"03 - Servant of the Shard - R A Salvatore 1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Paths Of Darkness)

                     R.A.Salvatore

                 Servant of the Shard

  (Forgotten Realms novell. Path of Darkness. Book III)

                       Prologue

    He glided through the noonday sunshine's oppressive

heat, moving as if always cloaked in shadows, though the

place had few, and as if even the ever-present dust could

not touch him. The open market was crowded-it was always

crowded-with yelling merchants and customers bargaining for

every copper piece. Thieves were positioning themselves in

all the best and busiest places, where they might cut a

purse string without ever being noticed, or if they were

discovered, where they could melt away into a swirling crowd

of bright colors and flowing robes.

    Artemis Entreri noted the thieves clearly. He could tell

with a glance who was there to shop and who was there to

steal, and he didn't avoid the latter group. He purposely

set his course to bring him right by every thief he could

find, and he'd pushed back one side of his dark cloak,

revealing his ample purse-revealing, too, the jewel-

decorated dagger that kept his purse and his person

perfectly safe. The dagger was his trademark weapon, one of

the most feared blades on all of Calimport's dangerous

streets.

    Entreri enjoyed the respect the young thieves offered

him, and more than that, he demanded it. He had spent years

earning his reputation as the finest assassin in

    Calimport, but he was getting older. He was losing,

perhaps, that fine edge of brilliance. Thus, he came out

brazenly-more so than he ever would have in his younger

days-daring them, any of them, to make a try for him.

    He crossed the busy avenue, heading for a small outdoor

tavern that had many round tables set under a great awning.

The place was bustling, but Entreri immediately spotted his

contact, the flamboyant Sha'lazzi Ozoule with his trademark

bright yellow turban. Entreri moved straight for the table.

Sha'lazzi wasn't sitting alone, though it was obvious to

Entreri that the three men seated with him were not friends

of his, were not known to him at all. The others held a

private conversation, chattering and chuckling, while

Sha'lazzi leaned back, glancing all around.

    Entreri walked up to the table. Sha'lazzi gave a nervous

and embarrassed shrug as the assassin looked questioningly

at the three uninvited guests.

    "You did not tell them that this table was reserved for

our luncheon?" Entreri calmly asked.

    The three men stopped their conversation and looked up

at him curiously.

    "I tried to explain . . ." Sha'lazzi started, wiping the

sweat from his dark-skinned brow.

    Entreri held up his hand to silence the man and fixed

his imposing gaze on the three trespassers. "We have

business," he said.

    "And we have food and drink," one of them replied.

    Entreri didn't reply, other than to stare hard at the

man, to let his gaze lock with the other's.

    The other two made a couple of remarks, but Entreri

ignored them completely and just kept staring hard at the

first challenger. On and on it went, and Entreri kept his

focus, even tightened it, his gaze boring into the man,

showing him the strength of will he now faced, the perfect

determination and control.

    "What is this about?" one of the others demanded,

standing up right beside Entreri.

    Sha'lazzi muttered the quick beginning of a common

prayer.

    "I asked you," the man pushed, and he reached out to

shove Entreri's shoulder.

    Up snapped the assassin's hand, catching the approaching

hand by the thumb and spinning it over, then driving it

down, locking the man in a painful hold.

    All the while Entreri didn't bunk, didn't glance away at

all, just kept visually holding the first one, who was

sitting directly across from him, in that awful glare.

    The man standing at Entreri's side gave a little grunt

as the assassin applied pressure, then brought his free hand

to his belt, to the curved dagger he had secured there.

    Sha'lazzi muttered another line of the prayer.

    The man across the table, held fast by Entreri's deadly

stare, motioned for his friend to hold calm and to keep his

hand away from the blade.

    Entreri nodded to him, then motioned for him to take his

friends and be gone. He released the man at his side, who

clutched at his sore thumb, eyeing Entreri threateningly. He

didn't come at Entreri again, nor did either of his friends

make any move, except to pick up their plates and sidle

away. They hadn't recognized Entreri, yet he had shown them

the truth of who he was without ever drawing his blade.

    "I meant to do the same thing," Sha'lazzi remarked with

a chuckle as the three departed and Entreri settled into the

seat opposite him.

    Entreri just stared at him, noting how out-of-sorts this

one always appeared. Sha'lazzi had a huge head and a big

round face, and that put on a body so skinny as to appear

emaciated. Furthermore, that big round face was always,

always smiling, with huge, square white teeth glimmering in

contrast to his dark skin and black eyes.

    Sha'lazzi cleared his throat again. "Surprised I am that

you came out for this meeting," he said. "You have made many

enemies in your rise with the Basadoni Guild. Do you not

fear treachery, O powerful one?" he finished sarcastically

and again with a chuckle.

    Entreri only continued to stare. Indeed he had feared

treachery, but he needed to speak with Sha'lazzi. Kimmuriel

Oblodra, the drow psionicist working for Jarlaxle, had

scoured Sha'lazzi's thoughts completely and had come to the

conclusion that there was no conspiracy afoot.

    Of course, considering the source of the information-a

dark elf who held no love for Entreri-the assassin hadn't

been completely comforted by the report.

    "It can be a prison to the powerful, you understand,"

Sha'lazzi rambled on. "A prison to be powerful, you see? So

many pashas dare not leave their homes without an entourage

of a hundred guards."

    "I am not a pasha."

    "No, indeed, but Basadoni belongs to you and to

Sharlotta," Sha'lazzi returned, referring to Sharlotta

Vespers. The woman had used her wiles to become Pasha

Basadoni's second and had survived the drow takeover to

serve as figurehead of the guild. And the guild had suddenly

become more powerful than anyone could imagine. "Everyone

knows this." Sha'lazzi gave another of his annoying

chuckles. "I always understood that you were good, my

friend, but never this good!"

    Entreri smiled back, but in truth his amusement came

from a fantasy of sticking his dagger into Sha'lazzi's

skinny throat, for no better reason than the fact that he

simply couldn't stand this parasite.

    Entreri had to admit that he needed Sha'lazzi, though-

and that was exactly how the notorious informant managed to

stay alive. Sha'lazzi had made a living, indeed an art, out

of telling anybody anything he wanted to know-for a price-

and so good was he at his craft, so connected to every pulse

beat of Calimport's ruling families and street thugs alike,

that he had made himself too valuable to the often-warring

guilds to be murdered.

    "So tell me of the power behind the throne of Basadoni,"

Sha'lazzi remarked, grinning widely. "For surely there is

more, yes?"

    Entreri worked hard to keep himself stone-faced, knowing

that a responding grin would give too much away- and how he

wanted to grin at Sha'lazzi's honest ignorance of the truth

of the new Basadoni's. Sha'lazzi would never know that a

dark elf army had set up shop in Calimport, using the

Basadoni Guild as its front.

    "I thought we had agreed to discuss Dallabad Oasis?"

Entreri asked in reply.

    Sha'lazzi sighed and shrugged. "Many interesting things

to speak of," he said. "Dallabad is not one of them, I

fear."

    "In your opinion."

    "Nothing has changed there in twenty years," Sha'lazzi

replied. "There is nothing there that I know that you do

not, and have not, for nearly as many years."

    "Kohrin Soulez still retains Charon's Claw?" Entreri

asked.

    Sha'lazzi nodded. "Of course," he said with a chuckle.

"Still and forever. It has served him for four decades, and

when Soulez is dead, one of his thirty sons will take it, no

doubt, unless the indelicate Ahdania Soulez gets to it

first. An ambitious one is the daughter of Kohrin Soulez! If

you came to ask me if he will part with it, then you already

know the answer. We should indeed speak of more interesting

things, such as the Basadoni Guild."

    Entreri's hard stare returned in a heartbeat.

    "Why would old Soulez sell it now?" Sha'lazzi asked with

a dramatic wave of his skinny arms-arms that looked so

incongruous when lifted beside that huge head. "What is

this, my friend, the third time you have tried to purchase

that fine sword? Yes, yes! First, when you were a pup with a

few hundred gold pieces-a gift of Basadoni, eh?-in your

ragged pouch."

    Entreri winced at that despite himself, despite his

knowledge that Sha'lazzi, for all of his other faults, was

the best in Calimport at reading gestures and expressions

and deriving the truth behind them. Still, the memory,

combined with more recent events, evoked the response from

his heart. Pasha Basadoni had indeed given him the extra

coin that long-ago day, an offering to his most promising

lieutenant for no good reason but simply as a gift. When he

thought about it, Entreri realized that Basadoni was perhaps

the only man who had ever given him a gift without expecting

something in return.

    And Entreri had killed Basadoni, only a few months ago.

    "Yes, yes," Sha'lazzi said, more to himself than to

Entreri, "then you asked about the sword again soon after

Pasha Pook's demise. Ah, but he fell hard, that one!"

    Entreri just stared at the man. Sha'lazzi, apparently

just then beginning to catch on that he might be pushing the

dangerous assassin too far, cleared his throat, embarrassed.

    "Then I told you that it was impossible," Sha'lazzi

remarked. "Of course it is impossible."

    "I have more coin now," Entreri said quietly.

    "There is not enough coin in all of the world!"

Sha'lazzi wailed.

    Entreri didn't blink. "Do you know how much coin is in

all the world, Sha'lazzi?" he asked calmly-too calmly. "Do

you know how much coin is in the coffers of House Basadoni?"

    "House Entreri, you mean," the man corrected.

    Entreri didn't deny it, and Sha'lazzi's eyes widened.

There it was, as clearly spelled out as the informant could

ever have expected to hear it. Rumors had said that old

Basadoni was dead, and that Sharlotta Vespers and the other

acting guildmasters were no more than puppets for the one

who clearly pulled the strings: Artemis Entreri.

    "Charon's Claw," Sha'lazzi mused, a smile widening upon

his face. "So, the power behind the throne is Entreri, and

the power behind Entreri is ... well, a mage, I would guess,

since you so badly want that particular sword. A mage, yes,

and one who is getting a bit dangerous, eh?"

    "Keep guessing," said Entreri.

    "And perhaps I will get it correct?"

    "If you do, I will have to kill you," the assassin said,

still in that awful, calm tone. "Speak with Sheik Soulez.

Find his price."

    "He has no price," Sha'lazzi insisted.

    Entreri came forward quicker than any cat after a mouse.

One hand slapped down on Sha'lazzi's shoulder, the other

caught hold of that deadly jeweled dagger, and Entreri's

face came within an inch of Sha'lazzi's.

    "That would be most unfortunate," Entreri said. "For

you."

