The Servant of the Shard

by R. A. Salvatore

  Entreri knew that and knew that he was welcomed here by Dwahvel and all of her associates. Also, he knew that the Copper Ante was likely the most secure house in all of the city. No, its defenses were not formidable—Jarlaxle could flatten the place with a small fraction of the power he had brought to Calimport—but its safeguards against prying eyes were as fine as those of a wizards’ guild. That was the area, as opposed to physical defenses, where Dwahvel utilized most of her resources. Also, the Copper Ante was known as a place to purchase information, so others had a reason to keep it secure. In many ways, Dwahvel and her comrades survived as Sha’lazzi Ozoule survived, by proving of use to all potential enemies.

  Entreri didn’t like the comparison. Sha’lazzi was a street profiteer, loyal to no one other than Sha’lazzi. He was no more than a middleman, collecting information with his purse and not his wits, and auctioning it away to the highest bidder. He did no work other than that of salesman, and in that regard, the man was very good. He was not a contributor, just a leech, and Entreri suspected that Sha’lazzi would one day be found murdered in an alley, and that no one would care.

  Dwahvel Tiggerwillies might find a similar fate, Entreri realized, but if she did, her murderer would find many out to avenge her.

  Perhaps Artemis Entreri would be among them.

  “Cursed,” Dwahvel decided after some consideration.

  “To those who feel its bite.”

  “To those who feel it at all,” Dwahvel insisted.

  Entreri shifted to the side and tilted his head, studying his surprising little friend.

  “Kohrin Soulez is trapped by his possession of it,” Dwahvel explained. “He builds a fortress about himself because he knows the value of the sword.”

  “He has many treasures,” Entreri reasoned, but he knew that Dwahvel was right on this matter, at least as far as Kohrin Soulez was concerned.

  “That one treasure alone invites the ire of wizards,” Dwahvel predictably responded, “and the ire of those who rely upon wizards for their security.”

  Entreri nodded, not disagreeing, but neither was he persuaded by Dwahvel’s arguments. Charon’s Claw might indeed be a curse for Kohrin Soulez, but if that was so it was because Soulez had entrenched himself in a place where such a weapon would be seen as a constant lure and a constant threat. Once he got his hands on the powerful sword, Artemis Entreri had no intention of staying anywhere near to Calimport. Soulez’s chains would be his escape.

  “The sword is an old artifact,” Dwahvel remarked, drawing Entreri’s attention more fully. “Everyone who has ever claimed it has died with it in his hands.”

  She thought her warning dramatic, no doubt, but the words had little effect on Entreri. “Everyone dies, Dwahvel,” the assassin replied without hesitation, his response fueled by the living hell that had come to him in Calimport. “It is how one lives that matters.”

  Dwahvel looked at him curiously, and Entreri wondered if he had, perhaps, revealed too much, or tempted Dwahvel too much to go and learn even more about the reality of the power backing Entreri and the Basadoni Guild. If the cunning halfling ever learned too much of the truth, and Jarlaxle or his lieutenants learned of her knowledge, then none of her magical wards, none of her associates—even Artemis Entreri—and none of her perceived usefulness would save her from Jarlaxle’s merciless soldiers. The Copper Ante would be gutted, and Entreri would find himself without a place in which to relax.

  Dwahvel continued to stare at him, her expression a mixture of professional curiosity and personal—what was it?—compassion?

  “What is it that so unhinges Artemis Entreri?” she started to ask, but even as the words came forth, so too came the assassin, his jeweled dagger flashing out of his belt as he leaped out of the chair and across the expanse, too quickly for Dwahvel’s guards to even register the movement, too quickly for Dwahvel to even realize what was happening.

  He was simply there, hovering over her, her hairy head pulled back, his dagger just nicking her throat.

  But she felt it—how she felt the bite of that vicious, life-stealing dagger. Entreri had opened a tiny wound, yet through it Dwahvel could feel her very life-force being torn out of her body.

