Boundless

by R. A. Salvatore

  The vermin squeaked and skittered, and then Dinin understood the creature to be somehow a part of this practice session, for Zaknafein exploded into action.

  Up came his hands before him, taking with them his swords from their scabbards. His left-hand blade rolled over as it rose, right over his shoulder, to stab, point-down, behind his back, immediately sweeping across and up over the back of Zaknafein’s right shoulder.

  Even as that sword crossed by, the weapon master sent a backhand stab out behind him with his right blade. And with all that, he was turning, the left blade coming back across before him.

  Dinin’s warrior instincts informed him that Zaknafein would go right around with that blade, a complete circuit that would have it cutting across as he turned around and backed away, disengaging from the imaginary assassin who had tried to stab him in the back.

  But no!

  Zaknafein stopped the blade’s swing, reversed his grip, and thrust it back, as he had with the right, and he came around behind it, now with his right-hand blade recovered and cutting a wide and wicked down-angled slash.

  Dinin had seen Zaknafein hundreds of times, had even sparred with him.

  But never like this.

  Zaknafein sheathed his weapons and threw a crumb across the floor to the rat.

  Once more, the rodent sat up and began to eat, and once more, Zaknafein assumed his relaxed posture, exactly as before, except that now Dinin could see the man more from the front.

  The rat squeaked and moved, and the weapon master’s blades seemed to simply appear in his hands, the left going up and over with startling and beautiful fluidity. Dinin’s gaze locked on Zaknafein’s left hand, on the intricate work of the weapon master’s fingers in that brilliant and exact sword roll.

  Not a wasted movement. None.

  Dinin tried to keep up with the routine: the sweep; the thrust; the second, unexpected thrust; and the final, devastating slash. Every movement bled into the next. Every turn, twist, or shift of balance in completing one move angled, positioned, and set Zaknafein to execute the next.

  Another crumb flew out toward the rat. Zaknafein was using the living creature because its timing could not be predicted. The rat, not Zaknafein, would dictate the furious start.

  Dinin thought it perfectly brilliant. Instead of dictating the beginning of his practice, which of course was no option for a man defending against an actual ambush, this superb weapon master was letting a creature—something wholly chaotic—do it. Even more remarkable, the fighting sequence on display before Dinin was designed for a specific and singular situation, for one unexpected strike from one angle alone.

  How many hundreds of hours had Zaknafein toiled at perfecting these few sequential movements? How many other similar routines had he devised and perfected for other specific threats?

  Up there on the ledge of the training gymnasium, Dinin Do’Urden came to understand the truth of Zaknafein. Dinin thought himself a promising young drow warrior, and he had witnessed many of Menzoberranzan’s finest swordsmen at play, even a real duel between masters on two separate occasions. He understood the arts martial and the beauty of the sword dance.

  But this? This was something more. This was a level of perfection and danger Dinin had never imagined.

  Again Zaknafein went through the routine, and again after that.

  He’d do it a dozen more times, Dinin understood. Two dozen, perhaps. A hundred, perhaps!

  Dinin shook his head and slipped back silently, exiting the gym through the small secret door he had fashioned. Walking alone out in the corridors of the house, he could only shake his head, his thoughts lost somewhere between the sheer beauty of what he had seen and his sudden and intense dislike of weapon master Zaknafein. At one point, he stopped, closed his eyes, and replayed the sequence: the rolling sword, the thrust, the thrust and turn, the slash.

  How much would he have to sacrifice to even approach that level of precision and speed? Could he even attain such mastery if he gave every hour of his life in the pursuit?

  Dinin appreciated Zaknafein.

  Dinin was in awe of Zaknafein.

  Dinin hated Zaknafein.

  Dab’nay nearly gasped aloud when Zaknafein entered the Oozing Myconid, more than seven tendays since the fight she had arranged against Arathis Hune in the alleyway. She couldn’t deny her happiness at seeing him, but neither could she ignore her profound trepidation.

  Her heart pulled her toward the weapon master.

  Her head told her to run.