    The assassin pushed the informant back in his seat, then

stood up straight and glanced around as if some inner hunger

had just awakened within him and he was now seeking some

prey with which to sate it. He looked back at Sha'lazzi only

briefly, then walked out from under the awning, back into

the tumult of the market area.

    As he calmed down and considered the meeting, Entreri

silently berated himself. His frustration was beginning to

wear at the edges of perfection. He could not have been more

obvious about the roots of his problem than to so eagerly

ask about purchasing Charon's Claw. Above all else, that

weapon and gauntlet combination had been designed to battle

wizards.

    And psionicists, perhaps?

    For those were Entreri's tormentors, Rai-guy and

Kimmuriel-Jarlaxle's Bregan D'aerthe lieutenants-one a

wizard and one a psionicist. Entreri hated them both, and

profoundly, but more importantly he knew that they hated

him. To make things worse Entreri understood that his only

armor against the dangerous pair was Jarlaxle himself. While

to his surprise he had cautiously come to trust the

mercenary dark elf, he doubted Jarlaxle's protection would

hold forever.

    Accidents did happen, after all.

    Entreri needed protection, but he had to go about things

with his customary patience and intelligence, twisting the

trail beyond anyone's ability to follow, fighting the way he

had perfected so many years before on Calimport's tough

streets, using many subtle layers of information and

misinformation and blending the two together so completely

that neither his friends nor his foes could ever truly

unravel them. When only he knew the truth, then he, and only

he, would be in control.

    In that sobering light, he took the less than perfect

meeting with perceptive Sha'lazzi as a distinct warning, a

reminder that he could survive his time with the dark elves

only if he kept an absolute level of personal control.

Indeed, Sha'lazzi had come close to figuring out his current

plight, had gotten half of it, at least, correct. The pie-

faced man would obviously offer that information to any

who'd pay well enough for it. On Calimport's streets these

days many were scrambling to figure out the enigma of the

sudden and vicious rise of the Basadoni Guild.

    Sha'lazzi had figured out half of it, and so all the

usual suspects would be considered: a powerful arch-mage or

various wizards' guilds.

    Despite his dour mood, Entreri chuckled when he pictured

Sha'lazzi's expression should the man ever learn the other

half of that secret behind Basadoni's throne, that the dark

elves had come to Calimport in force!

    Of course, his threat to the man had not been an idle

one. Should Sha'lazzi ever make such a connection, Entreri,

or any one of a thousand of Jarlaxle's agents, would surely

kill him.

                         * * * * *

    Sha'lazzi Ozoule sat at the little round table for a

long, long time, replaying Entreri's every word and every

gesture. He knew that his assumption concerning a wizard

holding the true power behind the Basadoni rise was correct,

but that was not really news. Given the expediency of the

rise, and the level of devastation that had been enacted

upon rival houses, common sense dictated that a wizard, or

more likely many wizards, were involved.

    What caught Sha'lazzi as a revelation, though, was

Entreri's visceral reaction.

    Artemis Entreri, the master of control, the shadow of

death itself, had never before shown him such an inner

turmoil-even fear, perhaps?-as that. When before had Artemis

Entreri ever touched someone in threat? No, he had always

looked at him with that awful gaze, let him know in no

uncertain terms that he was walking the path to ultimate

doom. If the offender persisted, there was no further

threat, no grabbing or beating.

    There was only quick death.

    The uncharacteristic reaction surely intrigued

Sha'lazzi. How he wanted to know what had so rattled Artemis

Entreri as to facilitate such behavior-but at the same time,

the assassin's demeanor also served as a clear and

frightening warning. Sha'lazzi knew well that anything that

could so unnerve Artemis Entreri could easily, so easily,

destroy Sha'lazzi Ozoule.

    It was an interesting situation, and one that scared

Sha'lazzi profoundly.

                         Part 1

                   STICKING TO THE WEB

    I live in a world where there truly exists the

embodiment of evil. I speak not of wicked men, nor of

goblins-often of evil weal-nor even of my own people, the

dark elves, wickeder still than the goblins. These are

creatures-all of them-capable of great cruelty, but they are

not, even in the very worst of cases, the true embodiment of

evil. No, that title belongs to others, to the demons and

devils often summoned by priests and mages. These creatures

of the lower planes are the purest of evil, untainted

vileness running unchecked. They are without possibility of

redemption, without hope of accomplishing anything in their

unfortunately nearly eternal existence that even borders on

goodness.

    I have wondered if these creatures could exist without

the darkness that lies within the hearts of the reasoning

races. Are they a source of evil, as are many wicked men or

drow, or are they the result, a physical manifestation of

the rot that permeates the hearts of far too many?

    The latter, I believe. It is not coincidental that

demons and devils cannot walk the material plane of

existence without being brought here by the actions of one

of the reasoning beings. They are no more than a tool, I

know, an instrument to carry out the wicked deeds in service

to the truer source of that evil.

    What then of Crenshinibon? It is an item, an artifact-

albeit a sentient one-but it does not exist in the same

state of intelligence as does a reasoning being. For the

Crystal Shard cannot grow, cannot change, cannot mend its

ways. The only errors it can learn to correct are those of

errant attempts at manipulation, as it seeks to better grab

at the hearts of those around it. It cannot even consider,

or reconsider, the end it desperately tries to achieve-no,

its purpose is forever singular.

    Is it truly evil, then?

    No.

    I would have thought differently not too long ago, even

when I carried the dangerous artifact and came better to

understand it. Only recently, upon reading a long and

detailed message sent to me from High Priest Cadderly

Bonaduce of the Spirit Soaring, have I come to see the truth

of the Crystal Shard, have I come to understand that the

item itself is an anomaly, a mistake, and that its never-

ending hunger for power and glory, at whatever cost, is

merely a perversion of the intent of its second maker, the

eighth spirit that found its way into the very essence of

the artifact.

    The Crystal Shard was created originally by seven

liches, so Cadderly has learned, who designed to fashion an

item of the very greatest power. As a further insult to the

races these undead kings intended to conquer, they made the

artifact a draw against the sun itself, the giver of life.

The liches were consumed at the completion of their joining

magic. Despite what some sages believe, Cadderly insists

that the conscious aspects of those vile creatures were not

drawn into the power of the item, but were, rather,

obliterated by its sunlike properties. Thus, their intended

insult turned against them and left them as no more than

ashes and absorbed pieces of their shattered spirits.

    That much of the earliest history of the Crystal Shard

is known by many, including the demons that so desperately

crave the item. The second story, though, the one Cadderly

uncovered, tells a more complicated tale, and shows the

truth of Crenshinibon, the ultimate failure of the artifact

as a perversion of goodly intentions.

    Crenshinibon first came to the material world centuries

ago in the far-off land of Zakhara. At the time, it was

merely a wizard's tool, though a great and powerful one, an

artifact that could throw fireballs and create great blazing

walls of light so intense they could burn flesh from bone.

Little was known of Crenshinibon's dark past until it fell

to the hands of a sultan. This great leader, whose name has

been lost to the ages, learned the truth of the Crystal

Shard, and with the help of his many court wizards, decided

that the work of the liches was incomplete. Thus came the

"second creation" of Crenshinibon, the heightening of its

power and its limited consciousness.

    This sultan had no dreams of domination, only of

peaceful existence with his many warlike neighbors. Thus,

using the newest power of the artifact, he envisioned, then

created, a line of crystalline towers. The towers stretched

from his capital across the empty desert to his kingdom's

second city, an oft-raided frontier city, in intervals

equating to a single day's travel. He strung as many as a

hundred of the crystalline towers, and nearly completed the

mighty defensive line.

    But alas, the sultan overreached the powers of

Crenshinibon, and though he believed that the creation of

each tower strengthened the artifact, he was, in fact,

pulling the Crystal Shard and its manifestations too thin.

Soon after, a great sandstorm came up, sweeping across the

desert. It was a natural disaster that served as a prelude

to an invasion by a neighboring sheikdom. So thin were the

walls of those crystalline towers that they shattered under

the force of the glass, taking with them the sultan's dream

of security.

    The hordes overran the kingdom and murdered the sultan's

family while he helplessly looked on. Their merciless sheik

would not kill the sultan, though-he wanted the painful

memories to burn at the man-but Crenshinibon took the

sultan, took a piece of his spirit, at least.

    Little more of those early days is known, even to

Cadderly, who counts demigods among his sources, but the

young high priest of Deneir is convinced that this "second

creation" of Crenshinibon is the one that remains key to the

present hunger of the artifact. If only Crenshinibon could

have held its highest level of power. If only the

crystalline towers had remained strong. The hordes would

have been turned away, and the sultan's family, his dear

wife and beautiful children, would not have been murdered.

    Now the artifact, imbued with the twisted aspects of

seven dead liches and with the wounded and tormented spirit

of the sultan, continues its desperate quest to attain and

maintain its greatest level of power, whatever the cost.

    There are many implications to the story. Cadderly

hinted in his note to me, though he drew no definitive

conclusions, that the creation of the crystalline towers

actually served as the catalyst for the invasion, with the

leaders of the neighboring sheikdom fearful that their

borderlands would soon be overrun. Is the Crystal Shard,

then, a great lesson to us? Does it show clearly the folly

of overblown ambition, even though that particular ambition

was rooted in good intentions? The sultan wanted strength

for the defense of his peaceable kingdom, and yet he reached

for too much power.

    That was what consumed him, his family, and his kingdom.

    What of Jarlaxle, then, who now holds the Crystal Shard?

Should I go after him and try to take back the artifact,

then deliver it to Cadderly for destruction? Surely the

world would be a better place without this mighty and

dangerous artifact.

    Then again, there will always be another tool for those

of evil weal, another embodiment of their evil, be it a

demon, a devil, or a monstrous creation similar to

Crenshinibon.

    No, the embodiments are not the problem, for they cannot

exist and prosper without the evil that is within the hearts

of reasoning beings.

    Beware, Jarlaxle. Beware.

                                            -Drizzt Do'Urden

                        Chapter 1

                  WHEN HE LOOKED INSIDE

    Dwahvel Tiggerwillies tiptoed into the small, dimly lit

room in the back of the lower end of her establishment, the

Copper Ante. Dwahvel, that most competent of halfling

females-good with her wiles, good with her daggers, and

better with her wits-wasn't used to walking so gingerly in

this place, though it was as secure a house as could be

found in all of Calimport. This was Artemis Entreri, after

all, and no place in all the world could truly be considered

safe when the deadly assassin was about.

