                     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 
heels right over the edge of the suddenly appearing hole. 
His arms worked great circles as he tried to maintain his 
balance. The drow warriors shifted into position under the 
hole and leaped. Enacting their innate drow levitation 
abilities, they floated up, up.
    The first dark elf floating up beside the falling Raker 
grabbed him by the collar and yanked him backward, tumbling 
him into the hole. The human managed to land in a controlled 
manner, feet first, then buckling his legs and tumbling to 
the side to absorb the shock. He came up with equal grace, 
drawing a dagger.
    His face blanched when he saw the truth about him: dark 
elves-drow!-were floating up into his guild house. Another 
drow, handsome and strong, holding the finest-edged blade 
the Raker could ever have imagined, faced him.
    Maybe he tried to reason with the dark elf, offering his 
surrender, but while his mouth worked in a logical, hide-
saving manner, his body, paralyzed by stark terror, did not. 
He still held his knife out before him as he spoke, and 
since Berg'inyon did not understand well the language of the 
surface dwellers, he had no way of understanding the Raker's 
intent.
    Nor was the drow about to pause to figure it out. His 
fine sword stabbed forward and slashed down, taking the 
dagger and the hand that held it. A quick retraction re-
gathered his balance and power, and out went the sword 
again. Straight and sure, it tore through flesh and sliced 
rib, biting hard at the foolish man's heart.
    The man fell, quite dead, and still wearing that 
curious, stunned expression.
    Berg'inyon didn't pause long enough to wipe his blade. 
He crouched, sprang straight up, and levitated fast into the 
house. His encounter had delayed him no more than a span of 
a few heartbeats, and yet, the floor of the room and the 
corridor beyond the open door was already littered with 
human corpses.
    Berg'inyon's team exited the room soon after, before the 
wizard's initial passwall spell had even expired. Not a drow 
had been more than slightly injured and not a human remained 
alive. The Raker house held no treasure when they were done-
not even the few coins several of the guildsmen had secretly 
tucked under loose floorboards-and even the furniture was 
gone. Magical fires had consumed every foot of flooring and 
all of the partitioning walls. From the outside, the house 
seemed quiet and secure. Inside, it was no more than a 
charred and empty husk.
    Bregan D'aerthe had spoken.

                         * * * * *

    "I accept no accolades," Berg'inyon Baenre remarked when 
he met up with Rai-guy, Kimmuriel, and Sharlotta. It was a 
common drow saying, with clear implications that the 
vanquished opponent was not worthy enough for the victor to 
take any pride in having defeated him.
    Kimmuriel gave a wry smile. "The house was effectively 
purged," he said. "None escaped. You performed as was 
required. There is no glory in that, but there is 
acceptance."
    As he had done all day, Rai-guy continued his scrutiny 
of Sharlotta Vespers. Was the human woman even comprehending 
the sincerity of Kimmuriel's words, and if so, did that 
allow her any insight into the true power that had come to 
Calimport? For any guild to so completely annihilate one of 
another's houses was no small feat- unless the attacking 
guild happened to be comprised of drow warriors who 
understood the complexities of inter-house warfare better 
than any race in all the world. Did Sharlotta recognize 
this? And if she did, would she be foolish enough to try to 
use it to her advantage?
    Her expression now was mostly stone-faced, but with just 
a trace of intrigue, a hint to Rai-guy that the answer would 
be yes, to both questions. The drow wizard smiled at that, a 
confirmation that Sharlotta Vespers was walking onto very 
dangerous ground. Quiensin ful biezz coppon quangolth cree, 
a drow, went the old saying in Menzoberranzan, and elsewhere 
in the drow world. Doomed are those who believe they 
understand the designs of the drow.
    "What did Jarlaxle learn to change his course so?" 
Berg'inyon asked.
    "Jarlaxle has learned nothing of yet," Rai-guy replied. 
"He chose to remain behind. The operation was mine to wage."
    Berg'inyon started to redirect his question to Rai-guy 
then, but he stopped in midsentence and merely offered a bow 
to the appointed leader.
    "Perhaps later you will explain to me the source of your 
decision, that I will better understand our enemies," he 
said respectfully.
    Rai-guy gave a slight nod.
    There is the matter of explaining to Jarlaxle," 
Sharlotta remarked, in her surprising command of the drow 
tongue. "He will not accept your course with a mere bow."
    Rai-guy's gaze darted over at Berg'inyon as she 
finished, quickly enough to catch the moment of anger flash 
through his red-glowing eyes. Sharlotta's observations were 
correct, of course, but coming from a non-drow, an iblith-
which was also the drow word for excrement- they 
intrinsically cast an insulting reflection upon Berg'inyon, 
who had so accepted the offered explanation. It was a minor 
mistake, but a few more quips like that against the young 
Baenre, Rai-guy knew, and there would remain too little of 
Sharlotta Vespers for anyone ever to make a proper 
identification of the pieces.
    "We must tell Jarlaxle," the drow wizard put in, moving 
the conversation forward. "To us out here, the course change 
was obviously required, but he has secluded himself, too 
much so perhaps, to view things that way."
    Kimmuriel and Berg'inyon both looked at him curiously-
why would he speak so plainly in front of Sharlotta, after 
all?-but Rai-guy gave them a quick and quiet signal to 
follow along.
    "We could implicate Domo and the wererats," Kimmuriel 
put in, obviously catching on. "Though I fear that we will 
then have to waste our time in slaughtering them." He looked 
to Sharlotta. "Much of this will fall to you."
    "The Basadoni soldiers were the first to leave the 
fight," Rai-guy added. "And they will be the ones to return 
without blood on their blades." Now all three gazes fell 
upon Sharlotta.
    The woman held her outward calm quite well. "Domo and 
the wererats, then," she agreed, thinking things through, 
obviously, as she went. "We will implicate them without 
faulting them. Yes, that is the way. Perhaps they did not 
know of our plans and coincidentally hired on with Pasha 
Da'Daclan to guard the sewers. As we did not wish to reveal 
ourselves fully to the coward Domo, we held to the unguarded 
regions, mostly around the eighth position."
    The three drow exchanged looks, and nodded for her to 
continue.
    "Yes," Sharlotta went on, gathering momentum and 
confidence. "I can turn this into an advantage with Pasha 
Da'Daclan as well. He felt the press of impending doom, no 
doubt, and that fear will only heighten when word of the 
utterly destroyed outer house reaches him. Perhaps he will 
come to believe that Domo is much more powerful than any of 
us believed, and that he was in league with the Basadonis, 
and that only House Basadoni's former dealings with the 
Rakers cut short the assault."
    "But will that not implicate House Basadoni clearly in 
the one executed attack?" asked Kimmuriel, playing the role 
of Rai-guy's mouthpiece, drawing Sharlotta in even deeper. 
"Not that we played a role, but only that we allowed it to 
happen," Sharlotta reasoned. "A turn of our heads in 
response to their increased spying efforts against our 
guild. Yes, and if this is conveyed properly, it will only 
serve to make Domo seem even more powerful. If we make the 
Rakers believe that they were on the edge of complete 
disaster, they will behave more reasonably, and Jarlaxle 
will find his victory." She smiled as she finished, and the 
three dark elves returned the look.
    "Begin," Rai-guy offered, waving his hand toward the 
ladder leading out of their sewer quarters.
    Sharlotta smiled again, the ignorant fool, and left 
them.
    "Her deception against Pasha Da'Daclan will necessarily 
extend, to some level, to Jarlaxle," Kimmuriel remarked, 
clearly envisioning the web Sharlotta was foolishly weaving 
about herself.
    "You have come to fear that something is not right with 
Jarlaxle," Berg'inyon bluntly remarked, for it was obvious 
that these two would not normally act so independently of 
their leader.
    "His views have changed," Kimmuriel responded. "You did 
not wish to come to the surface," Berg'inyon said with a wry 
smile that seemed to question the motives of his companions' 
reasoning.
    "No, and glad will we be to see the heat of Narbondel 
again," Rai-guy agreed, speaking of the great glowing clock 
of Menzoberranzan, a pillar that revealed its measurements 
with heat to the dark elves, who viewed the Underdark world 
in the infrared spectrum of light. "You have not been up 
here long enough to appreciate the ridiculousness of this 
place. Your heart will call you home soon enough."
    "Already," Berg'inyon replied. "I have no taste for this 
world, nor do I like the sight or smell of any I have seen 
up here, Sharlotta Vespers least of all."
    "Her and the fool Entreri," said Rai-guy. "Yet Jarlaxle 
favors them both."
    "His tenure in Bregan D'aerthe may be nearing its end," 
said Kimmuriel, and both Berg'inyon and Rai-guy opened their 
eyes wide at such a bold proclamation.
    In truth, though, both were harboring the exact same 
sentiments. Jarlaxle had reached far in merely bringing them 
to the surface. Perhaps he'd reached too far for the rogue 
band to continue to hold much favor among their former 
associates, including most of the great houses back in 
Menzoberranzan. It was a gamble, and one that might indeed 
pay off, especially as the flow of exotic and desirable 
goods increased to the city.
    The plan, however, had been for a short stay, only long 
enough to establish a few agents to properly facilitate the 
flow of trade. Jarlaxle had stepped in more deeply then, 
conquering House Basadoni and renewing his ties with the 
dangerous Entreri. Then, seemingly for his own amusement, 
Jarlaxle had gone after the most hated rogue, Drizzt 
Do'Urden. After completing his business with the outcast and 
stealing the mighty artifact Crenshinibon, he had let Drizzt 
walk away, had even forced Rai-guy to use a Lolth-bestowed 
spell of healing to save the miserable renegade's life.
    And now this, a more overt grab for not profit but 
power, and in a place where none of Bregan D'aerthe other 
than Jarlaxle wished to remain.
    Jarlaxle had taken small steps along this course, but he 
had put a long and winding road behind him. He brought all 
of Bregan D'aerthe further and further from their continuing 
mission, from the allure that had brought most of the 
members, Rai-guy, Kimmuriel, and Berg'inyon among them, into 
the organization in the first place.
    "What of Sharlotta Vespers?" Kimmuriel asked.
    "Jarlaxle will eliminate that problem for us," Rai-guy 
replied.
    "Jarlaxle favors her," Berg'inyon reminded.
    "She just entered into a deception against him," Rai-guy 
replied with all confidence. "We know this, and she knows 
that we know, though she has not yet considered
    the potentially devastating implications. She will 
follow our commands from this point forward."
    The drow wizard smiled as he considered his own words. 
He always enjoyed seeing an iblith fall into the web of drow 
society, learning piece by piece that the sticky strands 
were layered many levels deep.
    "I know of your hunger, for I share in it," Jarlaxle 
remarked. "This is not as I had envisioned, but perhaps it 
was not yet time."
    Perhaps you place too much faith in your lieutenants, 
the voice in his head replied.
    "No, they saw something that we, in our hunger, did 
not," Jarlaxle reasoned. "They are troublesome, often 
annoying, and not to be trusted when their personal gain is 
at odds with their given mission, but that was not the case 
here. I must examine this more carefully. Perhaps there are 
better avenues toward our desired goal."
    The voice started to respond, but the drow mercenary cut 
short the dialogue, shutting it out.
    The abruptness of that dismissal reminded Crenshinibon 
that its respect for the dark elf was well-placed. This 
Jarlaxle was as strong of will and as difficult to beguile 
as any wielder the ancient sentient artifact had ever known, 
even counting the great demon lords who had often joined 
with Crenshinibon through the centuries.
    In truth, the only wielder the artifact had ever known 
who could so readily and completely shut out its call had 
been the immediate predecessor to Jarlaxle, another drow, 
Drizzt Do'Urden. That one's mental barrier had been 
constructed of morals. Crenshinibon would have been no 
better off in the hands of a goodly priest or a paladin, 
fools all and blind to the need to attain the greatest 
levels of power.
    All that only made Jarlaxle's continued resistance even 
more impressive, for the artifact understood that this one 
held no such conscience-based mores. There was no intrinsic 
understanding within Jarlaxle that Crenshinibon was some 
evil creation and thus to be avoided out of hand. No, to 
Crenshinibon's reasoning, Jarlaxle viewed everyone and 
everything he encountered as tools, as vehicles to carry him 
along his desired road.
    The artifact could build forks along that road, and 
perhaps even sharper turns as Jarlaxle wandered farther and 
farther from the path, but there would be no abrupt change 
in direction at this time.
    Crenshinibon, the Crystal Shard, did not even consider 
seeking a new wielder, as it had often done when confronting 
obstacles in the past. While it sensed resistance in 
Jarlaxle, that resistance did not implicate danger or even 
inactivity. To the sentient artifact, Jarlaxle was powerful 
and intriguing, and full of the promise of the greatest 
levels of power Crenshinibon had ever known.
    The fact that this drow was not a simple instrument of 
chaos and destruction, as were so many of the demon lords, 
or an easily duped human-perhaps the most redundant thought 
the artifact had ever considered-only made him more 
interesting.
    They had a long way to go together, Crenshinibon 
believed.
    The artifact would find its greatest level of power. The 
world would suffer greatly.
    
                        Chapter 5
                    THE FIRST THREADS
                   ON A GRAND TAPESTRY

    Others have tried, and some have even come close," said 
Dwahvel Tiggerwillies, the halfling entrepreneur and leader 
of the only real halfling guild in all the city, a 
collection of pickpockets and informants who regularly 
congregated at Dwahvel's Copper Ante. "Some have even 
supposedly gotten their hands on the cursed thing."
    "Cursed?" Entreri asked, resting back comfortably in his 
chair-a pose Artemis Entreri rarely assumed.
    So unusual was the posture, that it jogged Entreri's own 
thoughts about this place. It was no accident that this was 
the only room in all the city in which Artemis Entreri had 
ever partaken of liquor-and even that only in moderate 
amounts. He had been coming here often of late-ever since he 
had killed his former associate, the pitiful Dondon 
Tiggerwillies, in the room next door. Dwahvel was Dondon's 
cousin, and she knew of the murder but knew, too, that 
Entreri had, in some respects, done the wretch a favor. 
Whatever ill will Dwahvel harbored over that incident 
couldn't hold anyway, not when her pragmatism surfaced.
    Entreri knew that and knew that he was welcomed here by 
Dwahvel and all of her associates. Also, he knew that the 
Copper Ante was likely the most secure house in all of the 
city. No, its defenses were not formidable- Jarlaxle could 
flatten the place with a small fraction of the power he had 
brought to Calimport-but its safeguards against prying eyes 
were as fine as those of a wizards' guild. That was the 
area, as opposed to physical defenses, where Dwahvel 
utilized most of her resources. Also, the Copper Ante was 
known as a place to purchase information, so others had a 
reason to keep it secure. In many ways, Dwahvel and her 
comrades survived as Sha'lazzi Ozoule survived, by proving 
of use to all potential enemies.
    Entreri didn't like the comparison. Sha'lazzi was a 
street profiteer, loyal to no one other than Sha'lazzi. He 
was no more than a middleman, collecting information with 
his purse and not his wits, and auctioning it away to the 
highest bidder. He did no work other than that of salesman, 
and in that regard, the man was very good. He was not a 
contributor, just a leech, and Entreri suspected that 
Sha'lazzi would one day be found murdered in an alley, and 
that no one would care.
    Dwahvel Tiggerwillies might find a similar fate, Entreri 
realized, but if she did, her murderer would find many out 
to avenge her.
    Perhaps Artemis Entreri would be among them.
    "Cursed," Dwahvel decided after some consideration.
    "To those who feel its bite."
    "To those who feel it at all," Dwahvel insisted.
    Entreri shifted to the side and tilted his head, 
studying his surprising little friend.
    "Kohrin Soulez is trapped by his possession of it," 
Dwahvel explained. "He builds a fortress about himself 
because he knows the value of the sword."
    "He has many treasures," Entreri reasoned, but he knew 
that Dwahvel was right on this matter, at least as far as 
Kohrin Soulez was concerned.
    "That one treasure alone invites the ire of wizards," 
Dwahvel predictably responded, "and the ire of those who 
rely upon wizards for their security."
    Entreri nodded, not disagreeing, but neither was he 
persuaded by Dwahvel's arguments. Charon's Claw might indeed 
be a curse for Kohrin Soulez, but if that was so it was 
because Soulez had entrenched himself in a place where such 
a weapon would be seen as a constant lure and a constant 
threat. Once he got his hands on the powerful sword, Artemis 
Entreri had no intention of staying anywhere near to 
Calimport. Soulez's chains would be his escape.
    "The sword is an old artifact," Dwahvel remarked, 
drawing Entreri's attention more fully. "Everyone who has 
ever claimed it has died with it in his hands."
    She thought her warning dramatic, no doubt, but the 
words had little effect on Entreri. "Everyone dies, 
Dwahvel," the assassin replied without hesitation, his 
response fueled by the living hell that had come to him in 
Calimport. "It is how one lives that matters."
    Dwahvel looked at him curiously, and Entreri wondered if 
he had, perhaps, revealed too much, or tempted Dwahvel too 
much to go and learn even more about the reality of the 
power backing Entreri and the Basadoni Guild. If the cunning 
halfling ever learned too much of the truth, and Jarlaxle or 
his lieutenants learned of her knowledge, then none of her 
magical wards, none of her associates-even Artemis Entreri-
and none of her perceived usefulness would save her from 
Jarlaxle's merciless soldiers. The Copper Ante would be 
gutted, and Entreri would find himself without a place in 
which to relax.
    Dwahvel continued to stare at him, her expression a 
mixture of professional curiosity and personal-what was it?-
compassion?
    "What is it that so unhinges Artemis Entreri?" she 
started to ask, but even as the words came forth, so too 
came the assassin, his jeweled dagger flashing out of his 
belt as he leaped out of the chair and across the expanse, 
too quickly for Dwahvel's guards to even register the 
movement, too quickly for Dwahvel to even realize what was 
happening.
    He was simply there, hovering over her, her hairy head 
pulled back, his dagger just nicking her throat.
    But she felt it-how she felt the bite of that vicious, 
life-stealing dagger. Entreri had opened a tiny wound, yet 
through it Dwahvel could feel her very life-force being torn 
out of her body.
    "If such a question as that ever echoes outside of these 
walls," the assassin promised, his breath hot on her face, 
"you will regret that I did not finish this strike."
    He backed away then, and Dwahvel quickly threw up one 
hand, fingers flapping back and forth, the signal to her 
crossbowmen to hold their shots. With her other hand, she 
rubbed her neck, pinching at the tiny wound.
    "You are certain that Kohrin Soulez still has it?" 
Entreri asked, more to change the subject and put things 
back on a professional level than to gather any real 
information.
    "He had it, and he is still alive," the obviously shaken 
Dwahvel answered. "That seems proof enough."
    Entreri nodded and assumed his previous posture, though 
the relaxed position did not fit the dangerous light that 
now shone in his eyes.
    "You still wish to leave the city by secure routes?" 
Dwahvel asked.
    Entreri gave a slight nod.
    "We will need to utilize Domo and the were-" the 
halfling guildmaster started to say, but Entreri cut her 
short.
    "No."
    "He has the fastest-"
    "No."
    Dwahvel started to argue yet again. Fulfilling Entreri's 
request that she get him out of Calimport without anyone 
knowing it would prove no easy feat, even with Dome's help. 
Entreri was publicly and intricately tied to the Basadoni 
Guild, and that guild had drawn the watchful eyes of every 
power in Calimport. She stopped short, and this time Entreri 
hadn't interrupted her with a word but rather with a look, 
that all-too-dangerous look that Artemis Entreri had 
perfected decades before. It was the look that told his 
target that the time was fast approaching for final prayers.
    "It will take some more time, then," Dwahvel remarked. 
"Not long, I assure you. An hour perhaps."
    "No one is to know of this other than Dwahvel," Entreri 
instructed quietly, so that the crossbowmen in the shadows 
of the room's corners couldn't hear. "Not even your most 
trusted lieutenants."
    The halfling blew a long, resigned sigh. "Two hours, 
then," she said.
    Entreri watched her go. He knew that she couldn't 
possibly accede to his wishes to get him out of Calimport 
without anyone at all knowing of the journey-the streets 
were too well monitored-but it was a strong reminder to the 
halfling guildmaster that if anyone started talking about it 
too openly, Entreri would hold her personally responsible.
    The assassin chuckled at the thought, for he couldn't 
imagine himself killing Dwahvel. He liked and respected the 
halfling, both for her courage and her skills.
    He did need this departure to remain secret, though. If 
some of the others, particularly Rai-guy or Kimmuriel, found 
out that he had gone out, they would investigate and soon, 
no doubt, discern his destination. He didn't want the two 
dangerous drow studying Kohrin Soulez.
    Dwahvel returned soon after, well within the two hours 
she had pessimistically predicted, and handed Entreri a 
rough map of this section of the city, with a route sketched 
on it.
    "There will be someone waiting for you at the end of 
Crescent Avenue," she explained. "Right before the bakery."
    "Detailing the second stretch your halflings have 
determined to be clear for travel," the assassin reasoned.
    Dwahvel nodded. "My kin and other associates."
    "And, of course, they will watch the movements as each 
map is collected," Entreri indicated.
    Dwahvel shrugged. "You are a master of disguises, are 
you not?"
    Entreri didn't answer. He set out immediately, exiting 
the Copper Ante and turning down a dark ally, emerging on 
the other side looking as though he had gained fifty pounds 
and walking with a pronounced limp.
    He was out of Calimport within the hour, running along 
the northwestern road. By dawn, he was on a dune, looking 
down upon the Dallabad Oasis. He considered Kohrin Soulez 
long and hard, recalling everything he knew about the old 
man.
    "Old," he said aloud with a sigh, for in truth, Soulez 
was in his early fifties, less than fifteen years older than 
Artemis Entreri.
    The assassin turned his thoughts to the palace-fortress 
itself, trying to recall vivid details about the place. From 
this angle, all Entreri could make out were a few palm 
trees, a small pond, a single large boulder, a handful of 
tents including one larger pavilion, and behind them all, 
seeming to blend in with the desert sands, a brown, square-
walled fortress. A handful of robed sentries walked around 
the fortress walls, seeming quite bored. The fortress of 
Dallabad did not appear very formidable-certainly nothing 
against the likes of Artemis Entreri-but the assassin knew 
better.
    He had visited Soulez and Dallabad on several occasions 
when he had been working for Pasha Basadoni, and again more 
recently, when he had been in the service of Pasha Pook. He 
knew of the circular building within those square wall with 
its corridors winding in tighter and tighter circles toward 
the great treasury rooms of Kohrin Soulez, culminating in 
the private quarters of the oasis master himself.
    Entreri considered Dwahvel's last description of the man 
and his place in the context of those memories and chuckled 
as he recognized the truth of her observations. Kohrin 
Soulez was indeed a prisoner.
    Still, that prison worked well in both directions, and 
there was no way that Entreri could easily slip in and take 
that which he desired. The palace was a fortress, and a 
fortress full of soldiers specifically trained to thwart any 
attempts by the too-common thieves of the region.
    The assassin thought that Dwahvel was wrong on one 
point, though. Kohrin himself, and not Charon's Claw, was 
the source of that prison. The man was so fearful of losing 
his prized weapon that he allowed it to dominate and consume 
him. His own fear of losing the sword had paralyzed him from 
taking any chances with it. When had Soulez last left 
Dallabad? the assassin wondered. When had he last visited 
the open market or chatted with his old associates on 
Calimport's streets?
    No, people made their own prisons, Entreri knew, and 
knew well, for hadn't he, in fact, done the same thing in 
his obsession with Drizzt Do'Urden? Hadn't he been consumed 
by a foolish need to do battle with an insignificant dark 
elf who really had nothing to do with him?
    Confident that he would never again make such an error, 
Artemis Entreri looked down upon Dallabad and smiled widely. 
Yes, Kohrin Soulez had done well to design his fortress 
against any would-be thieves skulking in from shadow to 
shadow or under cover of the darkness of night, but how 
would those many sentries fare when an army of dark elves 
descended upon them?

                         * * * * *

    "You were with him when he learned of the retreat," 
Sharlotta Vespers asked Entreri the next night, soon after 
the assassin had quietly returned to Calimport. "How did 
Jarlaxle accept the news?"
    "With typical nonchalance," Entreri answered honestly. 
"Jarlaxle has led Bregan D'aerthe for centuries. He is not 
one to betray that which is in his heart."
    "Even to Artemis Entreri, who can read a man's eyes and 
tell him what he had for dinner the night before?" Sharlotta 
asked, grinning.
    That smirk couldn't hold against the deadly calm 
expression that came over Entreri's face. "You do not begin 
to understand these new allies who have come to join with 
us," he said in all seriousness.
    "To conquer us, you mean," Sharlotta replied, the first 
time since the takeover that Entreri had heard her even hint 
ill will against the dark elves. He wasn't surprised- who 
wouldn't quickly come to hate the wretched drow? On the 
other hand, Entreri had always known Sharlotta as someone 
who accepted whatever allies she could find, as long as they 
brought to her the power she so desperately craved.
    "If they so choose," Entreri replied without missing a 
beat and in a most serious tone. "Underestimate any facet of 
the dark elves, from their fighting abilities to whether or 
not they betray themselves with expressions, and you will 
wind up dead, Sharlotta."
    The woman started to respond but did not, fighting hard 
to keep an uncharacteristic hopelessness off of her 
expression. He knew she was beginning to feel the same way 
he had during his journey to Menzoberranzan, the same way 
that he was beginning to feel once more, particularly 
whenever Rai-guy and Kimmuriel were around. There was 
something humbling about even being near these handsome, 
angular creatures. The drow always knew more than they 
should and always revealed less than they knew. Their 
mystery was only heightened by the undeniable power behind 
their often subtle threats. And always there was that damned 
condescension toward anyone who was not drow. In the current 
situation, where Bregan D'aerthe could obviously easily 
overwhelm the remnants of House Basadoni, Artemis Entreri 
included, that condescension took on even uglier tones. It 
was a poignant and incessant reminder of who was the master 
and who was the slave.
    He recognized that same feeling in Sharlotta, growing 
with every passing moment, and he almost used that to enlist 
her aid in his secret scheme to take Dallabad and its 
greatest prize.
    Almost-then Entreri considered the course and was 
shocked that his feelings toward Rai-guy and Kimmuriel had 
almost brought forth such a blunder as that. For all his 
life, with only very rare exceptions, Artemis Entreri had 
worked alone, had used his wits to ensnare unintentional and 
unwitting allies. Cohorts inevitably knew too much for 
Entreri ever to be comfortable with them. The one exception 
he now made, out of simple necessity, was Dwahvel 
Tiggerwillies, and she, he was quite sure, would never 
double-cross him, not even under the questioning of the dark 
elves. That had always been the beauty of Dwahvel and her 
halfling comrades.
    Sharlotta, however, was a completely different sort, 
Entreri now pointedly reminded himself. If he tried to 
enlist Sharlotta in his plan to go after Kohrin Soulez, he'd 
have to watch her closely forever after. She'd likely take 
the information from him and run to Jarlaxle, or even to 
Rai-guy and Kimmuriel, using Entreri's soon-to-be-lifeless 
body as a ladder with which to elevate herself.
    Besides, Entreri did not need to bring up Dallabad to 
Sharlotta, for he had already made arrangements toward that 
end. Dwahvel would entice Sharlotta toward Dallabad with a 
few well-placed lies, and Sharlotta, who was predictable 
indeed when one played upon her sense of personal gain, 
would take the information to Jarlaxle, only strengthening 
Entreri's personal suggestions that Dallabad would prove a 
meaningful and profitable conquest.
    "I never thought I would miss Pasha Basadoni," Sharlotta 
remarked off-handedly, the most telling statement the woman 
had yet made.
    "You hated Basadoni," Entreri reminded.
    Sharlotta didn't deny that, but neither did she change 
her stance.
    "You did not fear him as much as you fear the drow, and 
rightly so," Entreri remarked. "Basadoni was loyal, thus 
predictable. These dark elves are neither. They are too 
dangerous."
    "Kimmuriel told me that you lived among them in 
Menzoberranzan," Sharlotta mentioned. "How did you survive?"
    "I survived because they were too busy to bother with 
killing me," Entreri honestly replied. "I was dobluth to 
them, a non-drow outcast, and not worth the trouble. Also, 
it seems to me now that Jarlaxle might have been using me to 
further his understanding of the humans of Calimport."
    That brought a chuckle to Sharlotta's thick lips. "I 
would hardly consider Artemis Entreri the typical human of 
Calimport," she said. "And if Jarlaxle had believed that all 
men were possessed of your abilities, I doubt he would have 
dared come to the city, even if all of Menzoberranzan 
marched behind him."
    Entreri gave a slight bow, taking the compliment in 
polite stride, though he never had use for flattery. To 
Entreri's way of thinking, one was good enough or one 
wasn't, and no amount of self-serving chatter could change 
that.
    "And that is our goal now, for both our sakes," Entreri 
went on. "We must keep the drow busy, which would seem not 
so difficult a task given Jarlaxle's sudden desire rapidly 
to expand his surface empire. We are safer if House Basadoni 
is at war."
    "But not within the city," Sharlotta replied. "The 
authorities are starting to take note of our movements and 
will not stand idly by much longer. We are safer if the drow 
are engaged in battle, but not if that battle extends beyond 
house-to-house."
    Entreri nodded, glad that Dwahvel's little suggestions 
to Sharlotta that other eyes might be pointing their way had 
brought the clever woman to these conclusions so quickly. 
Indeed, if House Basadoni reached too far and too fast, the 
true power of the house would likely be discovered. Once the 
realm of Calimshan came to that revelation, their response 
against Jarlaxle's band would be complete and overwhelming. 
Earlier on, Entreri had entertained just such a scenario, 
but he had come to dismiss it. He doubted that he, or any 
other iblith of House Basadoni, would survive a Bregan 
D'aerthe retreat.
    That ultimate chaos, then, had been relegated to the 
status of a backup plan.
    "But you are correct," Sharlotta went on. "We must keep 
them busy-their military arm, at least."
    Entreri smiled and easily held back the temptation to 
enlist her then and there against Kohrin Soulez. Dwahvel 
would take care of that, and soon, and Sharlotta would never 
even figure out that she had been used for the gain of 
Artemis Entreri.
    Or perhaps the clever woman would come to see the truth.
    Perhaps, then, Entreri would have to kill her.
    To Artemis Entreri, who had suffered the double-dealing 
of Sharlotta Vespers for many years, it was not an 
unpleasant thought.
    
                        Chapter 6
                      MUTUAL BENEFIT

    Artemis Entreri surely recognized the voice but hardly 
the tone. In all the months he had spent with Jarlaxle, both 
here and in the Underdark, he had never known the mercenary 
leader to raise his voice in anger.
    Jarlaxle was shouting now, and to Entreri's pleasure as 
much as his curiosity, he was shouting at Rai-guy and 
Kimmuriel.
    "It will symbolize our ascension," Jarlaxle roared.
    "It will allow our enemies a focal point," Kimmuriel 
countered.
    "They will not see it as anything more than a new guild 
house," Jarlaxle came back.
    "Such structures are not uncommon," came Rai-guy's 
response, in calmer, more controlled tones.
    Entreri entered the room then, to find the three 
standing and facing each other. A fourth drow, Berg'inyon 
Baenre, sat back comfortably against one wall.
    "They will not know that drow were behind the 
construction of the tower," Rai-guy went on, after a quick 
and dismissive glance at the human, "but they will recognize 
that a new power has come to the Basadoni Guild."
    "They know that already," Jarlaxle reasoned.
    "They suspect it, as they suspect that old Basadoni is 
dead," Rai-guy retorted. "Let us not confirm their 
suspicions. Let us not do their reconnaissance for them."
    Jarlaxle narrowed his one visible eye-the magical eye 
patch was over his left this day-and turned his gaze sharply 
at Entreri. "You know the city better than any of us," he 
said. "What say you? I plan to construct a tower, a 
crystalline image of Crenshinibon similar to the one in 
which you destroyed Drizzt Do'Urden. My associates here fear 
that such an act will prompt dangerous responses from other 
guilds and perhaps even the greater authorities of 
Calimshan."
    "From the wizards' guild, at least," Entreri put in 
calmly. "A dangerous group."
    Jarlaxle backed off a step in apparent surprise that 
Entreri had not readily gone along with him. "Guilds 
construct new houses all the time," the mercenary leader 
argued. "Some more lavish than anything I plan to create 
with Crenshinibon."
    "But they do so by openly hiring out the proper 
craftsmen-and wizards, if magic is necessary," Entreri 
explained.
    He was thinking fast on his feet here, totally surprised 
by Jarlaxle's dangerous designs. He didn't want to side with 
Rai-guy and Kimmuriel completely, though, because he knew 
that such an alliance would never serve him. Still, the 
notion of constructing an image of Crenshinibon right in the 
middle of Calimport seemed foolhardy at the very least.
    "There you have it," Rai-guy cut in with a chortle. 
"Even your lackey does not believe it to be a wise or even 
feasible option."
    "Speak your words from your own mouth, Rai-guy," Entreri 
promptly remarked. He almost expected the volatile wizard to 
make a move on him then and there, given the look of 
absolute hatred Rai-guy shot his way.
    "A tower in Calimport would invite trouble," Entreri 
said to Jarlaxle, "though it is not impossible. We could, 
perhaps, hire a wizard of the prominent guild as a front for 
our real construction. Even that would be more easily 
accomplished if we set our sights on the outskirts of the 
city, out in the desert, perhaps, where the tower can better 
bask in the brilliant sunlight."
    "The point is to erect a symbol of our strength," 
Jarlaxle put in. "I hardly wish to impress the little 
lizards and vipers that will view our tower in the empty 
desert."
    "Bregan D'aerthe has always been better served by hiding 
its strength," Kimmuriel dared to interject. "Are we to 
change so successful a policy here in a world full of 
potential enemies? Time and again you seem to forget who we 
are, Jarlaxle, and where we are,"
    "We can mask the true nature of the tower's construction 
for a handsome price," Entreri reasoned. "And perhaps I can 
discern a location that will serve your purposes," he said 
to Jarlaxle, then turned to Kimmuriel and Rai-guy, "and 
alleviate your well-founded fears."
    "You do that," Rai-guy remarked. "Show some worth and 
prove me wrong."
    Entreri took the left-handed compliment with a quiet 
chuckle. He already had the perfect location in mind, yet 
another prompt to push Jarlaxle and Bregan D'aerthe against 
Kohrin Soulez and Dallabad Oasis.
    "Have we heard any response from the Rakers?" Jarlaxle 
asked, walking to the side of the room and taking his seat.
    "Sharlotta Vespers is meeting with Pasha Da'Daclan this 
very hour," Entreri replied.
    "Will he not likely kill her in retribution?" Kimmuriel 
asked.
    "No loss for us," Rai-guy quipped sarcastically.
    "Pasha Da'Daclan is too intrigued to-" Entreri began.
    "Impressed, you mean," corrected Rai-guy.
    "He is too intrigued" Entreri said firmly, "to act so 
rashly as that. He harbors no anger at the loss of a minor 
outpost, no doubt, and is more interested in weighing our 
true strength and intentions. Perhaps he will kill her, 
mostly to learn if such an act might illicit a response."
    "If he does, perhaps we will utterly destroy him and all 
of his guild," Jarlaxle said, and that raised a few 
eyebrows.
    Entreri was less surprised. The assassin was beginning 
to suspect that there was some method behind Jarlaxle's 
seeming madness. Typically, Jarlaxle would have been the 
type to find a way for his relationship to be mutually 
beneficial with a man as entrenched in the power structures 
as Pasha Da'Daclan of the Rakers. The mercenary dark elf 
didn't often waste time, energy, and valuable soldiers in 
destruction-no more than was necessary for him to gain the 
needed foothold. At this time, the foothold in Calimport was 
fairly secure, and yet Jarlaxle's hunger seemed only to be 
growing.
    Entreri didn't understand it, but he wasn't too worried, 
figuring that he could find some way to use it to his own 
advantage.
    "Before we take any action against Da'Daclan, we must 
weaken his outer support," the assassin remarked.
    "Outer support?" The question came from both Jarlaxle 
and Rai-guy.
    "Pasha Da'Daclan's arms have a long reach," Entreri 
explained. "I suspect that he has created some outer ring of 
security, perhaps even beyond Calimport's borders."
    From the look on the faces of the dark elves, Entreri 
realized that he had just successfully laid the groundwork, 
and that nothing more needed to be said at that time. In 
truth, he knew Pasha Da'Daclan better than to believe that 
the old man would harm Sharlotta Vespers. Such overt revenge 
simply wasn't Da'Daclan's way. No, he would invite the 
continued dialogue with Sharlotta, because for the Basadonis 
to have moved so brazenly against him as to destroy one of 
his outer houses, they would, by his reasoning, have to have 
some new and powerful weapons or allies. Pasha Da'Daclan 
wanted to know if the attack had been precipitated by the 
mere cocksureness of the new leaders of the guild-if 
Basadoni was indeed dead, as the common rumors implied-or by 
well-placed confidence. The fact that Sharlotta herself, who 
in the event of Basadoni's death would certainly have been 
elevated to the very highest levels within the organization, 
had come out to him hinted, at least, at the second 
explanation for the attack. In that instance, Pasha 
Da'Daclan wasn't about to invite complete disaster.
    So Sharlotta would leave Da'Daclan's house very much 
alive, and she would hearken to Dwahvel Tiggerwillies's 
previous call When she returned to Jarlaxle late that night, 
the mercenary would hear confirmation that Da'Daclan had an 
ally outside the city, an ally, Entreri would later explain, 
whose location would be the perfect setting for a new and 
impressive tower.
    Yes, this was all going along quite well, in the 
assassin's estimation.
    "Silence Kohrin Soulez, and Pasha Da'Daclan has no voice 
outside of Calimport," Sharlotta Vespers explained to 
Jarlaxle that same evening.
    "He needs no voice outside the city," Jarlaxle returned. 
"Given the information that you and my other lieutenants 
have provided, there is too much backing for the human right 
here within Calimport for us wisely to consider any course 
of true conquest."
    "But Pasha Da'Daclan does not understand that," 
Sharlotta replied without hesitation.
    It was obvious to Jarlaxle that the woman had thought 
this through quite extensively. She had returned from her 
meeting with Da'Daclan, and later meetings with her street 
informants, quite excited and animated. She hadn't really 
accomplished anything conclusive with Da'Daclan, but she had 
sensed that the man was on the defensive. He was truly 
worried about the state of complete destruction that had 
befallen his outer, minor house. Da'Daclan didn't understand 
Basadoni's new level of power, nor the state of control 
within the Basadoni Guild, and that too made him nervous.
    Jarlaxle rested his angular chin in his delicate black 
hand. "He believes Pasha Basadoni to be dead?" he asked for 
the third time, and for the third time, Sharlotta answered, 
"Yes."
    "Should that not imply a new weakness, then, within the 
guild?" the mercenary leader reasoned.
    "Perhaps in your world," Sharlotta replied, "where the 
drow houses are ruled by Matron Mothers who serve Lolth 
directly. Here the loss of a leader implies nothing more 
than instability, and that, more than anything else, 
frightens rivals. The guilds do not normally wage war 
because to do so would be detrimental to all sides. This is 
something the old pashas have learned through years, even 
decades, of experience. It's something they have passed down 
to their children, or other selected followers, for 
generations."
    Of course it all made sense to Jarlaxle, but he held his 
somewhat perplexed look, prompting her to continue. In 
truth, Jarlaxle was learning more about Sharlotta than about 
anything to do with the social workings of Calimport's 
underground guilds.
    "As a result of our attack, Pasha Da'Daclan believes the 
rumors that speak of old Basadoni's death," the woman 
continued. "To Da'Daclan's thinking, if Basadoni is dead-or 
has at least lost control of the guild-then we are more 
dangerous by far." Sharlotta flashed her wicked and ironic 
smile.
    "So with every outer strand we cut-first the minor house 
and now this Dallabad Oasis-we lessen Da'Daclan's sense of 
security," Jarlaxle reasoned.
    "And make it easier for me to force a stronger treaty 
with the Rakers," Sharlotta explained. "Perhaps Da'Daclan 
will even give over to us the entire block about the 
destroyed minor house to appease us. His base of operations 
is gone from that area anyway."
    "Not so big a prize," Jarlaxle remarked.
    "Ah yes, but how much more respect will the other guilds 
offer to Basadoni when they learn that Pasha Da'Daclan 
turned over some of his ground to us after we so wronged 
him?" Sharlotta purred. Her continuing roll of intrigue, her 
building of level upon level of gain, heightened Jarlaxle's 
respect for her.
    "Dallabad Oasis?" he asked.
    "A prize in and of itself," Sharlotta was quick to 
answer, "even without the gains it will afford us in our 
game with Pasha Da'Daclan."
    Jarlaxle thought it over for a bit, nodded, and, with a 
sly look at Sharlotta, nodded toward the bed. Thoughts of 
great gain had ever been an aphrodisiac for Jarlaxle.

                         * * * * *

    Jarlaxle paced his room later that night, having 
dismissed Sharlotta that he could consider in private the 
information she had brought to him. According to the woman-
who had been so ill-briefed by Dwahvel- Dallabad Oasis was 
working as a relay point for Pasha Da'Daclan, the exit for 
information to Da'Daclan's more powerful allies far from 
Calimport. Run by some insignificant functionary named 
Soulez, Dallabad was an independent fortress. It was not an 
official part of the Rakers or any other guild from the 
city. Soulez apparently accepted payment to serve as 
information-relay, and also, Sharlotta had explained, 
sometimes collected tolls along the northwestern trails.
    Jarlaxle continued to pace, digesting the information, 
playing it in conjunction with the earlier suggestions of 
Artemis Entreri. He felt the telepathic intrusion of his 
newest ally then, but he merely adjusted his magical eye 
patch to ward off the call.
    There had to be some connection here, some truth within 
the truth, some planned relationship between Dallabad's 
tenuous position and the mere convenience of this all. 
Hadn't Entreri earlier suggested that Jarlaxle conquer some 
place outside of Calimport where he could more safely set up 
a crystalline tower?
    And now this: a perfect location practically handed over 
to him for conquest, a place so conveniently positioned for 
Bregan D'aerthe to make a double gain.
    The mental intrusions continued. It was a strong call, 
the strongest Jarlaxle had ever felt through his eye patch.
    He wants something, Crenshinibon said in the mercenary 
leader's head.
    Jarlaxle started to dismiss the shard, thinking that his 
own reasoning could bring him to a clearer picture of this 
whole situation, but Crenshinibon's next statement leaped 
past the conclusions he was slowly forming.
    Artemis Entreri has deeper designs here, the shard 
insisted. An old grudge, perhaps, or some treasure within 
the obvious prize.
    "Not a grudge," Jarlaxle said aloud, removing the 
protective eye patch so that he and the shard could better 
communicate. "If Entreri harbored such feelings as that, 
then he would see to this Soulez creature personally. Ever 
has he prided himself on working alone."
    You believe the sudden imposition of Dallabad Oasis, a 
place never before mentioned, into both the equation of the 
Rakers and our need to construct a tower to be a mere 
fortunate coincidence? the shard asked, and before Jarlaxle 
could even respond, Crenshinibon made its assessment clear. 
Artemis Entreri harbors some ulterior motive for an assault 
against Dallabad Oasis. There can be no doubt. Likely, he 
knew that our informants would bring to us the suggestion 
that conquering Dallabad would frighten Pasha Da'Daclan and 
considerably strengthen our bargaining power with him.
    "More likely, Artemis Entreri arranged for our 
informants to come to that very conclusion," Jarlaxle 
reasoned, ending with a chuckle.
    Perhaps he views this as a way toward our destruction, 
the shard imparted. That he can break free of us and rule on 
his own.
    Jarlaxle was shaking his head before the full reasoning 
even entered his mind. "If Artemis Entreri wished to be free 
of us, he would find some excuse to depart the city."
    And run as faraway as Morik the Rogue, perhaps? came the 
ironic thought.
    It was true enough, Jarlaxle had to admit. Bregan 
D'aerthe had already proven that its arms on the surface 
world were long indeed, long enough, perhaps, to catch a 
runaway deserter. Still, Jarlaxle highly doubted the shard's 
last reasoning. First of all, Artemis Entreri was wise 
enough to understand that Bregan D'aerthe would not go 
blindly against Dallabad or any other foe. Also, to 
Jarlaxle's thinking, such a ploy to bring about Bregan 
D'aerthe's downfall on the surface would be far too risky- 
and would it not be more easily accomplished merely by 
telling the greater authorities of Calimshan that a band of 
dark elves had come to Calimport?
    He offered all of the reasoning to Crenshinibon, 
building common ground with the artifact that the most 
likely scenario here involved the shard's second line of 
reasoning, that of a secret treasure within the oasis.
    The drow mercenary closed his eyes and absorbed the 
Crystal Shard's feelings on these plausible and growing 
suspicions and laughed again when he learned that he and the 
artifact had both come to accept the conclusion and were of 
like mind concerning it. Both were more amused and impressed 
than angry. Whatever Entreri's personal motives, and whether 
or not the information connecting Dallabad to Pasha 
Da'Daclan held any truth or not, the oasis would be a worthy 
and seemingly safe acquisition.
    More so to the artifact than to the dark elf, for 
Crenshinibon had made it quite clear to Jarlaxle that it 
needed to construct an image of itself, a tower to collect 
the brilliant sunlight.
    A step closer to its ever-present, final goal.
    