  “If such a question as that ever echoes outside of these walls,” the assassin promised, his breath hot on her face, “you will regret that I did not finish this strike.”

  He backed away then, and Dwahvel quickly threw up one hand, fingers flapping back and forth, the signal to her crossbowmen to hold their shots. With her other hand, she rubbed her neck, pinching at the tiny wound.

  “You are certain that Kohrin Soulez still has it?” Entreri asked, more to change the subject and put things back on a professional level than to gather any real information.

  “He had it, and he is still alive,” the obviously shaken Dwahvel answered. “That seems proof enough.”

  Entreri nodded and assumed his previous posture, though the relaxed position did not fit the dangerous light that now shone in his eyes.

  “You still wish to leave the city by secure routes?” Dwahvel asked.

  Entreri gave a slight nod.

  “We will need to utilize Domo and the were—” the halfling guildmaster started to say, but Entreri cut her short.

  “No.”

  “He has the fastest—”

  “No.”

  Dwahvel started to argue yet again. Fulfilling Entreri’s request that she get him out of Calimport without anyone knowing it would prove no easy feat, even with Domo’s help. Entreri was publicly and intricately tied to the Basadoni Guild, and that guild had drawn the watchful eyes of every power in Calimport. She stopped short, and this time Entreri hadn’t interrupted her with a word but rather with a look, that all-too-dangerous look that Artemis Entreri had perfected decades before. It was the look that told his target that the time was fast approaching for final prayers.

  “It will take some more time, then,” Dwahvel remarked. “Not long, I assure you. An hour perhaps.”

  “No one is to know of this other than Dwahvel,” Entreri instructed quietly, so that the crossbowmen in the shadows of the room’s corners couldn’t hear. “Not even your most trusted lieutenants.”

  The halfling blew a long, resigned sigh. “Two hours, then,” she said.

  Entreri watched her go. He knew that she couldn’t possibly accede to his wishes to get him out of Calimport without anyone at all knowing of the journey—the streets were too well monitored—but it was a strong reminder to the halfling guildmaster that if anyone started talking about it too openly, Entreri would hold her personally responsible.

  The assassin chuckled at the thought, for he couldn’t imagine himself killing Dwahvel. He liked and respected the halfling, both for her courage and her skills.

  He did need this departure to remain secret, though. If some of the others, particularly Rai-guy or Kimmuriel, found out that he had gone out, they would investigate and soon, no doubt, discern his destination. He didn’t want the two dangerous drow studying Kohrin Soulez.

  Dwahvel returned soon after, well within the two hours she had pessimistically predicted, and handed Entreri a rough map of this section of the city, with a route sketched on it.

  “There will be someone waiting for you at the end of Crescent Avenue,” she explained. “Right before the bakery.”

  “Detailing the second stretch your halflings have determined to be clear for travel,” the assassin reasoned.

  Dwahvel nodded. “My kin and other associates.”

  “And, of course, they will watch the movements as each map is collected,” Entreri indicated.

  Dwahvel shrugged. “You are a master of disguises, are you not?”

  Entreri didn’t answer. He set out immediately, exiting the Copper Ante and turning down a dark ally, emerging on the other side looking as though he had gained fifty pounds and walking with a pronounced limp.

  He was out of Calimport within the hour, running along the northwestern road. By dawn, he was
on a dune, looking down upon the Dallabad Oasis. He considered Kohrin Soulez long and hard, recalling everything he knew about the old man.

  “Old,” he said aloud with a sigh, for in truth, Soulez was in his early fifties, less than fifteen years older than Artemis Entreri.

  The assassin turned his thoughts to the palace-fortress itself, trying to recall vivid details about the place. From this angle, all Entreri could make out were a few palm trees, a small pond, a single large boulder, a handful of tents including one larger pavilion, and behind them all, seeming to blend in with the desert sands, a brown, square-walled fortress. A handful of robed sentries walked around the fortress walls, seeming quite bored. The fortress of Dallabad did not appear very formidable—certainly nothing against the likes of Artemis Entreri—but the assassin knew better.