    He was pacing when she entered, taking no obvious note

of her arrival at all. Dwahvel looked at him curiously. She

knew that Entreri had been on edge lately and was one of the

very few outside of House Basadoni who knew the truth behind

that edge. The dark elves had come and infiltrated

Calimport's streets, and Entreri was serving as a front man

for their operations. If Dwahvel held any preconceived

notions of how terrible the drow truly could be, one look at

Entreri surely confirmed those suspicions. He had never been

a nervous one-Dwahvel wasn't sure that he was now-and had

never been a man Dwahvel would have expected to find at odds

with himself.

    Even more curious, Entreri had invited her into his

confidence. It just wasn't his way. Still, Dwahvel suspected

no trap. This was, she knew, exactly as it seemed, as

surprising as that might be. Entreri was speaking to himself

as much as to her, as a way of clarifying his thoughts, and

for some reason that Dwahvel didn't yet understand, he was

letting her listen in.

    She considered herself complimented in the highest way

and also realized the potential danger that came along with

that compliment. That unsettling thought in mind, the

halfling guildmistress quietly settled into a chair and

listened carefully, looking for clues and insights. Her

first, and most surprising, came when she happened to glance

at a chair set against the back wall of the room. Resting on

it was a half-empty bottle of Moonshae whiskey.

    "I see them at every corner on every street in the belly

of this cursed city," Entreri was saying. "Braggarts wearing

their scars and weapons like badges of honor, men and women

so concerned about reputation that they have lost sight of

what it is they truly wish to accomplish. They play for the

status and the accolades, and with no better purpose."

    His speech was not overly slurred, yet it was obvious to

Dwahvel that Entreri had indeed tasted some of the whiskey.

    "Since when does Artemis Entreri bother himself with the

likes of street thieves?" Dwahvel asked.

    Entreri stopped pacing and glanced at her, his face

passive. "I see them and mark them carefully, because I am

well aware that my own reputation precedes me. Because of

that reputation, many on the street would love to sink a

dagger into my heart," the assassin replied and began to

pace again. "How great a reputation that killer might then

find. They know that I am older now, and they think me

slower-and in truth, their reasoning is sound. I cannot move

as quickly as I did a decade ago."

    Dwahvel's eyes narrowed at the surprising admission.

    "But as the body ages and movements dull, the mind grows

sharper," Entreri went on. "I, too, am concerned with

reputation, but not as I used to be. It was my goal in life

to be the absolute best at that which I do, at out-fighting

and out-thinking my enemies. I desired to become the perfect

warrior, and it took a dark elf whom I despise to show me

the error of my ways. My unintended journey to

Menzoberranzan as a 'guest' of Jarlaxle humbled me in my

fanatical striving to be the best and showed me the futility

of a world full of that who I most wanted to become. In

Menzoberranzan, I saw reflections of myself at every turn,

warriors who had become so callous to all around them, so

enwrapped in the goal, that they could not begin to

appreciate the process of attaining it."

    "They are drow," Dwahvel said. "We cannot understand

their true motivations."

    "Their city is a beautiful place, my little friend,"

Entreri replied, "with power beyond anything you can

imagine. Yet, for all for that, Menzoberranzan is a hollow

and empty place, bereft of passion unless that passion is

hate. I came back from that city of twenty thousand

assassins changed indeed, questioning the very foundations

of my existence. What is the point of it, after all?"

    Dwahvel interlocked the fingers of her plump little

hands and brought them up to her lips, studying the man

intently. Was Entreri announcing his retirement? she

wondered. Was he denying the life he had known, the glories

to which he had climbed? She blew a quiet sigh, shook her

head, and said, "We all answer that question for ourselves,

don't we? The point is gold or respect or property or power

..."

    "Indeed," he said coldly. "I walk now with a better

understanding of who I am and what challenges before me are

truly important. I know not yet where I hope to go, what

challenges are left before me, but I do understand now that

the important thing is to enjoy the process of getting

there.

    "Do I care that my reputation remains strong?" Entreri

asked suddenly, even as Dwahvel started to ask him if he had

any idea at all of where his road might lead- important

information, given the power of the Basadoni Guild. "Do I

wish to continue to be upheld as the pinnacle of success

among assassins within Calimport?

    "Yes, to both, but not for the same reasons that those

fools swagger about the street corners, not for the same

reasons that many of them will make a try for me, only to

wind up dead in the gutter. No, I care about reputation

because it allows me to be so much more effective in that

which I choose to do. I care for celebrity, but only because

in that mantle my foes fear me more, fear me beyond rational

thinking and beyond the bounds of proper caution. They are

afraid, even as they come after me, but instead of a healthy

respect, their fear is almost paralyzing, making them

continuously second-guess their own every move. I can use

that fear against them. With a simple bluff or feint, I can

make the doubt lead them into a completely erroneous

position. Because I can feign vulnerability and use

perceived advantages against the careless, on those

occasions when I am truly vulnerable the cautious will not

aggressively strike."

    He paused and nodded, and Dwahvel saw that his thoughts

were indeed sorting out. "An enviable position, to be sure,"

she offered.

    "Let the fools come after me, one after another, an

endless line of eager assassins," Entreri said, and he

nodded again. "With each kill, I grow wiser, and with added

wisdom, I grow stronger."

    He slapped his hat, that curious small-brimmed black

bolero, against his thigh, spun it up his arm with a flick

of his wrist so that it rolled right over his shoulder to

settle on his head, complementing the fine haircut he had

just received. Only then did Dwahvel notice that the man had

trimmed his thick goatee as well, leaving only a fine

mustache and a small patch of hair below his lower lip,

running down to his chin and going to both sides like an

inverted T.

    Entreri looked at the halfling, gave a sly wink, and

strode from the room.

    What did it all mean? Dwahvel wondered. Surely she was

glad to see that the man had cleaned up his look, for she

had recognized his uncharacteristic slovenliness as a sure

signal that he was losing control, and worse, losing his

heart.

    She sat there for a long time, bouncing her clasped

hands absently against her puckered lower lip, wondering why

she had been invited to such a spectacle, wondering why

Artemis Entreri had felt the need to open up to her, to

anyone-even to himself. The man had found some epiphany,

Dwahvel realized, and she suddenly realized that she had,

too.

    Artemis Entreri was her friend.

                        Chapter 2

                  LIFE IN THE DARK LANE

    Faster! Faster, I say!" Jarlaxle howled. His arm flashed

repeatedly, and a seemingly endless stream of daggers spewed

forth at the dodging and rolling assassin.

    Entreri worked his jeweled dagger and his sword-a drow-

fashioned blade that he was not particularly enamored of-

furiously, with in and out vertical rolls to catch the

missiles and flip them aside. All the while he kept his feet

moving, skittering about, looking for an opening in

Jarlaxle's superb defensive posture-a stance made all the

more powerful by the constant stream of spinning daggers.

    "An opening!" the drow mercenary cried, letting fly one,

two, three more daggers.

    Entreri sent his sword back the other way but knew that

his opponent's assessment was correct. He dived into a roll

instead, tucking his head and his arms in tight to cover any

vital areas.

    "Oh, well done!" Jarlaxle congratulated as Entreri came

to his feet after taking only a single hit, and that a

dagger sticking into the trailing fold of his cloak instead

of his skin.

    Entreri felt the dagger swing in against the back of his

leg as he stood up. Fearing that it might trip him, he

tossed his own dagger into the air, then quickly pulled the

cloak from his shoulders, and in the same fluid movement,

started to toss it aside.

    An idea came to him, though, and he didn't discard the

cloak but rather caught his deadly dagger and set it between

his teeth. He stalked a semicircle about the drow, waving

his cloak, a drow piwafwi, slowly about as a shield against

the missiles.

    Jarlaxle smiled at him. "Improvisation," he said with

obvious admiration. 'The mark of a true warrior." Even as he

finished, though, the drow's arm starting moving yet again.

A quartet of daggers soared at the assassin.

    Entreri bobbed and spun a complete circuit, but tossed

his cloak as he did and caught it as he came back around.

One dagger skidded across the floor, another passed over

Entreri's head, narrowly missing, and the other two got

caught in the fabric, along with the previous one.

    Entreri continued to wave the cloak, but it wasn't

flowing wide anymore, weighted as it was by the three

daggers. "Not so good a shield, perhaps," Jarlaxle

commented. "You talk better than you fight," Entreri

countered. "A bad combination."

    "I talk because I so enjoy the fight, my quick friend,"

Jarlaxle replied.

    His arm went back again, but Entreri was already moving.

The human held his arm out wide to keep the cloak from

tripping him, and dived into a roll right toward the

mercenary, closing the gap between them in the blink of an

eye.

    Jarlaxle did let fly one dagger. It skipped off

Entreri's back, but the drow mercenary caught the next one

sliding out of his magical bracer into his hand and snapped

his wrist, speaking a command word. The dagger responded at

once, elongating into a sword. As Entreri came over, his

sword predictably angled up to gut Jarlaxle, the drow had

the parry in place.

    Entreri stayed low and skittered forward instead,

swinging his cloak in a roundabout manner to wrap it behind

Jarlaxle's legs. The mercenary quick-stepped and almost got

out of the way, but one of the daggers hooked his boot and

he fell over backward. Jarlaxle was as agile as any drow,

but so too was Entreri. The human came up over the drow,

sword thrusting.

    Jarlaxle parried fast, his blade slapping against

Entreri's. To the drow's surprise, the assassin's sword went

flying away. Jarlaxle understood soon enough, though, for

Entreri's now free hand came forward, clasping Jarlaxle's

forearm and holding the drow's weapon out wide.

    And there loomed the assassin's other hand, holding

again that deadly jeweled dagger.

    Entreri had the opening and had the strike, and Jarlaxle

couldn't block it or begin to move away from it. A wave of

such despair, an overwhelming barrage of complete and utter

hopelessness, washed over Entreri. He felt as if someone had

just entered his brain and began scattering all of his

thoughts, starting and stopping all of his reflexes. In the

inevitable pause, Jarlaxle brought his other arm forward,

launching a dagger that smacked Entreri in the gut and

bounced away.

    The barrage of discordant, paralyzing emotions continued

to blast away in Entreri's mind, and he stumbled back. He

hardly felt the motion and was somewhat confused a moment

later, as the fuzziness began to clear, to find that he was

on the other side of the small room sitting against the wall

and facing a smiling Jarlaxle.

    Entreri closed his eyes and at last forced the confusing

jumble of thoughts completely away. He assumed that Rai-guy,

the drow wizard who had imbued both Entreri and Jarlaxle

with stoneskin spells that they could spar with all of their

hearts without fear of injuring each other, had intervened.