                        Chapter 7
                    TURNING ADVANTAGE
                      INTO DISASTER

    Kohrin Soulez held his arm up before him, focusing his 
thoughts on the black, red-laced gauntlet that he wore on 
his right hand. Those laces seemed to pulse now, an all-too-
familiar feeling for the secretive and secluded man.
    Someone was trying to look in on him and his fortress at 
Dallabad Oasis.
    Soulez forced his concentration deeper into the magical 
glove. He had recently been approached by a mediator from 
Calimport inquiring about a possible sale of his beloved 
sword, Charon's Claw. Soulez, of course, had balked at the 
absurd notion. He held this item more dear to his heart than 
he had any of his numerous wives, even above his many, many 
children. The offer had been serious, promising wealth 
beyond imagination for the single item.
    Soulez had gained enough understanding of Calimport's 
guildsmen and had been in possession of Charon's Claw long 
enough to know what a serious offer, obviously refused and 
without room for bargaining, might bring, and so he was not 
surprised to find that prying eyes were seeking him out now. 
Since further investigation had whispered that the would-be 
purchaser might be Artemis Entreri and the Basadoni Guild, 
Soulez had been watching carefully for those eyes in 
particular.
    They would look for weakness but would find none, and 
thus, he believed, they would merely go away.
    As Soulez fell deeper into the energies of the gauntlet, 
he came to recognize a new element, dangerous only because 
it hinted that the would-be thief this time might not be so 
easily dissuaded. These were not the magical energies of a 
wizard he felt, nor the prayers of a divining priest. No, 
this energy was different than the expected, but certainly 
nothing beyond the understanding of Soulez and the gauntlet.
    "Psionics," he said aloud, looking past the gauntlet to 
his lieutenants, who were standing at attention about his 
throne room.
    Three of them were his own children. The fourth was a 
great military commander from Memnon, and the fifth was a 
renowned, and now retired, thief from Calimport. 
Conveniently, Soulez thought, a former member of the 
Basadoni Guild.
    "Artemis Entreri and the Basadonis," Soulez told them, 
"if it is them, have apparently found access to a 
psionicist."
    The five lieutenants muttered among themselves about the 
implications of that.
    "Perhaps that has been Artemis Entreri's edge for all 
these years," the youngest of them, Kohrin Soulez's 
daughter, Ahdahnia, remarked.
    "Entreri?" laughed Preelio, the old thief. "Strong of 
mind? Certainly. Psionics? Bah! He never needed them, so 
fine was he with the blade."
    "But whoever seeks my treasure has access to the mind 
powers," said Soulez. "They believe that they have found an 
edge, a weakness of mine and of my treasure's, that they can 
exploit. That only makes them more dangerous, of course. We 
can expect an attack."
    All five of the lieutenants stiffened at that 
proclamation, but none seemed overly concerned. There was no 
grand conspiracy against Dallabad among the guilds of 
Calimport. Kohrin Soulez had paid dearly to certify that 
information right away. The five knew that no one guild, or 
even two or three of the guilds banded together, could 
muster the power to overthrow Dallabad-not while
    Soulez carried the sword and the gauntlet and could 
render any wizards all but ineffective.
    "No soldiers will break through our walls," Ahdahnia 
remarked with a confident smirk. "No thieves will slide 
through the shadows to the inner structures."
    "Unless through some devilish mind power," Preelio put 
in, looking to the elder Soulez.
    Kohrin Soulez only laughed. "They believe they have 
found a weakness," he reiterated. "I can stop them with 
this-" he held up the glove-"and of course, I have other 
means." He let the thought hang in the air, his smile 
bringing grins to the faces of all in attendance. There was 
a sixth lieutenant, after all, one little seen and little 
bothered, one used primarily as an instrument of 
interrogation and torture, one who preferred to spend as 
little time with the humans as possible.
    "Secure the physical defenses," Soulez instructed them. 
"I will see to the powers of the mind."
    He waved them away and sat back, focusing again on his 
mighty black gauntlet, on the red stitching that ran through 
it like veins of blood. Yes, he could feel the meager 
prying, and while he wished that the jealous folk would 
simply leave him to his business in peace, he believed that 
he would enjoy this little bit of excitement.
    He knew that Yharaskrik certainly would.
    Far below Kohrin Soulez's throne room, in deep tunnels 
that few of Soulez's soldiers even knew existed, Yharaskrik 
was already well aware that someone or something using 
psionic energies had breached the oasis. Yharaskrik was a 
mind flayer, an illithid, a humanoid creature with a bulbous 
head that resembled a huge brain, with several tentacles 
protruding from the part of his face where a nose, mouth, 
and chin should have been. Illithids were horrible to 
behold, and could be quite formidable physically, but their 
real powers lay in the realm of the mind, in psionic 
energies that dwarfed the powers of human practitioners, 
even of drow practitioners. Illithids could simply overwhelm 
an opponent with stunning blasts of mental energies, and 
either enslave the unfortunate victim, his mind held in a 
fugue state, or move in for a feast, attaching their horrid 
tentacles to the helpless victim and burrowing in to suck 
out brain matter.
    Yharaskrik had been working with Kohrin Soulez for many 
years. Soulez considered the creature as much an indentured 
servant as a minion. He believed he had cut a fair deal with 
the creature after Soulez had apparently rendered Yharaskrik 
helpless in a short battle, capturing the illithid's mind 
blast within the magical netting of his gauntlet and thus 
leaving Yharaskrik open to a devastating counterstrike with 
the deadly sword. In truth, had Soulez gone for that strike, 
Yharaskrik would have melted away into the stone, using 
energies not directed against Soulez and thus beyond the 
reach of the gauntlet.
    Soulez had not pressed the attack, though, as 
Yharaskrik's communal brain had calculated. The 
opportunistic man had struck a deal instead, offering the 
illithid its life and a comfortable place to do its 
meditation-or whatever else it was that illithids did-in 
exchange for certain services whenever they were needed, 
primarily to aid in the defense of Dallabad Oasis.
    In all these years, Kohrin Soulez had never once 
harbored any suspicions that coming to Dallabad in such a 
capacity had been Yharaskrik's duty all along, that the 
illithid had been chosen among its strange kin to seek out 
and study the black and red gauntlet, as mind flayers were 
often sent to learn of anything that could so block their 
devastating energies. In truth, Yharaskrik had learned 
little of use concerning the gauntlet over the years, but 
the creature was never anxious about that. Brilliant 
illithids were among the most patient of all the creatures 
in the multiverse, savoring the process more than the goal. 
Yharaskrik was quite content in its tunnel home.
    Some psionic force had tickled the illithid's 
sensibility, and Yharaskrik felt enough of the stream of 
energy to know that it was no other illithid psionically 
prying about Dallabad Oasis.
    The mind flayer, as confident in his superiority as all 
of his kind, was more intrigued than concerned. He was 
actually a bit perturbed that the fool Soulez had captured 
that psychic call with his gauntlet, but now the call had 
returned, redirected. Yharaskrik had called back, bringing 
his roving mind eye down, down, to the deep caverns.
    The illithid did not try to hide its surprise when it 
discerned the source of that energy, nor did the creature on 
the other end, a drow, even begin to mask his own stunned 
reaction.
    Haszakkin! the drow's thoughts instinctively screamed, 
their word for illithid-a word that conveyed a measure of 
respect the drow rarely gave to any creature that was not 
drow.
    Dyon G'ennivalz? Yharaskrik asked, the name of a drow 
city the illithid had known well in its younger days.
    Menzoberranzan, came the psionic reply.
    House Oblodra, the brilliant creature imparted, for that 
atypical drow house was well known among all the mind flayer 
communities of Faerun's Underdark.
    No more, came Kimmuriel's response.
    Yharaskrik sensed anger there, and understood it well as 
Kimmuriel relayed the memories of the downfall of his 
arrogant family. There had been, during the Time of 
Troubles, a period when magic, but not psionics, had ceased 
to function. In that too-brief time, the leaders of House 
Oblodra had challenged the greater houses of Menzoberranzan, 
including mighty Matron Baenre herself. The energies shifted 
with the shifting of the gods, and psionics had become 
temporarily impotent, while the powers of conventional magic 
had returned. Matron Baenre's response to the threats of 
House Oblodra had wiped the structure and all of the family-
except for Kimmuriel, who had wisely used his ties with 
Jarlaxle and Bregan D'aerthe to make a hasty retreat-from 
the city, dropping it into the chasm called the Clawrift.
    You seek the conquest of Dallabad Oasis? Yharaskrik 
asked, fully expecting an answer, for creatures 
communicating through psionics often held their own 
loyalties to each other even above those of their kindred.
    Dallabad will be ours before the night has passed, 
Kimmuriel honestly replied.
    The connection abruptly ended, and Yharaskrik understood 
the hasty retreat as Kohrin Soulez sauntered into the dark 
chamber, his right hand clad in the cursed gauntlet that so 
interfered with psionic energy.
    The illithid bowed before his supposed master.
    "We have been scouted," Soulez said, getting right to 
the point, his tension obvious as he stood before the horrid 
mind flayer.
    "Mind s eye," the illithid agreed in its physical, 
watery voice. "I sensed it."
    "Powerful?" Soulez asked.
    Yharaskrik gave a quiet gurgle, the illithid equivalent 
of a resigned shrug, showing his lack of respect for any 
psionicist that was not illithid. It was an honest 
appraisal, even though the psionicist in question was drow 
and not human, and tied to a drow house that was well known 
among Yharaskrik's people. Still, though the mind flayer was 
not overly concerned about any battle he might see against 
the drow psionicist, Yharaskrik knew the dark elves well 
enough to understand that the Oblodran psionicist would 
likely be the least of Kohrin Soulez's problems.
    "Power is always a relative concept," the illithid 
answered cryptically.

                         * * * * *

    Kohrin Soulez felt the tingling of magical energy as he 
ascended the long spiral staircase that took him back to the 
ground level of his palace in Dallabad. The guild-master 
broke into a run, scrambling, muscles working to their 
limits and his old bones feeling no pain. He thought that 
the attack must already be underway.
    He calmed somewhat, slowing and huffing and puffing to 
catch his breath. He came up into the guild house to find 
many of his soldiers milling about, talking excitedly, but 
seeming more curious than terrified.
    "Is it yours, Father?" asked Ahdahnia, her dark eyes 
gleaming.
    Kohrin Soulez stared at her curiously, and taking the 
cue, Ahdahnia led him to an outer room with an east-facing 
window.
    There it stood, right in the middle of Dallabad Oasis, 
within the outer walls of Kohrin Soulez's fortress.
    A crystalline tower, gleaming in the bright sunlight, an 
image of Crenshinibon, the calling card of doom.
    Kohrin Soulez's right hand throbbed with tingling energy 
as he looked at the magical structure. His gauntlet could 
capture magical energy and even turn it back against the 
initiator. It had never failed him, but in just looking at 
this spectacular tower the guildmaster suddenly recognized 
that he and his toys were puny things indeed. He knew 
without even going out and trying that he could not hope to 
drag the magical energies from that tower, that if he tried, 
it would consume him and his gauntlet. He shuddered as he 
pictured a physical manifestation of that absorption, an 
image of Kohrin Soulez frozen as a gargoyle on the top rim 
of that magnificent tower.
    "Is it yours, Father?" Ahdahnia asked again.
    The eagerness left her voice and the sparkle left her 
eyes as Kohrin turned to her, his face bloodless.
    Outside of Dallabad fortress's wall, under the shelter 
of a copse of palm trees and surrounded by globes of magical 
darkness, Jarlaxle called to the tower. Its outer wall 
elongated, and sent forth a tendril, a stairway tunnel that 
breached the darkness globes and reached to the mercenary's 
feet. Secure that his soldiers were all in place, Jarlaxle 
ascended the stairs into the tower proper. With a thought to 
the Crystal Shard, he retracted the tunnel, effectively 
sealing himself in.
    From that high vantage point in the middle of the 
fortress courtyard, Jarlaxle watched the unfolding drama 
around him.
    Could you dim the light? he telepathically asked the 
tower.
    Light is strength, Crenshinibon answered. For you, 
perhaps, the mercenary replied. For me, it is uncomfortable.
    Jarlaxle felt a sensation akin to a chuckle from the 
Crystal Shard, but the artifact did comply and thicken its 
eastern wall, considerably dulling the light in the room. It 
also provided a floating chair for Jarlaxle, so that he 
could drift about the perimeter of the room, studying the 
battle that would soon unfold.
    Notice that Artemis Entreri will partake of the attack, 
the Crystal Shard remarked, and it sent the chair floating 
to the northern side of the room. Jarlaxle took the cue and 
focused hard down below, outside the fortress wall, to the 
tents and trees and boulders. Finally, with helpful guidance 
from the artifact, the drow spotted the figure lurking about 
the shadows.
    He did not do so when we planned the attack on Pasha 
Da'Daclan, Crenshinibon added. Of course, the Crystal Shard 
knew that Jarlaxle was considering the same thing. The 
implications continued to follow the line that Entreri had 
some secret agenda here, some private gain that was either 
outside of the domain of Bregan D'aerthe, or held some 
consequence within the second level of the band's hierarchy.
    Either way, both Jarlaxle and Crenshinibon thought it 
more amusing than in any way threatening.
    The floating chair drifted back across the small 
circular room, putting Jarlaxle in line with the first 
diversionary attack, a series of darkness globes at the top 
of the outer wall. The soldiers there went into a panic, 
running and crying out to reform a defensive line away from 
the magic, but even as they moved back-in fairly good order, 
Jarlaxle noted-the real attack began, bubbling up from the 
ground within the fortress courtyard.
    Rai-guy had crossed the courtyard, ten difficult feet at 
a time, casting a series of passwall spells out of a wand. 
Now, from a natural tunnel that he had fortunately located 
below the fortress, the drow wizard enacted the last of 
those passwalls, vanishing a section of stone and dirt.
    Immediately the soldiers of Bregan D'aerthe arose, 
floating with drow levitation into the courtyard, enacting 
darkness globes above them to confuse their enemies and to 
lessen the blinding impact of the hated sun.
    "We should have attacked at night," Jarlaxle said aloud.
    Daytime is when my power is at its peak, Crenshinibon 
responded immediately, and Jarlaxle felt the rest of the 
thought keenly. Crenshinibon was none-too-subtly reminding 
him that it was more powerful than all of Bregan D'aerthe 
combined.
    That expression of confidence was more than a little 
disconcerting to the mercenary leader, for reasons that he 
hadn't yet begun to untangle.
    Rai-guy stood in the hole, issuing orders to those dark 
elves running and leaping into levitation, floating up and 
eager for battle. The wizard was particularly animated this 
day. His blood was up, as always during a conquest, but he 
was not pleased at all that Jarlaxle had decided to launch 
the attack at dawn, a seemingly foolish trade-off of putting 
his soldiers, used to a world of blackness, at a 
disadvantage, for the simple gain of constructing a 
crystalline tower vantage point. The appearance of the tower 
was an amazing thing, without doubt, one that showed the 
power of the invaders clearly to those defending inside. 
Rai-guy did not diminish the value of striking such terror, 
but every time he saw one of his soldiers squint painfully 
as he rose up out of the hole into the daylight, the wizard 
considered his leader's continuing surprising behavior and 
gritted his teeth in frustration.
    Also, the mere fact that they were using dark elves 
openly against the fortress seemed more than a bit of a 
gamble. Could they not have accomplished this conquest, as 
they had planned to do with Pasha Da'Daclan, by striking 
openly with human, perhaps even kobold soldiers, while the 
dark elves infiltrated more quietly? What would be left of 
Dallabad after the conquest now, after all? Almost all 
remaining alive within-and there would be many, since the 
dark elves led every assault with their trademark sleep-
poisoned hand crossbow darts-would have to be executed 
anyway, lest they communicate the truth of their conquerors.
    Rai-guy reminded himself of his place in the guild and 
knew it would take a monumental error on the part of 
Jarlaxle, one that cost the lives of many of Bregan 
D'aerthe, for him to rally enough support truly to overthrow 
Jarlaxle. Perhaps this would be that mistake.
    The wizard heard a change in the timbre of the shouts 
from above. He glanced up, taking note that the sunlight 
seemed brighter, that the globes of magical darkness had 
gone away. The magically created shaft, too, suddenly 
disappeared, capturing a pair of levitating soldiers within 
it as the stone and dirt rematerialized. It lasted only a 
moment, as if something suddenly reached out and grabbed 
away the magic that was trying to dispel Rai-guys vertical 
passwall dweomers. That moment was long enough to destroy 
utterly the two unfortunate drow soldiers.
    The wizard cursed at Jarlaxle, but under his breath.
    He reminded himself to keep safe and to see, in the end, 
if this attack, even if a complete failure, might not prove 
personally beneficial.
    Kohrin Soulez fell back. His sensibilities were stung, 
both by the realization that these were dark elves that had 
come to secluded Dallabad, and by the magical counterattack 
that had overwhelmed his gauntlet. He had come out from the 
main house to rally his soldiers, the blood-red blade of 
Charon's Claw bared and waving, leaving streaks of ashy 
blackness in the air. Soulez had run to the area of obvious 
invasion, where globes of darkness and screams of pain and 
terror heralded the fighting.
    Dispelling those globes was no major task for the 
gauntlet, nor was closing the hole in the ground through 
which the enemy continued to arrive, but Soulez had nearly 
been overwhelmed by a wave of energy that countered the 
countering energy he was exerting himself. It was a blast of 
magical power so raw and pure that he could not hope to 
contain it. He knew it had come from the tower.
    The tower!
    The dark elves!
    His doom was at hand!
    He fell back into the main house, ordering his soldiers 
to fight to the last. As he ran along the more deserted 
corridors leading to his private chambers, his dear Ahdahnia 
right behind him, he called out to Yharaskrik to come and 
whisk him away.
    There was no answer.
    "He has heard me," Soulez assured his daughter anyway. 
"We need only escape long enough for Yharaskrik to come to 
us. Then we will run out to inform the lords of Calimport 
that the dark elves have come."
    "The traps and locks along the hallways will keep our 
enemies at bay," Ahdahnia replied.
    Despite the surprising nature of their enemies, the 
woman actually believed the claim. These long corridors 
weaving along the somewhat circular main house of Dallabad 
were lined with heavy, metal-banded doors of stone and wood 
layers that could defeat most intrusions, wizardly or 
physical. Also, the sheer number of traps in place between 
the outer walls and Kohrin Soulez's inner sanctuary would 
deter and daunt the most seasoned of thieves.
    But not the most clever.
    Artemis Entreri had worked his way unnoticed to the base 
of the fortress's northern wall. It was no small feat- an 
impossible one under normal circumstances, for there was an 
open field surrounding the fortress, running nearly a 
hundred feet to the trees and tents and boulders, and 
several of the small ponds that marked the place- but this 
was not a normal circumstance. With a tower materializing 
inside the fortress, most of the guards were scurrying 
about, trying to find some answers as to whether it was an 
invading enemy or some secret project of Kohrin Soulez's. 
Even those guards on the walls couldn't help but stare in 
awe at that amazing sight.
    Entreri dug himself in. His borrowed black cloak-a 
camouflaging drow piwafwi that wouldn't last long in the 
sun-offered him some protection should any of the guards 
lean over the twenty foot wall and look down at him.
    The assassin waited until the sounds of fighting erupted 
from within.
    To untrained eyes, the wall of Kohrin Soulez's fortress 
would have seemed a sheer thing indeed, all of polished 
white marble joints forming an attractive contrast to the 
brownish sandstone and gray granite. To Entreri, though, it 
seemed more of a stairway than a wall, with many seam-steps 
and finger-holds.
    He was up near the top in a matter of seconds. The 
assassin lifted himself up just enough to glance over at the 
two guards anxiously reloading their crossbows. They were 
looking in the direction of the courtyard where the battle 
raged.
    Over the wall without a sound went the piwafwi-cloaked 
assassin. He came down from the wall only a few moments 
later, dressed as one of Kohrin Soulez's guards.
    Entreri joined in with some others running frantically 
around to the front courtyard, but he broke away from them 
as he came in sight of the fighting. He melted back against 
the wall and toward the open, main door, where he spotted 
Kohrin Soulez. The guildmaster was battling drow magic and 
waving that wondrous sword. Entreri kept several steps ahead 
of the man as he was forced to fall back. The assassin 
entered the main building before Soulez and his daughter.
    Entreri ran, silent and unseen, along those corridors, 
through the open doors, past the unset traps, ahead of the 
two fleeing nobles and those soldiers trailing their leader 
to secure the corridor behind him. The assassin reached the 
main door of Soulez's private chambers with enough time to 
spare to recognize that the alarms and traps on this portal 
were indeed in place and to do something about them.
    Thus, when Ahdahnia Soulez pushed open that magnificent, 
gold-leafed door, leading her father into his seemingly 
secure chamber, Artemis Entreri was already there, standing 
quietly ready behind a floor-to-ceiling tapestry.
    The three Dallabad soldiers-well-trained, well-armed, 
and well-armored with shining chain and small bucklers-faced 
off against the three dark elves along the western wall of 
the fortress. The men, frightened as they were, kept the 
presence of mind to form a triangular defense, using the 
wall behind them to secure their backs.
    The dark elves fanned out and came at them in unison. 
Their amazing drow swords-two for each warrior-worked 
circular attack routines so quickly that the paired weapons 
seemed to blur the line between where one sword stopped and 
the other began.
    The humans, to their credit, held strong their position, 
offered parries and blocks wherever necessary, and 
suppressed any urge to scream out in terror and charge 
blindly-as some of their nearby comrades were doing to 
disastrous results. Gradually, talking quickly between them 
to analyze each of their enemy's movements, the trio began 
to decipher the deceptive and brilliant drow sword dance, 
enough so, at least, to offer one or two counters of their 
own.
    Back and forth it went, the humans wisely holding their 
position, not following any of the individually retreating 
dark elves and thus weakening their own defenses. Blade rang 
against blade, and the magical swords Kohrin Soulez had 
provided his best-trained soldiers matched up well enough 
against the drow weapons.
    The dark elves exchanged words the humans did not 
understand. Then the three drow attacked in unison, all six 
swords up high in a blurring dance. Human swords and shields 
came up to meet the challenge and the resulting clang of 
metal against metal rang out like a single note.
    That note soon changed, diminished, and all three of the 
human soldiers came to recognize, but not completely to 
comprehend, that their attackers had each dropped one sword.
    Shields and swords up high to meet the continuing 
challenge, they only understood their exposure below the 
level of the fight when they heard the clicks of three small 
crossbows and felt the sting as small darts burrowed into 
their bellies.
    The dark elves backed off a step. Tonakin Ta'salz, the 
central soldier, called out to his companions that he was 
hit, but that he was all right. The soldier to Tonakin's 
left started to say the same, but his words were slurred and 
groggy. Tonakin glanced over just in time to see him tumble 
facedown in the dirt. To his right, there came no response 
at all.
    Tonakin was alone. He took a deep breath and skittered 
back against the wall as the three dark elves retrieved 
their dropped swords. One of them said something to him that 
he did not understand, but while the words escaped him, the 
expression on the drow's face did not.
    He should have fallen down asleep, the drow was telling 
him. Tonakin agreed wholeheartedly as the three came in 
suddenly, six swords slashing in brutal and perfectly 
coordinated attacks.
    To his credit, Tonakin Ta'salz actually managed to block 
two of them.
    And so it went throughout the courtyard and all along 
the wall of the fortress. Jarlaxle's mercenaries, using 
mostly physical weapons but with more than a little magic 
thrown in, overwhelmed the soldiers of Dallabad. The 
mercenary leader had instructed his killers to spare as many 
as possible, using sleep darts and accepting surrender. He 
noted, though, that more than a few were not waiting long 
enough to find out if any opponents who had resisted the 
sleep poison might offer a surrender.
    The dark elf leader merely shrugged at that, hardly 
concerned. This was open battle, the kind that he and his 
mercenaries didn't see often enough. If too many of Kohrin 
Soulez's soldiers were killed for the oasis fortress to 
properly function, then Jarlaxle and Crenshinibon would 
simply find replacements. In any case, with Soulez chased 
back into his house by the sheer power of the Crystal Shard, 
the assault had already reached its second stage.
    It was going along beautifully. The courtyard and wall 
were already secured, and the house had been breached at 
several points. Now Kimmuriel and Rai-guy at last came onto 
the scene.
    Kimmuriel had several of the captives who were still 
awake dragged before him, forcing them to lead the way into 
the house. He would use his overpowering will to read their 
thoughts as they walked him and the drow through the trapped 
maze to the prize that was Soulez.
    Jarlaxle rested back in the crystalline tower. A part of 
him wanted to go down and join in the fun, but he decided 
instead to remain and share the moment with his most 
powerful companion, the Crystal Shard. He even allowed the 
artifact to thin the eastern wall once more, allowing more 
sunlight into the room.
    "Where is he?" Kohrin Soulez fumed, stomping about the 
room. "Yharaskrik!"
    "Perhaps he cannot get through," Ahdahnia reasoned. She 
moved nearer to the tapestry as she spoke.
    Entreri knew he could step out and take her down, then 
go for his prize. He held the urge, intrigued and wary.
    "Perhaps the same force from the tower-" Ahdahnia went 
on.
    "No!" Kohrin Soulez interrupted. "Yharaskrik is beyond 
such things. His people see things-everything- differently."
    Even as he finished, Ahdahnia gasped and skittered back 
across Entreri's field of view. Her eyes went wide as she 
looked back in the direction of her father, who had walked 
out of Entreri's very limited line of sight.
    Confident that the woman was too entranced by whatever 
it was that she was watching, Entreri slipped down low to 
one knee and dared peek out around the tapestry.
    He saw an illithid step out of the psionic dimensional 
doorway and into the room to stand before Kohrin.
    A mind flayer!
    The assassin fell back behind the tapestry, his thoughts 
whirling. Very few things in all the world could rattle 
Artemis Entreri, who had survived life on the streets from a 
tender young age and had risen to the very top of his 
profession, who had survived Menzoberranzan and many, many 
encounters with dark elves. One of those few things was a 
mind flayer. Entreri had seen a few in the dark elf city, 
and he abhorred them more than any other creature he had 
ever met. It wasn't their appearance that so upset the 
assassin, though they were brutally ugly by any but illithid 
standards. No, it was their very demeanor, their different 
view of the world, as Kohrin had just alluded to.
    Throughout his life, Artemis Entreri had gained the 
upper hand because he understood his enemies better than 
they understood him. He had found the dark elves a bit more 
of a challenge, based on the fact that the drow were too 
experienced-were simply too good at conspiring and plotting 
for him to gain any real comprehension . . . any that he 
could hold confidence in, at least.
    With illithids, though he had only dealt with them 
briefly, the disadvantage was even more fundamental and 
impossible to overcome. There was no way Artemis Entreri 
could understand that particular enemy because there was no 
way he could bring himself to any point where he could view 
the world as an illithid might. No way.
    So Entreri tried to make himself very small. He listened 
to every word, every inflection, every intake of breath, 
very carefully.
    "Why did you not come earlier to my call?" Kohrin Soulez 
demanded.
    "They are dark elves," Yharaskrik responded in that 
bubbling, watery voice that sounded to Entreri like a very 
old man with too much phlegm in his throat. "They are within 
the building."
    "You should have come earlier!" Ahdahnia cried. "We 
could have beaten-" Her voice left her with a gasp. She 
stumbled backward and seemed about to fall. Entreri knew the 
mind flayer had just hit her with some scrambling burst of 
mental energy.
    "What do I do?" Kohrin Soulez wailed.
    "There is nothing you can do," answered Yharaskrik. "You 
cannot hope to survive."
    "P-par-parlay with them, F-father!" cried the recovering 
Ahdahnia. "Give them what they want-else you cannot hope to 
survive."
    "They will take what they want," Yharaskrik assured her, 
and turned back to Kohrin Soulez. "You have nothing to 
offer. There is no hope."
    "Father?" Ahdahnia asked, her voice suddenly weak, 
almost pitiful.
    "You attack them!" Kohrin Soulez demanded, holding his 
deadly sword out toward the illithid. "Overwhelm them!"
    Yharaskrik made a sound that Entreri, who had mustered 
enough willpower to peek back around the tapestry, 
recognized to be an expression of mirth. It wasn't a laugh, 
actually, but more like a clear, gasping cough.
    Kohrin Soulez, too, apparently understood the meaning of 
the reply, for his face grew very red.
    "They are drow. Do you now understand that?" the 
illithid asked. "There is no hope."
    Kohrin Soulez started to respond, to demand again that 
Yharaskrik take the offensive, but as if he had suddenly 
come to figure it all out, he paused and stared at his 
octopus-headed companion. "You knew," he accused. "When the 
psionicist entered Dallabad, he conveyed ..."
    "The psionicist was drow," the illithid confirmed.
    "Traitor!" Kohrin Soulez cried.
    "There is no betrayal. There was never friendship, or 
even alliance," the illithid remarked logically.
    "But you knew!"
    Yharaskrik didn't bother to reply.
    "Father?" Ahdahnia asked again, and she was trembling 
visibly.
    Kohrin Soulez's breath came in labored gasps. He brought 
his left hand up to his face and wiped away sweat and tears. 
"What am I to do?" he asked, speaking to himself. "What 
will..."
    Yharaskrik began that coughing laughter again, and this 
time, it sounded clearly to Entreri that the creature was 
mocking pitiful Soulez.
    Kohrin Soulez composed himself suddenly and glared at 
the creature. "This amuses you?" he asked.
    "I take pleasure in the ironies of the lesser species," 
Yharaskrik responded. "How much your whines sound as those 
of the many you have killed. How many have begged for their 
lives futilely before Kohrin Soulez, as he will now futilely 
beg for his at the feet of a greater adversary than he can 
possibly comprehend?"
    "But an adversary that you know well!" Kohrin cried.
    "I prefer the drow to your pitiful kind," Yharaskrik 
freely admitted. "They never beg for mercy that they know 
will not come. Unlike humans, they accept the failings of 
individual-minded creatures. There is no greater joining 
among them, as there is none among you, but they understand 
and accept that fallibility." The illithid gave a slight 
bow. "That is all the respect I now offer to you, in the 
hour of your death," Yharaskrik explained. "I would throw 
energy your way, that you might capture it and redirect it 
against the dark elves- and they are close now, I assure 
you-but I choose not to."
    Artemis Entreri recognized clearly the change that came 
over Kohrin Soulez then, the shift from despair to nothing-
to-lose anger that he had seen so many times during his 
decades on the tough streets.
    "But I wear the gauntlet!" Kohrin Soulez said 
powerfully, and he moved the magnificent sword out toward
    Yharaskrik. "I will at least get the pleasure of first 
witnessing your end!"
    But even as he made the declaration, Yharaskrik seemed 
to melt into the stone at his feet and was gone.
    "Damn him!" Kohrin Soulez screamed. "Damn you-" His 
tirade cut short as a pounding came on the door.
    "Your wand!" the guildmaster cried to his daughter, 
turning to face her, in the direction of the floor-to-
ceiling tapestry that decorated his private chamber.
    Ahdahnia just stood there, wide-eyed, making no move to 
reach for the wand at her belt. Her expression changing not 
at all, she crumpled to the floor. There stood Artemis 
Entreri.
    Kohrin Soulez's eyes widened as he watched her descent, 
but as if he hardly cared for the fall of Ahdahnia other 
than its implications for his own safety, his gaze focused 
clearly on Entreri.
    "It would have been so much easier if you had merely 
sold the blade to me," the assassin remarked.
    "I knew this was your doing, Entreri," Soulez growled 
back at him, advancing a step, the blood-red blade gleaming 
at the ready.
    "I offer you one more chance to sell it," Entreri said, 
and Soulez stopped short, his expression one of pure 
incredulity. "For the price of her life," the assassin 
added, pointing down at Ahdahnia with his jeweled dagger. 
"Your own life is yours to bargain for, but you'll have to 
make that bargain with others."
    Another bang sounded out in the corridor, followed by 
the sounds of some fighting.
    "They are close, Kohrin Soulez," Entreri remarked, 
"close and overwhelming."
    "You brought dark elves to Calimport," Soulez growled 
back at him.
    "They came of their own accord," Entreri replied. "I was 
merely wise enough not to try to oppose them. So I make my 
offer, but only this one last time. I can save Ahdahnia- she 
is not dead but merely asleep." To accentuate his point, he 
held up a small crossbow quarrel of unusual design, a drow 
bolt that had been tipped with sleeping poison. "Give me the 
sword and gauntlet-now-and she lives. Then you can bargain 
for your own life. The sword will do you little good against 
the dark elves, for they need no magic to destroy you."
    "But if I am to bargain for my life, then why not do so 
with the sword in hand?" Kohrin Soulez asked.
    In response, Entreri glanced down at the sleeping form 
of Ahdahnia.
    "I am to trust that you will keep your word?" Soulez 
answered.
    Entreri didn't answer, other than to fix the man with a 
cold stare.
    There came a sharp rap on the heavy door. As if incited 
by that sound of imminent danger, Kohrin Soulez leaped 
forward, slashing hard.
    Entreri could have killed Ahdahnia and still dodged, but 
he did not. He slipped back behind the tapestry and went 
down low, scrambling along its length. He heard the tearing 
behind him as Soulez slashed and stabbed. Charon's Claw 
easily sliced the heavy material, even took chunks out of 
the wall behind it.
    Entreri came out the other side to find Soulez already 
moving in his direction, the man wearing an expression that 
seemed half crazed, even jubilant.
    "How valuable will the drow elves view me when they 
enter to find Artemis Entreri dead?" he squealed, and he 
launched a thrust, feint and slash for the assassin's 
shoulder.
    Entreri had his own sword out then, in his right hand, 
his dagger still in his left, and he snapped it up, driving 
the slash aside. Soulez was good, very good, and he had the 
formidable weapon back in close defensively before the 
assassin could begin to advance with his dagger.
    Respect kept Artemis Entreri back from the man, and more 
importantly, from that devastating weapon. He knew enough 
about Charon's Claw to understand that a simple nick from 
it, even one on his hand that he might suffer in a 
successful parry, would fester and grow and would likely 
kill him.
    Confidant that he'd find the right opening, the deadly 
assassin stalked the man slowly, slowly.
    Soulez attacked again with a low thrust that Entreri 
hopped back from, and a thrust high that the assassin 
ducked. Entreri slapped at the red blade with his sword and 
thrust at his opponent's center mass. It was a brilliantly 
quick routine that would have left almost any opponent at 
least shallowly stabbed.
    He never got near to hitting Entreri. Then he had to 
scramble and throw out a cut to the side to keep the 
assassin, who had somehow quick-stepped to his right while 
slapping hard at the third thrust, at bay.
    Kohrin Soulez growled in frustration as they came up 
square again, facing each other from a distance of about ten 
feet, with Entreri continuing that composed stalk. Now 
Soulez also moved, angling to intercept.
    He was dragging his back foot behind him, Entreri noted, 
keeping ready to change direction, trying to cut off the 
room and any possible escape routes.
    "You so desperately desire Charon's Claw," Soulez said 
with a chuckle, "but do you even begin to understand the 
true beauty of the weapon? Can you even guess at its power 
and its tricks, assassin?"
    Entreri continued to back and pace-back to the left, 
then back to the right-allowing Soulez to shrink down the 
battlefield. The assassin was growing impatient, and also, 
the sounds on the door indicated that the resistance in the 
hallway had come to an end. The door was magnificent and 
strong, but it would not hold out long, and Entreri wanted 
this finished before Rai-guy and the dark elves arrived.
    "You think I am an old man," Soulez remarked, and he 
came forward in a short rush, thrusting.
    Entreri picked it off and this time came forward with a 
counter of his own, rolling his sword under Soulez's blade 
and sliding it out. The assassin turned and stepped ahead, 
dagger rushing forward, but he had to disengage from the 
powerful sword too soon. The angle of the parry was forcing 
the enchanted blade dangerously close to Entreri's exposed 
hand, and without the block, he had to skitter into a quick 
retreat as Soulez slashed across.
    "I am an old man," Soulez continued, sounding undaunted, 
"but I draw strength from the sword. I am your fighting 
equal, Artemis Entreri, and with this sword you are surely 
doomed."
    He came on again, but Entreri retreated easily, sliding 
back toward the wall opposite the door. He knew he was 
running out of room, but to him that only meant that Kohrin 
Soulez was running out of room, too, and out of time.
    "Ah, yes, run back, little rabbit," Soulez taunted. "I 
know you, Artemis Entreri. I know you. Behold!" As he 
finished, he began waving the sword before him, and Entreri 
had to blink, for the blade began trailing blackness.
    No, not trailing, the assassin realized to his surprise, 
but emitting blackness. It was thick ash that held in place 
in the air in great sweeping opaque fans, altering the 
'battlefield to Kohrin Soulez's designs.
    "I know you!" Soulez cried and came forward, sweeping, 
sweeping more ash screens into the air.
    "Yes, you know me," Entreri answered calmly, and Soulez 
slowed. The timbre of Entreri's voice had reminded him of 
the power of this particular opponent. "You see me at night, 
Kohrin Soulez, in your dreams. When you look into the 
darkest shadows of those nightmares, do you see those eyes 
looking back at you?"
    As he finished, he came forward a step, tossing his 
sword slightly into the air before him, and at just the 
right angle so that the approaching sword was the only thing 
Kohrin Soulez could see.
    The room's door exploded into a thousand tiny little 
pieces.
    Soulez hardly noticed, coming forward to meet the 
attack, slapping the apparently thrusting sword on top, then 
below and to the side. So beautifully angled was Entreri's 
toss that the man's own quick parry strikes, one countering 
the spin of the other, gave Soulez the illusion that Entreri 
was still holding the other end of the blade.
    He leaped ahead, through the opaque fans of the sword's 
conjured ash, and struck hard for where he knew the assassin 
had to be.
    Soulez stiffened, feeling the sting in his back. 
Entreri's dagger cut into his flesh.
    "Do you see those eyes looking back at you from the 
shadows of your nightmares, Kohrin Soulez?" Entreri asked 
again. "Those are my eyes."
    Soulez felt the dagger pulling at his life-force. 
Entreri hadn't driven it home yet, but he didn't have to. 
The man was beaten, and he knew it. Soulez dropped Charon's 
Claw to the floor and let his arm slip down to his side.
    "You are a devil," he growled at the assassin.
    "I?" Entreri answered innocently. "Was it not Kohrin 
Soulez who would have sacrificed his daughter for the sake 
of a mere weapon?"
    As he finished, he was fast to reach down with his free 
hand and yank the black gauntlet from Soulez's right hand. 
To Soulez's surprise, the glove fell to the floor right 
beside the sword.
    From the open doorway across the room came the sound of 
a voice, melodic yet sharp, and speaking in a language that 
rolled but was oft-broken with harsh and sharp consonant 
sounds.
    Entreri backed away from the man. Soulez turned around 
to see the ash lines drifting down to the floor, showing him 
several dark elves standing in the room.

                         * * * * *

    Kohrin Soulez took a deep, steadying breath. He had 
dealt with worse than drow, he silently reminded himself. He 
had parlayed with an illithid and had survived meetings with 
the most notorious guildmasters of Calimport. Soulez focused 
on Entreri then, seeing the man engaged in conversation with 
the apparent leader of the dark elves, seeing the man 
drifting farther and farther from him.
    There, right beside him, lay his precious sword, his 
greatest possession-an artifact he would indeed protect even 
at the cost of his own daughter's life.
    Entreri moved a bit farther from him. None of the drow 
were advancing or seemed to pay Soulez any heed at all.
    Charon's Claw, so conveniently close, seemed to be 
calling to him.
    Gathering all his energy, tensing his muscles and 
calculating the most fluid course open to him, Kohrin Soulez 
dived down low, scooped the black, red-stitched gauntlet 
onto his right hand, and before he could even register that 
it didn't seem to fit him the same way, scooped up the 
powerful, enchanted sword.
    He turned toward Entreri with a growl. "Tell them that I 
will speak with their leader . . ." he started to say, but 
his words quickly became a jumble, his tone going low and 
his pace slowing, as if something was pulling at his vocal 
chords.
    Kohrin Soulez's face contorted weirdly, his features 
seeming to elongate in the direction of the sword.
    All conversation in the room stopped. All eyes turned to 
stare incredulously at Soulez.
    "T-to the Nine ... Nine Hells with y-you, Entreri!" the 
man stammered, each word punctuated by a croaking groan.
    "What is he doing?" Rai-guy demanded of Entreri.
    The assassin didn't answer, just watched in amusement as 
Kohrin Soulez continued to struggle against the power of 
Charon's Claw. His face elongated again and wisps of smoke 
began wafting up from his body. He tried to cry out, but 
only an indecipherable gurgle came forth. The smoke 
increased, and Soulez began to tremble violently, all the 
while trying to scream out.
    Nothing more than smoke poured from his mouth.
    It all seemed to stop then, and Soulez stood staring at 
Entreri and gasping.
    The man lived just long enough to put on the most 
horrified and stunned expression Artemis Entreri had ever 
seen. It was an expression that pleased Entreri greatly. 
There was something too familiar in the way in which Soulez 
had abandoned his daughter.
    Kohrin Soulez erupted in a sudden, sizzling burst. The 
skin burned off his head, leaving no more than a whitened 
skull and wide, horrified eyes.
    Charon's Claw hit the hard floor again, making more of a 
dull thump than any metallic ring. The skull-headed corpse 
of Kohrin Soulez crumpled in place.
    "Explain," Rai-guy demanded.
    Entreri walked over and, wearing a gauntlet that 
appeared identical to the one Kohrin Soulez had but not a 
match for the other since it was shaped for the same hand, 
reached down and calmly gathered up his newest prize.
    "Pray I do not go to the Nine Hells, as you surely will, 
Kohrin Soulez," the deadly assassin said to the corpse. "For 
if I see you there, I will continue to torment you 
throughout eternity."
    "Explain!" Rai-guy demanded more forcefully.
    "Explain?" Entreri echoed, turning to face the angry 
drow wizard. He gave a shrug, as if the answer seemed 
obvious. "I was prepared, and he was a fool."
    Rai-guy glared at him ominously, and Entreri only smiled 
back, hoping his amused expression would tempt the wizard to 
action.
    He held Charon's Claw now, and he wore the gauntlet that 
could catch and redirect magic.
    The world had just changed in ways that the wretched 
Rai-guy couldn't begin to understand.
    