  It was rare with Dab’nay—or with any dark elf—that her heart would win out, but this time she did not heed the sound warnings and flee, and instead found herself standing beside the seated weapon master.

  Zaknafein looked up at her and offered a smile, warm and inviting, and she thought it sincere. He motioned for her to sit beside him, so she did.

  “I was hoping to find you here,” he confided.

  “You didn’t come here at the request of Jarlaxle?”

  Dab’nay raised two fingers and motioned to Harbondair.

  “I haven’t seen or heard from Jarlaxle in . . . since that day in the alleyway when he interrupted my victory.”

  “Victory?”

  “Oh yes,” Zaknafein assured her. “And Arathis Hune knew it. He has left Menzoberranzan, I am told.”

  Temporarily, perhaps, Dab’nay thought but didn’t say.

  Harbondair arrived with a pair of drinks and set them down before the patrons. No sooner had he turned and started back to the bar, though, than Zaknafein pushed his glass away.

  Dab’nay looked at him curiously. “Surely you do not believe . . .”

  Zaknafein reached across to her, took her drink, and slid his in its place. He sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest in that typical and powerful Zaknafein pose, one hand coming up just enough to motion for her to go ahead and partake.

  Dab’nay looked down at the swirling amber liquid in the glass, then over at Harbondair, who was not looking their way.

  She shrugged and waggled the fingers of one hand over the glass, casting a minor spell, then grabbed the glass, lifted it in a toast, and brought it to her lips.

  No sooner had she set it down than Zaknafein slid the other glass before her and motioned for her to purify that one, as well.

  “That was mine,” she protested. “Do you think Harbondair would deign to poison me?”

  Zaknafein arched his eyebrows and offered a sly grin but made no move to uncross his arms again and take the glass back.

  Dab’nay started to laugh, but bit it back, realizing the implications of Zaknafein’s continued doubts. He knew that Harbondair wouldn’t poison Dab’nay, but did the barkeep, perhaps with Dab’nay’s help, expect a switch of glasses?

  The woman laughed and cast another spell, noting the intensity of Zaknafein’s stare as she went through the precise motions and uttered the exact syllables. When she finished, she started to slide the glass back to him, but to her surprise, he stood up.

  “Let us be gone from this place,” he said.

  Dab’nay started to motion to his drink but changed her mind when she noted Zaknafein’s hateful stare toward the bar. She rose to follow, and well enough, she decided. She had not been in Zaknafein’s arms for far too long.

  Some time later, they lay beside each other, the soft glow of candlelight catching pinpricks of sparkle in the beads of sweat they both wore.

  “I missed you,” Dab’nay said.

  “I trust it was worth the wait.”

  “You were worth the wait,” she corrected, and ran her finger playfully along the top of Zaknafein’s nose.

  “I came forth from House Do’Urden three times in the days after the fight. But alas, you were not to be found.”

  “I didn’t know—I still do not!—what happened in the alleyway,” she replied. “And when you did not return immediately, I became afraid. I thought it best that I tend to other matters.”

  “One thing I have been curiou
s about,” Zaknafein said. “Tell me, however did you coax Arathis Hune into that alley that night?”

  “Same way as I lured you,” Dab’nay replied, hardly considering the response, though it was not entirely true. Zaknafein had gone there expecting a fight with Arathis, but Arathis had gone in anticipation of a rendezvous with Dab’nay and a different weapon master, one regarded by most as the greatest warrior in the city.

  She caught a hint of doubt in Zaknafein’s eyes as he stared at her. Just a flash, an instant, that either passed as soon as it had begun, or had been suppressed before it could be revealing.

  Late one night many days later, Dab’nay sat alone in one of her apartments, reading through some histories of Menzoberranzan that Jarlaxle had given to her. She was lonely, and more than that, she was bored.

  She hoped that Zaknafein would come out again soon. She hoped that Jarlaxle would start some mischief or other—something, anything, to bring some excitement to her life.

