Servant of the Shard: The Sellswords by R. A. Salvatore
Jarlaxle was soon beside him, helping him to open the pack.
“A potion,” Entreri explained, swallowing hard, his breath becoming labored.
Jarlaxle fiddled around in the pack, producing a small vial with a bluish-white liquid within. “Healing?” he asked.
Entreri nodded and motioned for it.
Jarlaxle pulled it back. “You have much to explain,” he said. “You attacked me, and you gave them the Crystal Shard.”
Entreri, his brow thick with sweat, motioned again for the potion. He put his hand to his side and brought it back up, wet with blood. “A fine throw,” he said to the dark elf.
“I do not pretend to understand you, Artemis Entreri,” said Jarlaxle, handing over the potion. “Perhaps that is why I do so enjoy your company.”
Entreri swallowed the liquid in one gulp, and fell back to a sitting position, closing his eyes and letting the soothing concoction go to work mending some of his wounds. He wished he had about five more of the things, but this one would have to suffice—and would, he believed, keep him alive and start him on the mend.
Jarlaxle watched him for a few moments, and turned his attention to a more immediate problem, glancing up at the stinging, blistering sun. “This sunlight will make for our deaths,” he remarked.
In answer, Entreri shifted over and stuck his hand into his backpack, soon producing a small scale model of a brown tent. He brought it in close, whispered a few words, and tossed it off to the side. A few seconds later, the model expanded, growing to full-size and beyond.
“Enough!” Entreri said when it was big enough to comfortably hold him, the dark elf, and both of their horses.
“Not so hard to find on the open desert,” Jarlaxle remarked.
“Harder than you believe,” Entreri, still gasping with every word, assured him. “Once we’re inside, it will recede into a pocket dimension of its own making.”
Jarlaxle smiled. “You never told me you possessed such a useful desert tool,” he said.
“Because I did not, until last night.”
“Thus, you knew that it would come to this, with us out running in the open desert,” the mercenary leader reasoned, thinking himself sly.
Far from arguing the point, Entreri merely shrugged as Jarlaxle helped him to his feet. “I hoped it would come to this,” the assassin said.
Jarlaxle looked at him curiously, but didn’t press the issue. Not then. He looked back in the direction of distant Dallabad, obviously wondering what had become of his former lieutenants, wondering how all of this had so suddenly come about. It was not often that the cunning Jarlaxle was confused.
“We have that which we desired,” Kimmuriel reminded his outraged companion. “Bregan D’aerthe is ours to lead—back to the Underdark and Menzoberranzan where we belong.”
“It is not the Crystal Shard!” Rai-guy protested, throwing the imitation piece to the floor.
Kimmuriel looked at him curiously. “Was our purpose to procure the item?”
“Jarlaxle still has it,” Rai-guy growled back at him. “How long do you believe he will allow us our position of leadership? He should be dead, and the artifact should be mine.”
Kimmuriel’s sly expression did not change at the wizard’s curious choice of words—words, he understood, inspired by Crenshinibon itself and the desire to hold Rai-guy as its slave. Yes, Yharaskrik had done well in teaching the drow psionicist the nuances of the powerful and dangerous artifact. Kimmuriel did agree, though, that their position was tenuous, given that mighty Jarlaxle was still alive.
Kimmuriel had never really wanted Jarlaxle as an enemy—not out of friendship to the older drow but out of simple fear. Perhaps Jarlaxle was already on his way back to Menzoberranzan, where he would rally the remaining members of Bregan D’aerthe, far more than half the band, against Rai-guy and Kimmuriel and those who might follow them back to the drow city. Perhaps Jarlaxle would call upon Gromph Baenre, the archmage of Menzoberranzan himself, to test his wizardly skills against those of Rai-guy.
It was not a pleasant thought, but Kimmuriel understood clearly that Rai-guy’s frustration was far more involved with the wizard’s other complaint, that the Crystal Shard and not Jarlaxle had gotten away.
“We have to find them,” Rai-guy said a moment later. “I want Jarlaxle dead. How else might I ever know a reprieve?”