                        Chapter 8
                   THE SIMPLE REASON

    The tower will remain. Jarlaxle has declared it," said 
Kimmuriel. "The fortress weathered our attack well enough to 
keep Dallabad operating smoothly, and without anyone outside 
of the oasis even knowing that an assault had taken place."
    "Operating," Rai-guy echoed, spitting the distasteful 
word out. He stared at Entreri, who walked beside him into 
the crystal tower. Rai-guy's look made it quite clear that 
he considered the events of this day the assassin's doing 
and planned on holding Entreri personally responsible if 
anything went wrong. "Is Bregan D'aerthe to become the 
overseers of a great toll booth, then?"
    "Dallabad will prove more valuable to Bregan D'aerthe 
than you assume," Entreri replied in his stilted use of the 
drow language. "We can keep the place separate from House 
Basadoni as far as all others are concerned. The allies we 
place out here will watch the road and gather news long 
before those in Calimport are aware. We can run many of our 
ventures from out here, farther from the prying eyes of 
Pasha Da'Daclan and his henchmen."
    "And who are these trusted allies who will operate 
Dallabad as a front for Bregan D'aerthe?" Rai-guy demanded. 
"I had thought of sending Domo."
    "Domo and his filthy kind will not leave the offal of 
the sewers," Sharlotta Vespers put in.
    "Too good a hole for them," Entreri muttered.
    "Jarlaxle has hinted that perhaps the survivors of 
Dallabad will suffice," Kimmuriel explained. "Few were 
killed."
    "Allied with a conquered guild," Rai-guy remarked with a 
sigh, shaking his head. "A guild whose fall we brought 
about."
    "A very different situation from allying with a fallen 
house of Menzoberranzan," Entreri declared, seeing the error 
in the dark elf's apparent internal analogy. Rai-guy was 
viewing things through the dark glass of Menzoberranzan, was 
considering the generational feuds and grudges that members 
of the various houses, the various families, held for each 
other.
    "We shall see," the drow wizard replied, and he motioned 
for Entreri to hang back with him as Kimmuriel, Berg'inyon, 
and Sharlotta started up the staircase to the second level 
of the magical crystalline tower.
    "I know that you desired Dallabad for personal reasons," 
Rai-guy said when the two were alone. "Perhaps it was an act 
of vengeance, or that you might wear that very gauntlet upon 
your hand and carry that same sword you now have sheathed on 
your hip. Either way, do not believe you've done anything 
here I don't understand, human."
    "Dallabad is a valuable asset," Entreri replied, not 
backing away an inch. "Jarlaxle has a place where he can 
safely construct and maintain the crystalline tower. There 
was gain here to be had by all."
    "Even to Artemis Entreri," Rai-guy remarked.
    In answer, the assassin drew forth Charon's Claw, 
presenting it horizontally to Rai-guy for inspection, 
letting the drow wizard see the beauty of the item. The 
sword had a slender, razor-edged, gleaming red blade, its 
length inscribed with designs of cloaked figures and tall 
scythes, accentuated by a black blood trough running along 
its center. Entreri opened his hand enough for the wizard to 
see the skull-bobbed pommel, with a hilt that appeared like 
whitened vertebrae. Running from it toward the crosspiece, 
the hilt was carved to resemble a backbone and rib-cage, and 
the crosspiece itself resembled a pelvic skeleton, with legs 
spread out wide and bent back toward the head, so that the 
wielder's hand fit neatly within the "bony" boundaries. All 
of the pommel, hilt and crosspiece was white, like bleached 
bones-perfectly white, except for the eye sockets of the 
skull pommel, which seemed like black pits at one moment and 
flared with red fires the next.
    "I am pleased with the prize I earned," Entreri 
admitted.
    Rai-guy stared hard at the sword, but his gaze 
inevitably kept drifting toward the other, less-obvious 
treasure: the black, red-stitched gauntlet on Entreri's 
hand.
    "Such weapons can be more of a curse than a blessing, 
human," the wizard remarked. "They are possessed of 
arrogance, and too often does that foolish pride spill over 
into the mind of the wielder, to disastrous result."
    The two locked stares, with Entreri's expression melting 
into a wry grin. "Which end would you most like to feel?" he 
asked, presenting the deadly sword closer to Rai-guy, 
matching the wizard's obvious threat with one of his own.
    Rai-guy narrowed his dark eyes, and walked away.
    Entreri held his grin as he watched the wizard move up 
the stairs, but in truth, Rai-guy's warning had struck a 
true chord to him. Indeed, Charon's Claw was strong of will-
Entreri could feel that clearly-and if he was not careful 
with the blade always, it could surely lead him to disaster 
or destroy him as it had utterly slaughtered Kohrin Soulez.
    Entreri glanced down at his own posture, reminding 
himself-a humble self-warning-not to touch any part of the 
sword with his unprotected hand.
    Even Artemis Entreri could not deny a bit of caution 
against the horrific death he had witnessed when Charon's 
Claw had burned the skin from the head of Kohrin Soulez.
    "Crenshinibon easily dominates the majority of the 
survivors," Jarlaxle announced to his principal advisors a 
short while later in an audience chamber he had crafted of 
the second level the magical tower. "To those outside of 
Dallabad Oasis, the events of this day will seem like 
nothing more than a coup within the Soulez family, followed 
by a strong alliance to the Basadoni Guild."
    "Ahdahnia Soulez agreed to remain?" Rai-guy asked.
    "She was willing to assume the mantle of Dallabad even 
before Crenshinibon invaded her thoughts," Jarlaxle 
explained.
    "Loyalty," Entreri remarked under his breath.
    Even as the assassin was offering the sarcastic jibe, 
Rai-guy admitted, "I am beginning to like the young woman 
more already."
    "But can we trust her?" Kimmuriel asked.
    "Do you trust me?" Sharlotta Vespers interjected. "It 
would seem a similar situation."
    "Except that her guildmaster was also her father," 
Kimmuriel reminded.
    "There is nothing to fear from Ahdahnia Soulez or any of 
the others who will remain at Dallabad," Jarlaxle put in, 
forcefully, thus ending the philosophical debate. "Those who 
survived and will continue to do so belong to Crenshinibon 
now, and Crenshinibon belongs to me."
    Entreri didn't miss the doubting look that flashed 
briefly across Rai-guy's face at the moment of Jarlaxle's 
final proclamation, and in truth, he, too, wondered if the 
mercenary leader wasn't a bit confused as to who owned whom.
    "Kohrin Soulez's soldiers will not betray us," Jarlaxle 
went on with all confidence. "Nor will they even remember 
the events of this day, but rather, they will accept the 
story we tell them to put forth as truth, if that is what we 
choose. Dallabad Oasis belongs to Bregan D'aerthe now as 
surely as if we had installed an army of dark elves here to 
facilitate the operations."
    "And you trust the woman Ahdahnia to lead, though we 
just murdered her father?" Kimmuriel said more than asked.
    "Her father was killed by his obsession with that sword; 
so she told me herself," Jarlaxle replied, and as he spoke, 
all gazes turned to regard the weapon hanging easily at 
Entreri's belt. Rai-guy, in particular, kept his dangerous 
glare upon Entreri, as if silently reiterating the warnings 
of their last conversation.
    The wizard meant those warnings to be a threat to 
Entreri, a reminder to the assassin that he, Rai-guy, would 
be watching Entreri's every move much more closely now, a 
reminder that he believed that the assassin had, in effect, 
used Bregan D'aerthe for the sake of his personal gain-a 
very dangerous practice.
    "You do not like this," Kimmuriel remarked to Rai-guy 
when the two were back in Calimport.
    Jarlaxle had remained behind at Dallabad Oasis, securing 
the remnants of Kohrin Soulez's forces and explaining the 
slight shift in direction that Ahdahnia Soulez should now 
undertake.
    "How could I?" Rai-guy responded. "Every day, it seems 
that our purpose in coming to the surface has expanded. I 
had thought that we would be back in Menzoberranzan by this 
time, yet our footpads have tightened on the stone."
    "On the sand," Kimmuriel corrected, in a tone that 
showed he, too, was not overly pleased by the continuing 
expansion of Bregan D'aerthe's surface ventures.
    Originally, Jarlaxle had shared plans to come to the 
surface and establish a base of contacts, humans mostly, who 
would serve as profiteering front men for the trading 
transactions of the mercenary drow band. Though he had never 
specified the details, Jarlaxle's original explanation had 
made the two believe that their time on the surface would be 
quite limited.
    But now they had expanded, had even constructed a 
physical structure, with more apparently planned, and had 
added a second base to the Basadoni conquest. Worse than 
that, both dark elves were thinking, though not openly 
saying, perhaps there was something even more behind 
Jarlaxle's continuing shift of attitude. Perhaps the 
mercenary leader had erred in taking a certain relic from 
the renegade Do'Urden.
    "Jarlaxle seems to have taken a liking to the surface," 
Kimmuriel went on. "We all knew that he had tired somewhat 
of the continuing struggles within our homeland, but perhaps 
we underestimated the extent of that weariness."
    "Perhaps," Rai-guy replied. "Or perhaps our friend 
merely needs to be reminded that this is not our place."
    Kimmuriel stared at him hard, his expression clearly 
asking how one might "remind" the great Jarlaxle of 
anything.
    "Start at the edges," Rai-guy answered, echoing one of 
Jarlaxle's favorite sayings, and favorite tactics for Bregan 
D'aerthe. Whenever the mercenary band went into infiltration 
or conquest mode, they started gnawing at the edges of their 
opponent-circling the perimeter and chewing, chewing-as they 
continued their ever-tightening ring. "Has Morik yet 
delivered the jewels?"

                         * * * * *

    There it lay before him, in all its wicked splendor.
    Artemis Entreri stared long and hard at Charon's Claw, 
the fingers on both of his unprotected hands rubbing in 
against his moist palms. Part of him wanted to reach out and 
grasp the sword, to effect now the battle that he knew would 
soon enough be fought between his own willpower and that of 
the sentient weapon. If he won that battle, the sword would 
truly be his, but if he lost....
    He recalled, and vividly, the last horrible moments of 
Kohrin Soulez's miserable life.
    It was exactly that life, though, that so propelled 
Entreri in this seemingly suicidal direction. He would not 
be as Soulez had been. He would not allow himself to be a 
prisoner to the sword, a man trapped in a box of his own 
making. No, he would be the master, or he would be dead.
    But still, that horrific death....
    Entreri started to reach for the sword, steeling his 
willpower against the expected onslaught.
    He heard movement in the hallway outside his room.
    He had the glove on in a moment and scooped up the sword 
in his right hand, moving it to its sheath on his hip in one 
fluid movement even as the door to his private chambers-if 
any chambers for a human among Bregan D'aerthe could be 
considered private-swung open.
    "Come," instructed Kimmuriel Oblodra, and he turned and 
started away.
    Entreri didn't move, and as soon as the drow realized 
it, he turned back. Kimmuriel had a quizzical look upon his 
handsome, angular face. That look of curiosity soon turned 
to one of menace, though, as he considered the standing, but 
hardly moving assassin.
    "You have a most excellent weapon now," Kimmuriel 
remarked. "One to greatly complement your nasty dagger. Fear 
not. Neither Rai-guy nor I have underestimated the value of 
that gauntlet you seem to keep forever upon your right hand. 
We know its powers, Artemis Entreri, and we know how to 
defeat it."
    Entreri continued to stare, unblinking, at the drow 
psionicist. A bluff? Or had resourceful Kimmuriel and Rai-
guy indeed found some way around the magic-negating 
gauntlet? A wry smile found its way onto Entreri's face, a 
look bolstered by the assassin's complete confidence that 
whatever secret Kimmuriel might now be hinting of would do 
the drow little good in their immediate situation. Entreri 
knew, and his look made Kimmuriel aware as well, that he 
could cross the room then and there, easily defeat any of 
Kimmuriel's psionically created defenses with the gauntlet, 
and run him through with the mighty sword.
    If the drow, so cool and so powerful, was bothered or 
worried at all, he did a fine job of masking it. But so did 
Entreri.
    "There is work to be done in Luskan," Kimmuriel remarked 
at length. "Our friend Morik still has not delivered the 
required jewels."
    "I am to go and serve as messenger again?" Entreri asked 
sarcastically.
    "No message for Morik this time," Kimmuriel said coldly. 
"He has failed us."
    The finality of that statement struck Entreri 
profoundly, but he managed to hide his surprise until 
Kimmuriel had turned around and started away once more. The 
assassin understood clearly, of course, that Kimmuriel had, 
in effect, just told him to got to Luskan and murder Morik. 
The request did not seem so odd, given that Morik apparently 
was not living up to Bregan D'aerthe's expectations. Still, 
it seemed out of place to Entreri that Jarlaxle would so 
willingly and easily cut his only thread to a market as 
promising as Luskan without even asking for some explanation 
from the tricky little rogue. Jarlaxle had been acting 
strange, to be sure, but was he as confused as that?
    It occurred to Entreri even as he started after 
Kimmuriel that perhaps this assassination had nothing to do 
with Jarlaxle.
    His feelings, and fears, were only strengthened when he 
entered the small room. He came in not far behind Kimmuriel 
but found Rai-guy, and Rai-guy alone, waiting for him.
    "Monk has failed us yet again," the wizard stated 
immediately. "There can be no further chances for him. He 
knows too much of us, and with such an obvious lack of 
loyalty, well, what are we to do? Go to Luskan and eliminate 
him. A simple task. We care not for the jewels. If he has 
them, spend them as you will. Just bring me Morik's heart." 
As he finished, he stepped aside, clearing the way to a 
magical portal he had woven, the blurry image inside showing 
Entreri the alleyway beside Morik's building.
    "You will need to remove the gauntlet before you stride 
through," Kimmuriel remarked, slyly enough for Entreri to 
wonder if perhaps this whole set-up was but a ruse to force 
him into an unguarded position. Of course, the resourceful 
assassin had considered that very thing on the walk over, so 
he only chuckled at Kimmuriel, walked up to the portal, and 
stepped right through.
    He was in Luskan now, and he looked back to see the 
magical portal closing behind him. Kimmuriel and Rai-guy 
were looking at him with expressions that showed everything 
from confusion to anger to intrigue.
    Entreri held up his gloved hand in a mocking wave as the 
pair faded out of sight. He knew they were wondering how he 
could exercise such control over the magic-dispelling 
gauntlet. They were trying to get a feel for its power and 
its limitations, something that even Entreri had not yet 
figured out. He certainly didn't mean to offer any clues to 
his quiet adversaries, thus he had changed from the real 
magical gauntlet to the decoy that had so fooled Soulez.
    When the portal closed he started out of the alleyway, 
changing once again to the real gauntlet and dropping the 
fake one into a small sack concealed under the folds of his 
cloak at the back of his belt.
    He went to Morik's room first and found that the little 
thief had not added any further security traps or tricks. 
That surprised Entreri, for if Morik was again disappointing 
his merciless leaders he should have been expecting company. 
Furthermore, the thief obviously had not fled the small 
apartment.
    Not content to sit and wait, Entreri went back out onto 
Luskan's streets, making his way from tavern to tavern, from 
corner to corner. A few beggars approached him, but he sent 
them away with a glare. One pickpocket actually went for the 
purse he had secured to his belt on the right side. Entreri 
left him sitting in the gutter, his wrist shattered by a 
simple twist of the assassin's hand.
    Sometime later, and thinking that it was about time for 
him to return to Morik's abode, the assassin came into an 
establishment on Half-Moon Street known as the Cutlass. The 
place was nearly empty, with a portly barkeep rubbing away 
at the dirty bar and a skinny little man sitting across from 
him, chattering away. Another figure among the few patrons 
remaining in the place caught Entreri's attention. The man 
was sitting comfortably and quietly at the far left end of 
the bar with his back against the wall and the hood of his 
weathered cloak pulled over his head. He appeared to be 
sleeping, judging from his rhythmic breathing, the hunch of 
his shoulders, and the loll of his head, but Entreri caught 
a few tell-tale signs-like the fact that the rolling head 
kept angling to give the supposedly sleeping man a fine view 
of all around him-that told him otherwise.
    The assassin didn't miss the slight tensing of the 
shoulders when that angle revealed his presence to the 
supposedly sleeping man.
    Entreri strode up to the bar, right beside the nervous, 
skinny little man, who said, "Arumn's done serving for the 
night."
    Entreri glanced over, his dark eyes taking a full 
measure of this one. "My gold is not good enough for you?" 
he asked the barkeep, turning back slowly to consider the 
portly man behind the bar.
    Entreri noted that the barkeep took a long, good measure 
of him. He saw respect coming into Arumn's eyes. He wasn't 
surprised. This barkeep, like so many others, survived 
primarily by understanding his clientele. Entreri was doing 
little to hide the truth of his skills in his graceful, 
solid movements. The man pretending to sleep at the bar said 
nothing, and neither did the nervous one.
    "Ho, Josi's just puffing out his chest, is all," the 
bar-keep, Arumn, remarked, "though I had planned on closing 
her up early. Not many looking for drink this night."
    Satisfied with that, Entreri glanced to the left, to the 
compact form of the man pretending to be asleep. "Two honey 
meads," he said, dropping a couple of shining gold coins on 
the bar, ten times the cost of the drinks.
    The assassin continued to watch the "sleeper," hardly 
paying any heed at all to Arumn or nervous little Josi, who 
was constantly shifting at his other side. Josi even asked 
Entreri his name, but the assassin ignored him. He just 
continued to stare, taking a measure, studying every 
movement and playing them against what he already knew of 
Morik.
    He turned back when he heard the clink of glass on the 
bar. He scooped up one drink in his gloved right hand, 
bringing the dark liquid to his lips, while he grasped the 
second glass in his left hand, and instead of lifting it, 
just sent it sliding fast down the bar, angled slightly for 
the outer lip, perfectly set to dump onto the supposedly-
sleeping man's lap.
    The barkeep cried out in surprise. Josi Puddles jumped 
to his feet, and even started toward Entreri, who simply 
ignored him.
    The assassin's smile widened when Morik, and it was 
indeed Morik, reached up at the last moment and caught the 
mead-filled missile, bringing his hand back and wide to 
absorb the shock of the catch and to make sure that any 
liquid that did splash over did not spill on him.
    Entreri slid off the barstool, took up his glass of mead 
and motioned for Morik to go with him outside. He had barely 
taken a step, though, when he sensed a movement toward his 
arm. He turned back to see Josi Puddles reaching for him.
    "No, ye don't!" the skinny man remarked. "Ye ain't 
leavin' with Arumn's glasses."
    Entreri watched the hand coming toward him and lifted 
his gaze to look Josi Puddles straight in the eye, to let 
the man know, with just a look and just that awful, calm and 
deadly demeanor, that if he so much as brushed Entreri's arm 
with his hand, he would surely pay for it with his life.
    "No, ye ..." Josi started to say again, but his voice 
failed him and his hand stopped moving. He knew. Defeated, 
the skinny man sank back against the bar.
    "The gold should more than pay for the glasses," Entreri 
remarked to the barkeep, and Arumn, too, seemed quite 
unnerved.
    The assassin headed for the door, taking some pleasure 
in hearing the barkeep quietly scolding Josi for being so 
stupid.
    The street was quiet outside, and dark, and Entreri 
could sense the uneasiness in Morik. He could see it in the 
man's cautious stance and in the way his eyes darted about.
    "I have the jewels," Morik was quick to announce. He 
started in the direction of his apartment, and Entreri 
followed.
    The assassin thought it interesting that Morik presented 
him with the jewels-and the size of the pouch made Entreri 
believe that the thief had certainly met his master's 
expectations-as soon as they entered the darkened room. If 
Morik had them, why hadn't he simply given them over on 
time? Certainly Morik, no fool, understood the volatile and 
extremely dangerous nature of his partners.
    "I wondered when I would be called upon," Morik said, 
obviously trying to appear completely calm. "I have had them 
since the day after you left but have gotten no word from 
Rai-guy or Kimmuriel."
    Entreri nodded, but showed no surprise-and in truth, 
when he thought about it, the assassin wasn't really 
surprised at all. These were drow, after all. They killed 
when convenient, killed when they felt like it. Perhaps they 
had sent Entreri here to slay Morik in the hopes that Morik 
would prove the stronger. Perhaps it didn't matter to them 
either way. They would merely enjoy the spectacle of it.
    Or perhaps Rai-guy and Kimmuriel were anxious to clip 
away at the entrenchment that Jarlaxle was obviously setting 
up for Bregan D'aerthe. Kill Morik and any others like him, 
sever all ties, and go home. He lifted his black gauntlet 
into the air, seeking any magical emanations. He detected 
some upon Morik and some other minor dweomers in and around 
the room, but nothing that seemed to him to be any kind of 
scrying spell. It wasn't that he could have done anything 
about any spells or psionics divining the area, anyway. 
Entreri had come to understand already that the gauntlet 
could only grab at spells directed at him specifically. In 
truth, the thing was really quite limited. He might catch 
one of Rai-guy's lightning bolts and hurl it back at the 
wizard, but if Rai-guy filled the room with a fireball....
    "What are you doing?" Morik asked the distracted 
assassin.
    "Get out of here," Entreri instructed. "Out of this 
building and out of the city altogether, for a short while 
at least." The obviously puzzled Morik just stared at him. 
"Did you not hear me?"
    That order comes from Jarlaxle?" Morik asked, seeming 
quite confused. "Does he fear that I have been discovered, 
that he, by association, has been somehow implicated?"
    "I tell you to begone, Morik," Entreri answered. "I, and 
not Jarlaxle, nor, certainly, Rai-guy or Kimmuriel."
    "Do I threaten you?" asked Morik. "Am I somehow impeding 
your ascension within the guild?"
    "Are you that much a fool?" Entreri replied.
    "I have been promised a king's treasure!" Morik 
protested. "The only reason I agreed-"
    "Was because you had no choice," Entreri interrupted. "I 
know that to be true, Morik. Perhaps that lack of choice is 
the only thing that saves you now."
    Morik was shaking his head, obviously upset and 
unconvinced. "Luskan is my home," he started to say.
    Charon's Claw came out in a red and black flash. Entreri 
swiped down beside Morik, left and right, then slashed 
across right above the man's head. The sword left a trail of 
black ash with all three swipes so that Entreri had Morik 
practically boxed in by the opaque walls. So quickly had he 
struck, the dazed and dazzled rogue hadn't even had a chance 
to draw his weapon.
    "I was not sent to collect the jewels or even to scold 
and warn you, fool," Entreri said coldly-so very, very 
coldly. "I was sent to kill you."
    "But.. ."
    "You have no idea the level of evil with which you have 
allied yourself," the assassin went on. "Flee this place- 
this building and this city. Run for all your life, fool 
Morik. They will not look for you if they cannot find you 
easily- you are not worth their trouble. So run away, beyond 
their vision and take hope that you are free of them."
    Morik stood there, encapsulated by the walls of black 
ash that still magically hung in the air, his jaw hanging 
open in complete astonishment. He looked left and right, 
just a bit, and swallowed hard, making it clear to Entreri 
that he had just then come to realize how overmatched he 
truly was. Despite the assassin's previous visit, easily 
getting through all of Morik's traps, it had taken this 
display of brutal swordsmanship to show Morik the deadly 
truth of Artemis Entreri.
    "Why would they . . . ?" Morik dared to ask. "I am an 
ally, eyes for Bregan D'aerthe in the northland. Jarlaxle 
himself instructed me to ..." He stopped at the sound of 
Entreri's laughter.
    "You are iblith," Entreri explained. "Offal. Not of the 
drow. That alone makes you no more than a plaything to them. 
They will kill you-I am to kill you here and now by their 
very words."
    "Yet you defy them," Morik said, and it wasn't clear 
from his tone if he had come around yet truly to believe 
Entreri or not.
    "You are thinking that this is some test of your 
loyalty," Entreri correctly guessed, shaking his head with 
every word. "The drow do not test loyalty, Morik, because 
they expect none. With them, there is only the 
predictability of actions based in simple fear."
    "Yet you are showing yourself disloyal by letting me 
go," Morik remarked. "We are not friends, with no debt and 
little contact between us. Why do you tell me this?"
    Entreri leaned back and considered that question more 
deeply than Morik could have expected, allowing the thief's 
recognition of illogic to resonate in his thoughts. For 
surely Entreri's actions here made little logical sense. He 
could have been done with his business and back on his way 
to Calimport, without any real threat to him. By contrast, 
and by all logical reasoning, there would be little gain for 
Entreri in letting Morik walk away.
    Why this time? the assassin asked himself. He had killed 
so many, and often in situations similar to this, often at 
the behest of a guildmaster seeking to punish an impudent or 
threatening underling. He had followed orders to kill people 
whose offense had never been made known to him, people, 
perhaps, similar to Morik, who had truly committed no 
offense at all.
    No, Artemis Entreri couldn't quite bring himself to 
accept that last thought. His killings, every one, had been 
committed against people associated with the underworld, or 
against misinformed do-gooders who had somehow become 
entangled in the wrong mess, impeding the assassin's 
progress. Even Drizzt Do'Urden, that paladin in drow skin, 
had named himself as Entreri's enemy by preventing the 
assassin from retrieving Regis the halfling and the magical 
ruby pendant the little fool had stolen from Pasha Pook. It 
had taken years, but to Entreri, killing Drizzt Do'Urden had 
been the justified culmination of the drow's unwanted and 
immoral interference. In Entreri's mind and in his heart, 
those who had died at his hands had played the great game, 
had tossed aside their innocence in pursuit of power or 
material gain.
    In Entreri's mind, everyone he had killed had indeed 
deserved it, because he was a killer among killers, a 
survivor in a brutal game that would not allow it to be any 
other way.
    "Why?" Morik asked again, drawing Entreri from his 
contemplation.
    The assassin stared at the rogue for a moment, and 
offered a quick and simple answer to a question too complex 
for him to sort out properly, an answer that rang of more 
truth than Artemis Entreri even realized.
    "Because I hate drow more than I hate humans."
    

    
    
                        Part 2

                  WHICH THE TOOL?
                 WHICH THE MASTER?
    
    Entreri again teamed with Jarlaxle?
    What an odd pairing that seems, and to some (and 
initially to me, as well) a vision of the most unsettling 
nightmare imaginable. There is no one in all the world, I 
believe, more crafty and ingenious than Jarlaxle of Bregan 
D'aerthe, the consummate opportunist, a wily leader who can 
craft a kingdom out of the dung of rothe. Jarlaxle, who 
thrived in the matriarchal society of Menzoberranzan as 
completely as any Matron Mother.
    Jarlaxle of mystery, who knew my father, who claims a 
past friendship with Zaknafein.
    How could a drow who befriended Zaknafein ally with 
Artemis Entreri? At quick glance, the notion seems 
incongruous, even preposterous. And yet, I do believe 
Jarlaxle's claims of the former and know the latter to be 
true-for the second time.
    Professionally, I see no mystery in the union. Entreri 
has ever preferred a position of the shadows, serving as the 
weapon of a high-paying master-no, not master. I doubt that 
Artemis Entreri has ever known a master. Rather, even in the 
service of the guilds, he worked as a sword for hire. 
Certainly such a skilled mercenary could find a place within 
Bregan D'aerthe, especially since they've come to the 
surface and likely need humans to front and cover their true 
identity. For Jarlaxle, therefore, the alliance with Entreri 
is certainly a convenient thing.
    But there is something else, something more, between 
them. I know this from the way Jarlaxle spoke of the man, 
and from the simple fact that the mercenary leader went so 
far out of his way to arrange the last fight between me and 
Entreri. It was for the sake of Entreri's state of mind, no 
less, and certainly as no favor to me, and as no mere source 
of entertainment for Jarlaxle. He cares for Entreri as a 
friend might, even as he values the assassin's multitude of 
skills.
    There lies the incongruity.
    For though Entreri and Jarlaxle have complementary 
professional skills, they do not seem well matched in 
temperament or in moral standards-two essentials, it would 
seem, for any successful friendship.
    Or perhaps not.
    Jarlaxle's heart is far more generous than that of 
Artemis Entreri. The mercenary can be brutal, of course, but 
not randomly so. Practicality guides his moves, for his eye 
is ever on the potential gain, but even in that light of 
efficient pragmatism, Jarlaxle's heart often overrules his 
lust for profit. Many times has he allowed my escape, for 
example, when bringing my head to Matron Malice or Matron 
Baenre would have brought him great gain. Is Artemis Entreri 
similarly possessed of such generosity?
    Not at all.
    In fact, I suspect that if Entreri knew that Jarlaxle 
had saved me from my apparent death in the tower, he would 
have first tried to kill me and turned his anger upon 
Jarlaxle. Such a battle might well yet occur, and if it 
does, I believe that Artemis Entreri will learn that he is 
badly overmatched. Not by Jarlaxle individually, though the 
mercenary leader is crafty and reputedly a fine warrior in 
his own right, but by the pragmatic Jarlaxle's many, many 
deadly allies.
    Therein lies the essence of the mercenary leader's 
interest in, and control of, Artemis Entreri. Jarlaxle sees 
the man's value and does not fear him, because what Jarlaxle 
has perfected, and what Entreri is sorely lacking in, is the 
ability to build an interdependent organization. Entreri 
won't attempt to kill Jarlaxle because Entreri will need 
Jarlaxle.
    Jarlaxle will make certain of that. He weaves his web 
all around him. It is a network that is always mutually 
beneficial, a network in which all security-against Bregan 
D'aerthe's many dangerous rivals-inevitably depends upon the 
controlling and calming influence that is Jarlaxle. He is 
the ultimate consensus builder, the purest of diplomats, 
while Entreri is a loner, a man who must dominate all around 
him.
    Jarlaxle coerces. Entreri controls.
    But with Jarlaxle, Entreri will never find any level of 
control. The mercenary leader is too entrenched and too 
intelligent for that.
    And yet, I believe that their alliance will hold, and 
their friendship will grow. Certainly there will be 
conflicts and perhaps very dangerous ones for both parties. 
Perhaps Entreri has already learned the truth of my 
departure and has killed Jarlaxle or died trying. But the 
longer the alliance holds, the stronger it will become, the 
more entrenched in friendship.
    I say this because I believe that, in the end, 
Jarlaxle's philosophy will win out. Artemis Entreri is the 
one of this duo who is limited by fault. His desire for 
absolute control is fueled by his inability to trust. While 
that desire has led him to become as fine a fighter as I 
have ever known, it has also led him to an existence that 
even he is beginning to recognize as empty.
    Professionally, Jarlaxle offers Artemis Entreri 
security, a base for his efforts, while Entreri gives 
Jarlaxle and all of Bregan D'aerthe a clear connection to 
the surface world.
    But personally, Jarlaxle offers even more to Entreri, 
offers him a chance to finally break out of the role that he 
has assumed as a solitary creature. I remember Entreri upon 
our departure from Menzoberranzan, where we were both 
imprisoned, each in his own way. He was with Bregan D'aerthe 
then as well, but down in that city, Artemis Entreri looked 
into a dark and empty mirror that he did not like. Why, 
then, is he now returned to Jarlaxle's side?
    It is a testament to the charm that is Jarlaxle, the 
intuitive understanding that that most clever of dark elves 
holds for creating desire and alliance. The mere fact that 
Entreri is apparently with Jarlaxle once again tells me that 
the mercenary leader is already winning the inevitable clash 
between their basic philosophies, their temperament and 
moral standards. Though Entreri does not yet understand it, 
I am sure, Jarlaxle will strengthen him more by example than 
by alliance.
    Perhaps with Jarlaxle's help, Artemis Entreri will find 
his way out of his current empty existence. Or perhaps 
Jarlaxle will eventually kill him. Either way, the world 
will be a better place, I think.
    -Drizzt Do'Urden
    
                        Chapter 9
                 CONTROL AND COOPERATION

    The Copper Ante was fairly busy this evening, with 
halflings mostly crowding around tables, rolling bones or 
playing other games of chance and all whispering about the 
recent events in and around the city. Every one of them 
spoke quietly, though, for among the few humans in the 
tavern that night were two rather striking figures, 
operatives central to the recent tumultuous events.
    Sharlotta Vespers was very aware of the many stares 
directed her way, and she knew that many of these halflings 
were secret allies of her companion this night. She had 
almost refused Entreri's invitation for her to come and meet 
with him privately here, in the house of Dwahvel 
Tiggerwillies, but she recognized the value of the place. 
The Copper Ante was beyond the prying eyes of Rai-guy and 
Kimmuriel, a condition necessary, so Entreri had said, for 
any meeting.
    "I can't believe you openly walk Calimport's streets 
with that sword," Sharlotta remarked quietly.
    "It is rather distinctive," Entreri admitted, but there 
wasn't the slightest hint of alarm in his voice.
    "It's a well-known blade," Sharlotta answered. "Anyone 
who knew of Kohrin Soulez and Dallabad knows he would never 
willingly part with it, yet here you are, showing it to all 
who would glance your way. One might think that a clear 
connection between the downfall of Dallabad and House 
Basadoni."
    "How so?" Entreri asked, and he took pleasure indeed at 
the look of sheer exasperation that washed over Sharlotta.
    "Kohrin is dead and Artemis Entreri is wearing his 
sword," Sharlotta remarked dryly.
    "He is dead, and thus the sword is no longer of any use 
to him," Entreri flippantly remarked. "On the streets, it is 
understood that he was killed in a coup by his very own 
daughter, who, by all rumors, had no desire to be captured 
by Charon's Claw as was Kohrin."
    "Thus it falls to the hands of Artemis Entreri?" 
Sharlotta asked incredulously.
    "It has been hinted that Kohrin's refusal to sell at the 
offered price-an absurd amount of gold-was the very catalyst 
for the coup," Entreri went on, leaning back comfortably in 
his chair. "When Ahdahnia learned that he refused the 
transaction...."
    "Impossible," Sharlotta breathed, shaking her head. "Do 
you really expect that tale to be believed?"
    Entreri smiled wryly. "The words of Sha'lazzi Ozoule are 
often believed," he remarked. "Inquiries to purchase the 
sword were made through Sha'lazzi only days before the coup 
at Dallabad."
    That set Sharlotta back in her chair as she tried hard 
to digest and sort through all of the information. On the 
streets, it was indeed being said that Kohrin had been 
killed in a coup-Jarlaxle's domination of the remaining 
Dallabad forces through use of the Crystal Shard had 
provided consistency in all of the reports coming out of the 
oasis. As long as Crenshinibon's dominance held out, there 
was no evidence at all to reveal the truth of the assault on 
Dallabad. If Entreri had spoken truly-and Sharlotta had no 
reason to think that he had not-the refusal by Kohrin to 
sell Charon's Claw would be linked not to any theft or any 
attack by House Basadoni, but rather as one of the catalysts 
for the coup.
    Sharlotta stared hard at Entreri, her expression a 
mixture of anger and admiration. He had covered every 
possible aspect of his procurement of the coveted sword 
beforehand. Sharlotta, given her understanding of Entreri's 
relationship with the dangerous Rai-guy and Kimmuriel, held 
no doubts that Entreri had helped guide the dark elves to 
Dallabad specifically with the intent of collecting that 
very sword.
    "You weave a web with many layers," the woman remarked.
    "I have been around dark elves for far too long," 
Entreri casually replied.
    "But you walk the very edge of disaster," said 
Sharlotta. "Many of the guilds had already linked the 
downfall of Dallabad with House Basadoni, and now you openly 
parade about with Charon's Claw. The other rumors are 
plausible, of course, but your actions do little to distance 
us from the assassination of Kohrin Soulez."
    "Where stands Pasha Da'Daclan or Pasha Wroning?" Entreri 
asked, feigning concern.
    "Da'Daclan is cautious and making no overt moves," 
Sharlotta replied. Entreri held his grin private at her 
earnest tones, for she had obviously taken his bait. "He is 
far from pleased with the situation, though, and the strong 
inferences concerning Dallabad."
    "As they all will be," Entreri reasoned. "Unless 
Jarlaxle grows too bold with his construction of crystalline 
towers." Again he spoke with dramatically serious tones, 
more to measure Sharlotta's reaction than to convey any 
information the woman didn't already know. He did note a 
slight tremor in her lip. Frustration? Fear? Disgust? 
Entreri knew that Rai-guy and Kimmuriel were not happy with 
Jarlaxle, and that the two independent-minded lieutenants, 
perhaps, were thinking that the influences of the sentient 
and dominating Crystal Shard might be causing some serious 
problems. They had sent him after Morik to weaken the 
guild's presence on the surface, obviously, but why, then, 
was Sharlotta still alive? Had she thrown in with the two 
potential usurpers to Bregan D'aerthe's dark throne?
    "The deed is completed now and cannot be undone," 
Entreri remarked. "Indeed I did desire Charon's Claw-what 
warrior would not?-but with Sha'lazzi Ozoule spreading his 
tales of a generous offer to buy being refused by Kohrin, 
and with Ahdahnia Soulez speaking openly of her disdain for 
her father's choices, particularly concerning the sword, it 
all plays to the advantage of Bregan D'aerthe and our work 
here. Jarlaxle needed a haven to construct the tower, and we 
gave him one. Bregan D'aerthe now has eyes beyond the city, 
where we might watch all mounting threats that are outside 
of our immediate jurisdiction. Everyone wins."
    "And Entreri gets the sword," Sharlotta remarked.
    "Everyone wins," the assassin said again.
    "Until we step too far, and too boldly, and all the 
world unites against us," said Sharlotta.
    "Jarlaxle has lived on such a precipice for centuries," 
Entreri replied. "He has not stumbled over yet."
    Sharlotta started to respond but held her words at the 
last moment. Entreri knew them anyway, words taken from her 
by the quick give and take of the conversation, the mounting 
excitement and momentum bringing a rare unguarded moment. 
She was about to remark that never in all those centuries 
had Jarlaxle possessed Crenshinibon, the clear inference 
being that never in those centuries had Crenshinibon 
possessed Jarlaxle.
    "Say nothing of our concerns to Rai-guy and Kimmuriel," 
Entreri bade her. "They are fearful enough, and frightened 
creatures, even drow, can make serious errors. You and I 
will watch from afar-perhaps there is a way out of this if 
it comes to an internal war."
    Sharlotta nodded, and rightly took Entreri's tone as a 
dismissal. She rose, nodded again, and moved out of the 
room.
    Entreri didn't believe that nod for a moment. He knew 
the woman would likely go running right to Rai-guy and 
Kimmuriel, attempting to bend this conversation her way. But 
that was the point of it all, was it not? Entreri had just 
forced Sharlotta's hand, forced her to show her true 
alliances in this ever-widening web of intrigue. Certainly 
his last claim, that there might be a way out for the two of 
them, would ring hollow to Sharlotta, who knew him well, and 
knew well that he would never bother to take her along with 
him on any escape from Bregan D'aerthe. He'd put a dagger in 
her back as surely as he had killed any previous supposed 
partners, from Tallan Belmer to Rassiter the wererat. 
Sharlotta knew that, and Entreri knew she knew it.
    It did occur to the assassin that perhaps Sharlotta, 
Rai-guy, and Kimmuriel were correct in their apparent 
assessment that Crenshinibon was having unfavorable 
influences on Jarlaxle, that the artifact was leading the 
cunning mercenary in a direction that could spell doom for 
Bregan D'aerthe's surface ambitions. That hardly mattered to 
Entreri, of course, who wasn't sure the retreat of the dark 
elves back to Menzoberranzan would be such a bad thing. What 
was more important, to Entreri's thinking, were the dynamics 
of his relationship with the principles of the mercenary 
band. Rai-guy and Kimmuriel were notorious racists and hated 
him as they hated anyone who was not drow-more, even, 
because Entreri's skill and survival instincts threatened 
them profoundly. Without Jarlaxle's protection, it wasn't 
hard for Artemis Entreri to envision his fate. While he felt 
somewhat bolstered by his acquisition of Charon's Claw, the 
bane of wizards, he hardly thought it evened the odds in any 
battle he might find with the duo of the drow wizard-cleric 
and psionicist. If those two wound up in command of Bregan 
D'aerthe, with over a hundred drow warriors at their 
immediate disposal...
    Entreri didn't like the odds at all.
    He knew, without doubt, that Jarlaxle's fall would 
almost immediately precede his own.
    Kimmuriel walked along the tunnels beneath Dallabad with 
some measure of trepidation. This was a haszakkin, after 
all, an illithid-unpredictable and deadly. Still, the drow 
had come alone, had deceived Rai-guy that he might do so.
    There were some things that psionicists alone could 
understand and appreciate.
    Around a sudden bend in the tunnel, Kimmuriel came upon 
the bulbous-headed creature, sitting calmly on a rock 
against the back end of an alcove. Yharaskrik's eyes were 
closed, but he was awake, Kimmuriel knew, for he could feel 
the mental energy beaming out from the creature.
    I chose well in siding with Bregan D'aerthe, it would 
seem, the illithid telepathically remarked. There was never 
any doubt.
    The drow are stronger than the humans, Kimmuriel agreed, 
using the illithid's telepathic link to impart his exact 
thoughts.
    Stronger than these humans, Yharaskrik corrected.
    Kimmuriel bowed, figuring to let the matter drop there, 
but Yharaskrik had more to discuss.
    Stronger than Kohrin Soulez, the illithid went on. 
Crippled, he was, by his obsession with a particular magical 
item.
    That brought some understanding to Kimmuriel, some 
logical connection between the mind flayer and the pitiful 
gang of Dallabad Oasis. Why would a creature as great as 
Yharaskrik waste its time with such inferior beings, after 
all?
    You were sent to observe the powerful sword and the 
gauntlet, he reasoned.
    We wish to understand that which can sometimes defeat 
our attacks, Yharaskrik freely admitted. Yet neither item is 
without limitations. Neither is as powerful as Kohrin Soulez 
believed, or your attack would never have succeeded.
    We have discerned as much, Kimmuriel agreed.
    My time with Kohrin Soulez was nearing its end, said 
Yharaskrik, a clear inference that the illithid- creatures 
known as among the most meticulous of all in the multiverse-
believed that it had learned every secret of the sword and 
gauntlet.
    The human, Artemis Entreri, confiscated both the 
gauntlet and Charon's Claw, the drow psionicist explained.
    That was his intent, of course, the illithid replied. He 
fears you and wisely so. You are strong in will, Kimmuriel 
of House Oblodra.
    The drow bowed again.
    Respect the sword named Charon's Claw, and even more so 
the gauntlet the human now wears on his hand. With these, he 
can turn your powers back against you if you are not 
careful.
    Kimmuriel imparted his assurances that Artemis Entreri 
and his dangerous new weapon would be closely watched. Are 
your days of watching the paired items now ended? he asked 
as he finished.
    Perhaps, Yharaskrik answered.
    Or perhaps Bregan D'aerthe could find a place suited to 
your special talents, Kimmuriel offered. He didn't think it 
would be hard to persuade Jarlaxle of such an arrangement. 
Dark elves often allied with illithids in the Underdark.
    Yharaskrik's pause was telling to the perceptive and 
intelligent drow. "You have a better offer?" Kimmuriel asked 
aloud, and with a chuckle.
    Better it would be if I remained to the side of events, 
unknown to Bregan D'aerthe other than to Kimmuriel Oblodra, 
Yharaskrik answered in all seriousness.
    The response at first confused Kimmuriel and made him 
think that the illithid feared that Bregan D'aerthe would 
side with Entreri and Charon's Claw if any such conflict 
arose between Yharaskrik and Entreri, but before he could 
begin to offer his assurances against that, the illithid 
imparted a clear image to him, one of a crystalline tower 
shining in the sun above the palm trees of Dallabad Oasis.
    The towers?" Kimmuriel asked aloud. They are just 
manifestations of Crenshinibon."
    Crenshinibon. The word came to Kimmuriel with a sense of 
urgency and great importance.
    It is an artifact, the drow telepathically explained. A 
new toy for Jarlaxle's collection.
    Not so, came Yharaskrik's response. Much more than that, 
I fear, as should you.
    Kimmuriel narrowed his red-glowing eyes, focusing 
carefully on Yharaskrik's thoughts, which he expected might 
confirm the fears he and Rai-guy had long been discussing.
    Weave into the thoughts of Jarlaxle, I cannot, the 
illithid went on. He wears a protective item.
    The eye patch, Kimmuriel silently replied. It denies 
entrance to his mind by wizard, priest, or psionicist.
    But such a simple tool cannot defeat the encroachment of 
Crenshinibon, Yharaskrik explained.
    How do you know of the artifact?
    Crenshinibon is no mystery to my people, for it is an 
ancient item indeed, and one that has crossed the trails of 
the illithids on many occasions, Yharaskrik admitted. 
Indeed, Crenshinibon, the Crystal Shard, despises us, for we 
alone are quite beyond its tempting reach. We alone as a 
great race are possessed of the mental discipline necessary 
to prevent the Crystal Shard from its greatest desires of 
absolute control. You, too, Kimmuriel, can step beyond the 
orb of Crenshinibon's influence and easily.
    The drow took a long moment to contemplate the 
implications of that claim, but naturally, he quickly came 
to the conclusion that Yharaskrik was relating that psionics 
alone might fend the intrusions of the Crystal Shard, since 
Jarlaxle's potent eye patch was based in wizardly magic and 
not the potent powers of the mind.
    Crenshinibon's primary attack is upon the ego, the 
illithid explained. It collects slaves with promises of 
greatness and riches.
    Not unlike the drow, Kimmuriel related, thinking of the 
tactics Bregan D'aerthe had used on Morik.
    Yharaskrik laughed a gurgling, bubbly sound. The more 
ambitious the wielder, the easier he will be controlled.
    But what if the wielder is ambitious yet ultimately 
cautious? Kimmuriel asked, for never had he known Jarlaxle 
to allow his ambition to overrule good judgment-never 
before, at least, for only recently had he, Rai-guy, and 
others come to question the wisdom of the mercenary leader's 
decisions.
    Some lessers can deny the call, the illithid admitted, 
and it was obvious to Kimmuriel that Yharaskrik considered 
anyone who was not illithid or who was not at least a 
psionicist a lesser. Crenshinibon has little sway over 
paladins and goodly priests, over righteous kings and noble 
peasants, but one who desires more-and who of the lesser 
races, drow included, does not?-and who is not above 
deception and destruction to further his ends, will 
inevitably sink into Crenshinibon's grasp.
    It made perfect sense to Kimmuriel, of course, and 
explained why Drizzt Do'Urden and his "heroic" friends had 
seemingly put the artifact away. It also explained 
Jarlaxle's recent behavior, confirming Kimmuriel's 
suspicions that Bregan D'aerthe was indeed being led astray.
    I would not normally refuse an offer of Bregan D'aerthe, 
Yharaskrik imparted a moment later, after Kimmuriel had 
digested the information. You and your reputable kin would 
be amusing at the least-and likely enlightening and 
profitable as well-but I fear that all of Bregan D'aerthe 
will soon fall under the domination of Crenshinibon.
    And why would Yharaskrik fear such a thing, if 
Crenshinibon becomes leader in order to take us in the same 
ambitious direction that we have always pursued? Kimmuriel 
asked, and he feared that he already knew the answer.
    I trust not the drow, Yharaskrik admitted, but I 
understand enough of your desires and methods to recognize 
that we need not be enemies among the cattle humans. I trust 
you not, but I fear you not, because you would find no gain 
in facilitating my demise. Indeed, you understand that I am 
connected to the one community that is my people, and that 
if you killed me you would be making many powerful enemies.
    Kimmuriel bowed, acknowledging the truth of the 
illithid's observations.
    Crenshinibon, however, Yharaskrik went on, acts not with 
such rationality. It is all-devouring, a scourge upon the 
world, controlling all that it can and consuming that which 
it cannot. It is the bane of devils, yet the love of demons, 
a denier of laws for the sake of the destruction wrought by 
chaos. Your Lady Lolth would idolize such an artifact and 
truly enjoy the chaos of its workings-except of course that 
Crenshinibon, unlike her drow agents, works not for any 
ends, but merely to devour. Crenshinibon will bring great 
power to Bregan D'aerthe-witness the new willing slaves it 
has made for you, among them the very daughter of the man 
you overthrew. In the end, Crenshinibon will abandon you, 
will bring upon you foes too great to fend. This is the 
history of the Crystal Shard, repeated time and again 
through the centuries. It is unbridled hunger without 
discipline, doomed to bloat and die.
    Kimmuriel unintentionally winced at the thoughts, for he 
could see that very path being woven right before the still-
secretive doorstep of Bregan D'aerthe.
    All-devouring, Yharaskrik said again. Controlling all 
that it can and consuming that which it cannot.
    And you are among that which it cannot, Kimmuriel 
reasoned.
    "As are you," Yharaskrik said in its watery voice. 
"Tower of Iron Will and Mind Blank," the illithid recited, 
two typical and readily available mental defense modes that 
psionicists often used in their battles with each other.
    Kimmuriel growled, understanding well the trap that the 
illithid had just laid for him, the alliance of necessity 
that Yharaskrik, obviously fearing that Kimmuriel might 
betray him to Jarlaxle and the Crystal Shard, had just 
forced upon him. He knew those defensive mental postures, of 
course, and if the Crystal Shard came after him, seeking 
control, now that he knew the two defenses would prevent the 
intrusions, he would inevitably and automatically summon 
them up. For, like any psionicist, like any reasoning being, 
Kimmuriel's ego and id would never allow such controlling 
possession.
    He stared long and hard at the illithid, hating the 
creature, and yet sympathizing with Yharaskrik's fears of 
Crenshinibon. Or, perhaps, it occurred to him that 
Yharaskrik had just saved him. Crenshinibon would have come 
after him, to dominate if not to destroy, and if Kimmuriel 
had discovered the correct ways to block the intrusion in 
time, then he would have suddenly become an enemy in an 
unfavorable position, as opposed to now, when he, and not 
Crenshinibon, properly understood the situation at hand.
    "You will shadow us?" he asked the illithid, hoping the 
answer would be yes.
    He felt a wave of thoughts roll through him, ambiguous 
and lacking any specifics, but indicating clearly that 
Yharaskrik meant to keep a watchful eye on the dangerous 
Crystal Shard.
    They were allies, then, out of necessity.

