Boundless

by R. A. Salvatore

  A clear patch of ground led them into a sprint, almost side by side as Zaknafein slightly outpaced Jarlaxle, moving up along his right flank. With two walls—the first neck high, the second waist high—the only things between them and the door of the tavern, Zaknafein went into his new move. He stepped his right foot ahead but turned it inward, to the left. Planting strongly, he half turned, then kicked his left leg out behind the right, lifting, lifting as high as he could. Up into the air he went, clearing the neck-high wall, landing on the other side facing Jarlaxle, who was using the more common reverse-grip, back-rollover maneuver.

  Not slowing at all, Zaknafein leaped again, lifting in a sideways somersault up and over the second, lower wall. Landing with his feet moving, he charged across the closing ground and shouldered through the door of the Oozing Myconid to rousing cheers.

  Not so far away, back near the Narbondellyn, within the very compound upon whose wall the pair had run, a young matron in one of the city’s oldest houses took personal interest in a courier from the Oozing Myconid.

  “He is with Jarlaxle now,” explained the man, a houseless rogue whose blood was too thick with mind-altering mushroom spores, fungus chews, and alcohol to be of much use to anyone—anyone but Matron Byrtyn.

  Her weapon master, Avinvesa Fey, stood beside the courier, nodding and grinning.

  “My sister is there as well,” Avinvesa told his matron, who had acquired him from Jarlaxle’s band for a hefty sum of gold and magic.

  “You have no sisters,” Matron Byrtyn reminded him. Formally, at least, this man’s previous existence was dead and gone as far as she was concerned, and any such references to the past were simply not allowed. Avinvesa said nothing.

  Byrtyn leaned back in her comfortable throne, pondering the news, and waved the two males back from her dais.

  “Why would Matron Malice let him out at this time?” she asked the priestess Affyn, her third-oldest but perhaps most impressive daughter, who stood at her side this day. “She has many webs cast, and to so dangle her most precious asset openly . . .”

  “If she even knows,” Affyn answered. “Matron Malice is often . . . indisposed, and by all accounts, her famed weapon master is an unruly one.”

  “And a great friend of Jarlaxle’s,” Byrtyn agreed. She faced forward again and waved her hand at Avinvesa and their guest a second time, dismissing them.

  “This might be a good time to be rid of Zaknafein, Matron,” Affyn said when they were alone.

  Byrtyn nodded, considering her options here. House Do’Urden’s ambitious and aggressive moves had not put them directly against House Fey-Branche yet, but it seemed only a matter of time—unless, of course, House Do’Urden suffered the loss of an asset as great as Zaknafein. The personal tie was there, as well, for Avinvesa—formerly Duvon Tr’arach—still held an unhealthy grudge against Zaknafein, whom he blamed for the downfall of his house and family.

  Never mind the fact that the only reason Duvon had survived was through the efforts of Jarlaxle and his merry band of misfits—the grudge against Zaknafein remained. Byrtyn had seen it in his eyes just then, the eagerness at the mere thought that his rival might be exposed and eliminated.

  Matron Byrtyn had spent great resources on Duvon, not only in acquiring him from Jarlaxle, but in training him, outfitting him, even placing enhancements upon his strength and speed, made permanent by expensive wizards. She had turned him into a proper weapon master, perhaps even one strong enough to take out Zaknafein Do’Urden—with a little help.

  “How fares Geldrin?” she asked.

  Affyn was clearly caught off guard by the question, which disappointed Byrtyn. They were talking about Zaknafein and important and dangerous house business here, which included the potential loss of their current weapon master. Why shouldn’t Byrtyn then inquire about her young son, recently returned from Melee-Magthere? He was, after all, the logical successor to Avinvesa, who was not of Fey blood.

  “His training proceeds well,” Affyn replied after composing herself.

  Matron Byrtyn nodded and rubbed her chin.

  “He is not nearly ready to assume a position of great responsibility,” Affyn added, seeming concerned.

  Again Byrtyn nodded, but she also smiled.

  “Can he beat Zaknafein?” she asked, more to herself than to her daughter.