When he glanced that way, he saw that the wizard was nowhere

to be seen. He turned back to Jarlaxle, guessing then that

the mercenary had used yet another in his seemingly endless

bag of tricks. Perhaps he had used his newest magical

acquisition, the powerful Crenshinibon, to overwhelm

Entreri's concentration.

    "Perhaps you are slowing down, my friend," Jarlaxle

remarked. "What a pity that would be. It is good that you

defeated your avowed enemy when you did, for Drizzt Do'Urden

has many centuries of youthful speed left in him."

    Entreri scoffed at the words, though in truth, the

thought gnawed at him. He had lived his entire life on the

very edge of perfection and preparedness. Even now, in the

middle years of his life, he was confident that he could

defeat almost any foe-with pure skill or by out-thinking any

enemy, by properly preparing any battlefield-but Entreri

didn't want to slow down. He didn't want to lose that edge

of fighting brilliance that had so marked his life.

    He wanted to deny Jarlaxle's words, but he could not,

for he knew in his heart that he had truly lost that fight

with Drizzt, that if Kimmuriel Oblodra had not intervened

with his psionic powers, then Drizzt would have been

declared the victor.

    "You did not outmatch me with speed," the assassin

started to argue, shaking his head.

    Jarlaxle came forward, his glowing eyes narrowing

dangerously-a threatening expression, a look of rage, that

the assassin rarely saw upon the handsome face of the

always-in-control dark elf mercenary leader.

    "I have this!" Jarlaxle announced, pulling wide his

cloak and showing Entreri the tip of the artifact,

Crenshinibon, the Crystal Shard, tucked neatly into one

pocket. "Never forget that. Without it, I could likely still

defeat you, though you are good, my friend-better than any

human I have ever known. But with this in my possession . .

. you are but a mere mortal. Joined in Crenshinibon, I can

destroy you with but a thought. Never forget that."

    Entreri lowered his gaze, digesting the words and the

tone, sharpening that image of the uncharacteristic

expression on Jarlaxle's always smiling face. Joined in

Crenshinibon? . . . but a mere mortal? What in the Nine

Hells did that mean? Never forget that, Jarlaxle had said,

and indeed, this was a lesson that Artemis Entreri would not

soon dismiss.

    When he looked back up again, Entreri saw Jarlaxle

wearing his typical expression, that sly, slightly amused

look that conferred to all who saw it that this cunning drow

knew more than he did, knew more than he possibly could.

    Seeing Jarlaxle relaxed again also reminded Entreri of

the novelty of these sparring events. The mercenary leader

would not spar with any other. Rai-guy was stunned when

Jarlaxle had told him that he meant to battle Entreri on a

regular basis.

    Entreri understood the logic behind that thinking.

Jarlaxle survived, in part, by remaining mysterious, even to

those around him. No one could ever really get a good look

at the mercenary leader. He kept allies and opponents alike

off-balance and wondering, always wondering, and yet, here

he was, revealing so much to Artemis Entreri.

    "Those daggers," Entreri said, coming back at ease and

putting on his own sly expression. "They were merely

illusions."

    "In your mind, perhaps," the dark elf replied in his

typically cryptic manner.

    "They were," the assassin pressed. "You could not

possibly carry so many, nor could any magic create them that

quickly."

    "As you say," Jarlaxle replied. "Though you heard the

clang as your own weapons connected with them and felt the

weight as they punctured your cloak."

    "I thought I heard the clang," Entreri corrected,

wondering if he had at last found a chink in the mercenary's

never-ending guessing game.

    "Is that not the same thing?" Jarlaxle replied with a

laugh, but it seemed to Entreri as if there was a darker

side to that chuckle.

    Entreri lifted that cloak, to see several of the

daggers- solid metal daggers-still sticking in its fabric

folds, and to find several more holes in the cloth. "Some

were illusions, then," he argued unconvincingly.

    Jarlaxle merely shrugged, never willing to give anything

away.

    With an exasperated sigh, Entreri started out of the

room.

    "Do keep ever present in your thoughts, my friend, that

an illusion can kill you if you believe in it," Jarlaxle

called after him.

    Entreri paused and glanced back, his expression grim. He

wasn't used to being so openly warned or threatened, but he

knew that with this one particular companion, the threats

were never, ever idle.

    "And the real thing can kill you whether you believe in

it or not," Entreri replied, and he turned back for the

door.

    The assassin departed with a shake of his head,

frustrated and yet intrigued. That was always the way with

Jarlaxle, Entreri mused, and what surprised him even more

was that he found that aspect of the clever drow mercenary

particularly compelling.

                         * * * * *

    That is the one, Kimmuriel Oblodra signaled to his two

companions, Rai-guy and Berg'inyon Baenre, the most recent

addition to the surface army of Bregan D'aerthe.

    The favored son of the most powerful house in

Menzoberranzan, Berg'inyon had grown up with all the drow

world open before him-to the level that a drow male in

Menzoberranzan could achieve, at least-but his mother, the

powerful Matron Baenre, had led a disastrous assault on a

dwarven kingdom, ending in her death and throwing all the

great drow city into utter chaos. In that time of ultimate

confusion and apprehension, Berg'inyon had thrown his hand

in with Jarlaxle and the ever elusive mercenary band of

Bregan D'aerthe. Among the finest of fighters in all the

city, and with familial connections to still-mighty House

Baenre, Berg'inyon was welcomed openly and quickly promoted,

elevated to the status of high lieutenant. Thus, he was not

here now serving Rai-guy and Kimmuriel, but as their peer,

taken out on a sort of training mission.

    He considered the human Kimmuriel had targeted, a

shapely woman posing in the dress of a common street whore.

    You have read her thoughts'? Rai-guy signaled back, his

fingers weaving an intricate pattern, perfectly

complementing the various expressions and contortions of his

handsome and angular drow features.

    Raker spy, Kimmuriel silently assured his companion. The

coordinator of their group. All pass her by, reporting their

finds.

    Berg'inyon shifted nervously from foot to foot,

uncomfortable around the revelations of the strange and

strangely powerful Kimmuriel. He hoped that Kimmuriel wasn't

reading his thoughts at that moment, for he was wondering

how Jarlaxle could ever feel safe with this one about.

Kimmuriel could walk into someone's mind, it seemed, as

easily as Berg'inyon could walk through an open doorway. He

chuckled then but disguised it as a cough, when he

considered that clever Jarlaxle likely had that doorway

somehow trapped. Berg'inyon decided that he'd have to learn

the technique, if there was one, to keep Kimmuriel at bay.

    Do we know where the others might be? Berg'inyon's hands

silently asked.

    Would the show be complete if we did not? came Rat-guy's

responding gestures. The wizard smiled widely, and soon all

three of the dark elves wore sly, hungry expressions.

    Kimmuriel closed his eyes and steadied himself with

long, slow breaths.

    Rai-guy took the cue, pulling an eyelash encased in a

bit of gum arabic out of one of his several belt pouches. He

turned to Berg'inyon and began waggling his fingers. The

drow warrior flinched reflexively-as most sane people would

do when a drow wizard began casting in their direction.

    The first spell went off, and Berg'inyon, rendered

invisible, faded from view. Rai-guy went right back to work,

now aiming a spell designed mentally to grab at the target,

to hold the spy fast.

    The woman flinched and seemed to hold for a second, but

shook out of it and glanced around nervously, now obviously

on her guard.

    Rai-guy growled and went at the spell again. Invisible

Berg'inyon stared at him with an almost mocking smile- yes,

there were advantages to being invisible! Rai-guy

continually demeaned humans, called them every drow name for

offal and carrion. On the one hand, he was obviously

surprised that this one had resisted the hold spell-no easy

mental task-but on the other, Berg'inyon noted, the blustery

wizard had prepared more than one of the spells. One,

without any resistance, should have been enough.

    This time, the woman took one step, and held fast in her

walking pose.

    Go! Kimmuriel's fingers waved. Even as he gestured, the

powers of his mind opened the doorway between the three drow

and the woman. Suddenly she was there, though she was still

on the street, but only a couple of strides away. Berg'inyon

leaped out and grabbed the woman, tugging her hard into the

extra-dimensional space, and Kimmuriel shut the door.

    It had happened so fast that to any watching on the

street, it would have seemed as if the woman had simply

disappeared.

    The psionicist raised his delicate black hand up to the

victim's forehead, melding with her mentally. He could feel

the horror in there, for though her physical body had been

locked in Rai-guy's stasis, her mind was working and she

knew indeed that she now stood before dark elves.

    Kimmuriel took just a moment to bask in that terror,

thoroughly enjoying the spectacle. Then he imparted psionic

energies to her. He built around her an armor of absorbing

kinetic energy, using a technique he had perfected in

Entreri's battle with Drizzt Do'Urden.

    When it was done, he nodded.

    Berg'inyon became visible again almost immediately, as

his fine drow sword slashed across the woman's throat, the

offensive strike dispelling the defensive magic of Rai-guy's

invisibility spell. The drow warrior went into a fast dance,

slashing and thrusting with both of his fine swords,

stabbing hard, even chopping once with both blades, a heavy

drop down onto the woman's head.

    But no blood spewed forth, no groans of pain came from

the woman, for Kimmuriel's armor accepted each blow,

catching and holding the tremendous energy offered by the

drow warrior's brutal dance.

    It went on and on for several minutes, until Rai-guy

warned that the spell of holding was nearing its end.

Berg'inyon backed away, and Kimmuriel closed his eyes again

as Rai-guy began yet another casting.

    Both onlookers, Kimmuriel and Berg'inyon, smiled

wickedly as Rai-guy produced a tiny ball of bat guano that

held a sulfuric aroma and shoved it, along with his finger

into the woman's mouth, releasing his spell. A flash of

fiery light appeared in the back of the woman's mouth,

disappearing as it slid down her throat.

    The sidewalk was there again, very close, as Kimmuriel

opened a second dimension portal to the same spot on the

street, and Rai-guy roughly shoved the woman back out.

    Kimmuriel shut the door, and they watched, amused.

    The hold spell released first, and the woman staggered.

She tried to call out, but coughed roughly from the burn in

her throat. A strange expression came over her, one of

absolute horror.

    She feels the energy contained in the kinetic barrier,

Kimmuriel explained. I hold it no longer-only her own will

prevents its release.

    How long? a concerned Rai-guy asked, but Kimmuriel only

smiled and motioned for them to watch and enjoy.

    The woman broke into a run. The three drow noted other

people moving about her, some closing cautiously- other

spies, likely-and others seeming merely curious. Still

others grew alarmed and tried to stay away from her.