  Most of all, she wished that Matron Soulez would have given her enough credit for her efforts bringing Zaknafein and Arathis Hune to battle to follow through on her promise and formally allow Dab’nay into the ranks of her promising house. Yes, that would be grand, she thought. House Barrison Del’Armgo was full of men, and having so many about to serve her every need seemed much more enjoyable than this lonely existence, where she was always looking over her shoulder.

  The knock on her door startled her, an insistent sharp rapping. Not Zaknafein’s knock, she knew.

  Dab’nay silently placed her book down beside her, then rose and scanned the room, noting her escape routes. Taking great care, she padded to the door and listened.

  “Do not make me wait, priestess,” came a voice from the hallway, a woman’s voice, and one that Dab’nay recognized.

  She sucked in her breath, near panic, her thoughts swirling with great hopes and great fears. What was Matron Soulez doing outside her door at this hour? How did the matron even know where to find her?

  Dab’nay’s sensibilities told her to flee, to run out one of the secret exits in the room, through the narrow tunnel walls, and out of the building altogether. She almost did it, even took a step toward the hearth, with the fake shelves beside it.

  She held back, however, and shook her head at her own stupidity. This was a matron, and a powerful one at that. Soulez would not be here knocking on Dab’nay’s door if the entire area within and about the small inn weren’t teeming with her agents. Fleeing was not an option.

  And even if she did somehow get away, there were few places she could hide where Matron Soulez couldn’t find her—the knocking on the door of her secret apartment was evidence of that.

  As if on cue, another sharp knock had her nearly jumping out of her soft slippers. Without hesitation this time, she yanked the door open.

  “Your pardon, Matron,” she said, and she began smoothing the ruffled material of her robe.

  Matron Soulez pushed past her into the room. Dab’nay managed to glance both ways along the corridor and was happy to see that the powerful woman at least seemed to be alone.

  “What have you learned?” Soulez asked impatiently. She scanned the room briefly, then took the largest and most comfortable chair as her own.

  “Jarlaxle intervened,” Dab’nay replied, closing the door.

  “Yes, of course. But what have you learned? You have seen Zaknafein Do’Urden, yes?”

  Dab’nay nodded. “Yes, and I retain his confidence.”

  Soulez gave her a look that seemed more scowl than intrigue. “If only someone who held confidence with Zaknafein would find a way to use that to be rid of him,” she said. “A great gift that would be for me.”

  Dab’nay tried to digest that.

  “Arathis Hune returns to Menzoberranzan on the morrow,” Soulez said.

  “You would have me arrange another . . . meeting between those two?”

  “Do you think that you retain the confidence of Arathis Hune as well?”

  “I . . . I . . .” Dab’nay really didn’t know what to make of that statement.

  “You only gave Zaknafein that which he desired, foolish girl,” Soulez scolded. “Arathis Hune could not defeat him in that alley, given the way you arranged the meeting. Zaknafein came in aware of an impending fight, and his opponent did not.”

  “But Zaknafein did not use that advantage.”

  “Because he did not need it,” Soulez replied. “Arathis Hune serves best from behind his foe. He could not beat Zaknafein in such a fight as you arranged. He knows it, Zaknafein knows it, and you know it.”

  The look Zaknafein had flashed at her when she had answered his question as to how she had persuaded Arathis Hune into that alley came back to Dab’nay then, that instant of surprise from the cunning weapon master.

  “If that is true, then at least Jarlaxle would have lost his oldest lieutenant, one he has trusted since before the Tr’arach-Simfray war,” Dab’nay said.

  “Wounding Jarlaxle would please me, yes. But I care nothing for Arathis Hune. My desire is to halt the ambitions of Matron Malice Do’Urden. Her actions are complicating my own ascent.”

  “What are you saying, Matron?”

  “The task before you is to rid me of Zaknafein, however you might. Another fight with Arathis Hune? Yes, that would be fine, but it will be no fair fight this time. I’ll not depend upon the blade of Arathis Hune to defeat the great Zaknafein.”

  Dab’nay swallowed hard and had no response.

  “Zaknafein has been about again of late and Arathis Hune will soon enough return. I am possessed of great patience, child, but I have already waited many months. When you are ready, I will grant you those resources that you need to properly complete your task.”