                         * * * * *

    "I do not like her," came the high-pitched, excited 
voice of Dwahvel Tiggerwillies. The halfling shuffled over 
to take Sharlotta's vacated seat at Entreri's table.
    "Is it her height and beauty that so offend you?" 
Entreri sarcastically replied.
    Dwahvel shot him a perfectly incredulous look. "Her 
dishonesty," the halfling explained.
    That answer raised Entreri's eyebrow. Wasn't everyone on 
the streets of Calimport, Entreri and Dwahvel included, 
basically a manipulator? If a claim of dishonesty was a 
reason not to like someone in Calimport, then the judgmental 
person would find herself quite alone.
    "There is a difference," Dwahvel explained, intercepting 
a nearby waiter with a wave of her hand and taking a drink 
from his laden tray.
    "So it comes back to that height and beauty problem, 
then," Entreri chided with a smile.
    His own words did indeed amuse him, but what caught his 
fancy even more was the realization that he could, and often 
did, talk to Dwahvel in such a manner. In all of his life, 
Artemis Entreri had known very few people with whom he could 
have a casual conversation, but he found himself so at ease 
with Dwahvel that he had even considered hiring a wizard to 
determine if she was using some charming magic on him. In 
fact, then and there, Entreri clenched his gloved fist, 
concentrating briefly on the item to see if he could 
determine any magical emanations coming from Dwahvel, aimed 
at him.
    There was nothing, only honest friendship, which to 
Artemis Entreri was a magic more foreign indeed.
    "I have often been jealous of human women," Dwahvel 
answered sarcastically, doing well to keep a perfectly 
straight face. "They are often tall enough to attract even 
ogres, after all."
    Entreri chuckled, an expression from him so rare that he 
actually surprised himself in hearing it.
    "There is a difference between Sharlotta and many 
others, yourself included," Dwahvel went on. "We all play 
the game-that is how we survive, after all-and we all 
deceive and plot, twisting truths and lies alike to reach 
our own desired ends. The confusion for some, Sharlotta 
included, lies in those ends. I understand you. I know your 
desires, your goals, and know that I impede those goals at 
my peril. But I trust as well that, as long as I do not 
impede those goals, I'll not find the wrong end of either of 
your fine blades."
    "So thought Dondon," Entreri put in, referring to Dondon 
Tiggerwillies, Dwahvel's cousin and once Entreri's closest 
friend in the city. Entreri had murdered the pitiful Dondon 
soon after his return from his final battle with Drizzt 
Do'Urden.
    "Your actions against Dondon did not surprise him, I 
assure you," Dwahvel remarked. "He was a good enough friend 
to you to have killed you if he had ever found you in the 
same situation as you found him. You did him a favor." 
Entreri shrugged, hardly sure of that, not even sure of his 
own motivations in killing Dondon. Had he done so to free 
Dondon from his own gluttonous ends, from the chains that 
kept him locked in a room and in a state of constant 
incapacity? Or had he killed Dondon simply because he was 
angry at the failed creature, simply because he could not 
stand to look at the miserable thing he had become any 
longer?
    "Sharlotta is not trustworthy because you cannot 
understand her true goals and motivations," Dwahvel 
continued. "She desires power, yes, as do many, but with 
her, one can never understand where she might be thinking 
that she can find that power. There is no loyalty there, 
even to those who maintain consistency of character and 
action. No, that one will take the better deal at the 
expense of any and all."
    Entreri nodded, not disagreeing in the least. He had 
never liked Sharlotta, and like Dwahvel, he had never even 
begun to trust her. There were no scruples or codes within 
Sharlotta Vespers, only blatant manipulation.
    "She crosses the line every time," Dwahvel remarked. "I 
have never been fond of women who use their bodies to get 
that which they desire. I've got my own charms, you know, 
and yet I have never had to stoop to such a level."
    The lighthearted ending brought another smile to 
Entreri's face, and he knew that Dwahvel was only half 
joking. She did indeed have her charms: a pleasant 
appearance and fine, flattering dress, as sharp a wit as was 
to be found, and a keen sense of her surroundings.
    "How are you getting on with your new companion?" 
Dwahvel asked.
    Entreri looked at her curiously-she did have a way of 
bouncing about a conversation.
    "The sword," Dwahvel clarified, feigning exasperation. 
"You have it now, or it has you."
    "I have it," Entreri assured her, dropping his hand to 
the bony hilt.
    Dwahvel eyed him suspiciously.
    "I have not yet fought my battle with Charon's Claw," 
Entreri admitted to her, hardly believing that he was doing 
so, "but I do not think it so powerful a weapon that I need 
fear it."
    "As Jarlaxle believes with Crenshinibon?" Dwahvel asked, 
and again, Entreri's eyebrow lifted high.
    "He constructed a crystalline tower," the ever-observant 
halfling argued. "That is one of the most basic desires of 
the Crystal Shard, if the old sages are to be believed."
    Entreri started to ask her how she could possibly know 
of any of that, of the shard and the tower at Dallabad and 
of any connection, but he didn't bother. Of course Dwahvel 
knew. She always knew-that was one of her charms. Entreri 
had dropped enough hints in their many discussions for her 
to figure it all out, and she did have an incredible number 
of other sources as well. If Dwahvel Tiggerwillies learned 
that Jarlaxle carried an artifact known as Crenshinibon, 
then there would be little doubt that she would go to the 
sages and pay good coin to learn every little-known detail 
about the powerful item. "He thinks he controls it," Dwahvel 
said. "Do not underestimate Jarlaxle," Entreri replied. 
"Many have. They all are dead."
    "Do not underestimate the Crystal Shard," Dwahvel 
returned without hesitation. "Many have. They all are dead." 
"A wonderful combination then," Entreri said matter-of-
factly. He dropped his chin in his hand, stroking his smooth 
cheek and bringing his finger to a pinch at the small tuft 
of hair that remained on his chin, considering the 
conversation and the implications. "Jarlaxle can handle the 
artifact," he decided. Dwahvel shrugged noncommittally. 
"Even more than that," Entreri went on, "Jarlaxle will 
welcome the union if Crenshinibon proves his equal. That is 
the difference between him and me," he explained, and though 
he was speaking to Dwahvel, he was, in fact, really talking 
to himself, sorting out his many feelings on this 
complicated issue. "He will allow Crenshinibon to be his 
partner, if that is necessary, and will find ways to make 
their goals one and the same."
    "But Artemis Entreri has no partners," Dwahvel reasoned. 
Entreri considered the words carefully, and even glanced 
down at the powerful sword he now wore, a sword possessed of 
sentience and influence, a sword whose spirit he surely 
meant to break and dominate. "No," he agreed. "I have no 
partners, and I want none. The sword is mine and will serve 
me. Nothing less." "Or?"
    "Or it will find its way into the acid mouth of a black 
dragon," Entreri strongly assured the halfling, growling 
with every word, and Dwahvel wasn't about to argue with 
those words spoken in that tone.
    "Who is the stronger then," Dwahvel dared to ask, 
"Jarlaxle the partner or Entreri the loner?"
    "I am," Entreri assured her without the slightest 
hesitation. "Jarlaxle might seem so for now, but inevitably 
he will find a traitor among his partners who will bring him 
down."
    "You never could stand the thought of taking orders," 
Dwahvel said with a laugh. That is why the shape of the 
world so bothers you!"
    "To take an order implies that you must trust the giver 
of such," Entreri retorted, and the tone of his banter 
showed that he was taking no offense. In fact, there was an 
eagerness in his voice rarely heard, a true testament to 
those many charms of Dwahvel Tiggerwillies. "That, my dear 
little Dwahvel, is why the shape of the world so bothers me. 
I learned at a very young age that I cannot trust in or 
count on anyone but myself. To do so invites deceit and 
despair and opens a vulnerability that can be exploited. To 
do so is a weakness."
    Now it was Dwahvel's turn to sit back a bit and digest 
the words. "But you have come to trust in me, it would 
seem," she said, "merely by speaking with me such. Have I 
brought out a weakness in you, my friend?"
    Entreri smiled again, a crooked smile that didn't really 
tell Dwahvel whether he was amused or merely warning her not 
to push this observation too far.
    "Perhaps it is merely that I know you and your band well 
enough to hold no fear of you," the cocky assassin remarked, 
rising from his seat and stretching. "Or maybe it is merely 
that you have not yet been foolish enough to try to give me 
an order."
    Still that grin remained, but Dwahvel, too, was smiling, 
and sincerely. She saw it in Entreri's eyes now, that little 
hint of appreciation. Perhaps their talks were a bit of 
weakness to Entreri's jaded way of thinking. The truth of 
it, whether he wanted to admit it or not, was that he did 
indeed trust her, perhaps more deeply than he had ever 
trusted anyone in all of his life. At least, more deeply 
than he had since that first person-and Dwahvel figured that 
it had to have been a parent or a close family friend-had so 
deeply betrayed and wounded him.
    Entreri headed for the door, that casual, easy walk of 
his, perfect in balance and as graceful as any court dancer. 
Many heads turned to watch him go-so many were always 
concerned with the whereabouts of deadly Artemis Entreri.
    Not so for Dwahvel, though. She had come to understand 
this relationship, this friendship of theirs, not long after 
Dondon's death. She knew that if she ever crossed Artemis 
Entreri, he would surely kill her, but she knew, too, where 
those lines of danger lay.
    Dwahvel's smile was indeed genuine and comfortable and 
confident as she watched her dangerous friend leave the 
Copper Ante that night.
    
                        Chapter 10
               NOT AS CLEVER AS THEY THINK

    My master, he says that I am to pay you, yes?" the 
slobbering little brown-skinned man said to one of the 
fortress guards. "Kohrin Soulez is Dallabad, yes? My master, 
he says I pay Kohrin Soulez for water and shade, yes?"
    The Dallabad soldier looked to his amused companion, and 
both of them regarded the little man, who continued bobbing 
his head stupidly.
    "You see that tower?" the first asked, drawing the 
little man's gaze with his own toward the crystalline 
structure gleaming brilliantly over Dallabad. "That is 
Ahdahnia's tower. Ahdahnia Soulez, who now rules Dallabad."
    The little man looked up at the tower with obvious awe. 
"Ah-dahn-ee-a," he said carefully, slowly, as if committing 
it to memory. "Soulez, yes? Like Kohrin."
    "The daughter of Kohrin Soulez," the guard explained. 
"Go and tell your master that Ahdahnia Soulez now rules 
Dallabad. You pay her, through me."
    The little man's head bobbed frantically. "Yes, yes," he 
agreed, handing over the modest purse, "and my master will 
meet with her, yes?"
    The guard shrugged. "If I get around to asking her, 
perhaps," he said, and he held his hand out, and the little 
man looked at it curiously.
    "If I find the time to bother to tell her," the guard 
said pointedly.
    "I pay you to tell her?" the little man asked, and the 
other guard snorted loudly, shaking his head at the little 
man's continuing stupidity.
    "You pay me, I tell her," the guard said plainly. "You 
do not pay me, and your master does not meet with her." "But 
if I pay you, we ... he, meets with her?" "If she so 
chooses," the guard explained. "I will tell her. I can 
promise no more than that."
    The little man's head continued to bob, but his stare 
drifted off to the side, as if he was considering the 
options laid out before him. "I pay," he agreed, and handed 
over another, smaller, purse.
    The guard snatched it away and bounced it in his hand, 
checking the weight, and shook his head and scowled, 
indicating clearly that it was not enough. "All I have!" the 
little man protested. "Then get more," ordered the guard. 
The little man hopped all about, seeming unsure and very 
concerned. He reached for the second purse, but the guard 
pulled it back and scowled at him. A bit more shuffling and 
hopping, and the little man gave a shriek and ran off.
    "You think they will attack?" the other guard asked, and 
it was obvious from his tone that he wasn't feeling very 
concerned about the possibility.
    The group of six wagons had pulled into Dallabad that 
morning, seeking reprieve from the blistering sun. The 
drivers were twenty strong, and not one of them seemed 
overly threatening, and not one of them even looked remotely 
like any wizard. Any attack that group made against 
Dallabad's fortress would likely bring only a few moments of 
enjoyment to the soldiers now serving Ahdahnia Soulez.
    "I think that our little friend has already forgotten 
his purse," the first soldier replied. "Or at least, he has 
forgotten the truth of how he lost it."
    The second merely laughed. Not much had changed at the 
oasis since the downfall of Kohrin Soulez. They were still 
the same pirating band of toll collectors. Of course the 
guard would tell Ahdahnia of the wagon leader's desire to 
meet with her-that was how Ahdahnia collected her 
information, after all. As for his extortion of some of the 
stupid little wretch's funds, that would fade away into 
meaninglessness very quickly. Yes, little had really 
changed.

                         * * * * *

    "So it is true that Kohrin is dead," remarked Lipke, the 
coordinator of the scouting party, the leader of the 
"trading caravan."
    He glanced out the slit in his tent door to see the 
gleaming tower, the source of great unease throughout 
Calimshan. While it was no great event that Kohrin Soulez 
had at last been killed, nor that his daughter had 
apparently taken over Dallabad Oasis, rumors tying this 
event to another not-so-minor power shift among a prominent 
guild in Calimport had put the many warlords of the region 
on guard.
    "It is also true that his daughter has apparently taken 
his place," Trulbul replied, pulling the padding from the 
back collar of his shirt, the "hump" that gave him the 
slobbering, stooped-over appearance. "Curse her name for 
turning on her father."
    "Unless she had no choice in the matter," offered 
Rolmanet, the third of the inner circle. "Artemis Entreri 
has been seen in Calimport with Charon's Claw. Perhaps 
Ahdahnia sold it to him, as some rumors say. Perhaps she 
bartered it for the magic that would construct that tower, 
as say others. Or perhaps the foul assassin took it from the 
body of Kohrin Soulez."
    "It has to be Basadoni," Lipke reasoned. "I know 
Ahdahnia, and she would not have so viciously turned against 
her father, not over the sale of a sword. There is no 
shortage of gold in Dallabad."
    "But why would the Basadoni Guild leave her in command 
of Dallabad?" asked Trulbul. "Or more particularly, how 
would they leave her in command, if she holds any loyalty to 
her father? Those guards were not Basadoni soldiers," he 
added. "I am sure of it. Their skin shows the weathering of 
the open desert, as with all the Dallabad militia, and not 
the grime of Calimport's streets. Kohrin Soulez treated his 
guild well-even the least of his soldiers and attendants 
always had gold for the gambling tents when we passed 
through here. Would so many so quickly abandon their 
loyalties to the man?"
    The three looked at each other for a moment and burst 
into laughter. Loyalty had never been the strong suit of any 
of Calimshan's guilds and gangs.
    "Your point is well taken," Trulbul admitted, "yet it 
still does not seem right to me. Somehow there is more to 
this than a simple coup."
    "I do not believe that either of us disagrees with you," 
Lipke replied. "Artemis Entreri carries Kohrin's mighty 
sword, yet if it is a simple matter that Ahdahnia Soulez 
decided that the time had come to secure Dallabad Oasis for 
herself, would she so quickly part with such a powerful 
defensive item? Is this not the time when she will likely be 
most open to reprisals?"
    "Unless she hired Entreri to kill her father, with 
payment to be Charon's Claw," Rolmanet reasoned. He was 
nodding as he improvised the words, thinking that he had 
stumbled onto something very plausible, something that would 
explain much.
    "If that is so, then this is the most expensive 
assassination Calimshan has known in centuries," Lipke 
remarked.
    "But if not that, then what?" a frustrated Rolmanet 
asked.
    "Basadoni," Trulbul said definitively. "It has to be 
Basadoni. They extended their grasp within the city, and now 
they have struck out again, hoping it to be away from prying 
eyes. We must confirm this."
    The others were nodding, reluctantly it seemed.

                         * * * * *

    Jarlaxle, Kimmuriel, and Rai-guy sat in comfortable 
chairs in the second level of the crystalline tower. An 
enchanted mirror, a collaboration between the magic of Rai-
guy and Crenshinibon, conveyed the entire conversation 
between the three scouts, as it had followed the supposedly 
stupid little hunched man from the moment he had handed his 
purses over to the guard outside the fortress.
    "This is not acceptable," Rai-guy dared to remark, 
turning to face Jarlaxle. "We are grasping too far and too 
fast, inviting prying eyes."
    Kimmuriel sent his thoughts to his wizardly friend. Not 
here. Not within the tower replica of Crenshinibon. Even as 
he sent the message, he felt the energies of the shard 
tugging at him, prying around the outside of his mental 
defenses. With Yharaskrik's warnings echoing in his mind, 
and surely not wanting to alert Crenshinibon to the truth of 
his nature at that time, Kimmuriel abruptly ceased all 
psionic activity.
    "What do you plan to do with them?" Rai-guy asked more 
calmly. He glanced at Kimmuriel, relaying to his friend that 
he had gotten the message and would heed the wise thoughts 
well.
    "Destroy them," Kimmuriel reasoned.
    "Incorporate them," Jarlaxle corrected. "There are a 
score in their party, and they are obviously connected to 
other guilds. What fine spies they will become."
    "Too dangerous," Rai-guy remarked.
    "Those who submit to the will of Crenshinibon will serve 
us," Jarlaxle replied with utmost calm. "Those who do not 
will be executed."
    Rai-guy didn't seem convinced. He started to reply, but 
Kimmuriel put his hand on his friend's forearm and motioned 
for him to let it go.
    "You will deal with them?" Kimmuriel asked Jarlaxle. "Or 
would you prefer that we send in soldiers to capture them 
and drag them before the Crystal Shard for judgment?"
    "The artifact can reach their minds from the tower," 
Jarlaxle replied. "Those who submit will willingly slay 
those who do not."
    "And if those who do not are the greater?" Rai-guy had 
to ask, but again, Kimmuriel motioned for him to be quiet, 
and this time, the psionicist rose and bade the wizard to 
follow him away.
    "With the changes in Dallabad's hierarchy and the tower 
so evident, we will have to remain fully on our guard for 
some time to come," Kimmuriel did say to Jarlaxle.
    The mercenary leader nodded. "Crenshinibon is ever 
wary," he explained.
    Kimmuriel smiled in reply, but in truth, Jarlaxle's 
assurances were only making him more nervous, were only 
confirming to him that Yharaskrik's information concerning 
the devastating Crystal Shard was, apparently, quite 
accurate.
    The two left their leader alone then with his newest 
partner, the sentient artifact.

                         * * * * *

    Rolmanet and Trulbul blinked repeatedly as they exited 
their tent into the stinging daylight. All about them, the 
other members of their band worked methodically, if less 
than enthusiastically, brushing the horses and camels and 
filling the waterskins for the remaining journey to 
Calimport.
    Others should have been out scouting the perimeter of 
the oasis and doing guard counts on Dallabad fortress, but 
Rolmanet soon realized that all seventeen of the remaining 
force was about. He also noticed that many kept glancing his 
way, wearing curious expressions.
    One man in particular caught Rolmanet's eye. "Did he not 
already fill those skins?" Rolmanet quietly asked his 
companion. "And should he not be at the east wall, counting 
sentries?" As he finished, he turned to Trulbul, and his 
last words faded away as he considered his companion, the 
man standing quietly, staring up at the crystalline tower 
with a wistful look in his dark eyes.
    "Trulbul?" Rolmanet asked, starting toward the man but, 
sensing that something was amiss, changing his mind and 
stepping away instead.
    An expression of complete serenity came over Trulbul's 
face. "Can you not hear it?" he asked, glancing over to 
regard Rolmanet. "The music ..."
    "Music?" Rolmanet glanced at the man curiously, and 
snapped his gaze back to regard the tower and listened 
carefully.
    "Beautiful music," Trulbul said rather loudly, and 
several others nearby nodded their agreement.
    Rolmanet fought hard to steady his breathing and at 
least appear calm. He did hear the music then, a subtle note 
conveying a message of peace and prosperity, promising gain 
and power and ... demanding. Demanding fealty.
    "I am staying at Dallabad," Lipke announced suddenly, 
coming out of the tent. "There is more opportunity here than 
with Pasha Broucalle."
    Rolmanet's eyes widened in spite of himself, and he had 
to fight very hard to keep from glancing all around in alarm 
or from simply running away. He was gasping now as it all 
came clear to him: a wizard's spell, he believed, charming 
enemies into friends.
    "Beautiful music," another man off to the side agreed.
    "Do you hear it?" Trulbul asked Rolmanet.
    Rolmanet fought very hard to steady himself, to paint a 
serene expression upon his face, before turning back to 
stare at his friend.
    "No, he does not," Lipke said from afar before Rolmanet 
had even completed the turn. "He does not see the 
opportunity before us. He will betray us!"
    "It is a spell!" Rolmanet cried loudly, drawing his 
curved sword. "A wizard's enchantment to ensnare us in his 
grip. Fight back! Deny it, my friends!"
    Lipke was at him, slashing hard with his sword, a blow 
that skilled Rolmanet deftly parried. Before he could 
counter, Trulbul was there beside Lipke, following the first 
man's slash with a deadly thrust at Rolmanet's heart.
    "Can you not understand?" Rolmanet cried frantically, 
and only luck allowed him to deflect that second attack.
    He glanced about as he retreated steadily, seeking 
allies and taking care for more enemies. He noted another 
fight over by the water, where several men had fallen over 
another, knocking him to the ground and kicking and beating 
him mercilessly. All the while, they screamed at the man 
that he could not hear the music, that he would betray them 
in this, their hour of greatest glory.
    Another man, obviously resisting the tempting call, 
rushed away to the side, and the group took up the chase, 
leaving the beaten man facedown in the water. A third fight 
erupted on the other side. Rolmanet turned to his two 
opponents, the two men who had been his best friends for 
several years now. "It is a lie, a trick!" he insisted. "Can 
you not understand?"
    Lipke came at him hard with a cunning low thrust, 
followed by an upward slash, a twisting hand-over maneuver, 
and yet another upward slash that forced Rolmanet to lean 
backward, barely keeping his balance. On came Lipke, another 
straight-ahead charge and thrust, with Rolmanet quite 
vulnerable.
    Trulbul's blade slashed across, intercepting Lipke's 
killing blow.
    "Wait!" Trulbul cried to the astonished man. "Rolmanet 
speaks the truth! Look more deeply at the promise, I beg!" 
Lipke was fully into the coercion of the Crystal Shard. He 
did pause, only long enough to allow Trulbul to believe that 
he was indeed reflecting on the seeming inconsistency here. 
As Trulbul nodded, grinned, and lowered his blade, Lipke hit 
him with a slashing cut that opened wide his throat.
    He turned back to see Rolmanet in full flight, running 
to the horses tethered beside the water.
    "Stop him! Stop him!" Lipke cried, giving chase. Several 
others came in as well, trying to cut off any escape routes 
as Rolmanet scrambled onto his horse and turned the beast 
around, hooves churning the sand. The man was a fine rider, 
and he picked his path carefully, and they could not hope to 
stop him.
    He thundered out of Dallabad, not even pausing to try to 
help the other resister, who had been cut off, forced to 
turn, and would soon be caught and overwhelmed. No, 
Rolmanet's path was straight and fast, a dead gallop down 
the sandy road toward distant Calimport.
    Jarlaxle's thoughts, and those of Crenshinibon, angled 
the magical mirror to follow the retreat of the lone 
escapee.
    The mercenary leader could feel the power building 
within the crystalline tower. It was a quiet humming noise 
as the structure gathered in the sunlight, focusing it more 
directly through a series of prisms and mirrors to the very 
tip of the pointed tower. He understood what Crenshinibon 
meant to do, of course. Given the implications of allowing 
someone to escape, it seemed a logical course.
    Do not kill him, Jarlaxle instructed anyway, and he 
wasn't sure why he issued the command. There is little he 
can tell his superiors that they do not already know. The 
spies have no idea of the truth behind Dallabad's overthrow, 
and will only assume that a wizard . . . He felt the energy 
continuing to build, with no conversation, argument or 
otherwise, coming back at him from the artifact.
    Jarlaxle looked into the mirror at the fleeing, 
terrified man. The more he thought about it, the more he 
realized that he was right, that there was no real reason to 
kill this one. In fact, allowing him to return to his 
masters with news of such a complete failure might actually 
serve Bregan D'aerthe. Likely these were no minor spies sent 
on such an important mission as this, and the manner in 
which the band was purely overwhelmed would impress- perhaps 
enough so that the other pashas would come to Dallabad 
openly to seek truce and parlay.
    Jarlaxle filtered all of that through his thoughts to 
the Crystal Shard, reiterating his command to halt, for the 
good of the band, and secretly, because he simply didn't 
want to kill a man if he did not have to,
    He felt the energy building, building, now straining 
release.
    "Enough!" he said aloud. "Do not!"
    "What is it, my leader?" came Rai-guy's voice, the 
wizard and his sidekick psionicist rushing back into the 
room.
    They entered to see Jarlaxle standing, obviously angry, 
staring at the mirror.
    Then how that mirror brightened! There was a flash as 
striking, and as painful to sensitive drow eyes, as the sun 
itself. A searing beam of pure heat energy shot out of the 
tower's tip, shooting down across the sands to catch the 
rider and his horse, enveloping them in a white-yellow 
shroud.
    It was over in an instant, leaving the charred bones of 
Rolmanet and his horse lying on the empty desert sands.
    Jarlaxle closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, 
suppressing his urge to scream out.
    "Impressive display," Kimmuriel said.
    "Fifteen have come over to us, and it would seem the 
other five are dead," Rai-guy remarked. "The victory is 
complete."
    Jarlaxle wasn't so sure of that, but he composed himself 
and turned a calm look upon his lieutenants. "Crenshinibon 
will discern those who are most easily and completely 
dominated," he informed the wary pair. "They will be sent 
back to their guild-or guilds, if this was a collaboration- 
with a proper explanation for the defeat. The others will be 
interrogated-and they will willingly submit to all of our 
questions-so that we might learn everything about this enemy 
that came prying into our affairs."
    Rai-guy and Kimmuriel exchanged a glance that Jarlaxle 
did not miss, a clear indication that they had seen him 
distressed when they had entered. What they might discern 
from that, the mercenary leader did not know, but he wasn't 
overly pleased at that moment.
    "Entreri is back in Calimport?" he asked.
    "At House Basadoni," Kimmuriel answered.
    "As we should all be," Jarlaxle decided. "We will ask 
our questions of our newest arrivals and give them over to 
Ahdahnia. Leave Berg'inyon and a small contingent behind to 
watch over the operation here."
    The two glanced at each other again but offered no other 
response. They bowed and left the room.
    Jarlaxle stared into the mirror at the blackened bones 
of the man and horse.
    It had to be done, came the whisper of Crenshinibon into 
his mind. His escape would have brought more curious eyes, 
better prepared. We are not yet ready for that.
    Jarlaxle recognized the lie for what it was. 
Crenshinibon feared no prying, curious eyes, feared no army 
at all. The Crystal Shard, in its purest of arrogance, 
believed that it would simply convert the majority of any 
attacking force, turning them back on any who did not submit 
to its will. How many could it control? Jarlaxle wondered. 
Hundreds? Thousands? Millions?
    Images of domination, not merely of the streets of 
Calimport, not merely of the city itself, but of the entire 
realm, flittered through his thoughts as Crenshinibon 
"heard" the silent questions and tried to answer.
    Jarlaxle shifted his eye patch and focused on it, 
lessening the connection with the artifact, and tightened 
his willpower to try to keep his thoughts as much to himself 
as possible. No, he knew, Crenshinibon had not killed the 
fleeing man for fear of any retribution. Nor had it struck 
out with such overwhelming fury against that lone rider 
because it did not agree with the merits of Jarlaxle's 
arguments against doing so.
    No, the Crystal Shard had killed the man precisely 
because Jarlaxle had ordered it not to do so, because the 
mercenary leader had crossed over the line of the concept of 
partner and had tried to assume control.
    That Crenshinibon would not allow.
    If the artifact could so easily disallow such a thing, 
could it also step back over the line the other way?
    The rather disturbing notion did not bring much solace 
to Jarlaxle, who had spent the majority of his life serving 
as no man's, nor Matron Mother's, slave.
    "We have new allies under our domination, and thus we 
are stronger," Rai-guy remarked sarcastically when he was 
alone with Kimmuriel and Berg'inyon.
    "Our numbers grow," Berg'inyon agreed, "but so too 
mounts the danger of discovery."
    "And of treachery," Kimmuriel added. "Witness that one 
of the spies, under the influence of Jarlaxle's artifact, 
turned against us when the fighting started. The domination 
is not complete, nor is it unbreakable. With every unwitting 
soldier we add in such a manner, we run the risk of an 
uprising from within. While it is unlikely that any would so 
escape the domination and subsequently cause any real damage 
to us-they are merely humans, after all-we cannot dismiss 
the likelihood that one will break free and escape us, 
delivering the truth of the new Basadoni Guild and of 
Dallabad to some of the guilds."
    "We already have agreed upon the consequences of Bregan 
D'aerthe being discovered for what it truly is," Rai-guy 
added ominously. "This group came to Dallabad looking 
specifically for the answers behind the facade, and the 
longer we stretch that facade, the more likely that we will 
be discovered. We are forfeiting our anonymity in this 
foolish quest for expansion."
    The other two remained very silent for a long while. 
Then Kimmuriel quietly asked, "Are you going to explain this 
to Jarlaxle?"
    "Should we be addressing this problem to Jarlaxle," Rai-
guy countered, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "or to the 
true leader of Bregan D'aerthe?"
    That bold proclamation gave the other two even more 
pause. There it was, set out very clearly, the notion that 
Jarlaxle had lost control of the band to a sentient 
artifact.
    "Perhaps it is time for us to reconsider our course," 
Kimmuriel said somberly.
    Both he and Rai-guy had served under Jarlaxle for a 
long, long time, and both understood the tremendous weight 
of the implications of Kimmuriel's remark. Wresting Bregan 
D'aerthe from Jarlaxle would be something akin to stealing 
House Baenre away from Matron Baenre during the centuries of 
her iron-fisted rule. In many ways, Jarlaxle, so cunning, so 
layered in defenses and so full of understanding of 
everything around him, might prove an even more formidable 
foe.
    Now the course seemed obvious to the three, a coup that 
had been building since the first expansive steps of House 
Basadoni.
    "I have a source who can offer us more information on 
the Crystal Shard," Kimmuriel remarked. "Perhaps there is a 
way to destroy it or at least temporarily to cripple its 
formidable powers so that we can get to Jarlaxle."
    Rai-guy looked to Berg'inyon and both nodded grimly.
    Artemis Entreri was beginning to understand just how 
much trouble was brewing for Jarlaxle and therefore for him. 
He heard about the incident at Dallabad soon after the 
majority of the dark elves returned to House Basadoni, and 
knew from the looks and the tone of their voices that 
several of Jarlaxle's prominent underlings weren't exactly 
thrilled by the recent events.
    Neither was Entreri. He knew that Rai-guy's and 
Kimmuriel's complaints were quite valid, knew that 
Jarlaxle's expansionist policies were leading Bregan 
D'aerthe down a very dangerous road indeed. When the truth 
about House Basadoni's change and the takeover of Dallabad 
eventually leaked out-and Entreri was now harboring few 
doubts that it would-all the guilds and all the lords and 
every power in the region would unite against Bregan 
D'aerthe. Jarlaxle was cunning, and the band of mercenaries 
was indeed powerful-even more so with the Crystal Shard in 
their possession-but Entreri held no doubts that they would 
be summarily destroyed, every one.
    No, the assassin realized, it wouldn't likely come to 
that. The groundwork had been clearly laid before them all, 
and Entreri held little doubt that Kimmuriel and Rai-guy 
would move against Jarlaxle and soon. Their scowls were 
growing deeper by the day, their words a bit bolder.
    That understanding raised a perplexing question to 
Entreri. Was the Crystal Shard actually spurring the coup, 
as Lady Lolth often did among the houses in Menzoberranzan? 
Was the artifact reasoning that perhaps either of the more 
volatile magic-using lieutenants might be a more suitable 
wielder? Or was the coup being inspired by the actions of 
Jarlaxle under the prodding, if not the outright influence, 
of Crenshinibon?
    Either way, Entreri knew that he was becoming quite 
vulnerable, even with his new magical acquisitions. However 
he played through the scenario, Jarlaxle alone remained the 
keystone to his survival.
    The assassin turned down a familiar avenue, moving 
inconspicuously among the many street rabble out this 
evening, keeping to the shadows and keeping to himself. He 
had to find some way to get Jarlaxle back in command and on 
strong footing. He needed for Jarlaxle to be in control of 
Bregan D'aerthe-not only of their actions but of their 
hearts as well. Only then could he fend a coup-a coup that 
could only mean disaster for Entreri.
    Yes, he had to secure Jarlaxle's position. Then he had 
to find a way to get himself far, far away from the dark 
elves and their dangerous intrigue.
    The sentries at the Copper Ante were hardly surprised to 
see him and even informed him that Dwahvel was expecting him 
and waiting for him in the back room.
    She had already heard of the most recent events at 
Dallabad, he realized, and he shook his head, reminding 
himself that he should not be surprised, and also reminding 
himself that it was just her amazing ability for the 
acquisition of knowledge that had brought him to Dwahvel 
this evening.
    "It was House Broucalle of Memnon," Dwahvel informed him 
as soon as he entered and sat on the plush pillows set upon 
the floor opposite the halfling.
    "They were quick to move," Entreri replied.
    "The crystalline tower is akin to a huge beacon set out 
on the wasteland of the desert," Dwahvel replied. "Why do 
your compatriots, with their obvious need for secrecy, so 
call attention to themselves?"
    Entreri didn't answer verbally, but the expression on 
his face told Dwahvel much of his fears.
    "They err," Dwahvel concurred with those fears. "They 
have House Basadoni, a superb front for their exotic trading 
business. Why reach further and invite a war that they 
cannot hope to win?"
    Still Entreri did not answer.
    "Or was that the whole purpose for the band of drow to 
come to the surface?" Dwahvel asked with sincere concern. 
"Were you, too, perhaps, misinformed about the nature of 
this band, led to believe that they were here for profit- 
mutual profit, potentially-when in fact they are but an 
advanced war party, setting the stage for complete disaster 
for Calimport and all Calimshan?"
    Entreri shook his head. "I know Jarlaxle well," he 
replied. "He came here for profit-mutual profit for those 
who work along with him. That is his way. I do not think he 
would ever serve in anything as potentially disastrous as a 
war party. Jarlaxle is not a warlord, in any capacity. He is 
an opportunist and nothing more. He cares little for glory 
and much for comfort."
    "And yet he invites disaster by erecting such an 
obvious, and obviously inviting, monument as that remarkable 
tower," Dwahvel answered. She tilted her plump head, 
studying Entreri's concerned expression carefully. "What is 
it?" she asked.
    "How great is your knowledge of Crenshinibon?" the 
assassin asked. "The Crystal Shard?"
    Dwahvel scrunched up her face, deep in thought for just 
a moment, and shook her head. "Cursory," she admitted. "I 
know of its tower images but little more."
    "It is an artifact of exceeding power," Entreri 
explained. "I am not so certain that the sentient item's 
goals and Jarlaxle's are one and the same."
    "Many artifacts have a will of their own," Dwahvel 
stated dryly. "That is rarely a good thing."
    "Learn all that you can about it," Entreri bade her, 
"and quickly, before that which you fear inadvertently 
befalls Calimport." He paused and considered the best course 
for Dwahvel to take in light of fairly recent events. "Try 
to find out how Drizzt came to possess it, and where-"
    "What in the Nine Hells is a Drizzt?" Dwahvel asked.
    Entreri started to explain but just stopped and laughed, 
remembering how very wide the world truly was. "Another dark 
elf," he answered, "a dead one."
    "Ah, yes," said Dwahvel. "Your rival. The one you call 
'Do'Urden.'"
    "Forget him, as have I," Entreri instructed. "He is only 
relevant here because it was from him that Jarlaxle's 
minions acquired the Crystal Shard. They impersonated a 
priest of some renown and power, a cleric named Cadderly, I 
believe, who resides somewhere in or around the Snowflake 
Mountains."
    "A long journey," the halfling remarked.
    "A worthwhile one," Entreri replied. "And we both know 
that distance is irrelevant to a wizard possessing the 
proper spells."
    "This will cost you greatly."
    With just a twitch of his honed leg muscles, a movement 
that would have been difficult for a skilled fighter half 
his age, Entreri rose up tall and fearsome before Dwahvel, 
then leaned over and patted her on the shoulder-with his 
gloved right hand.
    She got the message.
    
                        Chapter 11
                        GROUNDWORK

    It is what you desired all along, Kimmuriel said to 
Yharaskrik.
    The illithid feigned surprise at the drow psionicist's 
blunt proposition. Yharaskrik had explaining to Kimmuriel 
how he might fend the intrusions of the Crystal Shard. The 
illithid desired that the situation be brought to this very 
point all along.
    Who will possess it? Yharaskrik silently asked. 
Kimmuriel or Rai-guy?
    Rai-guy, the drow answered. He and Crenshinibon will 
perfectly complement one another-by Crenshinibon's own 
importations to him from afar.
    So you both believe, the illithid responded. Perhaps, 
though, Crenshinibon sees you as a threat-a likely and 
logical assumption-and is merely goading you into this so 
that you and your comrades might be thoroughly destroyed.
    I have not dismissed that possibility, Kimmuriel 
returned, seeming quite at ease. That is why I have come to 
Yharaskrik.
    The illithid paused for a long while, digesting the 
information. The Crystal Shard is no minor item, the 
creature explained. To ask of me-
    A temporary reprieve, Kimmuriel interrupted. I do not 
wish to pit Yharaskrik against Crenshinibon, for I 
understand that the artifact would overwhelm you. He 
imparted those thoughts without fear of insulting the mind 
flayer. Kimmuriel understood that the perfectly logical 
illithids were not possessed of ego beyond reason. Certainly 
they believed their race to be superior to most others, to 
humans, of course, and even to drow, but within that healthy 
confidence there lay an element of reason that prevented 
them from taking insult to statements made of perfect logic. 
Yharaskrik knew that the artifact could overwhelm any 
creature short of a god.
    There is, perhaps, a way, the illithid replied, and 
Kimmuriel's smile widened. A Tower of Iron Will's sphere of 
influence could encompass Crenshinibon and defeat its mental 
intrusions, and its commands to any towers it has 
constructed near the battlefield. Temporarily, the creature 
added emphatically. I hold no illusions that any psionic 
force short of that conducted by a legion of my fellow 
illithids could begin to permanently weaken the powers of 
the great Crystal Shard.
    "Long enough for the downfall of Jarlaxle," Kimmuriel 
agreed aloud. That is all that I require." He bowed and took 
his leave then, and his last words echoed in his mind as he 
stepped through the dimensional doorway that would bring him 
back to Calimport and the private quarters he shared with 
Rai-guy.
    The downfall of Jarlaxle! Kimmuriel could hardly believe 
that he was a party to this conspiracy. Hadn't it been 
Jarlaxle, after all, who had offered him refuge from his own 
Matron Mother and vicious female siblings of House Oblodra, 
and who had then taken him in and sheltered him from the 
rest of the city when Matron Baenre had declared that House 
Oblodra must be completely eradicated? Aside from any 
loyalty he held for the mercenary leader, there remained the 
practical matter of the problem of decapitating Bregan 
D'aerthe. Jarlaxle above all others had facilitated the rise 
of the mercenary band, had brought them to prominence more 
than a century before, and no one in all the band, not even 
self-confident Rai-guy, doubted for a moment how important 
Jarlaxle was politically for the survival of Bregan 
D'aerthe.
    All those thoughts stayed with Kimmuriel as he made his 
way back to Rai-guy's side, to find the drow thick into the 
plotting of the attacks they would use to bring Jarlaxle 
down.
    "Your new friend can give us that which we require?" the 
eager wizard-cleric asked as soon as Kimmuriel arrived. 
"Likely," Kimmuriel replied.
    "Neutralize the Crystal Shard, and the attack will be 
complete," Rai-guy said.
    "Do not underestimate Jarlaxle," Kimmuriel warned. "He 
has the Crystal Shard now and so we must first eliminate 
that powerful item, but even without it, Jarlaxle has spent 
many years solidifying his hold on Bregan D'aerthe. I would 
not have gone against him before the acquisition of the 
artifact."
    "But it is just that acquisition that has weakened him," 
Rai-guy explained. "Even the common soldiers fear this 
course we have taken."
    "I have heard some remark that they cannot believe our 
rise in power," Kimmuriel argued. "Some have proclaimed that 
we will dominate the surface world, that Jarlaxle will take 
Bregan D'aerthe to prominence among the weakling humans, and 
return in glory to conquer Menzoberranzan." Rai-guy laughed 
aloud at the proclamation. "The artifact is powerful, I do 
not doubt, but it is limited. Did not the mind flayer tell 
you that Crenshinibon sought to reach its limit of control?"
    "Whether or not the fantasy conquest can occur is 
irrelevant to our present situation," Kimmuriel replied. 
"What matters is whether or not the soldiers of Bregan 
D'aerthe believe in it."
    Rai-guy didn't have an argument for that line of 
reasoning, but still, he wasn't overly concerned. "Though 
Berg'inyon is with us, the drow will be limited in their 
role in the battle," he explained. "We have humans at our 
disposal now and thousands of kobolds."
    "Many of the humans were brought into our fold by 
Crenshinibon," Kimmuriel reminded. "The Crystal Shard will 
have little difficulty in dominating the kobolds, if 
Yharaskrik cannot completely neutralize it."
    "And we have the wererats," Rai-guy went on, unfazed. 
"Shapechangers are better suited to resisting mental 
intrusions. Their internal strife denies any outside 
influences."
    "You have enlisted Domo?"
    Rai-guy shook his head. "Domo is difficult," he 
admitted, "but I have enlisted several of his wererat 
lieutenants. They will fall to our cause if Domo is 
eliminated. To that end, I have had Sharlotta Vespers inform 
Jarlaxle that the wererat leader has been speaking out of 
turn, revealing too much about Bregan D'aerthe, to Pasha 
Da'Daclan, and we believe to the leader of the guild that 
came to investigate Dallabad."
    Kimmuriel nodded, but his expression remained concerned. 
Jarlaxle was a tough opponent in games of the mind-he might 
see the ruse for what it was, and use Domo to turn the 
wererats back to his side.
    "His actions now will be telling," Rai-guy admitted. 
"Crenshinibon, no doubt, will want to believe Sharlotta's 
tale, but Jarlaxle will desire to proceed more cautiously 
before acting against Domo."
    "You believe that the wererat leader will be dead this 
very day," Kimmuriel reasoned after a moment.
    Rai-guy smiled. "The Crystal Shard has become Jarlaxle's 
strength and thus his weakness," he said with a wicked grin.

