, and Entreri had said not a word in the hour since they had rejoined their hairy companion.

  "I'm getting the feelin' that he's not wanting yer help, elf," Athrogate said.

  "He allowed us to come along on his adventure."

  "I did not stop you from following me," Entreri clarified. "My business here is my own."

  "And what, then, am I to do?" asked the drow with exaggerated drama.

  "Live here in luxury, o' course!" said Athrogate, and he accentuated his point by slamming his hand down on the table, crushing a beetle beneath it. "Good huntin' and good food," he said, lifting the crushed bug before his face as if he meant to eat it. "Who could be asking for anything more? Bwahaha!" To Jarlaxle's relief, though Entreri hardly cared either way, the dwarf flicked the crushed beetle across the room instea
d of depositing it in his mouth.

  "I care not at all," Entreri answered. "Go and find more comfortable lodgings. Leave Memnon all together."

  "Why have you come here?" Jarlaxle asked, and Entreri showed the slightest wince. "And how long will you stay?"

  "I don't know."

  "To which."

  Entreri didn't answer. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the house into the early morning sun.

  "He's an angry one, ain't he?" Athrogate asked.

  "With good reason, I presume."

  "Well, ye said he growed up here," said the dwarf. "That'd put a pinch in me own butt, to be sure."

  Jarlaxle looked from the open door to the dwarf, and gave a little laugh, and for the first time he realized that he was truly glad Athrogate had decided to come along. He considered his own role in this ordeal, as well, and he began to doubt the wisdom of entangling Entreri with Idalia's flute. Kimmuriel had warned him against that very thing, explaining to him that prying open a person's heart could bring many unexpected consequences.

  No, Jarlaxle decided after some reflection. He was correct in giving Entreri the flute. In the end, it would be a good thing for his friend.

  If it didn't kill him.

  * * * * *

  The compulsion that took him back to the sandy avenue that morning was so overpowering that Entreri didn't even realize he was returning to stand before the shack until he was there. The street was far from deserted, with many people sitting in the meager shade of the other buildings, and all of them eyeing the unusual stranger, with his high black leather boots, so finely stitched, and two weapons of great value strapped at his waist.

  Clearly, Entreri didn't belong there, and the trepidation he saw in the gazes that came his way, and the background sensation of pure disgust, brought recognition and recollection indeed.

  Artemis Entreri had seen those same stares during his days in Calimport serving Pasha Basadoni. The peasants of Memnon thought him a mercenary, sent by one of the more prosperous lords to collect a debt or settle a score, no doubt.