  “Yes, Matron,” Dab’nay said, because, after all, what else could she possibly say?

  “So here we are,” Jarlaxle told Zaknafein and Arathis Hune, the three of them sitting in his chambers in the Clawrift beneath House Oblodra. “I trust that enough time has passed to dull the edges of your common hatred.”

  “You underestimate my determination,” said Zaknafein, glancing at his enemy.

  “You overestimate the amount of time,” Arathis Hune added, meeting that stare with his own.

  “And you both disregard the cost of your feud,” said Jarlaxle. He motioned down the hallway and a fourth entered the gathering, a smallish man dressed in finery worthy of a noble house. His face was clean-shaven, his hair cut short and neatly trimmed.

  “Because of your . . . stubbornness, I have found the need to bring in another confidant,” Jarlaxle explained. “One who will quickly climb above the both of you in the hierarchy of the band, I’m sure.”

  “Good for him. I am of House Do’Urden now, by Jarlaxle’s demand,” said Zaknafein, as if that explained, and so justified, his disregarding the remarks.

  “And that might prove temporary, and you might indeed need me again someday, Zaknafein.”

  The weapon master shrugged.

  “Do you wish full dismissal from Bregan D’aerthe?”

  Zaknafein glared at Jarlaxle but did not answer.

  “If so and I grant it, and then you continue your pursuit of Arathis Hune, you will be doing so merely as an agent of House Do’Urden,” Jarlaxle explained. “The implications of that are perhaps more dire than you recognize in this moment, so I will give you all the time you need to sort it out.”

  “What do you want from me, Jarlaxle?” Zaknafein demanded.

  “And from me?” Arathis Hune agreed.

  “You don’t like each other,” Jarlaxle said. “I understand. Just do not kill each other! That is all. No fighting.”

  “Then keep us apart,” Arathis Hune demanded. “Surely your many plots are wide-flung enough that I never need see the likes of Zaknafein again.”

  “Nor I him,” Zaknafein agreed.

  “Insufferable,” Jarlaxle remarked, looking to Kimmuriel, who seemed wholly bored with all of this.

  The merc
enary leader heaved a great sigh and waved them all away.

  However she might play this, it was going to be delicate, she knew, and all of this was getting very dangerous for Dab’nay. She feared that she was in way above her abilities with Matron Soulez, never mind Zaknafein and Arathis Hune.

  That point was hard to ignore as she lay there next to Zaknafein this quiet night. She looked to the bottom of the bed, where the weapon master had hung his weapon belt, those beautiful sword hilts glimmering in the candlelight.

  She leaned over to study Zaknafein’s breathing. So rhythmic and even. Surely he was asleep. Dab’nay could be done with all of this so easily. After all, Zaknafein was the one Matron Soulez wanted dead.

  And now, so easily, Dab’nay could grant Soulez her wish to be rid of him. Dab’nay would be brought into House Barrison Del’Armgo as a full priestess, perhaps even with a path to becoming a high priestess someday. Too, she would be a noblewoman again, and not a houseless rogue. Given Zaknafein’s unending hatred of the Spider Queen, she figured that Lady Lolth would certainly bless the move as well!

  All she had to do was collect one of those swords and stab it through Zaknafein’s heart as he slept.

  She stared at the weapons.

  She hated them and hated what they might do.

  If she took one, she would be stabbing herself in the heart no less than Zaknafein.

  But what choice did she have? She had put herself in an untenable situation, one that was very likely going to get her killed if anything at all went wrong along the way.

  Dab’nay buried her face in Zaknafein’s hair.

  The sword called to her.

  She didn’t look back at it. She couldn’t.

  Chapter 16

  Deaths Deserved, Deaths Undeserved

  The three drow warriors raced around a corner, hand crossbows drawn. Up went the weapons, and two let fly at the same time that the third drow yelled for them to hold, seeing a figure coming their way.

  That lone figure executed a brilliant and swift dance, spinning about, his piwafwi cloak flying wide to harmlessly catch the quarrels. He came out of that spin in a leaping charge at the trio, boldly one against three.