  “No,” Affyn answered anyway. “Geldrin? The Do’Urden weapon master would—”

  “Not Geldrin, you fool,” Matron Byrtyn scolded. “You think I would send my own promising son against one of Zaknafein Do’Urden’s reputation?”

  “Ah, Avinvesa, then,” Affyn remarked. “From all the whispers of Matron Malice’s latest conquests, I don’t know that I would wager against Zaknafein Do’Urden, not even against Dantrag Baenre or Uthegentel Armgo. Well,” she conceded, “perhaps in a fight with Uthegentel.”

  “Strong words, and if Matron Mother Baenre heard you speak them aloud, she would kill Zaknafein out of spite, and kill you for offering such an insult to her beloved son Dantrag.”

  “I can speak honestly to Matron Byrtyn,” the young woman replied, swallowing hard.

  “Yes, but say such things only to me, daughter. I’ll not have Matron Mother Baenre or those vicious Barrison Del’Armgo creatures angry with us. You raise an interesting point, though: wager. There are two questions to ask before making any wager. First, can you quietly help your side of the bet along? And second, is there a way to manage and mitigate a loss?”

  “It sounds as if you are considering this news of Zaknafein coming out from the walls of House Do’Urden as important, Matron.”

  Byrtyn didn’t answer, other than to ever so slightly nod her head, deep in thought. She wouldn’t get many chances against Malice Do’Urden unless and until she had to defend against that ambitious creature, she knew. Might she escalate and turn this to her advantage, and quickly, this very night?

  And, more importantly, might she do so from afar, without implication against House Fey-Branche?

  Zaknafein had stopped running, of course, but he hadn’t won the race yet. There, right before him, stood two tables, five large flagons of thick dark ale set upon each.

  The exhausted weapon master lifted the first to his lips as Jarlaxle came into the room. Up it tilted as he gulped, emptying it in one hoist. He went for the second flagon.

  So did Jarlaxle, having drained his first more quickly.

  By the third, Jarlaxle had taken a slight lead, but neither of them got that third one down as fast as the first two.

  Zaknafein grabbed the edge of the table, steadying himself, calming his belly. All five had to be downed, with no vomiting.

  Jarlaxle was halfway through the fourth when Zaknafein lifted his flagon again.

  But Zaknafein finished that one first, as Jarlaxle had to stop and belch several times, very carefully.

  The two stared at each other unblinking as they each hoisted their last ale.

  Jarlaxle went faster—too fast, and barely had he finished, one hand dropping the flagon back to the table, the other lifting in victory, when he lost the race and the contents of his belly at the same time.

  Zaknafein stepped back and slowed his drinking—no need to hurry now. He belched repeatedly with the flagon still to his lips, calming his stomach, taking his time.

  Then he was done, victorious. He had beaten Jarlaxle.

  “Twenty-two to twenty-two,” he told his friend.

  “You remembered?” Jarlaxle replied with surprise.

  “For decades, it has tightened my jaw that you were leading our running competition by one race. How convenient, I always thought it, that after the forty-third run, Jarlaxle had left Menzoberranzan for nearly two years.”

  Jarlaxle laughed at that, for it was true enough, though he hadn’t left out of convenience or regarding anything to do with their competition. Opportunities on the surface world had simply proven too enticing for him to stay.

  “You know what this means?” he asked Zaknafein. />
  “I’ll be back for another race soon enough,” the weapon master assured him. Around them, the patrons cheered at that.

  “I look forward to it . . . especially now that I know your closing move,” Jarlaxle warned, to a series of accompanying oohs.

  “And no doubt you’ll try to perfect it,” Zaknafein countered, along with a number of aahs from the onlookers.

  Jarlaxle shook his head. “I’ll find a better one.”

  “Then I will have to use a few of the other, better ones that I’ve perfected for other obstacles along our course.”

  The huzzahs had begun with Jarlaxle’s promise, but they grew tremendously with Zaknafein’s unhesitating rejoinder.

