“The joy of the mysteries,” he finished. “Very well, then, give it to me.” And he held out his hand for the figurine, but Josidiah clutched it all the tighter.
“Never,” the elf said with a smile, and Anders smiled, as well.
“Indeed,” said the mage, hardly surprised. “But you will pay for my lost hole, and for my time and effort.”
“Gladly,” said the elf, and he knew, holding that statuette, holding the key to the wondrous black panther, to Guenhwyvar, whom Josidiah realized would be his most loyal companion and friend for all the rest of his days, that it would be the most worthwhile gold he ever spent.
hat Curious Sword” marked a new purpose for short stories in my Forgotten Realms contributions. I didn’t go into my previous contract discussions with any plans to do more short stories—at least not to commit to any. I figured that if the mood hit me, I’d write one, and if Wizards of the Coast then wanted to publish it, great! But book programs which include anthologies don’t necessarily work that way, so in the contract negotiations, I agreed to the five stories. I did so because the Drizzt books were splitting into two distinct lines. Entreri and Jarlaxle had struck out on their own; we even removed Servant of the Shard from “Paths of Darkness” and put it with “The Sellswords” trilogy instead.
Because of that, I didn’t resist the “companion” short story idea in those negotiations. I knew that if I went off on a “Drizzt” trilogy, I would be leaving Entreri and Jarlaxle behind for three years or more, and I certainly didn’t want that. I felt as if I was finally beginning to understand Artemis Entreri when I penned Promise of the Witch King, and he was a character I intended to learn from as I learned “of” him. My joy as a writer is to go down those side streets with characters who surprise me, after all.
The short story format worked particularly well for Entreri and Jarlaxle at this time. I could put them in specific dangerous situations, pressuring them in particular ways, and allow their reactions to tell me more about not only their individual characters, but about how they felt about each other—and to me, that was the more important question. Neither of these guys is particularly trustworthy or altruistic. What might a friendship between such characters really mean? Would it wholly depend on continued and demonstrable mutual benefit, or would there come a point when it morphed into something deeper, something more honest, something less tangible in terms of provable “gain,” be it monetary or the accumulation of power?
So it is with “That Curious Sword.” The story serves to advance the storylines around Entreri and Jarlaxle, mostly, bringing in the impending return of the Netherese Empire and the implications to Entreri, since he holds a powerful Netherese sword as his own. There is also the little matter of the implications of stabbing a shade with a vampiric dagger …
In addition, we see the limitations and the possibilities of the friendship between this unlikely pair as they continue to make their way through the Realms. Hopefully this and the other two stories of the dynamic duo serve to enhance the culmination of that relationship in Road of the Patriarch.
The Year of the Shield (1367 DR)
t is not so different from Calimport,” Artemis Entreri insisted, somewhat stubbornly.
Across the table from him, Jarlaxle merely chuckled.
“And you call my people xenophobic,” the dark elf replied. “At least we are not so racist toward others of our own species!”
“You talk the part of the fool.”
“I talked my way into the city, did I not?” Jarlaxle replied with that mischievous grin of his.
It was true enough. He and Entreri had come north and east, to the region known as the Bloodstone Lands. There, word had it, adventurers could do a fine business in goblin ears and the like, taken from the wild lands of Vaasa to the north of the kingdom of Damara and this city, Damara’s capital, Heliogabalus. Liberally invoking the name of Gareth Dragonsbane, and reminding the city guards that the Paladin King of Damara was a man known for tolerance and understanding, a man known for judging all people by their actions and not their heritage, the dark elf had convinced the city’s stern protectors to allow him entry.
They had agreed mostly because Jarlaxle was like no other dark elf they had ever heard of—and none of them had ever seen one. Outrageously dressed with a flamboyant wide-brimmed hat capped by a huge purple feather, a flowing cape—blue on the day he had entered the city, since turned red—an eye patch that daily changed from eye to eye, and with no apparent weapons, the drow seemed more a conversation piece than any threat to the security of the great city. They had let him and Entreri, with his magnificent sword and jeweled dagger, enter the city, but had promised to watch over them carefully.