    All the while, she tried to scream out, but just kept

hacking from the continuing burn in her throat. Her eyes

were wide, so horrifyingly and satisfyingly wide! She could

feel the tremendous energies within her, begging release,

and she had no idea how she might accomplish that.

    She couldn't hold the kinetic barrier, and her initial

realization of the problem transformed from horror into

confusion. All of Berg'inyon's terrible beating came out

then, so suddenly. All of the slashes and the stabs, the

great chop and the twisting heart thrust, burst over the

helpless woman. To those watching, it seemed almost as if

she simply fell apart, gallons of blood erupting about her

face, head, and chest.

    She went down almost immediately, but before anyone

could even begin to react, could run away or charge to her

aid, Rai-guy's last spell, a delayed fireball, went off,

immolating the already dead woman and many of those around

her.

    Outside the blast, wide-eyed stares came at the charred

corpse from comrade and ignorant onlooker alike, expressions

of the sheerest terror that surely pleased the three

merciless dark elves.

    A fine display. Worthy indeed.

    For Berg'inyon, the spectacle served a second purpose, a

clear reminder to him to take care around these fellow

lieutenants himself. Even taking into consideration the high

drow standards for torture and murder, these two were

particularly adept, true masters of the craft.

                        Chapter 3

                   A HUMBLING ENCOUNTER

    He had his old room back. He even had his name back. The

memories of the authorities in Luskan were not as long as

they claimed.

    The previous year, Morik the Rogue had been accused of

attempting to murder the honorable Captain Deudermont of the

good ship Sea Sprite, a famous pirate hunter. Since in

Luskan accusation and conviction were pretty much the same

thing, Morik had faced the prospect of a horrible death in

the public spectacle of Prisoner's Carnival. He had actually

been in the process of realizing that ultimate torture when

Captain Deudermont, horrified by the gruesome scene, had

offered a pardon.

    Pardoned or not, Morik had been forever banned from

Luskan on pain of death. He had returned anyway, of course,

the following year. At first he'd taken on an assumed

identity, but gradually he had regained his old trappings,

his true mannerisms, his connections on the streets, his

apartment, and, finally, his name and the reputation it

carried. The authorities knew it too, but having plenty of

other thugs to torture to death, they didn't seem to care.

    Morik could look back on that awful day at Prisoner's

Carnival with a sense of humor now. He thought it perfectly

ironic that he had been tortured for a crime that he hadn't

even committed when there were so many crimes of which he

could be rightly convicted.

    It was all a memory now, the memory of a whirlwind of

intrigue and danger by the name of Wulfgar. He was Morik the

Rogue once more, and all was as it had once been ... almost.

    For now there was another element, an intriguing and

also terrifying element, that had come into Morik's life. He

walked up to the door of his room cautiously, glancing all

about the narrow hallway, studying the shadows. When he was

confident that he was alone, he walked up tight to the door,

shielding it from any magically prying eyes, and began the

process of undoing nearly a dozen deadly traps, top to

bottom along both sides of the jamb. That done, he took out

a ring of keys and undid the locks-one, two, three-then he

clicked open the door. He disarmed yet another trap-this one

explosive-then entered, closing and securing the door and

resetting all the traps. The complete process took him more

than ten minutes, yet he performed this ritual every time he

came home. The dark elves had come into Morik's life,

unannounced and uninvited. While they had promised him the

treasure of a king if he performed their tasks, they had

also promised him and had shown him the flip side of that

golden coin as well.

    Morik checked the small pedestal at the side of the door

next. He nodded, satisfied to see that the orb was still in

place in the wide vase. The vessel was coated with contact

poison and maintained a sensitive pressure release trap. He

had paid dearly for that particular orb- an enormous amount

of gold that would take him a year of hard thievery to

retrieve-but in Morik's fearful eyes, the item was well

worth the price. It was enchanted with a powerful anti-magic

dweomer that would prevent dimensional doors from opening in

his room, that would prevent wizards from strolling in on

the other side of a teleportation spell.

    Never again did Morik the Rogue wish to be awakened by a

dark elf standing at the side of his bed, looming over him.

    All of his locks were in place, his orb rested in its

protected vessel, and yet some subtle signal, an intangible

breeze, a tickling on the hairs at the back of his neck,

told Morik that something was out of place. He glanced all

around, from shadow to shadow, to the drapes that still hung

over the window he had long ago bricked up. He looked to his

bed, to the tightly tucked sheets, with no blankets hanging

below the edge. Bending just a bit, Morik saw right through

the bottom of the bed. There was no one hiding under there.

    The drapes, then, he thought, and he moved in that

general direction but took a circuitous route so that he

wouldn't force any action from the intruder. A sudden shift

and quick-step brought him there, dagger revealed, and he

pulled the drapes aside and struck hard, catching only air.

Morik laughed in relief and at his own paranoia. How

different his world had become since the arrival of the dark

elves. Always now he was on the edge of his nerves. He had

seen the drow a total of only five times, including their

initial encounter way back when Wulfgar was new to the city

and they, for some reason that Morik still did not

completely understand, wanted him to keep an eye on the huge

barbarian.

    He was always on his edge, always wary, but he reminded

himself of the potential gains his alliance with the drow

would bring. Part of the reason that he was Morik the Rogue

again, from what he had been able to deduce, had to do with

a visit to a particular authority by one of Jarlaxle's

henchmen.

    He gave a sigh of relief and let the drapes swing back,

then froze in surprise and fear as a hand clamped over his

mouth and the fine edge of a dagger came tight against his

throat.

    "You have the jewels?" a voice whispered in his ear, a

voice showing incredible strength and calm despite its quiet

tone. The hand slipped off of his mouth and up to his

forehead, forcing his head back just enough to remind him of

how vulnerable and open his throat was.

    Morik didn't answer, his mind racing through many

possibilities-the least likely of which seeming to be his

potential escape, for that hand holding him revealed

frightening strength and the hand holding the dagger at his

throat was too, too steady. Whoever his attacker might be,

Morik understood immediately that he was overmatched.

    "I ask one more time; then I end my frustration," came

the whisper.

    "You are not drow," Morik replied, as much to buy some

time as to ensure that this man-and he knew that it was a

man and certainly no dark elf-would not act rashly.

    "Perhaps I am, though under the guise of a wizard's

spell," the assailant replied. "But that could not be-or

could it?-since no magic will work in this room." As he

finished, he roughly pushed Morik away, then grabbed his

shoulder to spin the frightened rogue around as he fell

back.

    Morik didn't recognize the man, though he still

understood that he was in imminent danger. He glanced down

at his own dagger, and it seemed a pitiful thing indeed

against the magnificent, jewel-handled blade his opponent

carried-almost a reflection of the relative strengths of

their wielders, Morik recognized with a wince.

    Morik the Rogue was as good a thief as roamed the

streets of Luskan, a city full of thieves. His reputation,

though bloated by bluff, had been well-earned across the

bowels of the city. This man before him, older than Morik by

a decade, perhaps, and standing so calm and so balanced . .

.

    This man had gotten into his apartment and had remained

there unobserved despite Morik's attempted scrutiny. Morik

noted then that the bed sheets were rumpled-but hadn't he

just looked at them, to see them perfectly smooth?

    "You are not drow," Morik dared to say again.

    "Not all of Jarlaxle's agents are dark elves, are they,

Morik the Rogue?" the man replied.

    Morik nodded and slipped his dagger into its sheath at

his belt, a move designed to alleviate the tension,

something that Morik desperately wanted to do.

    "The jewels?" the man asked.

    Morik could not hide the panic from his face.

    "You should have purchased them from Telsburgher," the

man remarked. "The way was clear and the assignment was not

difficult."

    "The way would have been clear," Morik corrected, "but

for a minor magistrate who holds old grudges."

    The intruder continued to stare, showing neither

intrigue nor anger, telling Morik nothing at all about

whether or not he was even interested in any excuses.

    "Telsburgher is ready to sell them to me," Morik quickly

added, "at the agreed price. His hesitation is only a matter

of his fear that there will be retribution from Magistrate

Jharkheld. The evil man holds an old grudge. He knows that I

am back in town and wishes to drag me back to his Prisoner's

Carnival, but he cannot, by word of his superiors, I am

told. Thank Jarlaxle for me."

    "You thank Jarlaxle by performing as instructed," the

man replied, and Morik nervously shifted from foot to foot.

"He helps you to fill his purse, not to fill his heart with

good feelings."

    Morik nodded. "I fear to go after Jharkheld," he

explained. "How high might I strike without incurring the

wrath of the greater powers of Luskan, thus ultimately

wounding Jarlaxle's purse?"

    "Jharkheld is not a concern," the man answered with a

tone so assured that Morik found that he believed every

word. "Complete the transaction."

    "But..." Morik started to reply.

    "This night," came the answer, and the man turned away

and started for the door.

    His hands worked in amazing circles right before Morik's

eyes as trap after trap after lock fell open. It had taken

Morik several minutes to get through that door, and that

with an intricate knowledge of every trap-which he had set-

and with the keys for the three supposedly difficult locks,

and yet, within the span of two minutes, the door now swung

open wide.

    The man glanced back and tossed something to the floor

at Morik's feet.

    A wire.

    "The one on your bottom trap had stretched beyond

usefulness," the man explained. "I repaired it for you."

    He went out then and closed the door, and Morik heard

the clicks and sliding panels as all the locks and traps

were efficiently reset.

    Morik went to his bed cautiously and pulled the bed

sheets aside. A hole had been cut into his mattress,

perfectly sized to hold the intruder. Morik gave a helpless

laugh, his respect for Jarlaxle's band multiplying. He

didn't even have to go over to his trapped vase to know that

the orb now within it was a fake and that the real one had

just walked out his door.

    Entreri blinked as he walked out into the late afternoon

Luskan sun. He dropped a hand into his pocket, to feel the

enchanted device he had just taken from Morik. This small

orb had frustrated Rai-guy. It defeated his magic when he'd

tried to visit Morik himself, as it was likely doing now.

That thought alone pleased Entreri greatly. It had taken

Bregan D'aerthe nearly a ten day to discern the source of

Morik's sudden distance, how the man had made his room

inaccessible to the prying eyes of the wizards. Thus,

Entreri had been sent. He held no illusions that his trip

had to do with his thieving prowess, but rather, it was

simply because the dark elves weren't certain of how

resistant Morik might be and simply hadn't wished to risk

any of their brethren in the exploration. Certainly Jarlaxle

wouldn't have been pleased to learn that Rai-guy and

Kimmuriel had forced Entreri to go, but the pair knew that

Entreri wouldn't go to Jarlaxle with the information.