  Jarlaxle snapped his fingers and lifted his hand up high to catch the wand the barkeep Harbondair threw to him. Zaknafein in tow, he moved on shaky legs to an empty table at the side of the room, pointed the wand at it, and issued a series of command words, dismissing the extradimensional space he had created there to return all of his and Zaknafein’s items, other than the belt pouch and the portable hole, which he had given to Harbondair and Dab’nay to hold.

  It would not be wise to place either of those items into an extradimensional place!

  Chapter 2

  The Unexpected Interloper

  See with your marvelous eyes, rogue. Let no one die. Seek profit ever.

  The magical whisper, for his ears only, surprised Jarlaxle, but only for a moment. He immediately tried to identify the sender—a powerful priestess, obviously—but the voice was masked.

  His mind moved quickly, working to sort out the puzzle. Who knew about his “marvelous eyes,” referring, almost certainly, to his magical eyepatch? That made him think of House Baenre, of course, since Matron Mother Baenre had been instrumental to Jarlaxle acquiring this most useful item.

  But no, this couldn’t be a message from her, or one of her daughters, he figured. Baenres never shied from announcing themselves, magically or otherwise. Nor did the city’s matron mother ever deal with him, or anyone, cryptically.

  Matron Mother Baenre wasn’t one to allow anything worth talking about to hinge on a proper interpretation of an unclear message.

  Jarlaxle lifted his glass for a drink, using that to cover a much-needed deep breath. He replayed the message in his thoughts.

  Over the top of his glass, Jarlaxle surveyed the many patrons milling about the large common room of the Oozing Myconid. He closed his one exposed eye and began to sway and hum, as if falling into the melody coming from a back corner of the room, where one bard was playing a lute, another a flute, and a third singing quietly.

  Those who knew Jarlaxle well, however, knew two things about that moment. First, Jarlaxle never closed his eyes in a public place, and so, second, the eye under that magical eyepatch was surely open wide and seeing as clearly as if he were wearing no covering. Jarlaxle was quite the opposite of what he then appeared: vulnerable.

  With every head movement to the left, he focused on the door, for there was always considerable turnover within the tavern, patrons leaving with partners for brief sexual encounters or for stronger mind-numbing substances than could be found among the bar’s wares.

  He knew most of the patrons as regulars, including more than a few of his own band.

  Each time he turned his head back to the right, his gaze went nearer the bar, the rogue swaying a bit more forcefully with the bardic melody. He noted Zaknafein, moving toward the bar to gather more drinks.

  Jarlaxle did well to hide his grin when he considered the weapon master. He hadn’t seen Zaknafein so frequently in three decades, at least, but now his friend was visiting once more. In the last two tendays since their race from the West Wall, Zaknafein had frequented the Oozing Myconid no less than three times. It seemed like old times, and those old times, Jarlaxle thought, had been quite enjoyable.

  He couldn’t help but smile, too, when he recalled a journey of theirs to Ched Nasad. It had been then, in flight from the city guards, that clever Zaknafein had cut the edge of a high landing made of webbing and used that frayed edge like a rope, swinging down below. Such a daring move, and one that could have left Zaknafein as no more than a stain on the chasm floor far below.

  Jarlaxle let the memory fade and focused again across the way, but not on Zaknafein. Rather, he more closely watched Harbondair Tr’arach, whose visage soured every time he glanced Zaknafein’s way—at least, whenever Zaknafein wasn’t looking back at him.

  Jarlaxle had sent Zaknafein to get two drinks, but Harbondair put only one up on the counter, then made a show of cleaning out a glass, taking his time until, Jarlaxle noticed, Zaknafein had taken a sip from the first. Then the barkeep got the second filled and up on the bar in short order.

  Interesting.

  The other former House Tr’arach survivor was again at the bar by the far wall. Dab’nay laughed and flirted with a rather notorious rogue, one of the finest fighters and burglars in the Stenchstreets who was not a member of Bregan D’aerthe.

  Farther to the right, another group of miserable miscreants sat around a circular table, more unconscious than not, with three of the five having succumbed to their many intoxicants and the other two looking ready to collapse. And just beyond them stood Arathis Hune, fully engaged with a very young woman of obvious charms.