“You are now the leader of a mercenary band of males housed in Menzoberranzan,” Kimmuriel replied. “You will find no reprieve, no break from the constant dangers and matron games. This is the trapping of power, my companion.”
Rai-guy’s returning expression was not one of friendship. He was angry, perhaps more so than Kimmuriel had ever seen him. He wanted the artifact desperately. So did Yharaskrik, Kimmuriel knew. Should they find a way to catch up to Jarlaxle and Crenshinibon, he had every intention of making certain that the illithid got it. Let Yharaskrik and his mighty mind flayer kin take control of Crenshinibon, study it, and destroy it. Better that than having it in Rai-guy’s hands back in Menzoberranzan—if it would even agree to go to Menzoberranzan, for Yharaskrik had told Kimmuriel that the artifact drew much of its power from the sunlight. How much more on his guard might Kimmuriel have to remain with Crenshinibon as an ally? The artifact would never accept him, would never accept the fact that he, with his mental disciplines, could deny it entrance and control of his mind.
He was tempted to work against Rai-guy now, to foil the search for Jarlaxle however he might, but he understood clearly that Jarlaxle, with or without the Crystal Shard, was far too powerful an adversary to be allowed to run free.
A knock on the door drew him from his contemplation. It opened, and Berg’inyon Baenre entered, followed by several drow soldiers dragging a chained and beaten Sharlotta Vespers behind them. More drow soldiers followed, escorting a bulky and imposing ratman.
Kimmuriel motioned for Sharlotta’s group to move aside, that he could face the ratman directly.
“Gord Abrix at your service, good Kimmuriel Oblodra,” the ratman said, bowing low.
Kimmuriel stared at him hard. “You lead the wererats of Calimport now?” he asked in his halting command of the common tongue.
Gord nodded. “The wererats in the service of House Basadoni,” he said. “In the service of—”
“That is all you need to know, and all that you would ever be wise to speak,” Rai-guy growled at him and the wererat, as imposing as he was, inevitably shrank back from the dark elves.
“Get him out of here,” Kimmuriel commanded the drow escorts, in his own language. “Tell him we will call when we have decided the new course for the wererats.”
Gord Abrix managed one last bow before being herded out of the room.
“And what of you?” Kimmuriel asked Sharlotta, and the mere fact that he could speak to her in his own language reminded him of this woman’s resourcefulness and thus her potential usefulness.
“What have I done to deserve such treatment?” Sharlotta, stubborn to the end, replied.
“Why do you believe you had to do anything?” Kimmuriel calmly replied.
Sharlotta started to respond, but quickly realized that there was really nothing she could say against the simple logic of that question.
“We sent you to meet with Pasha Da’Daclan, a necessary engagement, yet you did not,” Rai-guy reminded her.
“I was tricked by Entreri and captured,” the woman protested.
“Failure is failure,” Rai-guy said. “Failure brings punishment—or worse.”
“But I escaped and warned you of Entreri’s run to Jarlaxle’s side,” Sharlotta argued.
“Escaped?” Rai-guy asked incredulously. “By your own words, the halfling was too afraid to keep you and so she let you go.”
Those words rang uncomfortably in Kimmuriel’s thoughts. Had that, too, been a part of Entreri’s plan? Because had not Kimmuriel and Rai-guy arrived at the crystalline tower in Dallabad at precisely the wrong moment for the coup? With the Crystal Shard hid
“I came straight to you,” Sharlotta said plainly and forcefully, speaking then like someone who had at last come to understand that she had absolutely nothing left to lose.
“Failure is failure,” Rai-guy reiterated, just as forcefully.
“But we are not unmerciful,” Kimmuriel added immediately. “I even believe in the possibility of redemption. Artemis Entreri put you in this unfortunate position, so you say, so find him and kill him. Bring me his head, or I shall take your own.”
Sharlotta held up her hands helplessly. “Where to begin?” she asked. “What resources—”
“All the resources and every soldier of House Basadoni and of Dallabad, and the complete cooperation of that rat creature and its minions,” Kimmuriel replied.