    So Entreri had played message boy for the two

formidable, hated dark elves.

    His instructions upon taking the orb and finishing his

business with Morik had been explicit and precise. He was to

place the orb aside and use the magical signal whistle Rai-

guy had given him to call to the dark elves in faraway

Calimport, but he wasn't in any hurry.

    He knew that he should have killed Morik, both for the

man's impertinence in trying to shield himself and for

failing to produce the required jewels. Rai-guy and

Kimmuriel would demand such punishment, of course. Now he'd

have to justify his actions, to protect Morik somewhat.

    He knew Luskan fairly well, having been through the city

several times, including an extended visit only a few days

before, when he, along with several other drow agents, had

learned the truth of Morik's magic-blocking device.

Wandering the streets, he soon heard the shouts and cheers

of the vicious Prisoner's Carnival. He entered the back of

the open square just as some poor fool was having his

intestines pulled out like a great length of rope. Entreri

hardly noticed the spectacle, concentrating instead on the

sharp-featured, diminutive, robed figure presiding over the

torture.

    The man screamed at the writhing victim, telling him to

surrender his associates, there and then, before it was too

late. "Secure a chance for a more pleasant afterlife!" the

magistrate screeched, his voice as sharp as his angry,

angular features. "Now! Before you die!"

    The man only wailed. It seemed to Entreri as if he was

far beyond any point of even comprehending the magistrate's

words.

    He died soon enough and the show was over. The people

began filtering out of the square, most nodding their heads

and smiling, speaking excitedly of Jharkheld's fine show

this day.

    That was all Entreri needed to hear.

    He moved shadow to shadow, following the magistrate down

the short walk from the back of the square to the tower that

housed the quarters of the officials of Prisoner's Carnival

as well as the dungeons holding those who would soon face

the public tortures.

    He mused at his own good fortune in carrying Morik's

orb, for it gave him some measure of protection from any

wizard hired to further secure the tower. That left only

sentries and mechanical traps in his way.

    Artemis Entreri feared neither.

    He went into the tower as the sun disappeared in the

west.

                         * * * * *

    "They have too many allies," Rai-guy insisted.

    "They would be gone without a trace," Jarlaxle replied

with a wide smile. "Simply gone."

    Rai-guy groaned and shook his head, and Kimmuriel,

across the room and sitting comfortably in a plush chair,

one leg thrown over the cushioning arm, looked up at the

ceiling and rolled his eyes.

    "You continue to doubt me?" Jarlaxle asked, his tone

light and innocent, not threatening. "Consider all that we

have already accomplished here in Calimport and across the

surface. We have agents in several major cities, including

Waterdeep."

    "We are exploring agents in other cities," Rai-guy

corrected. "We have but one currently working, the little

rogue in Luskan." He paused and glanced over at his

psionicist counterpart and smiled. "Perhaps."

    Kimmuriel chuckled as he considered their second agent

now working in Luskan, the one Jarlaxle did not know had

left Calimport.

    The others are preliminary," Rai-guy went on. "Some are

promising, others not so, but none are worthy of the title

of agent at this time."

    "Soon, then," said Jarlaxle, coming forward in his own

comfortable chair. "Soon! They will become profitable

partners or we will find others-not so difficult a thing to

do among the greedy humans. The situation here in

Calimport... look around you. Can you doubt our wisdom in

coming here? The gems and jewels are flowing fast, a direct

line to a drow population eager to expand their possessions

beyond the limited wealth of Menzoberranzan."

    "Fortunate are we if the houses of Ched Nasad determine

that we are undercutting their economy," Rai-guy, who hailed

from that other drow city, remarked sarcastically.

    Jarlaxle scoffed at the notion.

    "I cannot deny the profitability of Calimport," the

wizard lieutenant went on, "yet when we first planned our

journey to the surface, we all agreed that it would show

immediate and strong returns. As we all agreed it would

likely be a short tenure, and that, after the initial

profits, we would do well to reconsider our position and

perhaps retreat to our own land, leaving only the best of

the trading connections and agents in place."

    "So we should reconsider, and so I have," said Jarlaxle.

"It seems obvious to me that we underestimated the potential

of our surface operations. Expand! Expand, I say."

    Again came the disheartened expressions. Kimmuriel was

still staring at the ceiling, as if in abject denial of what

Jarlaxle was proposing.

    "The Rakers desire that we limit our trade to this one

section," Jarlaxle reminded, "yet many of the craftsmen of

the more exotic goods-merchandise that would likely prove

most attractive in Menzoberranzan-are outside of that

region."

    "Then we cut a deal with the Rakers, let them in on the

take for this new and profitable market to which they have

no access," said Rai-guy, a perfectly reasonable suggestion

in light of the history of Bregan D'aerthe, a mercenary and

opportunistic band that always tried to use the words

"mutually beneficial" as their business credo.

    "They are pimples," Jarlaxle replied, extending his

thumb and index finger in the air before him and pressing

them together as if he was squeezing away an unwanted

blemish. "They will simply disappear."

    "Not as easy a task as you seem to believe," came a

feminine voice from the doorway, and the three glanced over

to see Sharlotta Vespers gliding into the room, dressed in a

long gown slit high enough to reveal one very shapely leg.

"The Rakers pride themselves on spreading their

organizational lines far and wide. You could destroy all of

their houses and all of their known agents, even all of the

people dealing with all of their agents, and still leave

many witnesses."

    "Who would do what?" Jarlaxle asked, but he was still

smiling, even patting his chair for Sharlotta to go over and

sit with him, which she did, curling about him familiarly.

The sight of it made Rai-guy glance again at Kimmuriel. Both

knew that Jarlaxle was bedding the human woman, the most

powerful remnant-along with Entreri- of the old Basadoni

Guild, and neither of them liked the idea. Sharlotta was a

sly one, as humans go, almost sly enough to be accepted

among the society of drow. She had even mastered the

language of the drow and was now working on the intricate

hand signals of the dark elven silent code. Rai-guy found

her perfectly repulsive, and Kimmuriel, though seeing her as

exotic, did not like the idea of having her whispering

dangerous suggestions into Jarlaxle's ear.

    In this particular matter, though, it seemed to both of

them that Sharlotta was on their side, so they didn't try to

interrupt her as they usually did.

    "Witnesses who would tell every remaining guild,"

Sharlotta explained, "and who would inform the greater

powers of Calimshan. The destruction of the Rakers Guild

would imply that a truly great power had secretly come to

Calimport."

    "One has," Jarlaxle said with a grin.

    "One whose greatest strength lies in remaining secret,"

Sharlotta replied.

    Jarlaxle pushed her from his lap, right off the chair,

so that she had to move quickly to get her shapely legs

under her in time to prevent falling unceremoniously on her

rump.

    The mercenary leader then rose as well, pushing right

past Sharlotta as if her opinion mattered not at all, and

moving closer to his more important lieutenants. "I once

envisioned Bregan D'aerthe's role on the surface as that of

importer and exporter," he explained. "This we have easily

achieved. Now I see the truth of the human dominated

societies, and that is a truth of weakness. We can go

further- we must go further."

    "Conquest?" Rai-guy asked sourly, sarcastically.

    "Not as Baenre attempted with Mithral Hall," Jarlaxle

eagerly explained. "More a matter of absorption." Again came

that wicked smile. "For those who will play."

    "And those who will not simply disappear?" Rai-guy

asked, but his sarcasm seemed lost on Jarlaxle, who only

smiled all the wider.

    "Did you not execute a Raker spy only the other day?"

Jarlaxle asked.

    "There is a profound difference in defending our privacy

and trying to expand our borders," the wizard replied.

    "Semantics," Jarlaxle said with a laugh. "Simply

semantics."

    Behind him, Sharlotta Vespers bit her lip and shook her

head, fearing that her newfound benefactors might be about

to make a tremendous and very dangerous blunder.

                         * * * * *

    From an alley not so far away, Entreri listened to the

shouts and confusion coming from the tower. When he had

entered, he'd gone downstairs first, to find a particularly

unpleasant prisoner to free. Once he had ushered the man to

relative safety, to the open tunnels at the back of the

dungeons, he had gone upstairs to the first floor, then up

again, moving quietly and deliberately along the shadowy,

torch-lit corridors.

    Finding Jharkheld's room proved easy enough.

    The door hadn't even been locked.

    Had he not just witnessed the magistrate's work at

Prisoner's Carnival, Artemis Entreri might have reasoned

with him concerning Morik. Now the way was clear for Morik

to complete his task and proffer the jewels.

    Entreri wondered if the escaped prisoner, the obvious

murderer of poor Jharkheld, had been found in the maze of

tunnels yet. What misery the man would face. A wry grin

found its way onto Entreri's face, for he hardly felt any

guilt about using the wretch for his own gain. The idiot

should have known better, after all. Why would someone come

in unannounced and at obvious great personal risk to save

him? Why hadn't he even questioned Entreri while the

assassin was releasing him from the shackles? Why, if he was

smart enough to deserve his life, hadn't he tried to capture

Entreri in his place, to put this unasked-for and unknown

savior up in the shackles in his stead, to face the

executioner? So many prisoners came through these dungeons

that the gaolers likely wouldn't even have been aware of the

change.

    So, his fate was the thug's own to accept, and in

Entreri's thinking, of his own doing. Of course, the thug

would claim that someone else had helped him to escape, had

set it all up to make it look like it was his doing.

Prisoner's Carnival hardly cared for such excuses. Nor did

Artemis Entreri.

    He dismissed all thoughts of those problems, glanced

around to ensure that he was alone, and placed the magic

dispelling orb along the side of the alley. He walked across

the way and blew his whistle. He wondered then how this

might work. Magic would be needed, after all, to get him

back to Calimport, but how might that work if he had to take

the orb along? Wouldn't the orb's dweomer simply dispel the

attempted teleportation?

    A blue screen of light appeared beside him. It was a

magical doorway, he knew, and not one of Rai-guy's, but

rather the doing of Kimmuriel Oblodra. So that was it, he

mused. Perhaps the orb wouldn't work against psionics.

    Or perhaps it would, and that thought unsettled the

normally unshakable Entreri profoundly as he moved to

collect the item. What would happen if the orb somehow did

affect Kimmuriel's dimension warp? Might he wind up in the

wrong place-even in another plane of existence, perhaps?

    Entreri shook that thought away as well. Life was risky

when dealing with drow, magical orbs or not. He took care to

pocket the orb slyly, so that any prying eyes would have a

difficult time making out the movement in the dark alley,

then strode quickly up to the portal, and with a single deep

breath, stepped through.