  He had visited Soulez and Dallabad on several occasions when he had been working for Pasha Basadoni, and again more recently, when he had been in the service of Pasha Pook. He knew of the circular building within those square wall with its corridors winding in tighter and tighter circles toward the great treasury rooms of Kohrin Soulez, culminating in the private quarters of the oasis master himself.

  Entreri considered Dwahvel’s last description of the man and his place in the context of those memories and chuckled as he recognized the truth of her observations. Kohrin Soulez was indeed a prisoner.

  Still, that prison worked well in both directions, and there was no way that Entreri could easily slip in and take that which he desired. The palace was a fortress, and a fortress full of soldiers specifically trained to thwart any attempts by the too-common thieves of the region.

  The assassin thought that Dwahvel was wrong on one point, though. Kohrin himself, and not Charon’s Claw, was the source of that prison. The man was so fearful of losing his prized weapon that he allowed it to dominate and consume him. His own fear of losing the sword had paralyzed him from taking any chances with it. When had Soulez last left Dallabad? the assassin wondered. When had he last visited the open market or chatted with his old associates on Calimport’s streets?

  No, people made their own prisons, Entreri knew, and knew well, for hadn’t he, in fact, done the same thing in his obsession with Drizzt Do’Urden? Hadn’t he been consumed by a foolish need to do battle with an insignificant dark elf who really had nothing to do with him?

  Confident that he would never again make such an error, Artemis Entreri looked down upon Dallabad and smiled widely. Yes, Kohrin Soulez had done well to design his fortress against any would-be thieves skulking in from shadow to shadow or under cover of the darkness of night, but how would those many sentries fare when an army of dark elves descended upon them?

  “You were with him when he learned of the retreat,” Sharlotta Vespers asked Entreri the next night, soon after the assassin had quietly returned to Calimport. “How did Jarlaxle accept the news?”

  “With typical nonchalance,” Entreri answered honestly. “Jarlaxle has led Bregan D’aerthe for centuries. He is not one to betray that which is in his heart.”

  “Even to Artemis Entreri, who can read a man’s eyes and tell him what he had for dinner the night before?” Sharlotta asked, grinning.

  That smirk couldn’t hold against the deadly calm expression that came over Entreri’s face. “You do not begin to understand these new allies who have come to join with us,” he said in all seriousness.

  “To conquer us, you mean,” Sharlotta replied, the first time since the takeover that Entreri had heard her even hint ill will against the dark elves. He wasn’t surprised—who wouldn’t quickly come to hate the wretched drow? On the other hand, Entreri had always known Sharlotta as someone who accepted whatever allies she could find, as long as they brought to her the power she so desperately craved.

  “If they so choose,” Entreri replied without missing a beat and in a most serious tone. “Underestimate any facet of the dark elves, from their fighting abilities to whether or not they betray themselves with expressions, and you will wind up dead, Sharlotta.”

  The woman started to respond but did not, fighting hard to keep an uncharacteristic hopelessness off of her expression. He knew she was beginning to feel the same way he had during his journey to Menzoberranzan, the same way that he was beginning to feel once more, particularly whenever Rai-guy and Kimmuriel were around. There was something humbling about even being near these handsome, angular creatures. The drow always knew more than they should and always revealed less than they knew. Their mystery was only heightened by the undeniable power behind their often subtle threats. And always there was that damned condescension toward anyone who was not drow. In the current situation, where Bregan D’aerthe could obviously easily overwhelm the remnants of House Basadoni, Artemis Entreri included, that condescension took on even uglier tones. It was a poignant and incessant reminder of who was the master and who was the slave.

  He recognized that same feeling in Sharlotta, growing with every passing moment, and he almost used that to enlist her aid in his secret scheme to take Dallabad and its greatest prize.