After a couple of hours, the assassin and the drow knew that promise was one the lazy guards didn’t intend to keep.
“You’re taking far too long!” Entreri yelled across the somewhat crowded tavern, at the hapless waitress who had taken their order for drinks and food.
They knew she was in no hurry to return to them, for she had been trembling visibly at the sight of a drow elf all the time she was trying to concentrate on their words.
The woman blanched and started toward the bar, then turned around, then turned around again, as if she didn’t know what to do. At a nearby table, a pair of men looked from her to Entreri, their expressions sour.
The assassin sat calmly, almost hoping that the pair would make a move. He was in an especially foul mood over the last couple of months, ever since he and Jarlaxle had destroyed the Crystal Shard. The road had been boring and uneventful, even with his flamboyant companion, and Jarlaxle’s plan to come to the Bloodstone Lands to make a reputation and some coin by killing goblins and other monsters sounded more to Entreri like a job for his former arch-nemesis Drizzt and his “gallant” friends.
Still, Entreri had to admit that their options were a bit limited, since Calimport was shut off to them and they’d have a hard time truly establishing themselves in the bowery of any other city.
“You’ve flustered her,” Jarlaxle remarked.
Entreri just shrugged.
“You know, my friend, there is a saying among the drow nobles that if someone treats you well but is wicked to the peasants, then he is truly a wicked person. Now, in my society, that is a compliment, but here?”
Entreri sat back and lifted the front of his round, thin-brimmed hat—Jarlaxle called it a “bolero”—high above his eyes, so that the drow could clearly see his stare, could see the skepticism in his dark eyes.
“Do not pretend you don’t care,” Jarlaxle said against that smirk.
“Now my conscience is a dark elf?” Entreri asked incredulously. “How low must I have sunk.”
“Artemis Entreri is a better man than to whip a serving girl,” was all Jarlaxle said, pointedly turning away.
With a frustrated growl, Entreri shoved back from the table and started across the room, his small form moving silently and gracefully, almost as if he was floating across the room, heading for the serving girl. He passed the table with the two loud onlookers, and one of them started to stand as if to block the way, but a look from Entreri, so cold and strong, was enough to alter that plan.
“You,” Entreri called to the girl.
She stopped, and everything in the place seemed to come to a complete halt, all conversations ending abruptly.
Well, except for the knowing chuckle from a peculiar-looking dark elf at the back of the room.
The serving girl slowly turned to watch Entreri’s approach. He moved right up to her and fell to one knee.
“I beg your pardon, good lady,” he apologized.
He held out his hand and dropped a few gold coins onto her tray.
The young woman stared at him in disbelief.
Entreri came up from his bow to stand before her. “I expect that you’ve forgotten what we ordered,” he said. “Which is understandable, given the …” he paused and glanced back at Jarlaxle, then finished, “… unusua
l look of my friend. I will tell you our preferences again, and with my apologies for not seeing your dilemma earlier.”
All around him, the patrons went back to their private conversations. The waitress beamed a great smile, obviously relieved.
Entreri started to go on, to ask her forgiveness, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do that.
“My thanks,” he said, and he reiterated the order, then turned back and rejoined Jarlaxle.
“Wonderful!” the dark elf said. “I do believe that I will have you in a paladin’s order within a year!”
Entreri narrowed his dark eyes, to which Jarlaxle only laughed.
“Thinked I was gonna have to kick yer arse outta here,” came a voice from the side.
The companions turned to see the innkeeper, a burly older man who looked like a good portion of his chest had slipped to his belly. Still, the large man held an imposing aura about him. Before either of them could take his words as a threat or an insult, though, the man widened a crooked, gap-toothed smile at them.
“Was glad ye made me girl, Kitzy, happy.” He pulled out a chair, reversed it, then straddled it, placing his huge elbows on the table and leaning forward. “So what’s bringing a pair like you to Heliogabalus?”