                         * * * * *

    "First the gauntlet and now this," Dwahvel Tiggerwillies 
said with a profound sigh. "Ah, Entreri, what shall I ever 
do for extra coin when you are no more?"
    Entreri didn't appreciate the humor. "Be quick about 
it," he instructed.
    "Sharlotta's actions have made you very nervous," 
Dwahvel remarked, for she had observed the woman busily 
working the streets during the last few hours, with many of 
her meetings with known operatives of the wererat guild.
    Entreri just nodded, not wanting to share the latest 
news with Dwahvel-just in case. Things were moving fast now, 
he knew, too fast. Rai-guy and Kimmuriel were laying the 
groundwork for their assault, but at least Jarlaxle had 
apparently caught on to some of the budding problems. The 
mercenary leader had summoned Entreri just a few moments 
before, telling the man that he had to go and meet with a 
particularly wretched wererat by the name of Domo. If Domo 
was in on the conspiracy, Entreri suspected that Rai-guy and 
Kimmuriel would soon have a hole to fill in their ranks.
    "I will return within two hours," Entreri explained. 
"Have it ready."
    "We have no proper material to make such an item as you 
requested," Dwahvel complained.
    "Color and consistency alone," Entreri replied. "The 
material does not need to be exact."
    Dwahvel shrugged.
    Entreri went out into Calimport's night, moving swiftly, 
his cloak pulled tight around his shoulders. Not far from 
the Copper Ante, he turned down an alley. Then after a quick 
check to ensure that he was not being followed, he slipped 
down an open sewer hole into the tunnels below the city.
    A few moments later, he stood before Jarlaxle in the 
appointed chamber.
    "Sharlotta has informed me that Domo has been whispering 
secrets about us," Jarlaxle remarked.
    "The wererat is on the way?"
    Jarlaxle nodded. "And likely with many allies. You are 
prepared for the fight?"
    Entreri wore the first honest grin he had known in 
several days. Prepared for a fight with wererats? How could 
he not be? Still he could not dismiss the source of 
Jarlaxle's information. He realized that Sharlotta was 
working both ends of the table here, that she was in tight 
with Rai-guy and Kimmuriel but was in no overt way severing 
her ties to Jarlaxle. He doubted that Sharlotta and her drow 
allies had set this up as the ultimate battle for control of 
Bregan D'aerthe. Such intricate planning would take longer, 
and the sewers of Calimport would not be a good location for 
a fight that would grow so very obvious.
    Still...
    "Perhaps you should have stayed at Dallabad for a 
while," Entreri remarked, "within the crystalline tower, 
overseeing the new operation."
    "Domo hardly frightens me," Jarlaxle replied.
    Entreri stared at him hard. Could he really be so 
oblivious to the apparent underpinnings of a coup within 
Bregan D'aerthe? If so, did that enhance the possibility 
that the Crystal Shard was indeed prompting the disloyal 
actions of Rai-guy and Kimmuriel? Or did it mean, perhaps, 
that Entreri was being too cautious here, was seeing demons 
and uprisings where there were none?
    The assassin took a deep breath and shook his head, 
clearing his thoughts.
    "Sharlotta could be mistaken," the assassin did say. 
"She would have reasons of her own to wish to be rid of 
troublesome Domo."
    "We will know soon enough," Jarlaxle replied, nodding in 
the direction of a tunnel, where the wererat leader, in the 
form of a huge humanoid rat, was approaching, along with 
three other ratmen.
    "My dear Domo," Jarlaxle greeted, and the wererat leader 
bowed.
    "It is good that you came to us," Domo replied. "I do 
not enjoy any journeys to the surface at this time, not even 
to the cellars of House Basadoni. There is too much 
excitement, I fear."
    Entreri narrowed his eyes and considered the wretched 
lycanthrope, thinking that answer curious, at least, but 
trying hard not to interpret it one way or the other.
    "Do the agents of the other guilds similarly come down 
to meet with you?" Jarlaxle asked, a question that surely 
set Domo back on his heels.
    Entreri stared hard at the drow now, catching on that 
Crenshinibon was instructing Jarlaxle to put Domo on his 
guard, to get him thinking of any potentially treasonous 
actions that they might be more easily read. Still, it 
seemed to him that Jarlaxle was moving too quickly here, 
that a little small talk and diplomacy might have garnered 
the necessary indicators without resorting to any crude 
mental intrusions by the sentient artifact.
    "On those rare occasions when I must meet with agents of 
other guilds, they often do come to me," Domo answered, 
trying to remain calm, though he betrayed his sudden edge to 
Entreri when he shifted his weight from one foot to the 
other. The assassin calmly dropped his hands to his belt, 
hooking his wrists over the pommels of his two formidable 
weapons, a posture that seemed more relaxed and comfortable, 
but also one that had him in touch with his weapons, ready 
to draw and strike.
    "And have you met with any recently?" Jarlaxle asked.
    Domo winced, and winced again, and Entreri caught on to 
the truth of it. The artifact was trying to scour his 
thoughts then and there.
    The three wererats behind the leader glanced at each 
other and shifted nervously.
    Domo's face contorted, began to form into his human 
guise, and went back almost immediately to the trapping of 
the wererat. A low, feral growl escaped his throat.
    "What is it?" one of the wererats behind him asked.
    Entreri could see the frustration mounting on Jarlaxle's 
face. He glanced back to Domo curiously, wondering if he had 
perhaps underestimated the ugly creature.
    Jarlaxle and Crenshinibon simply could not get a fix on 
the wererat's thoughts, for the Crystal Shard's intrusion 
had brought about the lycanthropic internal strife, and that 
wall of red pain and rage had now denied any access.
    Jarlaxle, growing increasingly frustrated, stared at the 
wererat hard.
    He betrayed us, Crenshinibon decided suddenly.
    Jarlaxle's thoughts filled with doubt and confusion, for 
he had not seen any such revelation.
    A moment of weakness, came Crenshinibon's call. A flash 
of the truth within that wall of angry torment. He betrayed 
us... twice.
    Jarlaxle turned to Entreri, a subtle signal, but one 
that the eager assassin, who hated wererats profoundly, was 
quick to catch and amplify.
    Domo and his associates caught it, too, and their swords 
came flashing out of their scabbards. By the time they'd 
drawn their weapons, Entreri was on the charge. Charon's 
Claw waved in the air before him, painting a wall of black 
ash that Entreri could use to segment the battleground and 
prevent his enemies from coordinating their movements.
    He spun to the left, around the ash wall, ducking as he 
turned so that he came around under the swing of Domo's long 
and slender blade. Up went the assassin's sword, taking 
Domo's far and wide. Entreri, still in a crouch, scrambled 
forward, his dagger leading.
    Domo's closest companion came on hard, though, forcing 
Entreri to skitter back and slash down with his sword to 
deflect the attack. He went into a roll, over backward, and 
planted his right hand, pushing hard to launch him back to 
his feet, working those feet quickly as he landed to put him 
in nearly the same position as when he had started. The 
foolish wererat followed, leaving Domo and its two 
companions on the other side of the ash wall.
    Behind Entreri, Jarlaxle's hand pumped once, twice, 
thrice, and daggers sailed past Entreri, barely missing his 
head, plunging through the ash wall, blasting holes in the 
drifting curtain.
    On the other side came a groan, and Entreri realized 
that Domo's companions were down to two.
    A moment later, down to one, for the assassin met the 
wererat's charge full on, his sword coming up in a rotating 
fashion, taking the thrusting blade aside. Entreri continued 
forward, and so did the wererat, thinking to bite at the 
man.
    How quickly it regretted that choice when Entreri's 
dagger blade filled its mouth.
    A sudden second thrust yanked the creature's head back, 
and the assassin disengaged and quickly turned. He saw yet 
another of the beasts coming fast through the ash wall and 
heard the footsteps of a retreating Domo.
    Down he went into a shoulder roll, under the ash wall, 
catching the ankles of the charging wererat and sending it 
flying over him to fall facedown right before Jarlaxle.
    Entreri didn't even slow, rolling forward and back to 
his feet and running off full speed in pursuit of the 
fleeing wererat. Entreri was no stranger to the darkness, 
even the complete blackness of the tunnels. Indeed, he had 
done some of his best work down there, but recognizing the 
disadvantage he faced against infravision-using wererats, he 
held his powerful sword before him and commanded it to bring 
forth light-hoping that it, like many magical swords, could 
produce some sort of glow.
    That magical glow surprised him, for it was a light of 
blackish hue and nothing like Entreri had ever seen before, 
giving all the corridor a surrealistic appearance. He 
glanced down at the sword, trying to see how blatant a light 
source it appeared, but he saw no definitive glow and hoped 
that meant that he might use a bit of stealth, at least, 
despite the fact that he was the source of the light.
    He came to a fork and skidded to a stop, turning his 
head and focusing his senses.
    The slight echo of a footfall came from the left, so on 
he ran.
    Jarlaxle finished the prone wererat in short order, 
pumping his arm repeatedly and hitting the squirming 
creature with dagger after dagger. He put a hand in his 
pocket, on the Crystal Shard, as he ran through the gap in 
the ash wall, trying to catch up with his companion.
    Guide me, he instructed the artifact.
    Up, came the unexpected reply. They have returned to the 
streets.
    Jarlaxle skidded to a stop, puzzled.
    Up! came the more emphatic silent cry. To the streets.
    The mercenary leader rushed back the other way, down the 
corridor to the ladder that would take him back up through 
the sewer grate and into the alley outside the neighborhood 
of the Copper Ante.
    Guide me, he instructed the shard again.
    We are too exposed, the artifact returned. Keep to the 
shadows and move back to House Basadoni-Artemis Entreri and 
Domo lie in that direction.
    Entreri rounded a bend in the corridor, slowing 
cautiously. There, standing before him, was Domo and two 
more wererats, all holding swords. Entreri started forward, 
thinking himself seen, and figuring to attack before the 
three could organize their defenses. He stopped abruptly, 
though, when the ratman to Dome's left whispered.
    "I smell him. He is near."
    "Too near," agreed the other lesser creature, squinting, 
the tell-tale red glow of infravision evident in its eyes.
    Why did they even need that infravision? Entreri 
wondered. He could see them clearly in the black light of 
Charon's Claw, as clearly as if they were all standing in a 
dimly lit room. He knew that he should go straight in and 
attack, but his curiosity was piqued now and so he stepped 
out from the wall, in clear view, in plain sight.
    "His smell is thick," Domo agreed. All three were 
glancing about nervously, their swords waving. "Where are 
the others?"
    "They have not come but should have been here," the one 
to his left answered. "I fear we are betrayed."
    "Damn the drow to the Nine Hells, then," Domo said.
    Entreri could hardly believe they could not see him-yet 
another wondrous effect of the marvelous sword. He wondered 
if perhaps they could see him had they been focusing their 
eyes in the normal spectrum of light, but that, he realized, 
had to be a question for another day. Concentrating now on 
moving perfectly silently, he slid one foot, and then the 
other, ahead of him, moving to Domo's right.
    "Perhaps we should have listened more carefully to the 
dark elf wizard," the one to the left went on, his voice a 
whisper.
    "To go against Jarlaxle?" Domo asked incredulously. 
"That is doom. Nothing more."
    "But . . ." the other started to argue, but Domo began 
whispering harshly, sticking his finger in the other's face.
    Entreri used their distraction to get right up behind 
the third of the group, his dagger tip coming against the 
wererat's spine. The creature stiffened as Entreri whispered 
into its ear. "Run," he said.
    The ratman sped off down the corridor, and Domo stopped 
his arguing long enough to chase his fleeing soldier a few 
steps, calling threats out after him.
    "Run," said Entreri, who had shifted across the way to 
the side of the remaining lesser wererat.
    This one, though, didn't run, but let out a shriek and 
spun, its sword slashing across at chest level.
    Entreri ducked below the blade easily and came up with a 
stab that brought his deadly jeweled dagger under the 
wererat's ribs and up into its diaphragm. The creature 
howled again, but then spasmed and convulsed violently.
    "What is it?" Domo asked, spinning about. "What?"
    The wererat fell to the floor, twitching still as it 
died. Entreri stood there, in the open, dagger in hand. He 
called up a glow from his smaller blade.
    Domo jumped back, bringing his sword out in front of 
him. "Dancing blade?" he asked quietly. "Is this you, wizard 
drow?"
    "Dancing blade?" Entreri repeated quietly, looking down 
at his glowing dagger. It made no sense to him. He looked 
back to Domo, to see the glow leave the wererat's eyes as he 
shifted from ratman, to nearly human form. Likewise his 
vision shifted from the infrared to the normal viewing 
spectrum.
    He nearly jumped out of his boots again, as the specter 
of Artemis Entreri came clear to him. "What trick is that?" 
the wererat gasped.
    Entreri wasn't even sure how to answer. He had no idea 
what Charon's Claw was doing with its black light. Did it 
block infravision completely but apparently hold a strange 
illuminating effect that was clearly visible in the normal 
spectrum? Did it act like a black campfire then, even though 
Entreri felt no heat coming from the blade? Infravision 
could be severely limited by strong heat sources.
    It was indeed intriguing-one of so many riddles that 
seemed to be presenting themselves before Artemis Entreri-
but again, it was a riddle to be solved another day.
    "So you are without allies," he said to Domo. "It is you 
and I alone."
    "Why does Jarlaxle fear me?" Domo asked as Entreri 
advanced a step.
    The assassin stopped. "Fear you? Or loathe you? They are 
not the same thing, you know."
    "I am his ally!" Domo protested. "I stood beside him, 
even against the advances of his lessers."
    "So you said to him," Entreri remarked, glancing down at 
the still-twitching, still-groaning form. "What do you know? 
Speak it clearly and quickly, and perhaps you will walk out 
of here."
    Domo's rodent eyes narrowed angrily. "As Rassiter walked 
away from your last meeting?" he asked, referring to one of 
his greatest predecessors in the wererat guild, a powerful 
leader who had served Pasha Pook along with Entreri, and 
whom Entreri had subsequently murdered- a deed never 
forgotten by the wererats of Calimport.
    "I ask you one last time," Entreri said calmly.
    He caught a slight movement to the side and knew that 
the first wererat had returned, waiting in the shadows to 
leap out at him. He was hardly surprised and hardly afraid.
    Domo gave a wide, toothy smile. "Jarlaxle and his 
companions are not as unified a force as you believe," he 
teased.
    Entreri advanced another step. "You must do better than 
that," he said, but before the words even left his mouth, 
Domo howled and leaped at him, stabbing with his slender 
sword.
    Entreri barely moved Charon's Claw, just angled the 
blade to intercept Domo's and slide it off to the side.
    The wererat retracted the strike at once, thrust again, 
and again. Each time Entreri, with barely any motion at all, 
positioned his parry perfectly and to a razor-thin angle, 
with Dome's sword stabbing past him, missing by barely an 
inch.
    Again the wererat retracted and this time came across 
with a great slash.
    But he had stepped too far back, and Entreri had to lean 
only slightly backward for the blade to swish harmlessly 
past before him.
    The expected charge came from Domo's companion in the 
shadows to the side, and Domo played his part in the routine 
perfectly, rushing ahead with a powerful thrust.
    Domo didn't understand the beauty, the efficiency, of 
Artemis Entreri. Again Charon's Claw caught and turned the 
attack, but this time, Entreri rolled his hand right over, 
and under the outside of Domo's blade. He pulled in his gut 
as he threw Domo's blade up high, and brought forth another 
wall of ash, blackening the air between him and the wererat. 
Following his own momentum, Entreri went into a complete 
spin, around to the right. As he came back square with Domo 
he brought his right arm swishing down, the sword trailing 
ash, while his left crossed his body over the down-swing, 
launching his jeweled dagger right into the gut of the 
charging wererat.
    Charon's Claw did a complete circuit in the air between 
the combatants, forming a wide, circular wall. Domo came 
ahead right through it with yet another stubborn thrust, but 
Entreri wasn't there. He dived to the side into a roll and 
came up and around with a powerful slash at the legs of the 
wererat still struggling with the dagger in its belly. To 
the assassin's surprise and delight, the mighty sword 
sheared through not only the wererat's closest knee, but 
through the other as well. The creature tumbled to the 
stone, howling in agony, its life-blood pouring out freely.
    Entreri hardly slowed, spinning about and coming up 
powerfully, slapping Domo's sword out wide yet again, and 
snapping Charon's Claw down and across to pick off a dagger 
neatly thrown by the wererat leader.
    Domo's expression changed quickly then, his last trick 
obviously played. Now it was Entreri's turn to take the 
offensive, and he did so with a powerful thrust high, thrust 
center, thrust low routine that had Domo inevitably 
skittering backward, fighting hard merely to keep his 
balance.
    Entreri, leaping ahead, didn't make it any easier on the 
overmatched creature. His sword worked furiously, sometimes 
throwing ash, sometimes not, and all with a precision 
designed to limit Dome's vision and options. Soon he had the 
wererat nearly to the back wall, and a glance from Domo told 
Entreri that he wasn't thrilled about the prospect of 
getting cornered.
    Entreri took the cue to slash and slash again, bringing 
up a wall of ash perpendicular to the floor then 
perpendicular to the first, an L-shaped design that blocked 
Domo's vision of Entreri and his vision of the area to his 
immediate right.
    With a growl, the wererat went right with a desperate 
thrust, thinking that Entreri would use the ash wall to try 
to work around him. He hit only air. Then he felt the 
assassin's presence at his back, for the man, anticipating 
the anticipation, had simply gone around the other way.
    Domo threw his sword to the ground. "I will tell you 
everything," he cried. "I will-"
    "You already did," Entreri assured him and the wererat 
stiffened as Charon's Claw sliced through his backbone and 
drove on to the hilt, coming out the front just below Domo's 
ribs.
    "It... hurts," Domo gasped.
    "It is supposed to," Entreri replied, and he gave the 
sword a sudden jerk, and Domo gasped, and he died.
    Entreri tore his blade free and rushed to retrieve his 
dagger. His thoughts were whirling now, as Domo's 
confirmation of some kind of an uprising within Bregan 
D'aerthe incited a plethora of questions. Domo had not been 
Jarlaxle's deceiver, nor was he in on the plotting against 
the mercenary leader-of that much, at least, Entreri was 
pretty sure. Yet it was Jarlaxle who had prompted this 
attack on Domo.
    Or was it?
    Wondering just how much the Crystal Shard was playing 
Jarlaxle's best interests against Jarlaxle, Artemis Entreri 
scrambled out of Calimport's sewers.
    "Beautiful," Rai-guy remarked to Kimmuriel, the two of 
them using a mirror of scrying to witness Artemis Entreri's 
return to House Basadoni. The wizard broke the connection 
almost immediately after, though, for the look upon the 
cunning assassin's face told him that Entreri might be 
sensing the scrying. "He unwittingly does our bidding. The 
wererats will stand against Jarlaxle now."
    "Alas for Domo," Kimmuriel said, laughing. He stopped 
abruptly, though, and assumed a more serious demeanor. "But 
what of Entreri? He is formidable-even more so with that 
gauntlet and sword-and is too wise to believe that he would 
be better served in joining our cause. Perhaps we should 
eliminate him before turning our eyes toward Jarlaxle."
    Rai-guy thought it over for just a moment, and nodded 
his agreement. "It must come from a lesser," he said. "From 
Sharlotta and her minions, perhaps, as they will be little 
involved in the greater coup."
    "Jarlaxle would not be pleased if he came to understand 
that we were going against Entreri," Kimmuriel agreed. 
"Sharlotta, then, and not as a straightforward command. I 
will plant the thought in her that Entreri is trying to 
eliminate her."
    "If she came to believe that, she would likely simply 
run away," Rai-guy remarked.
    "She is too full of pride for that," Kimmuriel came 
back. "I will also make it clear to her, subtly and through 
other sources, that Entreri is not in the favor of many of 
Bregan D'aerthe, that even Jarlaxle has grown tired of his 
independence. If she believes that Entreri stands alone in 
some vendetta or rivalry against her, and that she can 
utilize the veritable army at her disposal to destroy him, 
then she will not run but will strike and strike hard." He 
gave another laugh. "Though unlike you, Rai-guy, I am not so 
certain that Sharlotta and all of House Basadoni will be 
able to get the job done."
    "They will keep him occupied and out of our way, at 
least," Rai-guy replied. "Once we have finished with 
Jarlaxle ..."
    "Entreri will likely be far gone," Kimmuriel observed, 
"running as Morik has run. Perhaps we should see to Morik, 
if for no other reason than to hold him up as an example to 
Artemis Entreri."
    Rai-guy shook his head, apparently recognizing that he 
and Kimmuriel had far more pressing problems than the 
disposition of a minor deserter in a faraway and 
insignificant city. "Artemis Entreri cannot run far enough 
away," he said determinedly. "He is far too great a nuisance 
for me ever to forget him or forgive him."
    Kimmuriel thought that statement might be a bit 
extravagant, but in essence, he agreed with the sentiment. 
Perhaps Entreri's greatest crime was his own ability, the 
drow psionicist mused. Perhaps his rise above the standards 
of humans alone was the insult that so sparked hatred in 
Rai-guy and in Kimmuriel. The psionicist, and the wizard as 
well, were wise enough to appreciate that truth.
    But that didn't make things any easier for Artemis 
Entreri.
    
                        Chapter 12
                     WHEN ALL IS A LIE

    Layer after layer!" Entreri raged. He pounded his fist 
on the small table in the back room of the Copper Ante. It 
was still the one place in Calimport where he could feel 
reasonably secure from the ever-prying eyes of Rai-guy and 
Kimmuriel- and how often he had felt those eyes watching him 
of late! "So many layers that they roll back onto each other 
in a never-ending loop!"
    Dwahvel Tiggerwillies leaned back in her chair and 
studied the man curiously. In all the years she had known 
Artemis Entreri, she had never seen him so animated or so 
angry-and when Artemis Entreri was angry, those anywhere in 
the vicinity of the assassin did well to take extreme care. 
Even more surprising to the halfling was the fact that 
Entreri was so angry so soon after killing the hated Domo. 
Usually killing a wererat put him in a better mood for a day 
at least. Dwahvel could understand his frustration, though. 
The man was dealing with dark elves, and though Dwahvel had 
little real knowledge of the intricacies of drow culture, 
she had witnessed enough to understand that the dark elves 
were the masters of intrigue and deception.
    "Too many layers," Entreri said more calmly, his rage 
played out. He turned to Dwahvel and shook his head. "I am 
lost within the web within the web. I hardly know what is 
real anymore."
    "You are still alive," Dwahvel offered. "I would guess, 
then, that you are doing something right."
    "I fear that I erred greatly in killing Domo," Entreri 
admitted, shaking his head. "I have never been fond of 
wererats, but this time, perhaps, I should have let him 
live, if only to provide some opposition to the growing 
conspiracy against Jarlaxle."
    "You do not even know if Domo and his wretched, lying 
companions were speaking truthfully when they uttered words 
about the drow conspiracy," Dwahvel reminded. "They may have 
been doing that as misinformation that you would take back 
to Jarlaxle, thus bringing about a rift in Bregan D'aerthe. 
Or Domo might have been sputtering for the sake of saving 
his own head. He knows your relationship with Jarlaxle and 
understands that you are better off as long as Jarlaxle is 
in command."
    Entreri just stared at her. Domo knew all of that? Of 
course he did, the assassin told himself. As much as he 
hated the wererat, he could not dismiss the creature's 
cunning in controlling that most difficult of guilds.
    "It is irrelevant anyway," Dwahvel went on. "We both 
know that the ratmen will be minor players at best in any 
internal struggles of Bregan D'aerthe. If Rai-guy and 
Kimmuriel start a coup, Domo and his kin would do little to 
dissuade them."
    Entreri shook his head again, thoroughly frustrated by 
it all. Alone he believed that he could outfight or out-
think any drow, but they were not alone, were never alone. 
Because of that harmony of movement within the band's 
cliques, Entreri could not be certain of the truth of 
anything. The addition of the Crystal Shard was merely 
compounding matters, blurring the truth about the source of 
the coup-if there was a coup-and making the assassin 
honestly wonder if Jarlaxle was in charge or was merely a 
slave to the sentient artifact. As much as Entreri knew that 
Jarlaxle would protect him, he understood that the Crystal 
Shard would want him dead.
    "You dismiss all that you once learned," Dwahvel 
remarked, her voice soothing and calm. "The drow play no 
games beyond those that Pasha Pook once played-or Pasha 
Basadoni, or any of the others, or all of the others 
together. Their dance is the same as has been going on in 
Calimport for centuries."
    "But the drow are better dancers."
    Dwahvel smiled and nodded, conceding the point. "But is 
not the solution the same?" she asked. "When all is a 
facade...." She let the words hang out in the air, one of 
the basic truths of the streets, and one that Artemis 
Entreri surely knew as well as anyone. "When all is a facade 
... ?" she said again, prompting him.
    Entreri forced himself to calm down, forced himself to 
dismiss the overblown respect, even fear, he had been 
developing toward the dark elves, particularly toward Rai-
guy and Kimmuriel. "In such situations, when layer is put 
upon layer," he recited, a basic lesson for all bright 
prospects within the guild structures, "when all is a 
facade, wound within webs of deception, the truth is what 
you make of it."
    Dwahvel nodded. "You will know which path is real, 
because that is the path you will make real," she agreed. 
"Nothing pains a liar more than when an opponent turns one 
of his lies into truth."
    Entreri nodded his agreement, and indeed he felt better. 
He knew that he would, which was why he had slipped out of 
House Basadoni after sensing that he was being watched and 
had gone straight to the Copper Ante.
    "Do you believe Domo?" the halfling asked.
    Entreri considered it for a moment, and nodded. "The 
hourglass has been turned, and the sand is flowing," he 
stated. "Have you the information I requested?"
    Dwahvel reached under the low dust ruffle of the chair 
in which she was sitting and pulled out a portfolio full of 
parchments. "Cadderly," she said, handing them over.
    "What of the other item?"
    Again the halfling's hand went down low, this time 
producing a small sack identical to the one Jarlaxle now 
carried on his belt, and, Entreri knew without even looking, 
containing a block of crystal similar in appearance to 
Crenshinibon.
    Entreri took it with some trepidation, for it was, to 
him, the final and irreversible acknowledgment that he was 
indeed about to embark upon a very dangerous course, perhaps 
the most dangerous road he had ever walked in all his life.
    "There is no magic about it," Dwahvel assured him, 
noting his concerned expression. "Just a mystical aura I 
ordered included so that it would replicate the artifact to 
any cursory magical inspection."
    Entreri nodded and hooked the pouch on his belt, behind 
his hip so that it would be completely concealed by his 
cloak.
    "We could just get you out of the city," Dwahvel 
offered. "It would have been far cheaper to hire a wizard to 
teleport you far, far away."
    Entreri chuckled at the thought. It was one that had 
crossed his mind a thousand times since Bregan D'aerthe had 
come to Calimport, but one that he had always dismissed. How 
far could he run? Not farther than Rai-guy and Kimmuriel 
could follow, he understood.
    "Stay close to him," Dwahvel warned. "When it happens, 
you will have to be the quicker."
    Entreri nodded and started to rise, but paused and 
stared hard at Dwahvel. She honestly cared how he managed in 
this conflict, he realized, and the truth of that- that 
Dwahvel's concern for him had little to do with her own 
personal gain-struck him profoundly. It showed him something 
he'd not known often in his miserable existence-a friend.
    He didn't leave the Copper Ante right away but went into 
an adjoining room and began ruffling through the reams of 
information that Dwahvel had collected on the priest, 
Cadderly. Would this man be the answer to Jarlaxle's dilemma 
and thus Entreri's own?

                         * * * * *

    Frustration more than anything else guided Jarlaxle's 
movements as he made his swift way back to Dallabad, using a 
variety of magical items to facilitate his silent and unseen 
passage, but not-pointedly not-calling upon the Crystal 
Shard for any assistance.
    This was it, the drow leader realized, the true test of 
his newest partnership. It had struck Jarlaxle that perhaps 
the Crystal Shard had been gaining too much the upper hand 
in their relationship, and so he had decided to set the 
matter straight.
    He meant to take down the crystalline tower.
    Crenshinibon knew it, too. Jarlaxle could feel the 
artifact's unhappy pulsing in his pouch, and he wondered if 
the powerful item might force a desperate showdown of 
willpower, one in which there could emerge only one victor.
    Jarlaxle was ready for that. He was always willing to 
share in responsibility and decision-making, as long as it 
eventually led to the achievement of his own goals. Lately, 
though, he'd come to sense, the Crystal Shard seemed to be 
altering those very goals. It seemed to be bending him more 
and more in directions not of his choosing.
    Soon after the sun had set, a very dark Calimshan 
evening, Jarlaxle stood before the crystalline tower, 
staring hard at it. He strengthened his resolve and mentally 
bolstered himself for the struggle that he knew would 
inevitably ensue. With a final glance around to make certain 
that no one was nearby, he reached into his pouch and took 
out the sentient artifact.
    No! Crenshinibon screamed in his thoughts, the shard 
obviously knowing exactly what it was the dark elf meant to 
do. I forbid this. The towers are a manifestation of my- of 
our strength and indeed heighten that strength. To destroy 
one is forbidden!
    Forbidden? Jarlaxle echoed skeptically.
    It is not in the best interests of-
    7 decide what is in my best interests, Jarlaxle strongly 
interrupted. And now it is in my interest to tear down this 
tower. He focused all his mental energies into a singular 
and powerful command to the Crystal Shard.
    And so it began, a titanic, if silent, struggle of 
willpower. Jarlaxle, with his centuries of accumulated 
knowledge and perfected cunning, was pitted squarely against 
the ages-old dweomer that was the Crystal Shard. Within 
seconds of the battle, Jarlaxle felt his will bend backward, 
as if the artifact meant to break his mind completely. It 
seemed to him as if every fear he had ever harbored in every 
dark corner of his imagination had become real, stalking 
inexorably toward his thoughts, his memories, his very 
identity.
    How naked he felt! How open to the darts and slings of 
the mighty Crystal Shard!
    Jarlaxle composed himself and worked very hard to 
separate the images, to single out each horrid manifestation 
and isolate it from the others. Then, focusing as much as he 
possibly could on that one vividly imagined horror, he 
counterattacked, using feelings of empowerment and strength, 
calling upon all of those many, many experiences he had 
weathered to become this leader of Bregan D'aerthe, this 
male dark elf who had for so long thrived in the matriarchal 
hell that was Menzoberranzan.
    One after another the nightmares fell before him. As his 
internal struggles began to subside, Jarlaxle sent his 
willpower out of his inner mind, out to the artifact, 
issuing that singular, powerful command:
    Tear down the crystalline tower!
    Now came the coercion, the images of glory, of armies 
falling before fields of crystalline towers, of kings coming 
to him on their knees, bearing the treasures of their 
kingdoms, of the Matron Mothers of Menzoberranzan anointing 
him as permanent ruler of their council, speaking of him in 
terms previously reserved for Lady Lolth herself.
    This second manipulation was, in many ways, even more 
difficult for Jarlaxle to control and defeat. He could not 
deny the allure of the images. More importantly, he could 
not deny the possibilities for Bregan D'aerthe and for him, 
given the added might that was the Crystal Shard.
    He felt his resolve slipping away, a compromise reached 
that would allow Crenshinibon and Jarlaxle both to find all 
they desired.
    He was ready to release the artifact from his command, 
to admit the ridiculousness of tearing down the tower, to 
give in and reform their undeniably profitable alliance.
    But he remembered.
    This was no partnership, for the Crystal Shard was no 
partner, no real, controllable, replaceable and predictable 
partner. No, Jarlaxle reminded himself. It was an artifact, 
an enchanted item, and though sentient it was a created 
intelligence, a method of reasoning based upon a set and 
predetermined goal. In this case, apparently, its goal was 
the acquisition of as many followers and as much power as 
its magic would allow.
    While Jarlaxle could sympathize, even agree with that 
goal, he reminded himself pointedly and determinedly that he 
would have to be the one in command. He fought back against 
the temptations, denied the Crystal Shard its manipulations 
as he had beaten back its brute force attack in the 
beginning of the struggle.
    He felt it, as tangible as a snapping rope, a click in 
his mind that gave him his answer.
    Jarlaxle was the master. His were the decisions that 
would guide Bregan D'aerthe and command the Crystal Shard.
    He knew then, without the slightest bit of doubt, that 
the tower was his to destroy, and so he led the shard again 
to that command. This time, Jarlaxle felt no anger, no 
denial, no recriminations, only sadness.
    The beaten artifact began to hum with the energies 
needed to deconstruct its large magical replica.
    Jarlaxle opened his eyes and smiled with satisfaction. 
The fight had been everything he had feared it would be, but 
in the end, he knew without doubt he had triumphed. He felt 
the tingling as the essence of the crystalline tower began 
to weaken. Its binding energy would be stolen away. Then the 
material bound together by Crenshinibon's magic would 
dissipate to the winds. The way he commanded it-and he knew 
that Crenshinibon could comply-there would be no explosions, 
no crashing walls, just fading away.
    Jarlaxle nodded, as satisfied as with any victory he had 
ever known in his long life of struggles.
    He pictured Dallabad without the tower and wondered what 
new spies would then show up to determine where the tower 
had gone, why it had been there in the first place, and if 
Ahdahnia was, therefore, still in charge.
    "Stop!" he commanded the artifact. "The tower remains, 
by my word."
    The humming stopped immediately and the Crystal Shard, 
seeming very humbled, went quiet in Jarlaxle's thoughts.
    Jarlaxle smiled even wider. Yes, he would keep the 
tower, and he decided in the morning he would construct a 
second one beside the first. The twin towers of Dallabad. 
Jarlaxle's twin towers.
    At least two.
    For now the mercenary leader did not fear those towers, 
nor the source that had inspired him to erect the first one. 
No, he had won the day and could use the mighty Crystal 
Shard to bring him to new heights of power.
    And Jarlaxle knew it would never threaten him again.

                         * * * * *

    Artemis Entreri paced the small room he had rented in a 
nondescript inn far from House Basadoni and any of the other 
street guilds. On a small table to the side of the bed was 
his black, red-stitched gauntlet, with Charon's Claw lying 
right beside it, the red blade gleaming in the candlelight,
    Entreri was not certain of this at all. He wondered what 
the innkeeper might think if he came in later to find 
Entreri's skull-headed corpse smoldering on the floor.
    It was a very real possibility, the assassin reminded 
himself. Every time he used Charon's Claw, it showed him a 
new twist, a new trick, and he understood sentient magic 
well enough to understand that the more powers such a sword 
possessed, the greater its willpower. Entreri had already 
seen the result of a defeat in a willpower battle with this 
particularly nasty sword. He could picture the horrible end 
of Kohrin Soulez as vividly as if it had happened that very 
morning, the man's facial skin rolling up from his bones as 
it melted away.
    But he had to do this and now. He would soon be going 
against the Crystal Shard, and woe to him if, at that time, 
he was still waging any kind of mental battle against his 
own sword. With just that fear in mind, he had even 
contemplated selling the sword or hiding it away somewhere, 
but as he considered his other likely enemies, Rai-guy and 
Kimmuriel, he realized that he had to keep it.
    He had to keep it, and he had to dominate it completely. 
There could be no other way.
    Entreri walked toward the table, rubbing his hands 
together, then bringing them up to his lips, and blowing 
into them.
    He turned around before he reached the sword, thinking, 
thinking, seeking some alternative. He wondered again if he 
could sell the vicious blade or hand it over to Dwahvel to 
lock in a deep hole until after the dark elves had left 
Calimport and he could, perhaps, return.
    That last thought, of being chased from the city by 
Jarlaxle's wretched lieutenants, fired a sudden anger in the 
assassin, and he strode determinedly over to the table. 
Before he could again consider the potential implications, 
he growled and reached over, snapping up Charon's Claw in 
his bare hand.
    He felt the immediate tug-not a physical tug, but 
something deeper, something going to the essence of Artemis 
Entreri, the spirit of the man. The sword was hungry-how he 
could feel that hunger! It wanted to consume him, to 
obliterate his very essence simply because he was bold 
enough, or foolish enough, to grasp it without that 
protective gauntlet. Oh, how it wanted him!
    He felt a twitching in his cheek, an excitement upon his 
skin, and wondered if he would combust. Entreri forced that 
notion away and concentrated again on winning the mental 
battle.
    The sentient sword pulled and pulled, relentlessly, and 
Entreri could hear something akin to laughter in his head, a 
supreme confidence that reminded him that Charon's
    Claw would not tire, but he surely would. Another 
thought came, the realization that he could not even let go 
of the weapon if he chose to, that he had locked in this 
combat and there could be no turning back, no surrender.
    That was the ploy of the devilish sword, to impart a 
sense of complete hopelessness on the part of anyone 
challenging it, to tell the challenger, in no uncertain 
terms, that the fight would be to the bitter and disastrous 
end. For so many before Entreri, such a message had resulted 
in a breaking of the spirit that the sword had used as a 
springboard to complete its victory.
    But with Entreri, the ploy only brought forth greater 
feelings of rage, a red wall of determined and focused anger 
and denial.
    "You are mine!" the assassin growled through gritted 
teeth. "You are a possession, a thing, a piece of beaten 
metal!" He lifted the gleaming red blade before him and 
commanded it to bring forth its black light.
    It did not comply. The sword kept attacking Entreri as 
it had attacked Kohrin Soulez, trying to defeat him mentally 
that it might burn away his skin, trying to consume him as 
it had so many before him.
    "You are mine," he said again, his voice calm now, for 
while the sword had not relented its attack, Entreri's 
confidence that he could fend that attack began to rise.
    He felt a sudden sting within him, a burning sensation 
as Charon's Claw threw all of its energy into him. Rather 
than deny it he welcomed that energy and took it from the 
sword. It mounted to a vibrating crescendo and broke apart.
    The black light appeared in the small room, and 
Entreri's smile gleamed widely within it. The light was 
confirmation that Entreri had overwhelmed Charon's Claw, 
that the sword was indeed his now. He lowered the blade, 
taking several deep breaths to steady himself, trying not to 
consider the fact that he had just come back from the very 
precipice of obliteration.
    That did not matter anymore. He had beaten the sword, 
had broken the sword's spirit, and it belonged to him now as 
surely as did the jeweled dagger he wore on his other hip. 
Certainly he would ever after have to take some measure of 
care that Charon's Claw would try to break free of him, but 
that was, at most, a cursory inconvenience.
    "You are mine," he said again, calmly, and he commanded 
the sword to dismiss the black light.
    The room was again bathed in only candlelight. Charon's 
Claw, the sword of Artemis Entreri, offered no arguments.

                         * * * * *

    Jarlaxle thought he knew. Jarlaxle thought that he had 
won the day.
    Because Crenshinibon made him think that. Because 
Crenshinibon wanted the battle between the mercenary leader 
and his upstart lieutenants to be an honest one, so that it 
could then determine which would be the better wielder.
    The Crystal Shard still favored Rai-guy, because it knew 
that drow to be more ambitious and more willing, even eager, 
to kill.
    But the possibilities here with Jarlaxle did not escape 
the artifact. Turning him within the layers of deception had 
been no easy thing, but indeed, Crenshinibon had taken 
Jarlaxle exactly to that spot where it had desired he go.
    At dawn the very next morning, a second crystalline 
tower was erected at Dallabad Oasis.
    
                        Chapter 13
                  FLIPPING THE HOURGLASS

    You understand your role in every contingency?" Entreri 
asked Dwahvel at their next meeting, an impromptu affair 
conducted in the alley beside the Copper Ante, an area 
equally protected from divining wizards by Dwahvel's potent 
anti-spying resources.
    "In every contingency that you have outlined," the 
halfling replied with a warning smirk.
    "Then you understand every contingency," Entreri 
answered without hesitation. He returned her grin with one 
of complete confidence.
    "You have thought every possibility through?" the 
halfling asked doubtfully. "These are dark elves, the 
masters of manipulation and intrigue, the makers of the 
layers of their own reality and of the rules within that 
layered reality."
    "And they are not in their homeland and do not 
understand the nuances of Calimport," Entreri assured her. 
"They view the whole world as an extension of 
Menzoberranzan, an extension in temperament, and more 
importantly, in how they measure the reactions of those 
around them. I am iblith, thus inferior, and thus, they will 
not expect the turn their version of reality is about to 
take."
    "The time has come?" Dwahvel asked, still doubtfully. 
"Or are you bringing the critical moment upon us?"
    "I have never been a patient man," Entreri admitted, and 
his wicked grin did not dissipate with the admission but 
intensified.
    "Every contingency," Dwahvel remarked, "thus every layer 
of the reality you intend to create. Beware, my competent 
friend, that you do not get lost somewhere in the mixture of 
your realities."
    Entreri started to scowl but held back the negative 
thoughts, recognizing that Dwahvel was offering him sensible 
advice here, that he was playing a most dangerous game with 
the most dangerous foes he had ever known. Even in the best 
of circumstances, Artemis Entreri realized that his success, 
and therefore his very life, would hang on the movements of 
a split second and would be forfeited by the slightest turn 
of bad luck. This culminating scenario was not the precision 
strike of the trained assassin but the desperate move of a 
cornered man.
    Still, when he looked at his halfling friend, Entreri's 
confidence and resolve were bolstered. He knew that Dwahvel 
would not disappoint him hi this, that she would hold up her 
end of the reality-making process.
    "If you succeed, I'll not see you again," the halfling 
remarked. "And if you fail, I'll likely not be able to find 
your blasted and torn corpse."
    Entreri took the blunt words for the offering of 
affection that he knew they truly were. His smile was wide 
and genuine-so rare a thing for the assassin.
    "You will see me again," he told Dwahvel. "The drow will 
grow weary of Calimport and will recede back to their 
sunless holes where they truly belong. Perhaps it will 
happen in months, perhaps in years, but they will eventually 
go. That is their nature. Rai-guy and Kimmuriel understand 
that there is no long-term benefit for them or for Bregan 
D'aerthe in expanding any trading business on the surface. 
Discovery would mean all-out war. That is the main focus of 
their ire with Jarlaxle, after all. So they will go, but you 
will remain, and I will return."
    "Even if the drow do not kill you now, am I to believe 
that your road will be any less dangerous once you're gone?" 
the halfling asked with a snort that ended in a grin. "Is 
there any such road for Artemis Entreri? Not likely, I say. 
Indeed, with your new weapon and that defensive gauntlet, 
you will likely take on the assassinations of prominent 
wizards as your chosen profession. And, of course, 
eventually one of those wizards will understand the truth of 
your new toys and their limitations, and he will leave you a 
charred and smoking husk." She chuckled and shook her head. 
"Yes, go after Khelben, Vangerdahast, or Elminster himself. 
At least your death will be painlessly quick."
    "I did say I was not a patient man," Entreri agreed.
    To his surprise, and to the halfling's as well, Dwahvel 
then rushed up to him and leaped upon him, wrapping him in a 
hug. She broke free quickly and backed away, composing 
herself.
    "For luck and nothing more," she said. "Of course I 
prefer your victory to that of the dark elves."
    "If only the dark elves," Entreri said, needing to keep 
this conversation lighthearted.
    He knew what awaited him. It would be a brutal test of 
his skills-of all of his skills-and of his nerve. He walked 
the very edge of disaster. Again, he reminded himself that 
he could indeed count on the reliability of one Dwahvel 
Tiggerwillies, that most competent of halflings. He looked 
at her hard then and understood that she was going to play 
along with his last remark, was not going to give him the 
satisfaction of disagreeing, of admitting that she 
considered him a friend.
    Artemis Entreri would have been disappointed in her if 
she had.
    "Beware that you do not catch yourself within the very 
layers of lies that you have perpetrated," Dwahvel said 
after the assassin as he started away, already beginning to 
blend seamlessly into the shadows.
    Entreri took those words to heart. The potential 
combinations of the possible events was indeed staggering. 
Improvisation alone might keep him alive in this critical 
time, and Entreri had survived the entirety of his life on 
the very edge of disaster. He had been forced to rely on his 
wits, on complete improvisation, dozens of times, scores of 
times, and had somehow managed to survive. In his mind, he 
held contingency plans to counter every foreseeable event. 
While he kept confidence in himself and in those he had 
placed strategically around him, he did not for one moment 
dismiss the fact that if one eventuality materialized that 
he had not counted on, if one wrong turn appeared before him 
and he could not find a way around that bend, he would die.
    And, given the demeanor of Rai-guy, he would die 
horribly.