    He came out dizzy, fighting hard to hold his balance, in

the guild hall's private sorcery chambers back in Calimport,

hundreds and hundreds of miles away.

    There stood Kimmuriel and Rai-guy, staring at him hard.

    "The jewels?" Rai-guy asked in the drow language, which

Entreri understood, though not well.

    "Soon," the assassin replied in his shaky command of

Deep Drow. "There was a problem,"

    Both dark elves lifted their white eyebrows in surprise.

    "Was," Entreri emphasized. "Morik will have the jewels

presently."

    "Then Morik lives," Kimmuriel remarked pointedly. "What

of his attempts to hide from us?"

    "More the attempts of local magistrates to seal him off

from any outside influences," Entreri lied. "One local

magistrate," he quickly corrected, seeing their faces sour.

"The issue has been remedied."

    Neither drow seemed pleased, but neither openly

complained.

    "And this local magistrate had magically sealed off

Morik's room from outside, prying eyes?" Rai-guy asked.

    "And all other magic," Entreri answered. "It has been

corrected."

    "With the orb?" Kimmuriel added.

    "Morik proffered the orb," Rai-guy remarked, narrowing

his eyes.

    "He apparently did not know what he was buying," Entreri

said calmly, not getting alarmed, for he recognized that his

ploys had worked.

    Rai-guy and Kimmuriel would hold their suspicions that

it had been Morik's work, and not that of any minor

official, of course. They would suspect that Entreri had

bent the truth to suit his own needs, but the assassin knew

that he hadn't given them anything overt enough for them to

act upon-at least, not without raising the ire of Jarlaxle.

    Again, the realization that his security was almost

wholly based on the mercenary leader did not sit well with

Entreri. He didn't like being dependent, equating the word

with weakness.

    He had to turn the situation around.

    "You have the orb," Rai-guy remarked, holding out his

slender, deceivingly delicate hand.

    "Better for me than for you," the assassin dared to

reply, and that declaration set the two dark elves back on

their heels.

    Even as he finished speaking, though, Entreri felt the

tingling in his pocket. He dropped a hand to the orb, and

his sensitive fingers felt a subtle vibration coming from

deep within the enchanted item. Entreri's gaze focused on

Kimmuriel. The drow was standing with his eyes closed, deep

in concentration.

    Then he understood. The orb's enchantment would do

nothing against any of Kimmuriel's formidable mind powers,

and Entreri had seen this psionic trick before. Kimmuriel

was reaching into the latent energy within the orb and was

exciting that energy to explosive levels.

    Entreri toyed with the idea of waiting until the last

moment then throwing the orb into Kimmuriel's face. How he

would enjoy the sight of that wretched drow caught in one of

his own tricks!

    With a wave of his hand, Kimmuriel opened a dimensional

portal, from the room to the nearly deserted dusty street

outside. It was a portal large enough for the orb, but that

would not allow Entreri to step through.

    Entreri felt the energy building, building ... the

vibrations were not so subtle any longer. Still he held

back, staring at Kimmuriel-just staring and waiting, letting

the drow know that he was not afraid.

    In truth this was no contest of wills. Entreri had a

mounting explosion in his pocket, and Kimmuriel was far

enough away so that he would feel little effect from it

other than the splattering of Entreri's blood. Again the

assassin considered throwing the orb into Kimmuriel's face,

but again he realized the futility of such a course.

    Kimmuriel would simply stop exciting the latent energy

within the orb, would shut off the explosion as completely

as dipping a torch into water snuffed out its flame. Entreri

would have given Rai-guy and Kimmuriel all the justification

they needed to utterly destroy him. Jarlaxle might be angry,

but he couldn't and wouldn't deny them their right to defend

themselves.

    Artemis Entreri wasn't ready for such a fight.

    Not yet.

    He tossed the orb out through the open door and watched,

a split second later, as it exploded into dust.

    The magical door went away.

    "You play dangerous games," Rai-guy remarked.

    "Your drow friend is the one who brought on the

explosion," Entreri casually replied.

    "I speak not of that," the wizard retorted. "There is a

common saying among your people that it is foolhardy to send

a child to do a man's work. We have a similar saying, that

it is foolhardy to send a human to do a drow's work."

    Entreri stared at him hard, having no response. This

whole situation was starting to feel like those days when he

had been trapped down in Menzoberranzan, when he had known

that, in a city of twenty thousand dark elves, no matter how

good he got, no matter how perfect his craft, he would never

be considered any higher in society's rankings than twenty

thousand and one.

    Rai-guy and Kimmuriel tossed out a few phrases between

themselves, insults mostly, some crude, some subtle, all

aimed at Entreri.

    He took them, every one, and said nothing, because he

could say nothing. He kept thinking of Dallabad Oasis and a

particular sword and gauntlet combination.

    He accepted their demeaning words, because he had to.

    For now.

                        Chapter 4

                MANY ROADS TO MANY PLACES

    Entreri stood in the shadows of the doorway, listening

with great curiosity to the soliloquy taking place in the

room. He could only make out small pieces of the oration.

The speaker, Jarlaxle, was talking quickly and excitedly in

the drow tongue. Entreri, in addition to his limited Deep

Drow vocabulary, couldn't hear every word from this

distance.

    "They will not stay ahead of us, because we move too

quickly," the mercenary leader remarked. Entreri heard and

was able to translate every word of that line, for it seemed

as if Jarlaxle was cheering someone on. "Yes, street by

street they will fall. Who can stand against us joined?"

    "Us joined?" the assassin silently echoed, repeating the

drow word over and over to make sure that he was translating

it properly. Us? Jarlaxle could not be speaking of his

alliance with Entreri, or even with the remnants of the

Basadoni Guild. Compared to the strength of Bregan D'aerthe,

these were minor additions. Had Jarlaxle made some new deal,

then, without Entreri's knowledge? A deal with some pasha,

perhaps, or an even greater power?

    The assassin bent in closer, listening particularly for

any names of demons or devils-or of illithids, perhaps. He

shuddered at the thought of any of the three. Demons were

too unpredictable and too savage to serve any alliance. They

would do whatever served their specific needs at any

particular moment, without regard for the greater benefit to

the alliance. Devils were more predictable- were too

predictable. In their hierarchical view of the world, they

inevitably sat on top of the pile.

    Still, compared to the third notion that had come to

him, that of the illithids, Entreri was almost hoping to

hear Jarlaxle utter the name of a mighty demon. Entreri had

been forced to deal with illithids during his stay in

Menzoberranzan-the mind flayers were an unavoidable side of

life in the drow city-and he had no desire to ever, ever,

see one of the squishy-headed, wretched creatures again.

    He listened a bit longer, and Jarlaxle seemed to calm

down and to settle more comfortably into his seat. The

mercenary leader was still talking, just muttering to

himself about the impending downfall of the Rakers, when

Entreri strode into the room.

    "Alone?" the assassin asked innocently. "I thought I

heard voices."

    He noted with some relief that Jarlaxle wasn't wearing

his magical, protective eye patch this day, which made it

unlikely that the drow had just encountered, or soon planned

to encounter, any illithids. The eye patch protected against

mind magic, and none in all the world were more proficient

at such things as the dreaded mind flayers.

    "Sorting things out," Jarlaxle explained, and his ease

with the common tongue of the surface world seemed no less

fluent than that of his native language. "There is so much

afoot."

    "Danger, mostly," Entreri replied.

    "For some," said Jarlaxle with a chuckle.

    Entreri looked at him doubtfully.

    "Surely you do not believe that the Rakers can match our

power?" the mercenary leader asked incredulously.

    "Not in open battle," Entreri answered, "but that is how

it has been with them for many years. They cannot match

many, blade to blade, and yet they have ever found a way to

survive."

    "Because they are fortunate."

    "Because they are intricately tied to greater powers,"

Entreri corrected. "A man need not be physically powerful if

he is guarded by a giant."

    "Unless the giant has more tightly befriended a rival,"

Jarlaxle interjected. "And giants are known to be

unreliable."

    "You have arranged this with the greater lords of

Calimport?" Entreri asked, unconvinced. "With whom, and why

was I not involved in such a negotiation?"

    Jarlaxle shrugged, offering not a clue.

    "Impossible," Entreri decided. "Even if you threatened

one or more of them, the Rakers are too long-standing, too

entrenched in the power web of all Calimshan, for such

treachery against them to prosper. They have allies to

protect them against other allies. There is no way that even

Jarlaxle and Bregan D'aerthe could have cleared the

opposition to such a sudden and destabilizing shift in the

power structure of the region as the decimation of the

Rakers."

    "Perhaps I have allied with the most powerful being ever

to come to Calimport," Jarlaxle said dramatically, and

typically, cryptically.

    Entreri narrowed his dark eyes and stared at the

outrageous drow, looking for clues, any clues, as to what

this uncharacteristic behavior might herald. Jarlaxle was

often cryptic, always mysterious, and ever ready to grab at

an opportunity that would bring him greater power or

profits, and yet, something seemed out of place here. To

Entreri's thinking, the impending assault on the Rakers was

a blunder, which was something the legendary Jarlaxle never

did. It seemed obvious, then, that the cunning drow had

indeed made some powerful connection or ally, or was

possessed of some deeper understanding of the situation.

This Entreri doubted since he, not Jarlaxle, was the best

connected person on Calimport's streets.

    Even given one of those possibilities, though, something

just didn't seem quite right to Entreri. Jarlaxle was cocky

and arrogant-of course he was!-but never before had he

seemed this self-assured, especially in a situation as

potentially explosive as this.

    The situation seemed only more explosive if Entreri

looked beyond the inevitability of the downfall of the

Rakers. He knew well the murderous power of the dark elves

and held no doubt that Bregan D'aerthe would slaughter the

competing guild, but there were so many implications to that

victory-too many, certainly, for Jarlaxle to be so

comfortable.

    "Has your role in this been determined?" Jarlaxle asked.

    "No role," Entreri answered, and his tone left no doubt

that he was pleased by that fact. "Rai-guy and Kimmuriel

have all but cast me aside."

    Jarlaxle laughed aloud, for the truth behind that

statement-that Entreri had been willingly cast aside- was

all too obvious.

    Entreri stared at him and didn't crack a smile. Jarlaxle

had to know the dangers he had just walked into, a

potentially catastrophic situation that could send him and

Bregan D'aerthe fleeing back to the dark hole of

Menzoberranzan. Perhaps that was it, the assassin mused.

Perhaps Jarlaxle longed for home and was slyly facilitating

the move. The mere thought of that made Entreri wince.