Sharlotta’s expression remained skeptical, but there flashed a twinkle in her eyes that Kimmuriel did not miss. She was outraged at Artemis Entreri for all of this, at least as much as were Rai-guy and Kimmuriel. Yes, she was cunning and a worthy adversary. Her efforts to find and destroy Entreri would certainly aid Kimmuriel and Rai-guy’s efforts to neutralize Jarlaxle and the dangerous Crystal Shard.
“When do I begin?” Sharlotta asked.
“Why are you still here?” Kimmuriel asked.
The woman took the cue and began scrambling to her feet. The drow guards took the cue, too, and rushed to help her up, quickly unlocking her chains.
CHAPTER
DEAR DWAHVEL
15
Ah, my friend, how you have deceived me,” Jarlaxle whispered to Entreri, whose wounds had far from healed, leaving him in a weakened, almost helpless state. As Entreri had floated into semiconsciousness, Jarlaxle, possessed of the magic to heal him fully, had instead taken the time to consider all that had happened.
He was in the process of trying to figure out if Entreri had saved him or damned him when he heard an all-too familiar call.
Jarlaxle’s gaze fell over Entreri and a great smile widened on his black-skinned face. Crenshinibon! The man had Crenshinibon! Jarlaxle replayed the events in his mind and quickly figured that Entreri had done more than simply cut the pouch loose from Jarlaxle’s belt in that first, unexpected attack. No, the clever—so clever!—human had switched Jarlaxle’s pouch for an imitation pouch, complete with an imitation Crystal Shard.
“My sneaky companion,” the mercenary remarked, though he wasn’t sure if Entreri could hear him or not. “It is good to know that once again, I have not underestimated you!” As he finished, the mercenary leader went for Entreri’s belt pouch, smiling all the while.
The assassin’s hand snapped up and grabbed Jarlaxle by the arm.
Jarlaxle had a dagger in his free hand in the blink of an eye, prepared to stab it through the nearly helpless man’s heart, but he noted that Entreri wasn’t pressing the attack any further. The assassin wasn’t reaching for his dagger or any other weapon, but rather, was staring at Jarlaxle plaintively. In his head, Jarlaxle could hear the Crystal Shard calling to him, beckoning him to finish this man off and take back the artifact that was rightfully his.
He almost did it, despite the fact that Crenshinibon’s call wasn’t nearly as powerful and melodious as it had been when he had been in possession of the artifact.
“Do not,” Entreri whispered to him. “You cannot control it.”
Jarlaxle pulled back, staring hard at the man. “But you can?”
“That is why it is calling to you,” Entreri replied, his breath even more labored than it had been earlier, and blood flowing again from the wound in his side. “The Crystal Shard has no hold over me.”
“And why is that?” Jarlaxle asked doubtfully. “Has Artemis Entreri taken up the moral code of Drizzt Do’Urden?”
Entreri started to chuckle, but grimaced instead, the pain nearly unbearable. “Drizzt and I are not so different in many ways,” he explained. “In discipline, at least.”
“And discipline alone will keep the Crystal Shard from controlling you?” Jarlaxle asked, his tone still one of abject disbelief. “So, you are saying that I am not as disciplined as either of—”
“No!” Entreri growled, and he nearly came up to a sitting position as he tightened his side against a wave of pain.
“No,” he said more calmly a moment later, easing back and breathing hard. “Drizzt’s code denied the artifact, as does my own—not a code of morality, but one of independence.”
Jarlaxle fell back a bit, his expression going from doubtful to curious. “Why did you take it?”
Entreri looked at him and started to respond but wound up just grimacing. Jarlaxle reached under the folds of his cloak and produced a small orb, which he held out to Entreri as he began to chant.
The assassin felt better almost immediately, felt his wound closing and his breathing easier to control. Jarlaxle chanted for a few seconds, each one making Entreri feel that much better, but long before the healing had been completely facilitated, the mercenary stopped.
“Answer my question,” he demanded.
“They were coming to kill you,” Entreri replied.
“Obviously,” said Jarlaxle. “Could you not have merely warned me?”
“It would not have been enough,” Entreri insisted. “There were too many against you, and they knew that your primary weapon would be the artifact. Thus, they neutralized it, temporarily.”