                         * * * * *

    The street was busy, as were most of the avenues in 
Calimport, but the most remarkable person on it seemed the 
most unremarkable. Artemis Entreri, wearing the guise of a 
beggar, kept to the shadows, not moving suspiciously from 
one to another, but blending invisibly against the backdrop 
of the bustling street.
    His movements were not without purpose. He kept his prey 
in sight at every moment.
    Sharlotta Vespers attempted no such anonymity as she 
moved along the thoroughfare. She was the recognized 
figurehead of House Basadoni, walking bidden into the domain 
of dangerous Pasha Da'Daclan. Many suspicious, even hateful 
eyes cast more than the occasional glance her way, but none 
would move against her. She had requested the meeting with 
Da'Daclan, on orders from Rai-guy, and had been accepted 
under his protection. Thus, she walked now with the guise of 
complete confidence, bordering on bravado.
    She didn't seem to realize that one of those watching 
her, shadowing her, was not under any orders from Pasha 
Da'Daclan.
    Entreri knew this area well, for he had worked for the 
Rakers on several occasions in the past. Sharlotta's 
demeanor told him without doubt that she was coming for a 
formal parlay. Soon enough, as she passed one potential 
meeting area after another, he was able to deduce exactly 
where that meeting would take place. What he did not know, 
however, was how important this meeting might be to Rai-guy 
and Kimmuriel.
    "Are you watching her every step with your strange mind 
powers, Kimmuriel?'' he asked quietly
    His mind worked through the contingency plans he had to 
keep available should that be the case. He didn't believe 
that the two drow, busy with planning of their own, no 
doubt, would be monitoring Sharlotta's every move, but it 
was certainly possible. If that came to pass, Entreri 
realized that he would know it, in no uncertain terms, very 
soon. He could only hope that he'd be ready and able to 
properly adjust his course.
    He moved more quickly then, outpacing the woman by 
taking the side alleys, even climbing to one roof, and 
scrambling across to another and to another.
    Soon after, he reached the house bordering the alley he 
believed Sharlotta would turn down, a suspicion only 
heightened by the fact that a sentry was in position on that 
very roof, overlooking the alley on the far side.
    As silent as death, Entreri moved into position behind 
the sentry, with the man's attention obviously focused on 
the alleyway and completely oblivious to him. Working 
carefully, for he knew that others would be about, Entreri 
spent some amount of time casing the entire area, locating 
the two sentries on the rooftops across the way and one 
other on this side of the alley, on the adjoining roof of a 
building immediately behind the one Entreri now stood upon.
    He watched those three more than the man directly in 
front of him, measured their every movement, their every 
turn of the head. Most of all, he gauged their focus. 
Finally, when he was certain that they were not attentive, 
the assassin struck, yanking his victim back behind a 
dormer.
    A moment later, all four of Pasha Da'Daclan's sentries 
seemed in place once more, all of them honestly intent on 
the alleyway below as Sharlotta Vespers, a pair of 
Da'Daclan's guards at her back, turned into the alleyway.
    Entreri's thoughts whirled. Five enemy soldiers, and a 
supposed comrade who seemed more of an enemy than the 
others. He didn't delude himself into thinking that these 
five were alone. Da'Daclan's stooges probably included a 
significant portion of the scores of people milling about on 
the main avenue.
    Entreri went anyway, rolling over the edge of the roof 
of the two-story building, catching hold with his hand, 
stretching to his limit, and dropping agilely to the 
surprised Sharlotta's side.
    "A trap," he whispered harshly, and he turned to face 
the two soldiers following her and held up his hand for them 
to halt. "Kimmuriel has a dimensional portal in place for 
our escape on the roof."
    Sharlotta's facial expression went from surprise to 
anger to calm so quickly, each one buried in her practiced 
manner, that only Entreri caught the range of expressions. 
He knew that he had her befuddled, that his mention of 
Kimmuriel had given credence to his outlandish claim that 
this was a trap.
    "I will take her from here," Entreri said to the guards. 
He heard movement farther along and across the alley, as two 
of the other three sentries, including the one on the same 
side of the alley as Entreri, came down to see what was 
going on.
    "Who are you?" one of the soldiers following Sharlotta 
asked skeptically, his hand going inside his common 
traveling cloak to the hilt of a finely crafted sword. "Go," 
Entreri whispered to Sharlotta. The woman hesitated, so 
Entreri prompted her retreat in no uncertain terms. Out came 
the jeweled dagger and Charon's Claw, the assassin throwing 
back his cloak, revealing himself in all his splendor. He 
leaped forward, slashing with his sword and thrusting with 
his dagger at the second soldier.
    Out came the swords in response. One picked off the 
swipe of Charon's Claw, but with the man inevitably 
retreating as he parried. That had been Entreri's primary 
goal. The second soldier, though, had less fortune. As his 
sword came forth to parry, Entreri gave a subtle twist of 
his wrist and looped his dagger over the blade, then thrust 
it home into the man's belly.
    With others closing fast, the assassin couldn't follow 
through with the kill, but he did hold the strike long 
enough to bring forth the dagger's life-stealing energies to 
let the man know the purest horror he could ever imagine. 
The soldier wasn't really badly wounded, but he fell away to 
the ground, clutching his belly and howling in terror.
    The assassin broke back, turning away from the wall 
where Sharlotta Vespers was scrambling to gain the roof.
    The one who had fallen back from the sword slash came at 
Entreri from the left. Another came from the right, and two 
rushed across the alleyway, coming straight in. Entreri 
started right, sword leading, then turned back fast to the 
left. Even as the four began to compensate for the change-a 
change that was not completely unexpected-the assassin 
turned back fast to the right, charging in hard just as that 
soldier had begun to accelerate in pursuit.
    The soldier found himself in a flurry of slashing and 
stabbing. He worked his own blades, a sword and dirk, quite 
well. The soldier was no novice to battle, but this was 
Artemis Entreri. Whenever the man moved to parry, Entreri 
altered the angle. His fury kept the ring of metal in the 
air for a long few seconds, but the dagger slipped through, 
gashing the soldier's right arm. As that limb drooped, 
Entreri went into a spin, Charon's Claw coming around fast 
to pick off a thrust from the man coming in at his back, 
then continuing through, over the wounded man's lowered 
defense, slashing him hard across the chest.
    Also on that maneuver, Entreri's devilish sword trailed 
out the black ash wall. The line was horizontal, not 
vertical, so that ash did not impede the vision of his 
adversaries, but still the mere sight of it hanging there in 
midair gave them enough pause for Entreri to dispatch the 
man who had come in on his right. Then the assassin went 
into a wild flurry, sword waving and bringing up an opaque 
wall.
    The remaining three soldiers settled back behind it, 
confused and trying to put some coordination into their 
movements. When at last they mustered the nerve to charge 
through the ash wall, they discovered that the assassin was 
nowhere to be found.
    Entreri watched them from the rooftop, shaking his head 
at their ineptness, and also at the little values offered by 
this wondrous sword-a weapon to which he was growing more 
fond with each battle.
    "Where is it?" Sharlotta called to him from across the 
way.
    Entreri looked at her quizzically.
    "The doorway?" Sharlotta asked. "Where is it?"
    "Perhaps Da'Daclan has interfered," Entreri replied, 
trying to hide his satisfaction that apparently Rai-guy and 
Kimmuriel were not closely monitoring Sharlotta's movements. 
"Or perhaps they decided to leave us," he added, figuring 
that if he could throw a bit of doubt into Sharlotta 
Vespers' view of the world and her dark-elven compatriots, 
then so be it.
    Sharlotta merely scowled at that disturbing thought.
    Noise from behind told them that the soldiers in the 
alleyway weren't giving up and reminded them that they were 
on hostile territory here. Entreri ran past Sharlotta, 
motioning for her to follow, then made the leap across the 
next alleyway to another building, then to a third, then 
down and out the back end of an alley, and finally, down 
into the sewers-a place that Entreri wasn't thrilled about 
entering at that time, given his recent assassination of 
Domo. He didn't remain underground for long, coming up in 
the more familiar territory beyond Da'Daclan's territory and 
closer to the Basadoni guild house.
    Still leading, Entreri made his way along at a swift 
pace until he reached the alleyway beside the Copper Ante, 
where he abruptly stopped.
    Seeming more angry than grateful, obviously doubting the 
sincerity of the escape and the very need for it, Sharlotta 
continued past, hardly glancing his way.
    Until the assassin's sword came out and settled in front 
of her neck. "I think not," he remarked.
    Sharlotta glanced sidelong at him, and he motioned for 
her to head down the alley beside Dwahvel's establishment.
    "What is this?" the woman asked.
    "Your only chance at continuing to draw breath,"
    Entreri replied. When she still didn't move, he grabbed 
her by the arm, and with frightening strength yanked her in 
front of him heading down the alley. He pointedly reminded 
her to keep going, prodding her with his sword.
    They came to a tiny room, having entered through a 
secret alley entrance. The room held a single chair, into 
which Entreri none-too-gently shoved Sharlotta.
    "Have you lost what little sense you once possessed?" 
the woman asked.
    "Am I the one bargaining secret deals with dark elves?" 
Entreri replied, and the look Sharlotta gave him in the 
instant before she found her control told him volumes about 
the truth of his suspicions.
    "We have both been dealing as need be," the woman 
indignantly answered.
    "Dealing? Or double-dealing? There is a difference, even 
with dark elves."
    "You speak the part of a fool," snapped Sharlotta. "Yet 
you are the one closer to death, "Entreri reminded, and he 
came in very close, now with his jeweled dagger in hand, and 
a look on his face that told Sharlotta that he was certainly 
not bluffing here. Sharlotta knew well the life-stealing 
powers of that horrible dagger. "Why were you going to meet 
with Pasha Da'Daclan?" Entreri asked bluntly.
    "The change at Dallabad has raised suspicions," the 
woman answered, an honest and obvious-if obviously 
incomplete-response.
    "No suspicions that trouble Jarlaxle, apparently," 
Entreri reasoned.
    "But some that could turn to serious trouble," Sharlotta 
went on, and Entreri knew that she was improvising here. "I 
was to meet with Pasha Da'Daclan to assure him the situation 
on the streets, and elsewhere, will calm to normal." "That 
any expansion by House Basadoni is at its end?" Entreri 
asked doubtfully. "Would you not be lying, though, and would 
that not invite even greater wrath when the next conquest 
falls before Jarlaxle?" "The next?"
    "Have you come to believe that our suddenly ambitious 
leader means to stop?" Entreri asked.
    Sharlotta spent a long while mulling that one over. "I 
have been told that House Basadoni will begin pulling back, 
to all appearances, at least," she said. "As long as we 
encounter no further outside influences."
    "Like the spies at Dallabad," Entreri agreed. Sharlotta 
nodded-a bit too eagerly, Entreri thought. "Then Jarlaxle's 
hunger is at last sated, and we can get back to a quieter 
and safer routine," the assassin remarked.
    Sharlotta did not respond.
    Entreri's lips curled up into a smile. He knew the truth 
of it, of course, that Sharlotta had just blatantly lied to 
him. He would never have put it past Jarlaxle to have played 
such opposing games with his underlings in days past, 
leading Entreri in one direction and Sharlotta in another, 
but he knew that the mercenary leader was in the throes of 
Crenshinibon's hunger now, and given the information 
supplied by Dwahvel, he understood the truth of that. It was 
a truth very different from the lie Sharlotta had just 
outlined.
    Sharlotta, by going to Da'Daclan and claiming that 
Jarlaxle had been behind the meeting, which meant that Rai-
guy and Kimmuriel certainly had been, confirmed to Entreri 
that time was indeed running short.
    He stepped back and paused, digesting all of the 
information, trying to reason when and where the actual 
infighting might occur. He noted, too, that Sharlotta was 
watching him very carefully.
    Sharlotta moved with the grace and speed of a hunting 
cat, rolling off the chair to one knee, drawing and throwing 
a dagger at Entreri's heart, and bolting for the room's 
other, less remarkable doorway.
    Entreri caught the dagger in midflight, turned it over 
in his hand and hurled it into that door with a thump, to 
stick, quivering, before Sharlotta's widening eyes.
    He grabbed her and turned her roughly around, hitting 
her with a heavy punch across the face.
    She drew out another dagger-or tried to. Entreri caught 
her wrist even as it came out of its concealed sheath, 
turning a quick spin under the arm and tugging so violently 
that all of Sharlotta's strength left her hand and the 
dagger fell harmlessly to the floor. Entreri tugged again, 
and let go. He leaped around in front of the woman, slapping 
her twice across the face, and grabbed her hard by the 
shoulders. He ran her backward, to crash back into the 
chair.
    "Do you not even understand those with whom you play 
these foolish games?" he growled in her face. "They will use 
you to their advantage, and discard you. In their eyes you 
are iblith, a word that means "not drow," a word that also 
means offal. Those two, Rai-guy and Kimmuriel, are the 
greatest racists among Jarlaxle's lieutenants. You will find 
no gain beside them, Sharlotta the Fool, only horrible 
death."
    "And what of Jarlaxle?" she cried out in response.
    It was just the sort of instinctive, emotional explosion 
the assassin had been counting on. There it was, as clear as 
it could be, an admission that Sharlotta had fallen into 
league with two would-be kings of Bregan D'aerthe. He moved 
back from her, just a bit, leaving her ruffled in the chair.
    "I offer you one chance," he said to her. "Not out of 
any favorable feelings I might hold toward you, because 
there are none, but because you have something I need."
    Sharlotta straightened her shirt and tunic and tried to 
regain some of her dignity.
    "Tell me everything," Entreri said bluntly. "All of this 
coup-when, where, and how. I know more than you believe, so 
try none of your foolish games with me."
    Sharlotta smirked at him doubtfully. "You know nothing," 
she replied. "If you did, you'd know you've come to play the 
role of the idiot."
    Even as the last word left her mouth, Entreri was there, 
back against her, one hand roughly grabbing her hair and 
yanking her head back, the other, holding his awful dagger 
point in at her exposed throat. "Last chance," he said, so 
very calmly. "And do remember that I do not like you, 
dearest Sharlotta."
    The woman swallowed hard, her eyes locked onto Entreri's 
deadly gaze.
    Entreri's reputation heightened the threat reflected in 
his eyes to the point where Sharlotta, with nothing to lose 
and no reason for loyalty to the dark elves, spilled all she 
knew of the entire plan, even the method Rai-guy and 
Kimmuriel planned to use to incapacitate the Crystal Shard- 
some kind of mind magic transformed into a lantern.
    None of it came as any surprise to Entreri, of course. 
Still, hearing the words spoken openly did bring a shock to 
him, a reminder of how precarious his position truly had 
become. He quietly muttered his litany of creating his own 
reality within the strands of the layered web and reminded 
himself repeatedly that he was every bit the player as were 
his two opponents.
    He moved away from Sharlotta to the inner door. He 
pulled free the stuck dagger and banged hard three times on 
the door. It opened a few moments later and a very surprised 
looking Dwahvel Tiggerwillies bounded into the room.
    "Why have you come?" she started to ask of Entreri, but 
she stopped, her gaze caught by the ruffled Sharlotta. Again 
she turned to Entreri, this time her expression one of 
surprise and anger. "What have you done?" the halfling 
demanded of the assassin. "I'll play no part in any of the 
rivalries within House Basadoni!"
    "You will do as you are instructed," the assassin 
replied coldly. "You will keep Sharlotta here as your 
comfortable but solitary guest until I return to permit her 
release."
    "Permit?" Dwahvel asked doubtfully, turning from Entreri 
to Sharlotta. "What insanity have you brought upon me, 
fool?"
    "The next insult will cost you your tongue," Entreri 
said coldly, perfectly playing the role. "You will do as 
I've instructed. Nothing more, nothing less. When this is 
finished, even Sharlotta will thank you for keeping her safe 
in times when none of us truly are."
    Dwahvel stared hard at Sharlotta as Entreri spoke, 
making silent contact. The human woman gave the slightest 
nod of her head.
    Dwahvel turned back to the assassin. "Out," she ordered.
    Entreri looked to the alleyway door, so perfectly fitted 
that it was barely an outline on the wall.
    "Not that way ... it opens only in," Dwahvel said 
sourly, and she pointed to the conventional door. "That 
way." She moved up to him and pushed him along, out of the 
room, turning to close and lock the door behind them.
    "It has come this far already?" Dwahvel asked when the 
two were safely down the corridor.
    Entreri nodded grimly.
    "But you are still on course for your plan?" Dwahvel 
asked. "Despite this unexpected turn?"
    Entreri's smile reminded the halfling that nothing would 
be, or could be, unexpected.
    Dwahvel nodded. "Logical improvisation," she remarked.
    "You know your role," Entreri replied.
    "And I thought I played it quite well," Dwahvel said 
with a smile.
    "Too well," Entreri said to her as they reached another 
doorway farther along the wall up the alleyway. "I was not 
joking when I said I would take your tongue."
    With that, he went out into the alley, leaving a shaken 
Dwahvel behind. After a moment, though, the halfling merely 
chuckled, doubting that Entreri would ever take her tongue, 
whatever insults she might throw his way.
    Doubting, but not sure-never sure. That was the way of 
Artemis Entreri.
    Entreri was out of the city before dawn, riding hard for 
Dallabad Oasis on a horse he'd borrowed without the owner's 
permission. He knew the road well. It was often congested 
with beggars and highwaymen. That knowledge didn't stop the 
assassin, though, didn't slow his swift ride one bit. When 
the sun rose over his left shoulder he only increased his 
pace, knowing that he had to get to Dallabad on time.
    He'd told Dwahvel that Jarlaxle was back at the 
crystalline tower, where the assassin now had to go with all 
haste. Entreri knew the halfling would be prompt about her 
end of the plan. Once she released Sharlotta....
    Entreri put his head down and drove on in the growing 
morning sunlight. He was still miles away, but he could see 
the sharp focus at the top of the tower ... no, towers, he 
realized, for he saw not one, but two pillars rising in the 
distance to meet the morning light.
    He didn't know what that meant, of course, but he didn't 
worry about it. Jarlaxle was there, according to his many 
sources-informants independent of, and beyond the reach of 
Rai-guy and Kimmuriel and their many lackeys.
    He sensed the scrying soon after and knew he was being 
watched. That only made the desperate assassin put his head 
down and drive the stolen horse on at greater speeds, 
determined to beat the brutal, self-imposed timetable.

                         * * * * *

    "He goes to Jarlaxle with great haste, and we know not 
where Sharlotta Vespers has gone," Kimmuriel remarked to 
Rai-guy.
    The two of them, along with Berg'inyon Baenre, watched 
the assassin's hard ride out from Calimport.
    "Sharlotta may remain with Pasha Da'Daclan," Rai-guy 
replied. "We cannot know for certain."
    "Then we should learn," said an obviously frustrated and 
nervous Kimmuriel.
    Rai-guy looked at him. "Easy, my friend," he said. 
"Artemis Entreri is no threat to us but merely a nuisance. 
Better that all of the vermin gather together."
    "A more complete and swift victory," Berg'inyon agreed.
    Kimmuriel thought about it and held up a small square 
lantern, three sides shielded, the fourth open.
    Yharaskrik had given it to him with the assurance that, 
when Kimmuriel lit the candle and allowed its glow to fall 
over Crenshinibon, the powers of the Crystal Shard would be 
stunted. The effects would be temporary, the illithid had 
warned. Even confident Yharaskrik held no illusions that 
anything would hold the powerful artifact at bay for long.
    But it wouldn't take long, Kimmuriel and the others 
knew, even if Artemis Entreri was at Jarlaxle's side. With 
the artifact shut down, Jarlaxle's fall would be swift and 
complete, as would the fall of all of those, Entreri 
included, who stood beside him.
    This day would be sweet indeed-or rather, this night. 
Rai-guy and Kimmuriel had planned to strike at night, when 
the powers of the Crystal Shard were at their weakest.

                         * * * * *

    "He is a fool, but one, I believe, acting on honest 
fears," Dwahvel Tiggerwillies said to Sharlotta when she 
joined the woman in the small room. "Find a bit of sympathy 
for him, I beg."
    Sharlotta, the prisoner, looked at the halfling 
incredulously.
    "Oh, he's gone now," said Dwahvel, "and so should you 
be."
    "I thought I was your prisoner," the woman asked.
    Dwahvel chuckled. "Forever and ever?" she asked with 
obvious sarcasm. "Artemis Entreri is afraid, and so you 
should be too. I know little about dark elves, I admit, but-
"
    "Dark elves?" Sharlotta echoed, feigning surprise and 
ignorance. "What has any of this to do with dark elves?"
    Dwahvel laughed again. "The word is out," she said, 
"about Dallabad and House Basadoni. The power behind the 
throne is well-known around the streets."
    Sharlotta started to mumble something about Entreri, but 
Dwahvel cut her short. "Entreri told me nothing," she 
explained. "Do you think I would need to deal with one as 
powerful as Entreri for such common information? I am many 
things, but I do not number fool among them."
    The woman settled back in her chair, staring hard at the 
halfling. "You believe you know more than you really know," 
she said. "That is a dangerous mistake."
    "I know only that I want no part of any of this," 
Dwahvel returned. "No part of House Basadoni or of Dallabad 
Oasis. No part of the feud between Sharlotta Vespers and 
Artemis Entreri."
    "It would seem that you are already a part of that 
feud," the woman replied, her sparkling dark eyes narrowing.
    Dwahvel shook her head. "I did and do as I had to do, 
nothing more," she said.
    "Then I am free to leave?"
    Dwahvel nodded and stood aside, leaving the path to the 
door open. "I came back here as soon as I was certain 
Entreri was long gone. Forgive me, Sharlotta, but I would 
not make of you an ally if doing so made Entreri an enemy."
    Sharlotta continued to stare hard at the surprising 
halfling, but she couldn't argue with the logic of that 
statement. "Where has he gone?" she asked.
    "Out of Calimport, my sources relay," Dwahvel answered. 
"To Dallabad, perhaps? Or long past the oasis- all the way 
along the road and out of Calimshan. I believe I might take 
that very route, were I Artemis Entreri."
    Sharlotta didn't reply, but silently she agreed 
wholeheartedly. She was still confused by the recent events, 
but she recognized clearly that Entreri's supposed "rescue" 
of her was no more than a kidnapping of his own, so he could 
squeeze information out of her. And she had offered much, 
she understood to her apprehension. She had told him more 
than she should have, more than Rai-guy and Kimmuriel would 
likely find acceptable.
    She left the Copper Ante trying to sort it all out. What 
she did know was that the dark elves would find her and 
likely soon. The woman nodded, recognizing the only real 
course left open before her, and started off with all speed 
for House Basadoni. She would tell Rai-guy and Kimmuriel of 
Entreri's treachery.

                         * * * * *

    Entreri looked at the sun hanging low in the eastern sky 
and took a deep, steadying breath. The time had passed. 
Dwahvel had released Sharlotta, as arranged. The woman, no 
doubt, had run right to Rai-guy and Kimmuriel, thus setting 
into motion momentous events.
    If the two dark elves were even still in Calimport.
    If Sharlotta had not figured out the ruse within the 
kidnapping, and had gone off the other way, running for 
cover.
    If the dark elves hadn't long ago found Sharlotta in the 
Copper Ante and leveled the place, in which case, Dallabad 
and the Crystal Shard might already be in Rai-guy's 
dangerous hands.
    If, in learning of the discovery, Rai-guy and Kimmuriel 
hadn't just turned around and run back to Menzoberranzan.
    If Jarlaxle still remained at Dallabad.
    That last notion worried Entreri profoundly. The 
unpredictable Jarlaxle was, perhaps, the most volatile on a 
long list of unknowns. If Jarlaxle had left Dallabad, what 
trouble might he bring to every aspect of this plan? Would 
Kimmuriel and Rai-guy catch up to him unawares and slay him 
easily?
    The assassin shook all of the doubts away. He wasn't 
used to feelings of self-doubt, even inadequacy. Perhaps 
that was why he so hated the dark elves. In Menzoberranzan, 
the ultimately capable Artemis Entreri had felt tiny indeed.
    Reality is what you make of it, he reminded himself He 
was the one weaving the layers of intrigue and deception 
here, so he-not Rai-guy and Kimmuriel, not Sharlotta, not 
even Jarlaxle and the Crystal Shard-was the one in command.
    He looked at the sun again, and glanced to the side, to 
the imposing structures of the twin crystalline towers set 
among the palms of Dallabad, reminding himself that this 
time he, and no one else, had turned over that hourglass.
    Reminding himself pointedly that the sand was running, 
that time was growing short, he kicked his horse's flanks 
and leaped away, galloping hard to the oasis.
    
                        Chapter 14
                   WHEN THE SAND RAN OUT

    Entreri kept the notion that he had come to steal the 
Crystal Shard foremost in his mind. All he thought of was 
that he'd come to take it as his own, whatever the cost to 
Jarlaxle, though he made certain that he kept a bit of 
compassion evident whenever he thought of the mercenary 
leader, Entreri replayed that singular thought and purpose 
over and over again, suspecting that the artifact, in this 
place of its greatest power, would scan those thoughts.
    Jarlaxle was waiting for him on the second floor of the 
tower in a round room sparsely adorned with two chairs and a 
small desk. The mercenary leader stood across the way, 
directly opposite the doorway through which Entreri entered. 
Jarlaxle put himself as far, Entreri noted, as he could be 
from the approaching assassin.
    "Greetings," Entreri said.
    Jarlaxle, curiously wearing no eye patch this day, 
tipped his broad-brimmed hat and asked, "Why have you come?"
    Entreri looked at him as if surprised by the question, 
but turned the not-so-secret notion in his head to one 
appearing as an ironic twist: Why have I come indeed!
    Jarlaxle's uncharacteristic scowl told the assassin that 
the Crystal Shard had heard those thoughts and had 
communicated them instantly to its wielder. No doubt, the 
artifact was now telling Jarlaxle to dispose of Entreri, a 
suggestion the mercenary leader was obviously resisting.
    "Your course is that of the fool," Jarlaxle remarked, 
struggling with the words as his internal battle heightened. 
"There is nothing here for you."
    Entreri settled back on his heels, assuming a pensive 
posture. "Then perhaps I should leave," he said.
    Jarlaxle didn't blink.
    Hardly expecting one as cunning as Jarlaxle to be caught 
off guard, Entreri exploded into motion anyway, a forward 
dive and roll that brought him up in a run straight at his 
opponent.
    Jarlaxle grabbed his belt pouch-he didn't even have to 
take the artifact out-and extended his other hand toward the 
assassin. Out shot a line of pure white energy.
    Entreri caught it with his red-stitched gauntlet, took 
the energy in, and held it there. He held some of it, 
anyway, for it was too great a power to be completely held 
at bay. The assassin felt the pain, the intense agony, 
though he understood that only a small fraction of the 
shard's attack had gotten through.
    How powerful was that item? he wondered, awestruck and 
thinking that he might be in serious trouble.
    Afraid that the energy would melt the gauntlet or 
otherwise consume it, Entreri turned the magic right back 
out. He didn't throw it at Jarlaxle, for he hardly wanted to 
kill the drow. Entreri loosed it on the wall to the dark elf 
s side. It exploded in a blistering, blinding, thunderous 
blow that left both man and dark elf staggering to the side.
    Entreri kept his course straight, dodging and parrying 
with his blade as Jarlaxle's arm pumped, sending forth a 
stream of daggers. The assassin blocked one, got nicked by a 
second, and squirmed about two more. He then came on fast, 
thinking to tackle the lighter dark elf.
    He missed cleanly, slamming the wall behind Jarlaxle.
    The drow was wearing a displacement cloak, or perhaps it 
was that ornamental hat, Entreri mused, but only
    briefly, for he understood that he was vulnerable and 
came right around, bringing Charon's Claw in a broad, ash-
making sweep that cut the view between the opponents.
    Hardly slowing, Entreri crashed straight through that 
visual barrier, his straightforwardness confusing Jarlaxle 
long enough for him to get by-and properly gauge his attack 
angle this time-close enough to work his own form of magic.
    With skills beyond those of nearly any man alive, 
Entreri sheathed Charon's Claw, drew forth his dagger in his 
gloved hand, and pulled out his replica pouch with his 
other. He spun past Jarlaxle, deftly cutting the scrambling 
drow's belt pouch and catching it in the same gloved hand, 
while dropping the false pouch at the mercenary's feet.
    Jarlaxle hit him with a series of sharp blows then, with 
what felt like an iron maul. Entreri went rolling away, 
glancing back just in time to pick off another dagger, then 
to catch the next in his side. Groaning and doubled over in 
pain, Entreri scrambled away from his adversary, who held, 
he now saw, a small warhammer.
    "Do you think I need the Crystal Shard to destroy you?" 
Jarlaxle confidently asked, stooping over to retrieve the 
pouch. He held up the warhammer then and whispered 
something. It shrank into a tiny replica that Jarlaxle 
tucked up under the band of his great hat.
    Entreri hardly heard him and hardly saw the move. The 
pain, though the dagger hadn't gone in dangerously far, was 
searing. Even worse, a new song was beginning to play in his 
head, a demand that he surrender himself to the power of the 
artifact he now possessed.
    "I have a hundred ways to kill you, my former friend," 
Jarlaxle remarked. "Perhaps Crenshinibon will prove the most 
efficient in this, and in truth, I have little desire to 
torture you."
    Jarlaxle clasped the pouch then, and a curious 
expression crossed his face.
    Still, Entreri could hardly register any of Jarlaxle's 
words or movements. The artifact assailed him powerfully, 
reaching into his mind and showing such overwhelming images 
of complete despair that the mighty assassin nearly fell to 
his knees sobbing.
    Jarlaxle shrugged and rubbed the moisture from his hand 
on his cloak, and produced yet another of his endless stream 
of daggers from his enchanted bracer. He brought it back, 
lining up the killing throw on the seemingly defenseless 
man.
    "Please tell me why I must do this," the drow asked. 
"Was it the Crystal Shard calling out to you? Your own 
overblown ambitions, perhaps?"
    The images of despair assailed him, a sense of 
hopelessness more profound than anything Entreri had ever 
known. One thought managed to sort itself out in the 
battered mind of Artemis Entreri: Why didn't the Crystal 
Shard summon forth its energy and consume him then and 
there? Because it cannot! Entreri's willpower answered. 
Because I am now the wielder, something that the Crystal 
Shard does not enjoy at all! "Tell me!" Jarlaxle demanded.
    Entreri summoned up all his mental strength, every ounce 
of discipline he had spent decades grooming, and told the 
artifact to cease, simply commanded it to shut down all 
connection to him. The sentient artifact resisted, but only 
for a moment. Entreri's wall was built of pure discipline 
and pure anger, and the Crystal Shard was closed off as 
completely as it had been during those days when Drizzt 
Do'Urden had carried it. The denial that Drizzt, a goodly 
ranger, had brought upon the artifact had been wrought of 
simple morality, while Entreri's was wrought of simple 
strength of will, but to the same effect. The shard was shut 
down.
    And not an instant too soon, Entreri realized as he 
blinked open his eyes and saw a stream of daggers coming at 
him. He dodged and parried with his own dagger, hardly 
picking anything off cleanly, but deflecting the missiles so 
that they did not, at least, catch him squarely. One hit him 
in the face, high on his cheekbone and just under his eye, 
but he had altered the spin enough so that it slammed in 
pommel first and not point first. Another grazed his upper 
arm, cutting a long slash.
    "I could have killed you with the return bolt!" Entreri 
managed to cry out.
    Jarlaxle's arm pumped again, this dagger going low and 
clipping the dancing assassin's foot. The words did 
register, though, and the mercenary leader paused, his arm 
cocked, another dagger in hand, ready to throw. He stared at 
Entreri curiously.
    "I could have struck you dead with your own attack," 
Entreri growled out through teeth gritted in pain.
    "You feared you would destroy the shard," Jarlaxle 
reasoned.
    "The shard's energy cannot destroy the shard!" Entreri 
snapped back.
    "You came in here to kill me," Jarlaxle declared.
    "No!"
    "To take the Crystal Shard, whatever the cost!" Jarlaxle 
countered.
    Entreri, leaning heavily back against the wall now, his 
legs growing weak from pain, mustered all his determination 
and looked the drow in the eye-though he did so with only 
one eye, for his other had already swollen tightly closed. 
"I came in here," he said slowly, accentuating every word, 
"making you believe, through the artifact, that such was my 
intent."
    Jarlaxle's face screwed up in one of his very rare 
expressions of confusion, and his dagger arm began to slip 
lower. "What are you about?" he asked, his anger seemingly 
displaced now by honest curiosity.
    "They are coming for you," Entreri vaguely explained. 
"You have to be prepared."
    "They?"
    "Rai-guy and Kimmuriel," the assassin explained. "They 
have decided that your reign over Bregan D'aerthe is at its 
end. You have exposed the band to too many mighty enemies."
    Jarlaxle's expression shifted several times, through a 
spectrum of emotions, confusion to anger. He looked down at 
the pouch he held in his hand.
    "The artifact has deceived you," Entreri said, managing 
to straighten a bit as the pain at last began to wane. He 
reached down and, with trembling fingers, pulled the dagger 
out of his side and dropped it to the floor. "It pushes you 
past the point of reason," he went on. "And at the same 
time, it resents your ability to ..."
    He paused as Jarlaxle opened the pouch and reached in to 
touch the shard-the imitation item. Before he could begin 
again, Entreri noted a shimmering in the air, a bluish glow 
across the room. Then, suddenly, he was looking out as if 
through a window, at the grounds of Dallabad Oasis.
    Through that portal stepped Rai-guy and Kimmuriel, along 
with Berg'inyon Baenre and another pair of Bregan D'aerthe 
soldiers.
    Entreri forced himself to straighten, growled away the 
pain, knowing that he had to be at his best here or he would 
be lost indeed. He noted, then, even as Rai-guy brought 
forth a curious-looking lantern, that Kimmuriel had not 
dismissed his dimensional portal.
    They were expecting the tower to fall, perhaps, or 
Kimmuriel was keeping open his escape route.
    "You come unbidden," Jarlaxle remarked to them, and he 
pulled forth the shard from his pouch. "I will summon you 
when you are needed." The mercenary leader stood tall and 
imposing, his gaze locked onto Rai-guy. His expression was 
one of absolute competence, Entreri thought, one of command.
    Rai-guy held forth the lantern, its glow bathing 
Jarlaxle and the shard in quiet light.
    That was it, Entreri realized. That was the item to 
neutralize the Crystal Shard, the tip in the balance of the 
fight. The intruders had made one tactical error, the 
assassin knew, one Entreri had counted on. Their focus was 
the Crystal Shard, as well as it should have been, along 
with the assumption that Jarlaxle's toy would be the 
dominant artifact.
    You see how they would deny you, Entreri telepathically 
imparted to the artifact, tucked securely into his belt. Yet 
these are the ones you call to lead you to deserved glory?
    He felt the artifact's moment of confusion, felt its 
reply that Rai-guy would disable it only thereby to possess 
it, and that. . .
    In that instant of confusion, Artemis Entreri exploded 
into motion, sending a telepathic roar into Crenshinibon, 
demanding that the tower be brought crumbling down. At the 
same time he leaped at Jarlaxle and drew forth Charon's 
Claw.
    Indeed, caught so off its guard, the shard nearly 
obeyed. A violent shudder ran through the tower. It caused 
no real damage, but was enough of a shake to put Berg'inyon 
and the other two warriors, who were moving to intercept 
Entreri, off their balance and to interrupt Rai-guy's 
attempt to cast a spell.
    Entreri altered direction, rushing at the closest drow 
warrior, batting the sword of the off-balance dark elf aside 
and stabbing him hard. The dark elf fell away, and the 
assassin brought his sword through a series of vertical 
sweeps, filling the air with black ash, filling the room 
with confusion.
    He dived toward Jarlaxle into a sidelong roll. Jarlaxle 
stood transfixed, staring at the shard he held in his hand 
as if he had been betrayed.
    "Forget it," the assassin cried, yanking Jarlaxle aside 
just as a hand crossbow dart-poisoned, of course-whistled 
past. "To the door," he whispered to Jarlaxle, shoving him 
forward. "Fight for your life!"
    With a growl, Jarlaxle put the shard in his pouch and 
went into action beside the slashing, fighting assassin. His 
arm flashed repeatedly, sending a stream of daggers at Rai-
guy, where they were defeated, predictably, by a stoneskin 
enchantment. Another barrage was sent at Kimmuriel, who 
merely absorbed their power into his kinetic barrier.
    "Just give it to them!" Entreri cried unexpectedly. He 
crashed against Jarlaxle's side, taking the pouch back and 
tossing it to Rai-guy and Kimmuriel, or rather past the two, 
to the far edge of the room beyond Kimmuriel's magic door. 
Rai-guy turned immediately, trying to keep the mighty 
artifact in the glow of his lantern, and Kimmuriel scrambled 
for it. Entreri saw his one desperate chance.
    He grabbed the surprised Jarlaxle roughly and pulled him 
along, charging for Kimmuriel's magical portal.
    Berg'inyon met the charge head on, his two swords 
working furiously to find a hole in Entreri's defenses. The 
assassin, a rival of Drizzt Do'Urden, was no stranger to the 
two-handed style. He neatly parried while working around the 
skilled drow warrior.
    Jarlaxle ducked fast under a swing by the other soldier, 
pulled the great feather from his magnificent hat, put it to 
his lips, and blew hard. The air before him filled with 
feathers.
    The soldier cried out, slapping the things away. He hit 
one that did not so easily move and realized to his horror 
that he was now facing a ten-foot-tall, monstrous birdlike 
creature-a diatryma.
    Entreri, too, added to the confusion by waving his sword 
wildly, filling the air with ash. He always kept his focus, 
though, kept moving around the slashing blades and toward 
the dimensional portal. He could easily get through it 
alone, he knew, and he had the real Crystal Shard, but for 
some reason he didn't quite understand, and didn't bother 
even to think about, he turned back and grabbed Jarlaxle 
again, pulling him behind.
    The delay brought him some more pain. Rai-guy managed to 
fire off a volley of magic missiles that stung the assassin 
profoundly. Those the wizard had launched Jarlaxle's way, 
Entreri noted sourly, were absorbed by the broach on the 
band in his hat. Did this one ever run out of tricks?
    "Kill them!" Entreri heard Kimmuriel yell, and he felt 
Berg'inyon's deadly sword coming in fast at his back.
    Entreri found himself rolling, disoriented, out onto the 
sand of Dallabad, out the other side of Kimmuriel's magical 
portal. He kept his wits about him enough to keep 
scrambling, grabbing the similarly disoriented Jarlaxle and 
pulling him along.
    "They have the shard!" the mercenary protested. "Let 
them keep it!" Entreri cried back. Behind him, on the other 
side of the portal, he heard Rai-guy's howling laughter. 
Yes, the drow wizard thought he now possessed the Crystal 
Shard, the assassin realized. He'd soon try to put it to 
use, no doubt calling forth a beam of energy as Jarlaxle had 
done to the fleeing spy. Perhaps that was why no pursuit 
came out of the portal.
    As he ran, Entreri dropped his hand once more to the 
real Crystal Shard. He sensed that the artifact was enraged, 
shaken, and understood that it had not been pleased when 
Entreri had gone near to Jarlaxle, thus bringing it within 
the glow of Rai-guy's nullifying light.
    "Dispel the magical doorway," he commanded the item. 
"Trap them and crush them."
    Glancing back he saw that Kimmuriel's doorway, half of 
it within the province of Crenshinibon's absolute domain, 
was gone.
    "The tower," Entreri instructed. "Bring it tumbling down 
and together we will construct a line of them across 
Faerun!"
    The promise, spoken so full of energy and enthusiasm, 
offering the artifact the very same thing it always offered 
its wielders, was seized upon immediately.
    Entreri and Jarlaxle heard the ground rumbling beneath 
their feet.
    They ran on, across the way to a campground beside the 
small pond of Dallabad. They heard cries from behind them, 
from soldiers of the fortress, and the cries of astonishment 
before them from traders who had come to the oasis.
    Those cries only multiplied when the traders saw the 
truth of the two approaching, saw a dark elf coming at them!
    Entreri and Jarlaxle had no time to engage the 
frightened, confused group. They ran straight for the horses 
that were tethered to a nearby wagon and pulled them free. 
In a few seconds, with a chorus of angry shouts and curses 
behind them, the duo charged out of Dallabad, riding hard, 
though Jarlaxle looked more than a little uncomfortable atop 
a horse in bright daylight.
    Entreri was a fine rider, and he easily paced the dark 
elf, despite his posture, which was bent over and to the 
side in an attempt to keep his blood from flowing freely.
    "They have the Crystal Shard!" Jarlaxle cried angrily. 
"How far can we run?"
    "Their own magic defeated the artifact," Entreri lied. 
"It cannot help them now in their pursuit."
    Behind them the first tower crashed down, and the second 
toppled atop the first in a thunderous explosion, all the 
binding energies gone, and all the magic fast dissipating to 
the wind.
    Entreri held no illusions that Rai-guy and Kimmuriel, or 
their henchmen, had been caught in that catastrophe. They 
were too quick and too cunning. He could only hope that the 
wreckage had diverted them long enough for he and Jarlaxle 
to get far enough away. He didn't know the extent of his 
wounds, but he knew that they hurt badly, and that he felt 
very weak. The last thing he needed then was another fight 
with the wizard and psionicist or with a swordsman as 
skilled as Berg'inyon Baenre.
    Fortunately, no pursuit became evident as the minutes 
turned to an hour, and both horses and riders had to slow to 
a stop, fully exhausted. In his head, Entreri heard the 
chanting promises of Crenshinibon, whispering to him to 
construct another tower then and there for shelter and rest.
    He almost did it and wondered for a moment why he was 
even thinking of disagreeing with the Crystal Shard, whose 
methods seemed to lead to the very same goals that he now 
held himself.
    With a smile of comprehension that seemed more a grimace 
to the pained assassin, Entreri dismissed the notion. 
Crenshinibon was clever indeed, sneaking always around the 
edges of opposition.
    Besides, Artemis Entreri had not run away from Dallabad 
Oasis into the open desert unprepared. He slipped down from 
his horse, to find that he could hardly stand. Still, he 
managed to slip his backpack off his shoulders and drop it 
to the ground before him, then drop to one knee and pull at 
the strings.
    Jarlaxle was soon beside him, helping him to open the 
pack.
    "A potion," Entreri explained, swallowing hard, his 
breath becoming labored.
    Jarlaxle fiddled around in the pack, producing a small 
vial with a bluish-white liquid within. "Healing?" he asked.
    Entreri nodded and motioned for it.
    Jarlaxle pulled it back. "You have much to explain," he 
said. "You attacked me, and you gave them the Crystal 
Shard."
    Entreri, his brow thick with sweat, motioned again for 
the potion. He put his hand to his side and brought it back 
up, wet with blood. "A fine throw," he said to the dark elf.
    "I do not pretend to understand you, Artemis Entreri," 
said Jarlaxle, handing over the potion. "Perhaps that is why 
I do so enjoy your company."
    Entreri swallowed the liquid in one gulp, and fell back 
to a sitting position, closing his eyes and letting the 
soothing concoction go to work mending some of his wounds. 
He wished he had about five more of the things, but this one 
would have to suffice-and would, he believed, keep him alive 
and start him on the mend.
    Jarlaxle watched him for a few moments, and turned his 
attention to a more immediate problem, glancing up at the 
stinging, blistering sun. "This sunlight will make for our 
deaths," he remarked.
    In answer, Entreri shifted over and stuck his hand into 
his backpack, soon producing a small scale model of a brown 
tent. He brought it in close, whispered a few words, and 
tossed it off to the side. A few seconds later, the model 
expanded, growing to full-size and beyond.
    "Enough!" Entreri said when it was big enough to 
comfortably hold him, the dark elf, and both of their 
horses.
    "Not so hard to find on the open desert," Jarlaxle 
remarked.
    "Harder than you believe," Entreri, still gasping with 
every word, assured him. "Once we're inside, it will recede 
into a pocket dimension of its own making."
    Jarlaxle smiled. "You never told me you possessed such a 
useful desert tool," he said.
    "Because I did not, until last night."
    "Thus, you knew that it would come to this, with us out 
running in the open desert," the mercenary leader reasoned, 
thinking himself sly.
    Far from arguing the point, Entreri merely shrugged as 
Jarlaxle helped him to his feet. "I hoped it would come to 
this," the assassin said.
    Jarlaxle looked at him curiously, but didn't press the 
issue. Not then. He looked back in the direction of distant 
Dallabad, obviously wondering what had become of his former 
lieutenants, wondering how all of this had so suddenly come 
about. It was not often that the cunning Jarlaxle was 
confused.