Better that Jarlaxle kill him outright than drag him back

there.

    Perhaps Entreri would be set up as an agent, as was

Morik in Luskan. No, the assassin decided, that would not

suffice. Calimport was more dangerous than Luskan, and if

the power of Bregan D'aerthe was forced away, he would not

take such a risk. Too many powerful enemies would be left

behind.

    "It will begin soon, if it has not already," Jarlaxle

remarked. "Thus, it will be over soon."

    Sooner than you believe, Entreri thought, but he kept

silent. He was a man who survived through careful

calculation, by weighing scrupulously the consequences of

every step and every word. He knew Jarlaxle to be a kindred

spirit, but he could not reconcile that with the action that

was being undertaken this very night, which, in searching it

from any angle, seemed a tremendous and unnecessary gamble.

    What did Jarlaxle know that he did not?

                         * * * * *

    No one ever looked more out of place anywhere than did

Sharlotta Vespers as she descended the rung ladder into one

of Calimport's sewers. She was wearing her trademark long

gown, her hair neatly coiffed as always, her exotic face

painted delicately to emphasize her brown, almond-shaped

eyes. Still, she was quite at home there, and anyone who

knew her would not have been surprised to find her there.

    Especially if they considered her warlord escorts.

    "What word from above?" Rai-guy asked her, speaking

quickly and in the drow tongue. The wizard, despite his

misgivings about Sharlotta, was impressed by how quickly she

had absorbed the language.

    "There is tension," Sharlotta replied. "The doors of

many guilds are locked fast this night. Even the Copper Ante

is accepting no patrons-an unprecedented event. The streets

know that something is afoot."

    Rai-guy flashed a sour look at Kimmuriel. The two had

just agreed that their plans depended mostly on stealth and

surprise, that all of the elements of the Basadoni Guild and

Bregan D'aerthe would have to reach their objectives nearly

simultaneously to ensure that few witnesses remained.

    How much this seemed like Menzoberranzan! In the drow

city, one house going after another-a not-uncommon event-

would measure success not only by the result of the actual

fighting, but by the lack of credible witnesses left to

produce evidence of the treachery. Even if every drow in the

great city knew without doubt which house had precipitated

the battle, no action would ever be taken unless the

evidence demanding it was overwhelming.

    But this was not Menzoberranzan, Rai-guy reminded

himself. Up here, suspicion would invite investigation. In

the drow city, suspicion without undeniable evidence only

invited quiet praise.

    "Our warriors are in place," Kimmuriel remarked. "The

drow are beneath the guild houses, with force enough to

batter through, and the Basadoni soldiers have surrounded

the main three buildings. It will be swift, for they cannot

anticipate the attack from below."

    Rai-guy kept his gaze upon Sharlotta as his associate

detailed the situation, and he did not miss a slight arch of

one of her eyebrows. Had Bregan D'aerthe been betrayed? Were

the Rakers setting up defenses against the assault from

below?

    "The agents have been isolated?" the drow wizard pressed

to Sharlotta, referring to the first round of the invasion:

the fight with-or rather, the assassinations of- Raker spies

in the streets.

    "The agents are not to be found," Sharlotta replied

matter-of-factly, a surprising tone given the enormity of

the implications.

    Again Rai-guy glanced at Kimmuriel.

    "All is in place," the psionicist reminded.

    "Keego's swarm cramps the tunnels," Rai-guy replied, his

words an archaic drow proverb referring to a long-ago battle

in which an overwhelming swarm of goblins led by the crafty,

rebellious slave, Keego, had been utterly destroyed by a

small and sparsely populated city of dark elves. The drow

had gone out from their homes to catch the larger force in

the tight tunnels beyond the relatively open drow city.

Simply translated, given the current situation, Rai-guy's

words followed up Kimmuriel's remark. All was in place to

fight the wrong battle.

    Sharlotta looked at the wizard curiously, and he

understood her confusion, for the soldiers of Bregan

D'aerthe waiting in the tunnels beneath the Rakers' houses

hardly constituted a "swarm."

    Of course, Rai-guy hardly cared whether Sharlotta

understood or not.

    "Have we traced the course of the missing agents?" Rai-

guy asked Sharlotta. "Do we know where they have fled?"

    "Back to the houses, likely," the woman replied. "Few

are on the streets this night."

    Again, the less-than-subtle hint that too much had been

revealed. Had Sharlotta herself betrayed them? Rai-guy

fought the urge to interrogate her on the spot, using drow

torture techniques that would quickly and efficiently break

down any human. If he did so, he knew, he would have to

answer to Jarlaxle, and Rai-guy was not ready for that

fight... yet.

    If he called it all off at that critical moment-if all

the fighters, Basadoni and dark elf, returned to the guild

house with their weapons unstained by Raker blood- Jarlaxle

would not be pleased. The drow was determined to see this

conquest through despite the protests of all of his

lieutenants.

    Rai-guy closed his eyes and logically sifted through the

situation, trying to find some safer common ground. There

was one Raker house far removed from the others, and likely

only lightly manned. While destroying it would do little to

weaken the structure and effectiveness of the opposition

guild, perhaps such a conquest would quiet Jarlaxle's

expected rampage.

    "Recall the Basadoni soldiers," the wizard ordered.

"Have their retreat be a visible one-instruct some to enter

the Copper Ante or other establishments."

    "The Copper Ante's doors are closed," Sharlotta reminded

him.

    "Then open them," Rai-guy instructed. "Tell Dwahvel

Tiggerwillies that there is no need for her and her

diminutive clan to cower this night. Let our soldiers be

seen about the streets-not as a unified fighting force, but

in smaller groups."

    "What of Bregan D'aerthe?" Kimmuriel asked with some

concern. Not as much concern, Rai-guy noted, as he would

have expected, given that he had just countermanded

Jarlaxle's explicit orders.

    "Reposition Berg'inyon and all of our magic-users to the

eighth position," Rai-guy replied, referring to the sewer

hold beneath the exposed Raker house.

    Kimmuriel arched his white eyebrows at that. They knew

the maximum resistance they could expect from that lone

outpost, and it hardly seemed as if Berg'inyon and more

magic-users would be needed to win out easily in that

locale.

    "It must be executed as completely and carefully as if

we were attacking House Baenre itself," Rai-guy demanded,

and Kimmuriel's eyebrows went even higher. "Redefine the

plans and reposition all necessary drow forces to execute

the attack."

    "We could summon our kobold slaves alone to finish this

task," Kimmuriel replied derisively.

    "No kobolds and no humans," Rai-guy explained,

emphasizing every word. "This is work for drow alone."

    Kimmuriel seemed to catch on to Rai-guy's thinking then,

for a wry smile showed on his face. He glanced at Sharlotta,

nodded back at Rai-guy, and closed his eyes. He used his

psionic energies to reach out to Berg'inyon and the other

Bregan D'aerthe field commanders.

    Rai-guy let his gaze settle fully on Sharlotta. To her

credit, her expression and posture did not reveal her

thoughts. Still, Rai-guy felt certain she was wondering if

he had come to suspect her or some other Raker informant.

    "You said that our power would prove overwhelming,"

Sharlotta remarked.

    "For today's battle, perhaps," Rai-guy replied. "The

wise thief does not steal the egg if his action will awaken

the dragon."

    Sharlotta continued to stare at him, continued to

wonder, he knew. He enjoyed the realization that this too-

clever human woman, guilty or not, was suddenly worried. She

turned for the ladder again and took a step up.

    "Where are you going?" Rai-guy asked.

    "To recall the Basadoni soldiers," she replied, as if

the explanation should have been obvious.

    Rai-guy shook his head and motioned for her to step

down. "Kimmuriel will relay the commands," he said.

    Sharlotta hesitated-Rai-guy enjoyed the moment of

confusion and concern-but she did step back down to the

tunnel floor.

                         * * * * *

    Berg'inyon could not believe the change in plans-what

was the point of this entire offensive if the bulk of the

Rakers' Guild escaped the onslaught? He had grown up in

    Menzoberranzan, and in that matriarchal society, males

learned how to take orders without question. So it was now

for Berg'inyon.

    He had been trained in the finest battle tactics of the

greatest house of Menzoberranzan and had at his disposal a

seemingly overwhelming force for the task at hand, the

destruction of a small, exposed Raker house-an outpost

sitting on unfriendly streets. Despite his trepidation at

the change in plans, his private questioning of the purpose

of this mission, Berg'inyon Baenre wore an eager smile.

    The scouts, the stealthiest of the stealthy drow,

returned. Only minutes before, they had been inserted into

the house above through wizard-made tunnels.

    Drow fingers flashed, the silent hand gesture code.

    While Berg'inyon's confidence mounted, so did his

confusion over why this target alone had been selected.

There were only a score of humans in the small house above,

and none of them seemed to be magic-users. According to the

drow scouts' assessment they were street thugs-men who

survived by keeping to favorable shadows.

    Under the keen eyes of a dark elf, there were no

favorable shadows.

    While Berg'inyon and his army had a strong idea of what

they would encounter in the house above them, the humans

could not understand the monumental doom that lay below

them.

    You have outlined to the group commanders all routes of

retreat? Berg'inyon's fingers and facial gestures asked. He

made it clear from the fact that he signaled retreat with

his left hand that he was referring to any possible avenues

their enemies might take to run away.

    The wizards are positioned accordingly, one scout

silently replied.

    The lead hunters have been given their courses, another

added.

    Berg'inyon nodded, flashed the signal for commencing the

operation, then moved to join his assault group. His would

be the last group to enter the building, but they were the

ones who would cut the fastest path to the very top.

    There were two wizards in Berg'inyon's group. One stood

with his eyes closed, ready to convey the signal. The other

positioned himself accordingly, his eyes and hands pointed

up at the ceiling, a pinch of seeds from the Under-dark

selussi fungus in one hand.

    It is time, came a magical whisper, one that seeped

through the walls and to the ears of all the drow.

    The magic-user eyeing the ceiling began his spell-

casting, weaving his hands as if tracing joining semicircles

with each, thumbs touching, little fingers touching, back

and forth, back and forth, chanting quietly all the while.

    He finished with a chant that sounded more like a hiss,

and reached his outstretched fingers to the ceiling.

    That part of the stone ceiling began to ripple, as if

the wizard had stabbed his fingers into clear water. The

wizard held the pose for many seconds. The rippling

increased until the stone became an indistinct blur.

    The stone above the wizard disappeared-was just gone. In

its place was an upward reaching corridor that cut through

several feet of stone to end at the ground floor of the

Raker house.

    One unfortunate Raker had been caught by surprise, his