  Almost—then Entreri considered the course and was shocked that his feelings toward Rai-guy and Kimmuriel had almost brought forth such a blunder as that. For all his life, with only very rare exceptions, Artemis Entreri had worked alone, had used his wits to ensnare unintentional and unwitting allies. Cohorts inevitably knew too much for Entreri ever to be comfortable with them. The one exception he now made, out of simple necessity, was Dwahvel Tiggerwillies, and she, he was quite sure, would never double-cross him, not even under the questioning of the dark elves. That had always been the beauty of Dwahvel and her halfling comrades.

  Sharlotta, however, was a completely different sort, Entreri now pointedly reminded himself. If he tried to enlist Sharlotta in his plan to go after Kohrin Soulez, he’d have to watch her closely forever after. She’d likely take the information from him and run to Jarlaxle, or even to Rai-guy and Kimmuriel, using Entreri’s soon-to-be-lifeless body as a ladder with which to elevate herself.

  Besides, Entreri did not need to bring up Dallabad to Sharlotta, for he had already made arrangements toward that end. Dwahvel would entice Sharlotta toward Dallabad with a few well-placed lies, and Sharlotta, who was predictable indeed when one played upon her sense of personal gain, would take the information to Jarlaxle, only strengthening Entreri’s personal suggestions that Dallabad would prove a meaningful and profitable conquest.

  “I never thought I would miss Pasha Basadoni,” Sharlotta remarked off-handedly, the most telling statement the woman had yet made.

  “You hated Basadoni,” Entreri reminded.

  Sharlotta didn’t deny that, but neither did she change her stance.

  “You did not fear him as much as you fear the drow, and rightly so,” Entreri remarked. “Basadoni was loyal, thus predictable. These dark elves are neither. They are too dangerous.”

  “Kimmuriel told me that you lived among them in Menzoberranzan,” Sharlotta mentioned. “How did you survive?”

  “I survived because they were too busy to bother with killing me,” Entreri honestly replied. “I was dobluth to them, a non-drow outcast, and not worth the trouble. Also, it seems to me now that Jarlaxle might have been using me to further his understanding of the humans of Calimport.”

  That brought a chuckle to Sharlotta’s thick lips. “I would hardly consider Artemis Entreri the typical human of Calimport,” she said. “And if Jarlaxle had believed that all men were possessed of your abilities, I doubt he would have dared come to the city, even if all of Menzoberranzan marched behind him.”

  Entreri gave a slight bow, taking the compliment in polite stride, though he never had use for flattery. To Entreri’s way of thinking, one was good enough or one wasn’t, and no amount of self-serving chatter could change that.

  “And that is our goal now, for both our sakes,” Entreri went on. “We must keep the drow busy, which would seem not so difficult a task given Jarlaxle’s sudden desire rapidly
to expand his surface empire. We are safer if House Basadoni is at war.”

  “But not within the city,” Sharlotta replied. “The authorities are starting to take note of our movements and will not stand idly by much longer. We are safer if the drow are engaged in battle, but not if that battle extends beyond house-to-house.”

  Entreri nodded, glad that Dwahvel’s little suggestions to Sharlotta that other eyes might be pointing their way had brought the clever woman to these conclusions so quickly. Indeed, if House Basadoni reached too far and too fast, the true power of the house would likely be discovered. Once the realm of Calimshan came to that revelation, their response against Jarlaxle’s band would be complete and overwhelming. Earlier on, Entreri had entertained just such a scenario, but he had come to dismiss it. He doubted that he, or any other iblith of House Basadoni, would survive a Bregan D’aerthe retreat.

  That ultimate chaos, then, had been relegated to the status of a backup plan.

  “But you are correct,” Sharlotta went on. “We must keep them busy—their military arm, at least.”

  Entreri smiled and easily held back the temptation to enlist her then and there against Kohrin Soulez. Dwahvel would take care of that, and soon, and Sharlotta would never even figure out that she had been used for the gain of Artemis Entreri.

  Or perhaps the clever woman would come to see the truth.

  Perhaps, then, Entreri would have to kill her.

  To Artemis Entreri, who had suffered the double-dealing of Sharlotta Vespers for many years, it was not an unpleasant thought.