                         * * * * *

    "We have that which we desired," Kimmuriel reminded his 
outraged companion. "Bregan D'aerthe is ours to lead-back to 
the Underdark and Menzoberranzan where we belong."
    "It is not the Crystal Shard!" Rai-guy protested, 
throwing the imitation piece to the floor.
    Kimmuriel looked at him curiously. "Was our purpose to 
procure the item?"
    "Jarlaxle still has it," Rai-guy growled back at him. 
"How long do you believe he will allow us our position of 
leadership? He should be dead, and the artifact should be 
mine."
    Kimmuriel's sly expression did not change at the 
wizard's curious choice of words-words, he understood, 
inspired by Crenshinibon itself and the desire to hold Rai-
guy as its slave. Yes, Yharaskrik had done well in teaching 
the drow psionicist the nuances of the powerful and 
dangerous artifact. Kimmuriel did agree, though, that their 
position was tenuous, given that mighty Jarlaxle was still 
alive.
    Kimmuriel had never really wanted Jarlaxle as an enemy-
not out of friendship to the older drow but out of simple 
fear. Perhaps Jarlaxle was already on his way back to 
Menzoberranzan, where he would rally the remaining members 
of Bregan D'aerthe, far more than half the band, against 
Rai-guy and Kimmuriel and those who might follow them back 
to the drow city. Perhaps Jarlaxle would call upon Gromph 
Baenre, the archmage of Menzoberranzan himself, to test his 
wizardly skills against those of Rai-guy.
    It was not a pleasant thought, but Kimmuriel understood 
clearly that Rai-guy's frustration was far more involved 
with the wizard's other complaint, that the Crystal Shard 
and not Jarlaxle had gotten away.
    "We have to find them," Rai-guy said a moment later. "I 
want Jarlaxle dead. How else might I ever know a reprieve?" 
"You are now the leader of a mercenary band of males housed 
in Menzoberranzan," Kimmuriel replied. "You will find no 
reprieve, no break from the constant dangers and matron 
games. This is the trapping of power, my companion."
    Rai-guy's returning expression was not one of 
friendship. He was angry, perhaps more so than Kimmuriel had 
ever seen him. He wanted the artifact desperately. So did 
Yharaskrik, Kimmuriel knew. Should they find a way to catch 
up to Jarlaxle and Crenshinibon, he had every intention of 
making certain that the illithid got it. Let Yharaskrik and 
his mighty mind flayer kin take control of Crenshinibon, 
study it, and destroy it. Better that than having it in Rai-
guy's hands back in Menzoberranzan-if it would even agree to 
go to Menzoberranzan, for Yharaskrik had told Kimmuriel that 
the artifact drew much of its power from the sunlight. How 
much more on his guard might Kimmuriel have to remain with 
Crenshinibon as an ally? The artifact would never accept 
him, would never accept the fact that he, with his mental 
disciplines, could deny it entrance and control of his mind.
    He was tempted to work against Rai-guy now, to foil the 
search for Jarlaxle however he might, but he understood 
clearly that Jarlaxle, with or without the Crystal Shard, 
was far too powerful an adversary to be allowed to run free.
    A knock on the door drew him from his contemplation. It 
opened, and Berg'inyon Baenre entered, followed by several 
drow soldiers dragging a chained and beaten Sharlotta 
Vespers behind them. More drow soldiers followed, escorting 
a bulky and imposing ratman.
    Kimmuriel motioned for Sharlotta's group to move aside, 
that he could face the ratman directly.
    "Gord Abrix at your service, good Kimmuriel Oblodra," 
the ratman said, bowing low.
    Kimmuriel stared at him hard. "You lead the wererats of 
Calimport now?" he asked in his halting command of the 
common tongue.
    Gord nodded. "The wererats in the service of House 
Basadoni," he said. "In the service of-"
    "That is all you need to know, and all that you would 
ever be wise to speak," Rai-guy growled at him and the 
wererat, as imposing as he was, inevitably shrank back from 
the dark elves.
    "Get him out of here," Kimmuriel commanded the drow 
escorts, in his own language. "Tell him we will call when we 
have decided the new course for the wererats."
    Gord Abrix managed one last bow before being herded out 
of the room.
    "And what of you?" Kimmuriel asked Sharlotta, and the 
mere fact that he could speak to her in his own language 
reminded him of this woman's resourcefulness and thus her 
potential usefulness.
    "What have I done to deserve such treatment?" Sharlotta, 
stubborn to the end, replied.
    "Why do you believe you had to do anything?" Kimmuriel 
calmly replied.
    Sharlotta started to respond, but quickly realized that 
there was really nothing she could say against the simple 
logic of that question.
    "We sent you to meet with Pasha Da'Daclan, a necessary 
engagement, yet you did not," Rai-guy reminded her.
    "I was tricked by Entreri and captured," the woman 
protested.
    "Failure is failure," Rai-guy said. "Failure brings 
punishment-or worse."
    "But I escaped and warned you of Entreri's run to 
Jarlaxle's side," Sharlotta argued.
    "Escaped?" Rai-guy asked incredulously. "By your own 
words, the halfling was too afraid to keep you and so she 
let you go."
    Those words rang uncomfortably in Kimmuriel's thoughts. 
Had that, too, been a part of Entreri's plan? Because had 
not Kimmuriel and Rai-guy arrived at the crystalline tower 
in Dallabad at precisely the wrong moment for the coup? With 
the Crystal Shard hidden away somewhere and an imitation 
playing decoy to their greatest efforts? A curious thought, 
and one the drow psionicist figured he might just take up 
with that halfling, Dwahvel Tiggerwillies, at a later time.
    "I came straight to you," Sharlotta said plainly and 
forcefully, speaking then like someone who had at last come 
to understand that she had absolutely nothing left to lose.
    "Failure is failure," Rai-guy reiterated, just as 
forcefully.
    "But we are not unmerciful," Kimmuriel added 
immediately. "I even believe in the possibility of 
redemption. Artemis Entreri put you in this unfortunate 
position, so you say, so find him and kill him. Bring me his 
head, or I shall take your own."
    Sharlotta held up her hands helplessly. "Where to 
begin?" she asked. "What resources-"
    "All the resources and every soldier of House Basadoni 
and of Dallabad, and the complete cooperation of that rat 
creature and its minions," Kimmuriel replied.
    Sharlotta's expression remained skeptical, but there 
flashed a twinkle in her eyes that Kimmuriel did not miss. 
She was outraged at Artemis Entreri for all of this, at 
least as much as were Rai-guy and Kimmuriel. Yes, she was 
cunning and a worthy adversary. Her efforts to find and 
destroy Entreri would certainly aid Kimmuriel and Rai-guy's 
efforts to neutralize Jarlaxle and the dangerous Crystal 
Shard.
    "When do I begin?" Sharlotta asked.
    "Why are you still here?" Kimmuriel asked.
    The woman took the cue and began scrambling to her feet. 
The drow guards took the cue, too, and rushed to help her 
up, quickly unlocking her chains.
    
                        Chapter 15
                       DEAR DWAHVEL

    "Ah, my friend, how you have deceived me," Jarlaxle 
whispered to Entreri, whose wounds had far from healed, 
leaving him in a weakened, almost helpless state. As Entreri 
had floated into semiconsciousness, Jarlaxle, possessed of 
the magic to heal him fully, had instead taken the time to 
consider all that had happened. He was in the process of 
trying to figure out if Entreri had saved him or damned him 
when he heard an ail-too familiar call.
    Jarlaxle's gaze fell over Entreri and a great smile 
widened on his black-skinned face. Crenshinibon! The man had 
Crenshinibon! Jarlaxle replayed the events in his mind and 
quickly figured that Entreri had done more than simply cut 
the pouch loose from Jarlaxle's belt in that first, 
unexpected attack. No, the clever-so clever!-human had 
switched Jarlaxle's pouch for an imitation pouch, complete 
with an imitation Crystal Shard.
    "My sneaky companion," the mercenary remarked, though he 
wasn't sure if Entreri could hear him or not. "It is good to 
know that once again, I have not underestimated you!" As he 
finished, the mercenary leader went for Entreri's belt 
pouch, smiling all the while.
    The assassin's hand snapped up and grabbed Jarlaxle by 
the arm.
    Jarlaxle had a dagger in his free hand in the blink of 
an eye, prepared to stab it through the nearly helpless 
man's heart, but he noted that Entreri wasn't pressing the 
attack any further. The assassin wasn't reaching for his 
dagger or any other weapon, but rather, was staring at 
Jarlaxle plaintively. In his head, Jarlaxle could hear the 
Crystal Shard calling to him, beckoning him to finish this 
man off and take back the artifact that was rightfully his.
    He almost did it, despite the fact that Crenshinibon's 
call wasn't nearly as powerful and melodious as it had been 
when he had been in possession of the artifact.
    "Do not," Entreri whispered to him. "You cannot control 
it."
    Jarlaxle pulled back, staring hard at the man. "But you 
can?"
    "That is why it is calling to you," Entreri replied, his 
breath even more labored than it had been earlier, and blood 
flowing again from the wound in his side. "The Crystal Shard 
has no hold over me."
    "And why is that?" Jarlaxle asked doubtfully. "Has 
Artemis Entreri taken up the moral code of Drizzt Do'Urden?"
    Entreri started to chuckle, but grimaced instead, the 
pain nearly unbearable. "Drizzt and I are not so different 
in many ways," he explained. "In discipline, at least."
    "And discipline alone will keep the Crystal Shard from 
controlling you?" Jarlaxle asked, his tone still one of 
abject disbelief. "So, you are saying that I am not as 
disciplined as either of-"
    "No!" Entreri growled, and he nearly came up to a 
sitting position as he tightened his side against a wave of 
pain.
    "No," he said more calmly a moment later, easing back 
and breathing hard. "Drizzt's code denied the artifact, as 
does my own-not a code of morality, but one of 
independence."
    Jarlaxle fell back a bit, his expression going from 
doubtful to curious. "Why did you take it?"
    Entreri looked at him and started to respond but wound 
up just grimacing. Jarlaxle reached under the folds of his 
cloak and produced a small orb, which he held out to Entreri 
as he began to chant.
    The assassin felt better almost immediately, felt his 
wound closing and his breathing easier to control. Jarlaxle 
chanted for a few seconds, each one making Entreri feel that 
much better, but long before the healing had been completely 
facilitated, the mercenary stopped.
    "Answer my question," he demanded.
    "They were coming to kill you," Entreri replied.
    "Obviously," said Jarlaxle. "Could you not have merely 
warned me?"
    "It would not have been enough," Entreri insisted. 
"There were too many against you, and they knew that your 
primary weapon would be the artifact. Thus, they neutralized 
it, temporarily."
    Jarlaxle's first instinct was to demand the Crystal 
Shard again, that he could go back and repay Rai-guy and 
Kimmuriel for their treachery. He held the thought, though, 
and let Entreri go on.
    "They were right in wanting to take it from you," the 
assassin finished boldly.
    Jarlaxle glared at him but just for a moment.
    "Step back from it," Entreri advised. "Shut out its call 
and consider the actions of Jarlaxle over the last few ten-
days. You could not remain on the surface unless your true 
identity remained secret, yet you brought forth crystalline 
towers! Bregan D'aerthe, for all of its power, and with all 
of the power of Crenshinibon behind it, could not rule the 
world-not even the city of Calimport-yet look at what you 
tried to do."
    Jarlaxle started to respond several times, but each of 
his arguments died in his throat before he could begin to 
offer them. The assassin was right, he knew. He had erred, 
and badly.
    "We cannot go back and try to explain this to the 
usurpers," the mercenary remarked.
    Entreri shook his head. "It was the Crystal Shard that 
inspired the coup against you," he explained, and Jarlaxle 
fell back as if slapped. "You were too cunning, but 
Crenshinibon figured that ambitious Rai-guy would easily 
fall to its chaotic plans."
    "You say that to placate me," Jarlaxle accused.
    "I say that because it is the truth, nothing more," 
Entreri replied. Then he had to pause and grimace as a spasm 
of pain came over him. "And, if you take the time to 
consider it, you know that it is. Crenshinibon kept you 
moving in its preferred direction but not without 
interference."
    "The Crystal Shard did not control me, or it did. You 
cannot have it both ways."
    "It did manipulate you. How can you doubt that?" Entreri 
replied. "But not to the level that it knew it could 
manipulate Rai-guy."
    "I went to Dallabad to destroy the crystal tower, 
something the artifact surely did not desire," Jarlaxle 
argued, "and yet, I could have done it! All interference 
from the shard was denied."
    He continued, or tried to, but Entreri easily cut him 
short. "You could have done it?" the assassin asked 
incredulously.
    Jarlaxle stammered to reply. "Of course."
    "But you did not?"
    "I saw no reason to drop the tower as soon as I knew 
that I could ..." Jarlaxle started to explain, but when he 
actually heard the words coming out of his mouth, it hit 
him, and hard. He had been duped. He, the master of 
intrigue, had been fooled into believing that he was in 
control.
    "Leave it with me," Entreri said to him. "The Crystal 
Shard tries to manipulate me, constantly, but it has nothing 
to offer me that I truly desire, and thus, it has no power 
over me."
    "It will wear at you," Jarlaxle told him. "It will find 
every weakness and exploit them."
    Entreri nodded. "Its time is running short," he 
remarked.
    Jarlaxle looked at him curiously.
    "I would not have spent the energy and the time pulling 
you away from those wretches if I did not have a plan," the 
assassin remarked.
    "Tell me."
    "In time," the assassin promised. "Now I beg of you not 
to take the Crystal Shard, and I beg of you, too, to allow 
me to rest."
    He settled back and closed his eyes, knowing full well 
that the only defense he would have if Jarlaxle came at him 
was the Crystal Shard. He knew that if he used the artifact, 
it would likely find many, many ways to weaken his defenses 
and the effect might be that he would abandon his mission 
and simply let the artifact become his guide.
    His guide to destruction, he knew, and perhaps to a fate 
worse than death.
    When Entreri looked at Jarlaxle, he was somewhat 
comforted, for he saw again that clever and opportunistic 
demeanor, that visage of one who thought things through 
carefully before taking any definitive and potentially rash 
actions. Given all that Entreri had just explained to the 
mercenary drow, the retrieval of Crenshinibon would have to 
fall into that very category. No, he trusted that Jarlaxle 
would not move against him. The mercenary drow would let 
things play out a bit longer before making any move to alter 
a situation he obviously didn't fully comprehend.
    With that thought in mind, Entreri fell fast asleep.
    Even as he was drifting off, he felt the healing magic 
of Jarlaxle's orb falling over him again.
    The halfling was surprised to see her fingers trembling 
as she carefully unrolled the note.
    "Why Artemis, I did not even know you could write," 
Dwahvel said with a snicker, for the lines on the parchment 
were beautifully constructed, if a bit spare and efficient 
for Dwahvel's flamboyant flair. "My dear Dwahvel," she read 
aloud, and she paused and considered the words, not certain 
how she should take that greeting. Was it a formal and 
proper heading, or a sign of true friendship?
    It occurred to the halfling then how little she really 
understood what went on inside of the heart of Artemis 
Entreri. The assassin had always claimed that his only 
desire was to be the very best, but if that was true why 
didn't he put the Crystal Shard to devastating use soon 
after acquiring it? And Dwahvel knew that he had it. Her 
contacts at Dallabad had described in detail the tumbling of 
the crystalline towers, and the flight of a human, Entreri, 
and a dark elf, whom Dwahvel had to believe must be 
Jarlaxle.
    All indications were that Entreri's plan had succeeded. 
Even without her eyewitness accounts and despite the well-
earned reputations of his adversaries, Dwahvel had never 
doubted the man.
    The halfling moved to her doorway and made certain it 
was locked. Then she took a seat at her small night table 
and placed the parchment flat upon it, holding down the ends 
with paperweights fashioned of huge jewels, and read on, 
deciding to hold her analysis for the second read through.
    
    My dear Dwahvel,
    And so the time has come for us to part ways, and I do 
so with more than a small measure of regret. I will miss our 
talks, my little friend. Rarely have I known one I could 
trust enough to so speak what was truly on my mind. I will 
do so now, one final time, not in any hopes that you will 
advise me of my way, but only so that I might more clearly 
come to understand my own feelings on these matters . . . 
but that was always the beauty of our talks, was it not?
    Now that I consider those discussions, I recognize that 
you rarely offered any advice. In fact, you rarely spoke at 
all but simply listened. As I listened to my own words, and 
in hearing them, in explaining my thoughts and feelings to 
another, I came to sort them through. Was it your 
expressions, a simple nod, an arched eyebrow, that led me 
purposefully down different roads of reasoning?
    I know not.
    I know not-that has apparently become the litany of my 
existence, Dwahvel. I feel as if the foundation upon which I 
have built my beliefs and actions is not a solid thing, but 
one as shifting as the sands of the desert. When I was 
younger, I knew all the answers to all the questions. I 
existed in a world of surety and certainty. Now that I am 
older, now that I have seen four decades of life, the only 
thing I know for certain is that I know nothing for certain.
    It was so much easier to be a young man of twenty, so 
much easier to walk the world with a purpose grounded in-
    Grounded in hatred, I suppose, and in the need to be the 
very best at my dark craft. That was my purpose, to be the 
greatest warrior in all of the world, to etch my name into 
the histories of Faerun. So many people believed that I 
wished to achieve that out of simple pride, that I wanted 
people to tremble at the mere mention of my name for the 
sake of my vanity.
    They were partially right, I suppose. We are all vain, 
whatever arguments we might make against the definition. For 
me, though, the desire to further my reputation was not as 
important as the desire-no, not the desire, but the need-
truly to be the very best at my craft. I welcomed the 
increase in reputation, not for the sake of my pride, but 
because I knew that having such fear weaving through the 
emotional armor of my opponents gave me even more of an 
advantage.
    A trembling hand does not thrust the blade true.
    I still aspire to the pinnacle, fear not, but only 
because it offers me some purpose in a life that 
increasingly brings me no joy.
    It seems a strange twist to me that I learned of the 
barren nature of my world only when I defeated the one 
person who tried in so many ways to show that very thing to 
me. Drizzt Do'Urden-how I still hate him!-perceived my life 
as an empty thing, a hollow trapping with no true benefit 
and no true happiness. I never really disagreed with his 
assessment, I merely believed that it did not matter. His 
reason for living was ever based upon his friends and 
community, while mine was more a life of the self. Either 
way, it seems to me as if it is just a play, and a pointless 
one, an act for the pleasure of the viewing gods, a walk 
that takes us up hills we perceive as huge, but that are 
really just little mounds, and through valleys that appear 
so very deep, but are really nothing at all that truly 
matters. All the pettiness of life itself is my complaint, I 
fear.
    Or perhaps it was not Drizzt who showed me the shifting 
sands beneath my feet. Perhaps it was Dwahvel, who gave to 
me something I've rarely known and never known well.
    A friend? I am still not certain that I understand the 
concept, but if I ever bother to attempt to sort through it, 
I will use our time together as a model.
    Thus, this is perhaps a letter of apology. I should not 
have forced Sharlotta Vespers upon you, though I trust that 
you tortured her to death as I instructed and buried her 
far, far away.
    How many times you asked me my plans, and always I 
merely laughed, but you should know, dear Dwahvel, that my 
intent is to steal a great and powerful artifact before 
other interested parties get their hands upon it. It is a 
desperate attempt, I know, but I cannot help myself, for the 
artifact calls to me, demands of me that I take it from its 
current, less-than-able wielder.
    So I will have it, because I am indeed the best at my 
craft, and I will be gone, far, far from this place, perhaps 
never to return.
    Farewell, Dwahvel Tiggerwillies, in whatever venture you 
attempt. You owe me nothing, I assure you, and yet I feel as 
if I am in your debt. The road before me is long and fraught 
with peril, but I have my goal in sight. If I attain it, 
nothing will truly bring me any harm. Farewell!
    -AE
    
    Dwahvel Tiggerwillies pushed aside the parchment and 
wiped a tear from her eye, and laughed at the absurdity of 
it all. If anyone had told her months before that she would 
regret the day Artemis Entreri walked out of her life, she 
would have laughed at him and called him a fool.
    But here it was, a letter as intimate as any of the 
discussions Dwahvel had shared with Entreri. She found that 
she missed those discussions already, or perhaps she 
lamented that there would be no such future talks with the 
man. None in the near future, at least.
    Entreri would also miss those talks by his own words. 
That struck Dwahvel profoundly. To think that she had so 
engaged this man-this killer who had secretly ruled 
Calimport's streets off and on for more than twenty years. 
Had anyone ever become so close to Artemis Entreri?
    None who were still alive, Dwahvel knew.
    She reread the ending of the letter, the obvious lies 
concerning Entreri's intentions. He had taken care not to 
mention anything that would tell the remaining dark elves 
that Dwahvel knew anything about them or the stolen 
artifact, or anything about his proffering of the Crystal 
Shard. His lie about his instructions concerning Sharlotta 
certainly added even more security to Dwahvel, buying her, 
should the need arise, some compassion from the woman and 
her secret backers.
    That thought sent a shudder along Dwahvel's spine. She 
really didn't want to depend on the compassion of dark 
elves!
    It would not come to that, she realized. Even if the 
trail led to her and her establishment, she could willingly 
and eagerly show Sharlotta the letter and Sharlotta would 
then see her as a valuable asset.
    Yes, Artemis Entreri had taken great pains to cover 
Dwahvel's efforts in the conspiracy, and that, more than any 
of the kind words he had written to her, revealed to her the 
depth of their friendship.
    "Run far, my friend, and hide in deep holes," she 
whispered.
    She gently rerolled the parchment and placed it in one 
of the drawers of her crafted bureau. The sound of that 
closing drawer resonated hard against Dwahvel's heart.
    She would indeed miss Artemis Entreri.
    

                   
                   
                        Part 3

                       NOW WHAT?
    
    There is a simple beauty in the absolute ugliness of 
demons. There is no ambiguity there, no hesitation, no 
misconception, about how one must deal with such creatures. 
You do not parlay with demons. You do not hear their lies. 
You cast them out, destroy them, rid the world of them-even 
if the temptation is present to utilize their powers to save 
what you perceive to be a little corner of goodness.
    This is a difficult concept for many to grasp and has 
been the downfall of many wizards and priests who have 
errantly summoned demons and allowed the creatures to move 
beyond their initial purpose-the answering of a question, 
perhaps-because they were tempted by the power offered by 
the creature. Many of these doomed spellcasters thought they 
would be doing good by forcing the demons to their side, by 
bolstering their cause, their army, with demonic soldiers. 
What ill, they supposed, if the end result proved to the 
greater good? Would not a goodly king be well advised to add 
"controlled" demons to his cause if goblins threatened his 
lands?
    I think not, because if the preservation of goodness 
relies upon the use of such obvious and irredeemable evil to 
defeat evil, then there is nothing, truly, worth saving.
    The sole use of demons, then, is to bring them forth 
only in times when they must betray the cause of evil, and 
only in a setting so controlled that there is no hope of 
their escape. Cadderly has done this within the secure 
summoning chamber of the Spirit Soaring, as have, I am sure, 
countless priests and wizards. Such a summoning is not 
without peril, though, even if the circle of protection is 
perfectly formed, for there is always a temptation that goes 
with the manipulation of powers such as a balor or a 
nalfeshnie.
    Within that temptation must always lie the realization 
of irredeemable evil. Irredeemable. Without hope. That 
concept, redemption, must be the crucial determinant in any 
such dealings. Temper your blade when redemption is 
possible, hold it when redemption is at hand, and strike 
hard and without remorse when your opponent is beyond any 
hope of redemption.
    Where on that scale does Artemis Entreri lie, I wonder? 
Is the man truly beyond help and hope?
    Yes, to the former, I believe, and no to the latter. 
There is no help for Artemis Entreri because the man would 
never accept any. His greatest flaw is his pride- not the 
boasting pride of so many lesser warriors, but the pride of 
absolute independence and unbending self-reliance. I could 
tell him his errors, as could anyone who has come to know 
him in any way, but he would not hear my words.
    Yet perhaps there may be hope of some redemption for the 
man. I know not the source of his anger, though it must have 
been great. And yet I will not allow that the source, 
however difficult and terrible it might have been, in any 
way excuses the man from his actions. The blood on Entreri's 
sword and trademark dagger is his own to wear.
    He does not wear it well, I believe. It burns at his 
skin as might the breath of a black dragon and gnaws at all 
that is within him. I saw that during our last encounter, a 
quiet and dull ache at the side of his dark eyes. I had him 
beaten, could have killed him, and I believe that in many 
ways he hoped I would finish the task and be done with it, 
and end his mostly self-imposed suffering.
    That ache is what held my blade, that hope within me 
that somewhere deep inside Artemis Entreri there is the 
understanding that his path needs to change, that the road 
he currently walks is one of emptiness and ultimate despair. 
Many thoughts coursed my mind as I stood there, weapons in 
hand, with him defenseless before me. How could I strike 
when I saw that pain in his eyes and knew that such pain 
might well be the precursor to redemption? And yet how could 
I not, when I was well
    aware that letting Artemis Entreri walk out of that 
crystalline tower might spell the doom of others?
    Truly it was a dilemma, a crisis of conscience and of 
balance. I found my answer in that critical moment in the 
memory of my father, Zaknafein. To Entreri's thinking, I 
know, he and Zaknafein are not so different, and there are 
indeed similarities. Both existed in an environment hostile 
and to their respective perceptions evil. Neither, to their 
perceptions, did either go out of his way to kill anyone who 
did not deserve it. Are the warriors and assassins who fight 
for the wretched pashas of Calimport any better than the 
soldiers of the drow houses? Thus, in many ways, the actions 
of Zaknafein and those of Artemis Entreri are quite similar. 
Both existed in a world of intrigue, danger, and evil. Both 
survived their imprisonment through ruthless means. If 
Entreri views his world, his prison, as full of wretchedness 
as Zaknafein viewed Menzoberranzan, then is not Entreri as 
entitled to his manner as was Zaknafein, the weapons master 
who killed many, many dark elves in his tenure as patron of 
House Do'Urden?
    It is a comparison I realized when first I went to 
Calimport, in pursuit of Entreri, who had taken Regis as 
prisoner (and even that act had justification, I must 
admit), and a comparison that truly troubled me. How close 
are they, given their abilities with the blade and their 
apparent willingness to kill? Was it, then, some inner 
feelings for Zaknafein that stayed my blade when I could 
have cut Entreri down?
    No, I say, and I must believe, for Zaknafein was far 
more discerning in whom he would kill or would not kill. I 
know the truth of Zaknafein's heart. I know that Zaknafein 
was possessed of the ability to love, and the reality of 
Artemis Entreri simply cannot hold up against that.
    Not in his present incarnation, at least, but is there 
hope that the man will find a light beneath the murderous 
form of the assassin?
    Perhaps, and I would be glad indeed to hear that the man 
so embraced that light. In truth, though, I doubt that 
anyone or anything will ever be able to pull that lost
    flame of compassion through the thick and seemingly 
impenetrable armor of dispassion that Artemis Entreri now 
wears.
    -Drizzt Do'Urden
    
                        Chapter 16
               A DARK NOTE ON A SUNNY DAY

    Danica sat on a ledge of an imposing mountain beside the 
field that housed the magnificent Spirit Soaring, a 
cathedral of towering spires and flying buttresses, of great 
and ornate windows of multicolored glass. Acres of grounds 
were striped by well-maintained hedgerows, many of them 
shaped into the likeness of animals, and one wrapping around 
and around itself in a huge maze.
    The cathedral was the work of Danica's husband, 
Cadderly, a mighty priest of Deneir, the god of knowledge. 
This structure had been Cadderly's most obvious legacy, but 
his greatest one, to Danica's reasoning, were the twin 
children romping around the entrance to the maze and their 
younger sibling, sleeping within the cathedral. The twins 
had gone running into the hedgerow maze, much to the dismay 
of the dwarf Pikel Bouldershoulder. Pikel, a practitioner of 
the druidic ways-magic that his surly brother Ivan still 
denied-had created the maze and the other amazing gardens.
    Pikel had gone running into the maze behind the children 
screaming, "Eeek!" and other such Pikelisms, and pulling at 
his green-dyed hair and beard. His maze wasn't quite ready 
for visitors yet, and the roots hadn't properly set.
    Of course, as soon as Pikel had gone running in, the 
twins had sneaked right back out and were now playing 
quietly in front of the maze entrance. Danica didn't know 
how far along the confusing corridors the green-bearded 
dwarf had gone, but she had heard his voice fast receding 
and figured that he'd be lost in the maze, for the third 
time that day, soon enough.
    A wind gust came whipping across the mountain wall, 
blowing Danica's thick mop of strawberry blond hair into her 
face. She blew some strands out of her mouth and tossed her 
head to the side, just in time to see Cadderly walking 
toward her.
    What a fine figure he cut in his tan-white tunic and 
trousers, his light blue silken cape and his trademark blue, 
wide-brimmed, and plumed hat. Cadderly had aged greatly 
while constructing the Spirit Soaring, to the point where he 
and Danica honestly believed he would expire. Much to 
Danica's dismay Cadderly had expected to die and had 
accepted that as the sacrifice necessary for the 
construction of the monumental library. Soon after he had 
completed the construction of the main building-the details, 
like the ornate designs of the many doors and the golden 
leaf work around the beautiful archways, might never be 
completed-the aging process had reversed, and the man had 
grown younger almost as fast as he'd aged. Now he seemed a 
man in his late twenties with a spring in his step, and a 
twinkle in his eye every time he glanced Danica's way. 
Danica had even worried that this process would continue, 
and that soon she'd find herself raising four children 
instead of three.
    He eventually grew no younger, though, stopping at the 
point where Cadderly seemed every bit the vivacious and 
healthy young man he had been before all the trouble had 
started within the Edificant Library, the structure that had 
stood on this ground before the advent of the chaos curse 
and the destruction of the old order of Deneir. The 
willingness to sacrifice everything for the new cathedral 
and the new order had sufficed in the eyes of Deneir, and 
thus, Cadderly Bonaduce had been given back his life, a life 
so enriched by the addition of his wife and their children.
    "I had a visitor this morning," Cadderly said to her 
when he moved beside her. He cast a glance at the twins and 
smiled all the wider when he heard another frantic call from 
the lost Pikel.
    Danica marveled at how her husband's gray eyes seemed to 
smile as well. "A man from Carradoon," she replied, nodding. 
"I saw him enter."
    "Bearing word from Drizzt Do'Urden," Cadderly explained, 
and Danica turned to face him directly, suddenly very 
interested. She and Cadderly had met the unusual dark elf 
the previous year and had taken him back to the northland 
using one of Cadderly's wind-walking spells.
    Danica spent a moment studying Cadderly, considering the 
intense expression upon his normally calm face. "He has 
retrieved the Crystal Shard," she reasoned, for when last 
she and Cadderly had been with Drizzt and his human 
companion, Catti-brie, they had spoken of just that. Drizzt 
promised that he would retrieve the ancient, evil artifact 
and bring it to Cadderly to be destroyed.
    "He did," Cadderly said.
    He handed a roll of parchment sheets to Danica. She took 
them and unrolled them. A smile crossed her face when she 
learned of the fate of Drizzt's lost friend, Wulfgar, freed 
from his prison at the clutches of the demon Errtu. By the 
time she got to the second page, though, Danica's mouth 
drooped open, for the note went on to describe the 
subsequent theft of the Crystal Shard by a rogue dark elf 
named Jarlaxle, who had sent one of his drow soldiers to 
Drizzt in the guise of Cadderly.
    Danica paused and looked up, and Cadderly took back the 
parchments. "Drizzt believes the artifact has likely gone 
underground, back to the dark elf city of Menzoberranzan, 
where Jarlaxle makes his home," he explained.
    "Well, good enough for Menzoberranzan, then," Danica 
said in all seriousness.
    She and Cadderly had discussed the powers of the 
sentient shard at length, and she understood it to be a tool 
of destruction-destruction of the wielder's enemies, of the 
wielder's allies, and ultimately of the wielder himself.
    There had never been, and to Cadderly's reasoning, could 
never be, a different outcome where Crenshinibon was 
concerned. To possess the Crystal Shard was, ultimately, a 
terminal disease, and woe to all those nearby.
    Cadderly was shaking his head before Danica ever 
finished the sentiment. "The Crystal Shard is an artifact of 
sunlight, which is perhaps, in the measure of symbolism, its 
greatest perversion."
    "But the drow are creatures of their dark holes," Danica 
reasoned. "Let them take it and be gone. Perhaps in the 
Underdark, the Crystal Shard's power will be lessened, even 
destroyed."
    Again Cadderly was shaking his head. "Who is the 
stronger?" he asked. "The artifact or the wielder?"
    "It sounds as if this particular dark elf was quite 
cunning," Danica replied. "To have fooled Drizzt Do'Urden is 
no easy feat, I would guess."
    Cadderly shrugged and grinned. "I doubt that 
Crenshinibon, once it finds its way into the new wielder's 
heart-which it surely will unless this Jarlaxle is akin in 
heart to Drizzt Do'Urden-will allow him to retreat to the 
depths," he explained. "It is not necessarily a question of 
who is the stronger. The subtlety of the artifact is its 
ability to manipulate its wielder into agreement, not 
dominate him."
    "And the heart of a dark elf would be easily 
manipulated," Danica reasoned.
    "A typical dark elf, yes," Cadderly agreed. A few 
moments of quiet passed as each considered the words and the 
new information.
    "What are we to do, then?" Danica asked at length. "If 
you believe that the Crystal Shard will not allow a retreat 
to the sunless Underdark, then are we to allow it to wreak 
havoc on the surface world? Do we even know where it might 
be?"
    Still deep in thought, Cadderly did not answer right 
away. The question of what to do, of what their 
responsibilities might be in this situation, went to the 
very core of the philosophical trappings of power. Was it 
Cadderly's place, because of his clerical power, to hunt 
down the new wielder of the Crystal Shard, this dark elf 
thief, and take the item by force, bringing it to its 
destruction? If that was the case, then what of every other 
injustice in the world? What of the pirates on the Sea of 
Fallen Stars? Was Cadderly to charter a boat and go out 
hunting them? What of the Red Wizards of Thay, that 
notorious band? Was it Cadderly's duty to seek them out and 
do battle with each and every one? Then there were the 
Zhentarim, the Iron Throne, the Shadow Thieves....
    "Do you remember when we met here with Drizzt Do'Urden 
and Catti-brie?" Danica asked, and it seemed to Cadderly 
that the woman was reading his mind. "Drizzt was distressed 
when we realized that our summoning of the demon Errtu had 
released the great beast from its banishment-a banishment 
handed out to it by Drizzt years before. What did you tell 
Drizzt about that to calm him?"
    "The releasing of Errtu was no major problem," Cadderly 
admitted again. "There would always be a demon available to 
a sorcerer with evil designs. If not Errtu, then another."
    "Errtu was just one of a number of agents of chaos," 
Danica reasoned, "as the Crystal Shard is just another 
element of chaos. Any havoc it brings would merely replace 
the myriad other tools of chaos in wreaking exactly that, 
correct?"
    Cadderly smiled at her, staring intently into the 
seemingly limitless depths of her almond-shaped brown eyes. 
How he loved this woman. She was so much his partner in 
every aspect of his life. Intelligent and possessed of the 
greatest discipline Cadderly had ever known, Danica always 
helped him through any difficult questions and choices, just 
by listening and offering suggestions.
    "It is the heart that begets evil, not the instruments 
of destruction," he completed the thought for her.
    "Is the Crystal Shard the tool or the heart?" Danica 
asked.
    "That is the question, is it not?" Cadderly replied. "Is 
the artifact akin to a summoned monster, an instrument of 
destruction for one whose heart was already tainted?
    Or is it a manipulator, a creator of evil where there 
would otherwise be none?" He held out his arms, having no 
real answer for that. "In either case, I believe I will 
contact some extra-planar sources and see if I can locate 
the artifact and this dark elf, Jarlaxle. I wish to know the 
use to which he has put the Crystal Shard, or perhaps even 
more troubling, the use to which the Crystal Shard plans to 
put him."
    Danica started to ask what he might be talking about, 
but she figured it out before she could utter the words, and 
her lips grew very thin. Might the Crystal Shard, rather 
than let this Jarlaxle creature take it to the light-less 
Underdark, use him to spearhead an invasion by an army of 
drow? Might the Crystal Shard use the position and race of 
its new wielder to create havoc beyond anything it had ever 
known before? Even worse for them personally, if Jarlaxle 
had stolen the artifact by using an imitation of Cadderly, 
then Jarlaxle certainly knew of Cadderly. If Jarlaxle knew, 
the Crystal Shard knew-and knew, too, that Cadderly might 
have information about how to destroy it. A flash of worry 
crossed Danica's face, one that Cadderly could not miss, and 
she instinctively turned to regard her children.
    "I will try to discover where he might be with the 
artifact, and what trouble they together might already be 
causing," Cadderly explained, not reading Danica's 
expression very well and wondering, perhaps, if she was 
doubting him.
    "You do that," the more-than-convinced woman said in all 
seriousness. "Right away."
    A squeal from inside the maze turned them both in that 
direction.
    "Pikel," the woman explained.
    Cadderly smiled. "Lost again?"
    "Again?" Danica asked. "Or still?"
    They heard some rumbling off to the side and saw Pikel's 
more traditional brother, Ivan Bouldershoulder, rolling 
toward the maze grumbling with every step. "Doodad," the 
yellow-bearded dwarf said sarcastically, referring to 
Pikel's pronunciation of his calling. "Yeah,
    Doo-dad," Ivan grumbled. "Can't even find his way out of 
a hedgerow."
    "And you will help him?" Cadderly called to the dwarf.
    Ivan turned curiously, noting the pair, it seemed, for 
the first time. "Been helpin' him all me life," he snorted.
    Both Cadderly and Danica nodded and allowed Ivan his 
fantasy. They knew well enough, if Ivan did not, that his 
helping Pikel more often caused problems for both of the 
dwarves. Sure enough, within the span of a few minutes, 
Ivan's calls about being lost echoed no less than Pikel's. 
Cadderly and Danica, and the twins sitting outside the 
devious maze, thoroughly enjoyed the entertainment.
    A few hours later, after preparing the proper sequence 
of spells and after checking on the magical circle of 
protection the young-again priest always used when dealing 
with even the most minor of the creatures of the lower 
planes, Cadderly sat in a cross-legged position on the floor 
of his summoning chamber, chanting the incantation that 
would bring a minor demon, an imp, to him.
    A short while later, the tiny, bat-winged, horned 
creature materialized in the protection circle. It hopped 
all about, confused and angry, finally focusing on Cadderly. 
It spent some time studying the man, no doubt trying to get 
some clues to his demeanor. Imps were often summoned to the 
material plane, sometimes for information, other times to 
serve as familiars for wizards of evil weal.
    "Deneir?" the imp asked in a coughing, raspy voice that 
Cadderly thought seemed both typical and fitting to its 
smoky natural environment. "You wear the clothing of a 
priest of Deneir."
    The creature was staring at the red band on his hat, 
Cadderly knew, on which was set a porcelain-and-gold pendant 
depicting a candle burning above an eye, the symbol of 
Deneir.
    Cadderly nodded.
    "Ahck!" the imp said and spat upon the ground.
    "Hoping for a wizard in search of a familiar?" Cadderly 
asked slyly.
    "Hoping for anything other than you, priest of Deneir," 
the imp replied.
    "Accept that which has been given to you," Cadderly 
said. "A glimpse of the material plane is better than none, 
after all, and a reprieve from your hellish existence."
    "What do you want, priest of Deneir?"
    "Information," Cadderly replied, but even as he said it, 
he realized that his questions would be difficult indeed, 
perhaps too much so for so minor a demon. "All that I 
require of you is that you give to me the name of a greater 
demonic source, that I might bring it forth."
    The imp looked at him curiously, tilting its head as a 
dog might, and licking its thin lips with a pointed tongue.
    "Nothing greater than a nalfeshnie," Cadderly quickly 
clarified, seeing the impish smile growing and wanting to 
limit the power of whatever being he next summoned. A 
nalfeshnie was no minor demon, but was certainly within 
Cadderly's power to control, at least long enough for him to 
get what he needed.
    "Oh, I has a name for you, priest of Deneir ..." the imp 
started to say, but it jerked spasmodically as Cadderly 
began to chant a spell of torment. The imp fell to the 
floor, writhing and spitting curses.
    "The name?" Cadderly asked. "And I warn you, if you 
deceive me and try to trick me into summoning a greater 
creature, I will dismiss it promptly and find you again. 
This torment is nothing compared to that which I will exact 
upon you!"
    He said the words with conviction and with strength, 
though in truth, it pained the gentle man to be doing even 
this level of torture, even upon a wretched imp. He reminded 
himself of the importance of his quest and bolstered his 
resolve.
    "Mizferac!" the imp screamed out. "A glabrezu, and a 
stupid one!"
    Cadderly released the imp from his spell of torment, and 
the creature gave a beat of its wings and righted itself, 
staring at him coldly. "I did your bidding, evil priest of 
Deneir. Let me go!"
    "Be gone, then," said Cadderly, and even as the little 
beast began fading from view, offering a few obscene 
gestures, Cadderly had to toss in, "I will tell Mizferac 
what you said concerning its intelligence."
    He did indeed enjoy that last expression of panic on the 
face of the little imp.
    Cadderly brought Mizferac in later that same day and 
found the towering pincer-armed glabrezu to be the 
embodiment of all that he hated about demons. It was a 
nasty, vicious, conniving, and wretchedly self-serving 
creature that tried to get as much gain as it could out of 
every word. Cadderly kept their meeting short and to the 
point. The demon was to inquire of other extra-planar 
creatures about the whereabouts of a dark elf named 
Jarlaxle, who was likely on the surface of Faerun. 
Furthermore, Cadderly put a powerful geas on the demon, 
preventing it from actually walking the material world, but 
retreating only back to the Abyss and using sources to 
discern the information.
    "That will take longer," Mizferac said.
    "I will call on you daily," Cadderly replied, putting as 
much anger without adding any passion whatsoever as he could 
into his timbre. "Each passing day I will grow more 
impatient, and your torment will increase."
    "You make a terrible enemy in Mizferac, Cadderly 
Bonaduce, Priest of Deneir," the glabrezu replied, obviously 
trying to shake him with its knowledge of his name.
    Cadderly, who heard the mighty song of Deneir as clearly 
as if it was a chord within his own heart, merely smiled at 
the threat. "If ever you find yourself free of your bonds 
and able to walk the surface of Toril, do come and find me, 
Mizferac the fool. It will please me greatly to reduce your 
physical form to ash and banish your spirit from this world 
for a hundred years."
    The demon growled, and Cadderly dismissed it, simply and 
with just a wave of his hand and an utterance of a single 
word. He had heard every threat a demon could give and many 
times. After the trials the young priest had known in his 
life, from facing a red dragon to doing battle with his own 
father, to warring against the chaos curse, to, most of all, 
offering his very life up as sacrifice to his god, there was 
little any creature, demonic or not, could say to him that 
would frighten him.
    He recalled the glabrezu every day for the next tenday, 
until finally the fiend brought him some news of the Crystal 
Shard and the drow, Jarlaxle, along with the surprising 
information that Jarlaxle no longer possessed the artifact, 
but traveled in the company of a human, Artemis Entreri, who 
did.
    Cadderly knew that name well from the stories that 
Drizzt and Catti-brie had told him in their short stay at 
the Spirit Soaring. The man was an assassin, a brutal 
killer. According to the demon, Entreri, along with the 
Crystal Shard and the dark elf Jarlaxle, was on his way to 
the Snowflake Mountains.
    Cadderly rubbed his chin as the glabrezu passed along 
the information-information that he knew to be true, for he 
had enacted a spell to make certain the demon had not lied 
to him.
    "I have done as you demanded," the glabrezu growled, 
clicking its pincer-ended appendages anxiously. "I am 
released from your bonds, Cadderly Bonaduce."
    "Then begone, that I do not have to look upon your ugly 
face any longer," the young priest replied.
    The demon narrowed its huge eyes threateningly and 
clicked its pincers. "I will not forget this," it promised.
    "I would be disappointed if you did," Cadderly replied 
casually.
    "I was told that you have young children, fool," 
Mizferac remarked, fading from view.
    "Mizferac, ehugu-winance!" Cadderly cried, catching the 
departing demon before it had dissipated back to the 
swirling smoke of the Abyss. Holding it in place by the 
sheer strength of his enchantment, Cadderly twisted the 
demon's physical form painfully by the might of his spell.
    "Do I smell fear, human?" Mizferac asked defiantly.
    Cadderly smiled wryly. "I doubt that, since a hundred 
years will pass before you are able to walk the material 
plane again." The threat, spoken openly, freed Mizferac of 
the summoning binding-and yet, the beast was not freed, for 
Cadderly had enacted another spell, one of exaction.
    Mizferac created magical darkness to fill the room. 
Cadderly fell into his own chanting, his voice trembling 
with feigned terror.
    "I can smell you, foolish mortal," Mizferac remarked, 
and Cadderly heard the voice from the side, though he 
guessed correctly that Mizferac was using ventriloquism to 
throw him off guard. The young priest was fully into the 
flow of Deneir's song now, hearing every beautiful note and 
accessing the magic quickly and completely. First he 
detected evil, easily locating the great negative force of 
the glabrezu- then another mighty negative force as the 
demon gated in a companion.
    Cadderly held his nerve and continued casting.
    "I will kill the children first, fool," Mizferac 
promised, and it began speaking to its new companion in the 
guttural tongue of the Abyss-one that Cadderly, through the 
use of another spell that he had enacted before he had ever 
brought Mizferac to him this day, understood perfectly. The 
glabrezu told its fellow demon to keep the foolish priest 
occupied while it went to hunt the children.
    "I will bring them before you for sacrifice," Mizferac 
started to promise, but the end of the sentence came out as 
garbled screams as Cadderly's spell went off, creating a 
series of spinning, slicing blades all around the two 
demons. The priest then brought forth a globe of light to 
counter Mizferac's darkness. The spectacle of Mizferac and 
its companion, a lesser demon that looked like a giant gnat, 
getting sliced and chopped was revealed.
    Mizferac roared and uttered a guttural word-one designed 
to teleport him away, Cadderly assumed. It failed. The young 
priest, so strong in the flow of Deneir's song, was the 
quicker. He brought forth a prayer that dispelled the 
demon's magic before Mizferac could get away.
    A spell of binding followed immediately, locking 
Mizferac firmly in place, while the magical blades continued 
their spinning devastation.
    "I will never forget this!" Mizferac roared, words edged 
with outrage and agony.
    "Good, then you will know better than ever to return," 
Cadderly growled back.
    He brought forth a second blade barrier. The two demons 
were torn apart, their material forms ripped into dozens of 
bloody pieces, thus banishing them from the material plane 
for a hundred years. Satisfied with that, Cadderly left his 
summoning chamber covered in demon blood. He'd have to find 
a suitable spell from Deneir to clean up his clothes.
    As for the Crystal Shard, he had his answers-and it 
seemed to him a good thing that he had bothered to check, 
since a dangerous assassin, an equally dangerous dark elf, 
and the even more dangerous Crystal Shard were apparently on 
their way to see him.
    He had to talk to Danica, to prepare all the Spirit 
Soaring and the order of Deneir, for the potential battle.
    