  Jarlaxle nodded, blending the movement in with his “dance,” when he noted that his lieutenant was still very much aware of his surroundings beyond the alluring woman, the man’s eyes constantly scanning, subtle movements that Jarlaxle noticed only because he knew Hune so well. Arathis Hune didn’t let down his guard, which was a big part of the reason Jarlaxle had moved him so high up the mercenary band’s hierarchy.

  Jarlaxle continued to turn, thinking to go all the way around and back to the door, when a movement back to the left grabbed his attention once more.

  A young man walked past Dab’nay, very close, over to an interior door.

  She reacted, only slightly—very slightly—as if she didn’t want anyone to note that she had reacted.

  Then the young man disappeared through the door.

  Jarlaxle kept turning back to the left, noting Zaknafein returning to the table, two drinks in hand. Jarlaxle fell back into his seat, again scanning the gathering, back to the door.

  He grew frustrated. He replayed the magical whisper.

  See with your marvelous eyes.

  A pair of men walked into the tavern. Zaknafein took his seat and set a glass before Jarlaxle, who opened his visible eye and gathered his drink up absently, but still stared through his eyepatch toward the door.

  Finally the eyepatch revealed it: one of the two drow men who had just entered was not as he appeared!

  His long hair had been dyed blue, and that was a feint within a feint, since the whole of it was a wig. Jarlaxle’s eyepatch could determine such things, and showed him the man’s true hair: cut very short on the sides and back, with the top longer. He was also more slender and younger than he appeared, as his shoulders were padded under his shabby jerkin, and with a finer set of armor hidden underneath, as well.

  This was no houseless male.

  His face had been altered with makeup both mundane and magical, but the eyepatch cut through all of that, and Jarlaxle actually recognized the man.

  The man who used to be known as Duvon Tr’arach.

  In that moment, clever Jarlaxle figured out who had sent him the magical whisper.

  And why.

  “Publicly drunk?” Zaknafein asked, setting his mug back on the table.

  Jarlaxle noted a slight lisp in the weapon master’s voice. He watched as Zaknafein lifted his glass again, stared at it, then shrugged and raised it for another sip.

  Jarlaxle arched an eyebrow and Zaknafein paused, the drink just below his lips.

  “A bit pungent,” Zaknafein said. “Not a fine batch.” He shrugged again and took his drink, and Jarlaxle looked down at his own.

  “Yours probably tastes better,” Zaknafe
in said, suddenly slurring.

  Jarlaxle caught on and smiled at his friend as he lifted his glass and tipped it in toast to Zaknafein, before taking a large swallow.

  He surveyed the room again as he drank, noting Duvon, some distance away but casting a glance Zaknafein’s way.

  “Mine is too weak,” he told Zaknafein. “Blech.” He licked his lips in apparent disgust and rose, shaking his head, then moved to the bar, as if he meant to exchange the glass. He didn’t, though, and instead set himself into position so that Dab’nay could clearly see his hands as he cupped them around the glass on the bar.

  A risk is better made with a proper wager, his fingers signed to her, and her curious expression told him that she had noted his communication, and that he had caught her off guard.

  All noble children should understand this, Jarlaxle silently and subtly added.

  Dab’nay’s eyes widened despite her obvious attempts to remain impassive. He hadn’t just referred to her, after all, but to someone she knew (and knew about) who had just entered the bar.

  Jarlaxle drained his glass and motioned for Harbondair to refill it. He gathered it up and started from the bar, trying to figure out how much the little game being played this night might cost him, and from whom he might recoup those expenses. He didn’t head straight back to Zaknafein’s table but took a roundabout route, bringing him right past Dab’nay and a couple of eager young men who were clearly looking to romance her that night.

  “I find myself quite lonely of late, good lady,” Jarlaxle said. “I will leave room in my bed for you.”

  One of the drow, a young man who clearly didn’t know enough about the Braeryn to ensure a long and healthy life, turned briskly to square up with Jarlaxle, as if to warn him away.

  “My friend, I value this establishment too much to color it with your blood,” Jarlaxle calmly said, and he gave a quick glance to Dab’nay, an invitation.