“I just wanted to see a city that could boast of such a stupid name,” Entreri quipped, and the innkeeper howled and slapped his thigh.
“We have heard that there is fame and fortune to be made in this country,” Jarlaxle said in all seriousness, “for those strong enough and cunning enough to find it.”
“And that’d be yerself?”
“Some might think so,” the dark elf replied, and he gave a shrug. “As you can imagine, it is not easy for one of my heritage to gain acceptance. Perhaps this is an opportunity worth investigating.”
“A hero drow?”
“You have, perhaps, heard of Drizzt Do’Urden?” Jarlaxle asked.
Once before, he had tried to use that name for himself, to impress some farmers who, it turned out, had never heard of the unusual drow warrior of Icewind Dale.
Entreri watched his friend’s performance with budding anger, recognizing the ploy for what it was. Jarlaxle had been frustrated with his inability to impersonate Drizzt, or at least, with the lack of gain he would derive from impersonating someone that no one had ever heard of, but perhaps if this man knew of Drizzt, Jarlaxle could assume the identity anew, and begin this phase of his journey a bit higher on the feeding chain of Heliogabalus.
“Drizzit Dudden?” the man echoed badly, scratching his head. “Nope, can’t say that I have. He another drow?”
“Another corpse,” Entreri put in, and he shot Jarlaxle a glare, not appreciating that Jarlaxle kept bringing up that one’s name.
Artemis Entreri was done with Drizzt. He had beaten the drow in their last encounter—with help from a dark elf psionicist—but more importantly than killing Drizzt, Entreri had exorcised the demon within himself, the need to ever deal with that one again.
“It does not matter,” Jarlaxle said, apparently catching the cue and bringing the conversation back in place.
“So ye’re here to make a name for yerselfs, eh? I expect ye’ll be headin’ up Vaasa way.”
“I expect that you ask too many questions,” said Entreri, and Jarlaxle tossed him another scowl.
“You do seem rather inquisitive,” the drow added, mostly to downplay Entreri’s tone.
“Well that’s me business,” the innkeeper replied. “Folks’ll be askin’ me about the strange pair that came through.”
“Strange?” Entreri asked.
“Ye got a drow elf with ye.”
“True enough.”
“So if ye’re tellin’ me yer tale, then ye’re really saving yerselfs some trouble,” the innkeeper went on.
“The town herald,” Jarlaxle said dryly.
“That’s me business.”
“Well, it is as we have already told you,” the dark elf replied. He stood up and offered a polite bow. “I am Jarlaxle, and this is my friend, Artemis Entreri.”
As the innkeeper replied with the customary “Well met,” Entreri put another frown on and glowered at the dark elf, hardly believing that Jarlaxle had just given out their names. The innkeeper offered his name in reply, which Entreri didn’t bother to catch, then began telling them a few tales about men who had gone up to fight in Vaasa, which interested Entreri even less. Then, after a call from the bar area, the man excused himself and walked away.
“What?” Jarlaxle asked against Entreri’s frown.
“You are so willing to give out our identities?”
“Why would I not be?”
Entreri’s expression showed clearly that the reasons should be obvious.
“There is nobody chasing us, my friend. We haven’t earned the anger of the authorities—not in this region, at least. Were you not known in Calimport as Artemis Entreri? Do not be ashamed of your name!”
Entreri just shook his head, sat back, and took a sip of his wine. This whole adventure on the road was too out of place for him still.
Some time later, the inn clearing out of the nightly patrons, the innkeeper ambled back over to the pair.
“So, when’re ye off to Vaasa?” he asked.
Entreri and Jarlaxle exchanged knowing looks—the way the man had spoken the words showed it to be a leading question.
“Soon, I would expect,” Jarlaxle replied, nibbling at the bait. “Our funds are running low.”
“Ah, ye’re lookin’ for work already,” said the innkeeper. “Killin’ goblins only? Well, goblins and orcs, I mean? Or are ye in the game for more subtle forms?”
“You presume much,” said Entreri.