Jarlaxle’s first instinct was to demand the Crystal Shard again, that he could go back and repay Rai-guy and Kimmuriel for their treachery. He held the thought, though, and let Entreri go on.
“They were right in wanting to take it from you,” the assassin finished boldly.
Jarlaxle glared at him but just for a moment.
“Step back from it,” Entreri advised. “Shut out its call and consider the actions of Jarlaxle over the last few tendays. You could not remain on the surface unless your true identity remained secret, yet you brought forth crystalline towers! Bregan D’aerthe, for all of its power, and with all of the power of Crenshinibon behind it, could not rule the world—not even the city of Calimport—yet look at what you tried to do.”
Jarlaxle started to respond several times, but each of his arguments died in his throat before he could begin to offer them. The assassin was right, he knew. He had erred, and badly.
“We cannot go back and try to explain this to the usurpers,” the mercenary remarked.
Entreri shook his head. “It was the Crystal Shard that inspired the coup against you,” he explained, and Jarlaxle fell back as if slapped. “You were too cunning, but Crenshinibon figured that ambitious Rai-guy would easily fall to its chaotic plans.”
“You say that to placate me,” Jarlaxle accused.
“I say that because it is the truth, nothing more,” Entreri replied. Then he had to pause and grimace as a spasm of pain came over him. “And, if you take the time to consider it, you know that it is. Crenshinibon kept you moving in its preferred direction but not without interference.”
“The Crystal Shard did not control me, or it did. You cannot have it both ways.”
“It did manipulate you. How can you doubt that?” Entreri replied. “But not to the level that it knew it could manipulate Rai-guy.”
“I went to Dallabad to destroy the crystal tower, something the artifact surely did not desire,” Jarlaxle argued, “and yet, I could have done it! All interference from the shard was denied.”
He continued, or tried to, but Entreri easily cut him short. “You could have done it?” the assassin asked incredulously.
Jarlaxle stammered to reply. “Of course.”
“But you did not?”
“I saw no reason to drop the tower as soon as I knew that I could …” Jarlaxle started to explain, but when he actually heard the words coming out of his mouth, it hit him, and hard. He had been duped.
“Leave it with me,” Entreri said to him. “The Crystal Shard tries to manipulate me, constantly, but it has nothing to offer me that I truly desire, and thus, it has no power over me.”
“It will wear at you,” Jarlaxle told him. “It will find every weakness and exploit them.”
Entreri nodded. “Its time is running short,” he remarked.
Jarlaxle looked at him curiously.
“I would not have spent the energy and the time pulling you away from those wretches if I did not have a plan,” the assassin remarked.
“Tell me.”
“In time,” the assassin promised. “Now I beg of you not to take the Crystal Shard, and I beg of you, too, to allow me to rest.”
He settled back and closed his eyes, knowing full well that the only defense he would have if Jarlaxle came at him was the Crystal Shard. He knew that if he used the artifact, it would likely find many, many ways to weaken his defenses and the effect might be that he would abandon his mission and simply let the artifact become his guide.
His guide to destruction, he knew, and perhaps to a fate worse than death.
When Entreri looked at Jarlaxle, he was somewhat comforted, for he saw again that clever and opportunistic demeanor, that visage of one who thought things through carefully before taking any definitive and potentially rash actions. Given all that Entreri had just explained to the mercenary drow, the retrieval of Crenshinibon would have to fall into that very category. No, he trusted that Jarlaxle would not move against him. The mercenary drow would let things play out a bit longer before making any move to alter a situation he obviously didn’t fully comprehend.
With that thought in mind, Entreri fell fast asleep.
Even as he was drifting off, he felt the healing magic of Jarlaxle’s orb falling over him again.
The halfling was surprised to see her fingers trembling as she carefully unrolled the note.
“Why Artemis, I did not even know you could write,” Dwahvel said with a snicker, for the lines on the parchment were beautifully constructed, if a bit spare and efficient for Dwahvel’s flamboyant flair. “My dear Dwahvel,” she read aloud, and she paused and considered the words, not certain how she should take that greeting. Was it a formal and proper heading, or a sign of true friendship?