“True enough, but ye’re not tellin’ me that ye’re fighters of the open road, now are ye?”
“Would you like to see?” Entreri offered.
“Oh, I’m not doubtin’ ye!” the man said with a broad grin. He held his huge paws up before him, warding the dangerous man away. “But ye look like a pair who might be doing better work for better pay, if ye get me meaning.”
“And if we do not?”
The innkeeper looked at Entreri curiously.
“If we do not get your meaning,” Jarlaxle explained.
“Ah, well, there’re plenty of jobs about Heliogabalus,” the innkeeper explained. “For the right crew, I mean. The authorities are all up at the wall in Vaasa, fighting monsters, but that leaves many citizens wronged back here in town, with nowhere to turn.”
Entreri didn’t even try to hide his smirk, and in truth, just hearing the man ramble on made him feel a bit more at home. Heliogabalus, after all, wasn’t so different from Calimport, where the laws of the land and the laws of the street were two very different codes. He could hardly believe that he and Jarlaxle had been sought out so quickly, though, with no reputation preceding them, but he didn’t think too much about it. Likely, most of the fighters of the region were away in the north, along with most of those who had made their living by keeping order on the street, as well, whatever order that might be.
“And you know of these jobs?” Jarlaxle asked the man.
“Well, that’s me business!” said the innkeeper. “In truth, I’m a bit short o’ help right now, and I got a friend askin’ me to hire out a job.”
“And what makes you think that we are capable of such a job?” Jarlaxle asked.
“When ye been doin’ this as long as ol’ Feepun here, ye get to know the look,” he explained. “I watch the way ye walk. I see the way ye lift yer drinks, the way that one’s eyes keep movin’ side-to-side, watchin’ everything about him. Oh, I’m guessin’ that the work I have for ye, if ye want it, will be far beneath yer true talents, but it’s a place to start.” He paused and looked hopefully at the pair.
“Well, pray tell us of this job,” Jarlaxle prompted after a lengthy pause. “Nothing against the law of the land, you understand,” he added, a typical and expected disclaimer that any self-respecting thief or ass
assin would be quick to add.
“Oh, no, not that,” Feepun said with a laugh. “A bit of justice sorted out, that’s all.”
Jarlaxle and Entreri exchanged knowing smirks—that was the common disclaimer response, usually meaning that someone either deserved to die, or to be robbed.
“Got me a friend who’s lookin’ to get an idol back,” the innkeeper explained, leaning in and whispering. “He’s paying good, too. Hundred gold pieces for one night’s work. Ye up for it?”
“Keep talking,” said Jarlaxle.
“Seems he’s had a dispute over a little statue. Got stolen by a guy near here. He wants it back.”
“How do you know that we are capable of doing this?” Entreri asked.
“Telled ye I knowed how to read me guests. I think ye can. Shouldn’t be too hard a job, though this thief, Rorli, is a nasty one.”
“Perhaps a hundred is not enough, then,” Jarlaxle put in.
The innkeeper shrugged. “Said he’d give a hundred. Seems like a fair price to me. I can ask—”
“First tell us the particulars,” Entreri interrupted. “We have much to do, and need to buy supplies for the road north.”
The innkeeper grinned and leaned in even closer, detailing all he knew of Rorli, including the location of the man’s apartment, which was not far away. Then, on the request of Jarlaxle and Entreri, the innkeeper left them alone for a bit.
“It might be fun,” Jarlaxle said when he and his friend were alone.
“Might get us killed, or get Rorli killed.”
The dark elf shrugged, as if that hardly mattered. “A hundred gold is a pittance,” he said, “but so begins a reputation that might suit us well, perhaps.”
“Give me a hundred gold now, so I might buy the items I’ll need for the work,” Entreri said.
Grinning widely, Jarlaxle reached into a tiny pouch and pulled forth some coins, then some more and some more—more than the purse could possibly hold, except that it contained an extra-dimensional pocket within—until Entreri had closer to two hundred.
The Collected Stories, The Legend of Drizzt Page 11