                        Chapter 17
                     A CALL FOR HELP

    There is something enjoyable about these beasts, I must 
admit," Jarlaxle noted when he and Entreri pulled up beside 
a mountain pass.
    The assassin quickly dismounted and ran to the ledge to 
view the trail below-and to view the band of orcs he 
suspected were still stubbornly in pursuit. The pair had 
left the desert behind, at long last, entering a region of 
broken hills and rocky trails.
    "Though if I had one of my lizards from Menzoberran-zan, 
I could simply run away to the top of the hill and over the 
other side," the drow went on. He took off his great plumed 
hat and rubbed a hand over his bald head. The sun was strong 
this day, but the dark elf seemed to be handling it quite 
well-certainly better than Entreri would have expected of 
any drow under this blistering sun. Again the assassin had 
to wonder if Jarlaxle might have a bit of magic about him to 
protect his sensitive eyes. "Useful beasts, the lizards of 
Menzoberranzan," Jarlaxle remarked. "I should have brought 
some to the surface with me."
    Entreri gave him a smirk and a shake of his head. "It 
will be hard enough getting into half the towns with a drow 
beside me," he remarked. "How much more welcoming might they 
be if I rode in on a lizard?"
    He looked back down the mountainside, and sure enough, 
the orc band was still pacing them, though the wretched 
creatures were obviously exhausted. Still, they followed as 
if compelled beyond their control.
    It wasn't hard for Artemis Entreri to figure out exactly 
what might be so compelling them.
    "Why can you not just take out your magical tent, that 
we can melt away from them?" Jarlaxle asked for the third 
time.
    "The magic is limited," Entreri answered yet again. He 
glanced back at Jarlaxle as he replied, surprised that the 
cunning drow would keep asking the same question. Was 
Jarlaxle, perhaps, trying to garner some information about 
the tent? Or even worse, was the Crystal Shard reaching out 
to the drow, subtly asking him to goad Entreri in that 
direction? If they did take out the tent and disappear, 
after all, they would have to reappear in the same place. 
That being true, had the Crystal Shard figured out how to 
send its telepathic call across the planes of existence? 
Perhaps the next time Entreri and Jarlaxle used the plane-
shifting tent, they would return to the material plane to 
find an orc army, inspired by Crenshinibon, waiting for 
them. "The horses grow weary," Jarlaxle noted. "They can 
outrun orcs," Entreri replied. "If we let them run free, 
perhaps." "They're just orcs," Entreri muttered, though he 
could hardly believe how persistent this group remained.
    He turned back to Jarlaxle, no longer doubting the 
drow's claim. The horses were indeed tired-they had been 
riding a long day before even realizing the orcs were 
following their trail. They had ridden the beasts 
practically into the desert sands in an effort to get out of 
that barren, wide-open region as quickly as possible. 
Perhaps it was time to stop running. "There are only about a 
score of them," Entreri remarked, watching their movements 
as they crawled over the lower slopes.
    "Twenty against two," Jarlaxle reminded. "Let us go and 
hide in your tent, that the horses can rest, and come out 
and begin the chase anew."
    "We can defeat them and drive them away," Entreri 
insisted, "if we choose and prepare the battlefield."
    It surprised the assassin that Jarlaxle didn't look very 
eager about that possibility. "They're only orcs," Entreri 
said again.
    "Are they?" Jarlaxle asked.
    Entreri started to respond but paused long enough to 
consider the meaning behind the dark elf's words. Was this 
pursuit a chance encounter? Or was there something more to 
this seemingly nondescript band of monsters?
    "You believe that Kimmuriel and Rai-guy are secretly 
guiding this band," Entreri stated more than asked.
    Jarlaxle shrugged. "Those two have always favored using 
monsters as fodder," he explained. "They let the orcs-or 
kobolds, or whatever other creature is available- rush in to 
weary their opponents while they prepare the killing blow. 
It is nothing new in their tactics. They used such a ruse to 
take House Basadoni, forcing the kobolds to lead the charge 
and take the bulk of the casualties."
    "It could be," Entreri agreed with a nod. "Or it could 
be a conspiracy of another sort, one with its roots in our 
midst."
    It took Jarlaxle a few moments to sort that out. "Do you 
believe that I have urged the orcs on?" he asked.
    In response, Entreri patted the pouch that held the 
Crystal Shard. "Perhaps Crenshinibon has come to believe 
that it needs to be rescued from our clutches," he said.
    "The shard would prefer an orcish wielder to either you 
or me?" Jarlaxle asked doubtfully.
    "I am not its wielder, nor will I ever be," Entreri 
answered sharply. "Nor will you, else you would have taken 
it from me our first night on the road from Dallabad, when I 
was too weak with my wounds to resist. I know this truth, so 
do you, and so does Crenshinibon. It understands that we are 
beyond its reach now, and it fears us, or fears me, at 
least, because it recognizes what is in my heart."
    He spoke the words with perfect calm and perfect 
coldness, and it wasn't hard for Jarlaxle to figure out what 
he might be talking about. "You mean to destroy it," the 
drow remarked, and his tone made the sentence seem like an 
accusation.
    "And I know how to do it," Entreri bluntly admitted. "Or 
at least, I know someone who knows how to do it."
    The expressions that crossed Jarlaxle's handsome face 
ranged from incredulity to sheer anger to something less 
obvious, something buried deep. The assassin knew that he 
had taken a chance in proclaiming his intent so openly with 
the drow who had been fully duped by the Crystal Shard and 
who was still not completely convinced, despite Entreri's 
many reminders, that giving up the artifact had been a good 
thing to do. Was Jarlaxle's unreadable expression a signal 
to him that the Crystal Shard had indeed gotten to the drow 
leader once again and was even then working through, and 
with, Jarlaxle to find a way to get rid of Entreri's 
bothersome interference?
    "You will never find the strength of heart to destroy 
it," Jarlaxle remarked.
    Now it was Entreri's turn to wear a confused expression. 
"Even if you discover a method, and I doubt that there is 
one, when the moment comes, Artemis Entreri will never find 
the heart to be rid of so powerful and potentially gainful 
an item as Crenshinibon," Jarlaxle proclaimed slyly. A grin 
widened across the dark elf's face. "I know you, Artemis 
Entreri," he said, grinning still, "and I know that you'll 
not throw away such power and promise, such beauty as 
Crenshinibon!"
    Entreri looked at him hard. "Without the slightest 
hesitation," he said coldly. "And so would you, had you not 
fallen under its spell. I see that enchantment for what it 
is, a trap of temporary gain through reckless action that 
can only lead to complete and utter ruin. You disappoint me, 
Jarlaxle. I had thought you smarter than this."
    Jarlaxle's expression, too, turned cold. A flash of 
anger lit his dark eyes. For just a moment, Entreri thought 
his first fight of the day was upon him, thought the dark 
elf would attack him. Jarlaxle closed his eyes, his body 
swaying as he focused his thoughts and his concentration.
    "Fight the urge," the assassin found himself whispering 
under his breath. Entreri the consummate loner, the man who, 
for all his life, had counted on no one but himself, was 
surely surprised to hear himself now.
    "Do we continue to run, or do we fight them?" Jarlaxle 
asked a moment later. "If these creatures are being guided 
by Rai-guy and Kimmuriel, we will learn of it soon enough-
likely when we are fully engaged in battle. The odds of ten-
to-one, of even twenty-to-one, against orcs on a mountain 
battlefield of our choosing does not frighten me in the 
least, but in truth, I do not wish to face my former 
lieutenants, even two-against-two. With his combination of 
wizardly and clerical powers, Rai-guy has variables enough 
to strike fear into the heart of Gromph Baenre, and there is 
nothing predictable, or even understandable, about many of 
Kimmuriel Oblo-dra's tactics. In all the years he has served 
me, I have not begun to sort the riddle that is Kimmuriel. I 
know only that he is extremely effective."
    "Keep talking," Entreri muttered, looking back down at 
the orcs, who were much closer now, and at all the potential 
battlefield areas. "You are making me wish that I had left 
you and the Crystal Shard behind."
    He caught a slight shift in Jarlaxle's expression as he 
said that, a subtle hint that perhaps the mercenary leader 
had been wondering all along why Entreri had bothered with 
both the theft and the rescue. If Entreri meant to destroy 
the Crystal Shard anyway, after all, why not just run away 
and leave it and the feud between Jarlaxle and his dangerous 
lieutenants behind?
    "We will discuss that," Jarlaxle replied.
    "Another time," Entreri said, trotting along the ledge 
to the right. "We have much to do, and our orc friends are 
in a hurry."
    "Headlong into doom," Jarlaxle remarked quietly. He slid 
off of his horse and moved to follow Entreri.
    Soon after, the pair had set up in a location on the 
northeastern side of the range, the steepest ascent. 
Jarlaxle worried that perhaps some of the orcs would come up 
from the other paths, the same ones they had taken, stealing 
from them the advantage of the higher ground, but Entreri 
was convinced that the artifact was calling out to the 
creatures insistently, and that they would alter their 
course to follow the most direct line to Crenshinibon. That 
line would take them up several high bluffs on this side of 
the hills, and along narrow and easily defensible trails.
    Sure enough, within a few minutes of attaining their new 
perch, Entreri and Jarlaxle spotted the obedient and eager 
orc band, scrambling over stony outcroppings below them.
    Jarlaxle began his customary chatting, but Entreri 
wasn't listening. He turned his thoughts inward, listening 
for the Crystal Shard, knowing that it was calling out to 
the orcs. He paid close heed to its subtle emanations, 
knowing them all too well from his time in possession of the 
item, for though he had denied the Crystal Shard, had made 
it as clear as possible that the artifact could offer him 
nothing, it had not relented its tempting call.
    He heard that call now, drifting out over the mountain 
passes, reaching out to the orcs and begging them to come 
and find the treasure.
    Halt the call, Entreri silently commanded the artifact. 
These creatures are not worthy to serve either you or me as 
slaves.
    He sensed it then, a moment of confusion from the 
artifact, a moment of fleeting hope-there, Entreri knew 
without the slightest of doubts, Crenshinibon did desire him 
as a wielder!-followed by ... questions. Entreri seized the 
moment to interject his own thoughts into the stream of the 
telepathic call. He offered no words, for he didn't even 
speak Orcish, and doubted that the creatures would 
understand any of the human tongues he did speak, but merely 
imparted images of orc slaves, serving the master dark elf. 
He figured Jarlaxle would be a more imposing figure to orcs 
than he. Entreri showed them one orc being eaten by drow, 
another being beaten and torn apart with savage glee.
    "What are you doing, my friend?" he heard Jarlaxle's 
insistent call, in a loud voice that told him his drow 
companion had likely asked that same question several times 
already.
    "Putting a little doubt into the minds of our ugly 
little camp-followers," Entreri replied. "Joining 
Crenshinibon's call to them in the hopes that they will 
hardly sort out one lie from the other."
    Jarlaxle wore a perplexed expression indeed, and Entreri 
understood all the questions that were likely behind it, for 
he was harboring many of the same doubts. One lie from 
another indeed. Or were the promises of Crenshinibon truly 
lies? the assassin had to ask himself. Even beyond that 
fundamental confusion, the assassin understood that Jarlaxle 
would, and had to, fear Entreri's motivations. Was Entreri, 
perhaps, shading his words to Jarlaxle in a way that would 
make the mercenary drow come to agree with Entreri's 
assessment that he, and not the dark elf, should carry the 
Crystal Shard?
    "Ignore whatever doubts Crenshinibon is now giving to 
you," Entreri said matter-of-factly, reading the dark elf's 
expression perfectly.
    "Even if you speak the truth, I fear that you play a 
dangerous game with an artifact that is far beyond your 
understanding," Jarlaxle retorted after another 
introspective pause.
    "I know what it is," Entreri assured him, "and I know 
that it understands the truth of our relationship. That is 
why the Crystal Shard so desperately wants to be free of me-
and is thus calling to you once more."
    Jarlaxle looked at him hard, and for just a moment, 
Entreri thought the drow might move against him.
    "Do not disappoint me," the assassin said simply.
    Jarlaxle blinked, took off his hat, and rubbed the sweat 
from his bald head again.
    "There!" Entreri said, pointing down to the lower 
slopes, to where a fight had broken out between different 
factions among the orcs. Few of the ugly brutes seemed to be 
trying to make peace, as was the way with chaotic orcs. The 
slightest spark could ignite warfare within a tribe of the 
beasts that would continue at the cost of many lives until 
one side was simply wiped out. Entreri, with his imparted 
images of torture and slavery and images of a drow master, 
had done more than flick a little spark. "It would seem that 
some of them heeded my call over that of the artifact."
    "And I had thought this day would bring some 
excitement," Jarlaxle remarked. "Shall we join them before 
they kill each other? To aid whichever side is losing, of 
course." "And with our aid, that side will soon be winning," 
Entreri reasoned, and Jarlaxle's quick response came as no 
surprise.
    "Of course," said the drow, "we are then honor-bound to 
join in with the side that is losing. It could be a 
complicated afternoon."
    Entreri smiled as he worked his way around the ledge of 
the current perch, looking for a quick way down to the orcs.
    By the time the pair got close to the fighting, they 
realized that their estimates of a score of orcs had been 
badly mistaken. There were at least fifty of the beasts, all 
running around in a frenzy now, whacking at each other with 
abandon, using clubs, branches, sharpened sticks, and a few 
crafted weapons.
    Jarlaxle tipped his hat to the assassin, motioned for 
Entreri to go left, and went right, blending into the 
shadows so perfectly that Entreri had to blink to make sure 
they were not deceiving him. He knew that Jarlaxle, like all 
dark elves, was stealthy. Likewise he knew that while 
Jarlaxle's cloak was not the standard drow piwafwi, it did 
have many magical qualities. It surprised him that anyone, 
short of using a wizard's invisibility spell, could find a 
way so to completely hide that great plumed hat.
    Entreri shook it off and ran to the left, finding an 
easy path of shadows through the sparse trees, boulders, and 
rocky ridges. He approached the first group of orcs-four of 
the beasts squared up in battle, three against one. Moving 
silently, the assassin worked his way around the back of the 
trio, thinking to even up the odds with a sudden strike. He 
knew he was making no noise, knew he was hiding perfectly 
from tree to tree to rock to ridge. He had performed attacks 
like this for nearly three decades, had perfected the 
stealthy strike to an unprecedented level-and these were 
only orcs, simple, stupid brutes.
    How surprised Entreri was, then, when two of the 
fighting trio howled and leaped around, charging right for 
him. The orc they had been fighting, with complete disregard 
to the battle at hand, similarly charged at the assassin. 
The remaining orc opponent promptly cut it down as it ran 
past.
    Hard-pressed, Entreri worked his sword left and right, 
parrying the thrusts of the two makeshift spears and 
shearing the tip off one in the process. He was back on his 
heels, in a position of terrible balance. Had he been 
fighting an opponent of true skill he surely would have been 
killed, but these were only orcs. Their weapons were poorly 
crafted and their tactics were utterly predictable. He had 
defeated their first thrusts, their only chance, and yet, 
still they came on, headlong, with abandon.
    Charon's Claw waved before them, filling the air with an 
opaque wall of ash. They plunged right through-of course 
they did!-but Entreri had already skittered to the left, and 
he spun back behind the charge of the closest orc, plunging 
his dagger deep into the creature's side. He didn't retract 
the blade immediately, though he had broken free. He could 
have made an easy kill of the second stumbling orc. No, he 
used the dagger to draw out the life-force from the already 
dying creature, taking that life-force into his own body to 
speed the healing of his own previous wounds.
    By the time he let the limp creature drop to the ground, 
the second orc was at him, stabbing wildly. Entreri caught 
the spear with the crosspiece of his dagger and easily 
turned it up high, over his shoulder, and ducked and stepped 
ahead, shearing across with a great sweep of Charon's Claw. 
The orc instinctively tried to block with its arm, but the 
sword cut right through the limb, and drove hard into the 
orc's side, splintering ribs and tearing a great hole in its 
lung, all the way to its heart.
    Entreri could hardly believe that the third of the group 
was still charging at him after seeing how easily and 
completely he had destroyed its two companions. He casually 
planted his left foot against the chest of the drooping, 
dead creature impaled on his sword, and waited for the exact 
moment. When that moment came, he turned the dead orc and 
kicked it free, dropping it in the path of its charging, 
howling companion.
    The orc tripped, diving headlong past Entreri. The 
assassin stabbed up hard with the dagger, catching the orc 
under the chin and driving the blade up into its head. He 
bent as the heavy orc continued its facedown dive, ending 
with him holding the creature's head from the ground and the 
orc twitching spasmodically as it died.
    A twist and yank tore the dagger free, and Entreri 
paused only long enough to wipe both his blades on the dead 
beast's back before running off in pursuit of other prey.
    His stride was more tempered this time, though, for his 
failure in approaching the trio from behind bothered him 
greatly. He believed he understood what had happened-the 
Crystal Shard had called out a warning to the group-but the 
thought that carrying the cursed item left him without his 
favored mode of attack and his greatest ability to defend 
himself was more than a little unsettling.
    He charged across the side of the rock facing, picking 
shadows where he could find them but worrying little about 
cover. He understood that with the Crystal Shard on his 
belt, he was likely as obvious as he would be sitting beside 
a blazing campfire on a dark night. He came past one small 
area of brush onto the lower edge of sloping, bare stone. 
Cursing the open ground but hardly slowing, Entreri started 
across.
    He saw the charge of another orc out of the corner of 
his eye, the creature rushing headlong at him, one arm back 
and ready to launch a spear his way.
    The orc was barely five strides away when it threw, but 
Entreri didn't even have to parry the errant missile, just 
letting it fly harmlessly past. He did react to it, though, 
with dramatic movement, and that only spurred on the eager 
orc attacker.
    It leaped at the seemingly vulnerable man, a flying 
tackle aimed for Entreri's waist. Two quick steps took the 
assassin out of harm's way, and he swished his sword down 
onto the orc's back as it flew past, cracking the powerful 
weapon right through the creature's backbone. The orc 
skidded down hard on its face, its upper torso and arms 
squirming wildly, but its legs making no movement of their 
own.
    Entreri didn't even bother finishing the wretched 
creature. He just ran on. He had a direction sorted for his 
run, for he heard the unmistakable laughter of a drow who 
seemed to be having too much fun.
    He found Jarlaxle standing atop a boulder amidst the 
largest tumult of battling orcs, spurring one side on with 
excited words that Entreri could not understand, while 
systematically cutting down their opponents with dagger 
after thrown dagger.
    Entreri stopped in the shadow of a tree and watched the 
spectacle.
    Sure enough, Jarlaxle soon changed sides, calling out to 
the other orcs, and launching that endless stream of daggers 
at members of the side he had just been urging on.
    The numbers dwindled, obviously so, and eventually, even 
the stupid orcs caught on to the deadly ruse. As one, they 
turned on Jarlaxle.
    The drow only laughed at them all the harder as a dozen 
spears came his way-every one of them missing the mark badly 
due to the displacement magic in the drow's cloak and the 
bad aim of the orcs. The drow countered, throwing one dagger 
after another. Jarlaxle spun around on his high perch, 
always seeking the closest orc, and always hitting home with 
a nearly perfect throw.
    Out of the shadows came Entreri, a whirlwind of fury, 
dagger working efficiently, but sword waving wildly, 
building walls of floating ash as the assassin sliced up the 
battlefield to suit his designs. Inevitably, Entreri worked 
his way into a situation that put him one-on-one against an 
orc. Just as inevitably, that creature was down and dying 
within the span of a few thrusts and stabs.
    Entreri and Jarlaxle walked slowly back up the mountain 
slope soon after, with the drow complaining at the meager 
take of silver pieces they had found on the orcs. Entreri 
was hardly listening, was more concerned with the call that 
had brought the creatures to them in the first place-the 
plea, the scream, for help from Crenshinibon. These were 
just a rag-tag band of orcs, but what more powerful 
creatures might the Crystal Shard find to come to its call 
next?
    "The call of the shard is strong," he admitted to 
Jarlaxle,
    "It has existed for centuries," the drow answered. "It 
knows well how to preserve itself."
    "That existence is soon to end," Entreri said grimly.
    "Why?" Jarlaxle asked with perfect innocence.
    The tone more than the word stopped Entreri cold in his 
tracks and made him turn around to regard his surprising 
companion.
    "Do we have to go through this all over again?" the 
assassin asked.
    "My friend, I know why you believe the Crystal Shard to 
be unacceptable for either of us to wield, but why does that 
translate into the need to destroy it?" Jarlaxle asked. He 
paused and glanced around, and motioned for Entreri to 
follow and led the assassin to the edge of a fairly deep 
ravine, a remote valley. "Why not just throw it away then?" 
he asked. "Toss it from this cliff and let it land where it 
may?"
    Entreri stared out at the remote vale and almost 
considered taking Jarlaxle's advice. Almost, but a very real 
truth rang clear in his mind. "Because it would find its way 
back to the hands of our adversaries soon enough," he 
replied. "The Crystal Shard saw great potential in Rai-guy,"
    Jarlaxle nodded. "Sensible," he said. "Ever was that one 
too ambitious for his own good. Why do you care, though? Let 
Rai-guy have it and have all of Calimport, if the artifact 
can deliver the city to him. What does it matter to Artemis 
Entreri, who is gone from that place, and who will not 
return anytime soon in any event? Likely, my former 
lieutenant will be too preoccupied with the potential gains 
he might find with the artifact in his hands even to worry 
about our whereabouts. Perhaps freeing ourselves of the 
burden of the artifact will indeed save us from the pursuit 
we now fear at our backs."
    Entreri spent a long moment musing over that reasoning, 
but one fact kept nagging at him. "The Crystal Shard knows I 
wish to see it destroyed," he replied, "It knows that in my 
heart I hate it and will find some way to be rid of the 
thing. Rai-guy knows the threat that is Jarlaxle. As long as 
you live, he can never be certain of his position within 
Bregan D'aerthe. What would happen if Jarlaxle reappeared in 
Menzoberranzan, reaching out to old comrades against the 
fools who tried to steal the throne of Bregan D'aerthe?"
    Jarlaxle offered no response, but the twinkle in his 
dark eyes told Entreri that his drow companion would like 
nothing more than to play out that very scenario.
    "He wants you dead," Entreri said bluntly. "He needs you 
dead, and with the Crystal Shard at his disposal, that might 
not prove to be an overly difficult task."
    The twinkle in Jarlaxle's dark eyes remained, but after 
a moment's thought, he just shrugged and said, "Lead on."
    Entreri did just that, back to their horses and back to 
the trails that would take them to the northeast, to the 
Snowflake Mountains and the Spirit Soaring. Entreri was 
quite pleased with the way he had handled Jarlaxle, quite 
pleased in the strength of his argument for destroying the 
Crystal Shard.
    But it was all just so much dung, he knew, all a 
justification for that which was in his heart. Yes, he was 
determined to destroy the Crystal Shard, and would see the 
artifact obliterated, but it was not for any fear of 
retribution or of pursuit. Entreri wanted Crenshinibon 
destroyed simply because the mere existence of the 
dominating artifact revolted him. The Crystal Shard, in 
trying to coerce him, had insulted him profoundly. He didn't 
hold any notion that the wretched world would be a better 
place without the artifact, and hardly cared whether it 
would be or not, but he did believe that he would more 
greatly enjoy his existence in the world knowing that one 
less wretched and perverted item such as the Crystal Shard 
remained in existence.
    Of course, as Entreri harbored these thoughts, 
Crenshinibon realized them as well. The Crystal Shard could
    only seethe, could only hope that it might find someone 
weaker of heart and stronger of arm to slay Artemis Entreri 
and free it from his grasp.
    
                        Chapter 18
                  RESPECTABLE OPPONENTS

    It was Entreri," Sharlotta Vespers said with a sly grin 
as she examined the orc corpse on the side of the mountain a 
couple days later. "The precision of the cuts . . . and see, 
a dagger thrust here, a sword slash there."
    "Many fight with sword and dirk," the wererat, Gord 
Abrix, replied. The wretch, wearing his human form at that 
time, moved his hands out wide as he spoke, revealing his 
own sword and dagger hanging on his belt.
    "But few strike so well," Sharlotta argued.
    "And these others," Berg'inyon Baenre agreed in his 
stilted command of the common tongue. He swung his arm about 
to encompass the many orcs lying dead around the base of a 
large boulder. "Wounds consistent with a dagger throw-and so 
many of them. Only one warrior that I know of carries such a 
supply as that."
    "You are counting wounds, not daggers!" Gord Abrix 
argued.
    "They are one and the same in a fight this frantic," 
Berg'inyon reasoned. "These are throws, not stabs, for there 
is no tearing about the sides of the cuts, just a single 
fast puncture. And I think it unlikely that anyone would 
throw a few daggers at one opponent, somehow run down and 
pull them free, then throw them at another."
    "Where are these daggers, then, drew?" the wererat 
leader asked doubtfully.
    "Jarlaxle's missiles are magical in nature and 
disappear," Berg'inyon answered coldly. "His supply is 
nearly endless. This is the work of Jarlaxle, I know-and not 
his best work, I warn both of you."
    Sharlotta and Gord Abrix exchanged nervous glances, 
though the wererat leader still held that doubting 
expression.
    "Have you not yet learned the proper respect for the 
drow?" Berg'inyon asked him pointedly and threateningly.
    Gord Abrix went back on his heels and held his empty 
hands up before him.
    Sharlotta eyed him closely. Gord Abrix wanted a fight, 
she knew, even with this dark elf standing before him. 
Sharlotta hadn't really seen Berg'inyon Baenre in action, 
but she had seen his lessers, dark elves who had spoken of 
this young Baenre with the utmost respect. Even those 
lessers would have had little trouble in slaughtering the 
prideful Gord Abrix. Yes, Sharlotta realized then and there, 
her own self-preservation would depend upon her getting as 
far away from Gord Abrix and his sewer dwellers as possible, 
for there was no respect here, only abject hatred for 
Artemis Entreri and a genuine dislike for the dark elves. No 
doubt, Gord Abrix would lead his companions, wererat and 
otherwise, into absolute devastation.
    Sharlotta Vespers, the survivor, wanted no part of that. 
"The bodies are cold, the blood dried, but they have not 
been cleanly picked," Berg'inyon observed.
    "A couple of days, no more," Sharlotta added, and she 
looked to Gord Abrix, as did Berg'inyon.
    The wererat nodded and smiled wickedly. "I will have 
them," he declared. He walked off to confer with his wererat 
companions, who had been standing off to the side of the 
battleground.
    "He will have a straight passageway to the realm of 
death," Berg'inyon quietly remarked to Sharlotta when the 
two were alone.
    Sharlotta looked at the drow curiously. She agreed, of 
course, but she had to wonder why, if the dark elves knew 
this, they were allowing Gord Abrix to hold so critical a 
role in this all-important pursuit.
    "Gord Abrix thinks he will get them," she replied, "both 
of them, yet you do not seem so confident."
    Berg'inyon chuckled at the remark-one he obviously 
believed absurd. "No doubt, Entreri is a deadly opponent," 
he said.
    "More so than you understand," Sharlotta, who knew the 
assassin's exploits well, was quick to add.
    "And yet he is still, by any measure the easier of the 
prey," Berg'inyon assured her. "Jarlaxle has survived for 
centuries with his intelligence and skill. He thrives in a 
land more violent than Calimport could ever know. He ascends 
to the highest levels of power in a warring city that 
prevents the ascent of males. Our wretched companion Gord 
Abrix cannot understand the truth of Jarlaxle, nor can you, 
so I tell you this now-out of the respect I have gained for 
you in these short tendays-beware that one."
    Sharlotta paused and stared long and hard at the 
surprising drow warrior. Offering her respect? The notion 
pleased her and made her fearful all at once, for Sharlotta 
had already learned to try to look beneath every word 
uttered by her dark elf comrades. Perhaps Berg'inyon had 
just paid her a high and generous compliment. Perhaps he was 
setting her up for disaster.
    Sharlotta glanced down at the ground, biting her lower 
lip as she fell into her thoughts, sorting it all out. 
Perhaps Berg'inyon was setting her up, she reasoned again, 
as Rai-guy and Kimmuriel had set up Gord Abrix. As she 
thought of the mighty Jarlaxle and the item he possessed, 
she came to realize, of course, that there was no way Rai-
guy could believe Gord Abrix and his ragged wererat band 
could possibly bring down the great Entreri and the great 
Jarlaxle. If that came to pass, then Gord Abrix would have 
the Crystal Shard in his possession, and what trouble might 
he bring about before Rai-guy and Kimmuriel could take it 
away from him? No, Rai-guy and Kimmuriel did not believe 
that the wererat leader would get anywhere near the Crystal 
Shard, and furthermore, they didn't want him anywhere near 
it.
    Sharlotta looked back up at Berg'inyon to see him 
smiling slyly, as if he had just followed her reasoning as 
clearly as if she had spoken it aloud. "The drow always use 
a lesser race to lead the way into battle," the dark elf 
warrior said. "We never truly know, of course, what 
surprises our enemies might have in store."
    "Fodder," Sharlotta remarked.
    Berg'inyon's expression was perfectly blank, was absent 
of any sense of compassion at all, giving Sharlotta all the 
confirmation she needed.
    A shudder coursed up Sharlotta's spine as she considered 
the sheer coldness of that look, dispassionate and inhuman, 
a less-than-subtle reminder to her that these dark elves 
were indeed very different, and much, much more dangerous. 
Artemis Entreri was, perhaps, the closest creature she had 
ever met in temperament to the drow, but it seemed to her 
that, in terms of sheer evil, even he paled in comparison. 
These long-lived dark elves had perfected the craft of 
efficient heartlessness to a level beyond human 
comprehension, let alone human mimicry. She turned to regard 
Gord Abrix and his eager wererats, and made a silent vow 
then to stay as far away from the doomed creatures as 
possible.
    The demon writhed on the floor in agony, its skin 
smoking, its blood boiling.
    Cadderly did not pity the creature, though it pained him 
to have to lower himself to this level. He did not enjoy 
torture-even the torture of a demon, as deserving a creature 
as ever existed. He did not enjoy dealing with the denizens 
of the lower planes at all, but he had to for the sake of 
the Spirit Soaring, for the sake of his wife and children.
    The Crystal Shard was coming to him, was coming for him, 
he knew, and his impending battle with the vile artifact 
might prove to be as important as his war had been against 
Tuanta Quiro Miancay, the dreaded Chaos Curse.
    It was as important as his construction of the Spirit 
Soaring, for what lasting effect might the remarkable 
cathedral hold if Crenshinibon reduced it to rubble?
    "You know the answer," Cadderly said as calmly as he 
could. "Tell me, and I will release you."
    "You are a fool, priest of Deneir!" the demon growled, 
its guttural words broken apart as spasm after spasm wracked 
its physical form. "Do you know the enemy you make in 
Mizferac?"
    Cadderly sighed. "And so it continues," he said, as if 
he were speaking to himself, though well aware that Mizferac 
would hear his words and understand the painful implications 
of them with crystalline clarity.
    "Release me!" the glabrezu demanded.
    "Yokk tu Mizferac be-enck do-tu," Cadderly recited, and 
the demon howled and jerked wildly about the floor within 
the perfectly designed protective circle.
    "This will take as long as you wish," Cadderly said 
coldly to the demon. "I have no mercy for your kind, I 
assure you."
    "We ... want ... no ... mercy," Mizferac growled. Then a 
great spasm wracked the beast, and it jerked wildly, rolling 
about and shrieking curses in its profane, demonic language.
    Cadderly just quietly recited more of the exaction 
spell, bolstering his resolve with the continual reminder 
that his children might soon be in mortal danger.

                         * * * * *

    "Ye wasn't lost! Ye was playing!" Ivan Bouldershoulder 
roared at his green-bearded brother.
    "Doo-dad maze!" Pikel argued vehemently.
    The normally docile dwarf's tone took his brother 
somewhat by surprise. "Ye getting talkative since ye becomed 
a doo-dad, ain't ye?" he asked.
    "Oo oi!" Pikel shrieked, punching his fist in the air.
    "Well, ye shouldn't be playin' in yer maze when Cad-
deriy's at such dark business," Ivan scolded.
    "Doo-dad maze," Pikel whispered under his breath, and he 
lowered his gaze.
    "Yeah, whatever ye might be callin' it," grumbled Ivan, 
who had never been overly fond of his brother's woodland 
calling and considered it quite an unnatural thing for a 
dwarf. "He might be needin' us, ye fool." Ivan held up his 
great axe as he spoke, flexing the bulging muscles on his 
short but powerful arm.
    Pikel responded with one of his patented grins and held 
up a wooden cudgel.
    "Great weapon for fighting demons," Ivan muttered. "Sha-
la-" Pikel started.
    "Yeah, I'm knowin' the name," Ivan cut in. "Sha-la-la. 
I'm thinking that a demon might be callin' it kind-lind-
ling." Pikel's grin drooped into a severe frown. The door to 
the summoning chamber pulled open and a very weary Cadderly 
emerged-or tried to. He tripped over something and sprawled 
facedown to the floor. "Oops," said Pikel.
    "Me brother put one o' his magic trips on the doorway," 
Ivan explained, helping the priest back to his feet. "We was 
worryin' that a demon might be walkin' out."
    "So of course, Pikel would trip the thing to the floor 
and bash it with his club," Cadderly said dryly, pulling 
himself back to his feet.
    "Sha-la-la!" Pikel squealed gleefully, completely 
missing the sarcasm in the young cleric's tone.
    "Ain't one coming, is there?" Ivan asked, looking past 
Cadderly.
    "The glabrezu, Mizferac, has been dismissed to its own 
foul plane," Cadderly assured the dwarves. "I brought it 
forth again, thus rescinding the hundred year banishment I 
had just exacted upon it, to answer a specific question, and 
with that done, I had-and have, I hope-no further need of 
it."
    "Ye should've kept him about just so me and me brother 
could bash him a few times," said Ivan. "Sha-la-la!"' Pikel 
agreed.
    "Save your strength, for I fear we will need it," 
Cadderly explained. "I have learned the secret to destroying 
the Crystal Shard, or at least, I have learned of the 
creature that might complete the task."
    "Demon?" Ivan asked.
    "Doo-dad?" Pikel added hopefully.
    Cadderly, shaking his head, started to reply to Ivan, 
but paused to put a perfectly puzzled expression over the 
green-bearded dwarf. Embarrassed, Pikel merely shrugged and 
said, "Ooo."
    "No demon," he said to the other dwarf at length. "A 
creature of this world."
    "Giant?"
    Think bigger."
    Ivan started to speak again, but paused, taking in Cad-
derly's sour expression and studying it in light of all that 
they had been through together.
    "Let me guess one more time," the dwarf said.
    Cadderly didn't answer.
    "Dragon," Ivan said.
    "Ooo," said Pikel.
    Cadderly didn't answer.
    "Red dragon," Ivan clarified.
    "Ooo," said Pikel.
    Cadderly didn't answer.
    "Big red dragon," said the dwarf. "Huge red dragon! Old 
as the mountains."
    "Ooo," said Pikel, three more times.
    Cadderly merely sighed.
    "Old Fyren's dead," Ivan said, and there was indeed a 
slight tremor in the tough dwarf's voice, for that fight 
with the great red dragon had nearly been the end of them 
all.
    "Fyrentennimar was not the last of its kind, nor the 
greatest, I assure you," Cadderly replied evenly.
    "Ye're thinking that we got to take the thing to another 
of the beasts?" Ivan asked incredulously. "To one bigger 
than old Fyren?"
    "So I am told," explained Cadderly. "A red dragon, 
ancient and huge."
    Ivan shook his head, and snapped a glare over Pikel, who 
said, "Ooo," once again.
    Ivan couldn't help but chuckle. They had met up with 
mighty Fyrentennimar on their way to find the mountain 
fortress that housed the minions of Cadderly's own wicked 
father. Through Cadderly's powerful magic, the dragon had 
been "tamed" into flying Cadderly and the others across the 
Snowflake Mountains. A battle deeper in those mountains had 
broken the spell though, and old Fyren had turned on its 
temporary masters with a vengeance. Somehow, Cadderly had 
managed to hold onto enough magical strength to weaken the 
beast enough for Vander, a giant friend, to lop off its 
head, but Ivan knew, and so did the others, that the win had 
been as much a feat of luck as of skill.
    "Drizzt Do'Urden telled ye about another of the reds, 
didn't he?" Ivan remarked.
    "I know where we can find one," Cadderly replied grimly.
    Danica walked in, then, her smile wide-until she noted 
the expressions on the faces of the other three.
    "Poof!" said Pikel and he walked out of the room, 
muttering squeaky little sounds.
    A puzzled Danica watched him go. Then she turned to his 
brother.
    "He's a doo-dad," Ivan explained, "and fearin' no 
natural creature. There ain't nothin' less natural than a 
red dragon, I'm guessing, so he's not too happy right now." 
Ivan snorted and walked out behind his brother.
    "Red dragon?" Danica asked Cadderly.
    "Poof," the priest replied.
    
                        Chapter 19
                 BECAUSE HE NEVER HAD TO

    Entreri frowned when he glanced from the not-too-distant 
village to his ridiculously plumed drow companion. The hat 
alone, with its wide brim and huge diatryma feather that 
always grew back after Jarlaxle used it to summon a real 
giant bird, would invite suspicion and likely open disdain, 
from the farmers of the village. Then there was the fact 
that the wearer was a dark elf....
    "You really should consider a disguise," Entreri said 
dryly, and shook his head, wishing he still had a particular 
magic item, a mask that could transform the wearer's 
appearance. Drizzt Do'Urden had once used the thing to get 
from the northlands around Waterdeep all the way to 
Calimport disguised as a surface elf.
    "I have considered a disguise," the drow replied, and to 
Entreri's-temporary-relief, he pulled the hat from his head. 
A good start, it seemed.
    Jarlaxle merely brushed the thing off and plopped it 
right back in place. "You wear one, as well," the drow 
protested to Entreri's scowl, pointing to the small-brimmed 
black hat Entreri now wore. The hat was called a bolero, 
named after the drow wizard who had given it its tidy shape 
and had imbued it, and several others of the same make, with 
certain magical properties.
    "Not the hat!" the frustrated Entreri replied, and he 
rubbed a hand across his face. "These are simple farmers, 
likely with very definite feelings about dark elves- and 
likely, those feelings are not favorable."
    "For most dark elves, I would agree with them," said 
Jarlaxle, and he ended there, and merely kept riding on his 
way toward the village, as if Entreri had said nothing to 
him at all.
    "Hence, the disguise," the assassin called after him. 
"Indeed," said Jarlaxle, and he kept on riding. Entreri 
kicked his heels into his horse's flanks, spurring the mount 
into a quick canter to bring him up beside the elusive drow. 
"I mean that you should consider wearing one," Entreri said 
plainly.
    "But I am," the drow replied. "And you, Artemis Entreri, 
above all others, should recognize me! I am Drizzt Do'Urden, 
your most hated rival."
    "What?" the assassin asked incredulously. "Drizzt 
Do'Urden, the perfect disguise for me," Jarlaxle casually 
replied. "Does not Drizzt walk openly from town to town, 
neither hiding nor denying his heritage, even in those 
places where he is not well-known?" "Does he?" Entreri asked 
slyly.
    "Did he not?" Jarlaxle quickly replied, correcting the 
tense, for of course, as far as Artemis Entreri knew, Drizzt 
Do'Urden was dead.
    Entreri stared hard at the drow. "Well, did he not?" 
Jarlaxle asked plainly. "And it was Drizzt's nerve, I say, 
in parading about so openly, that prevented townsfolk from 
organizing against him and slaying him. Because he remained 
so obvious, it became obvious that he had nothing to hide. 
Thus, I use the same technique and even the same name. I am 
Drizzt Do'Urden, hero of Ice-wind Dale, friend of King 
Bruenor Battlehammer of Mithral Hall, and no enemy of these 
simple farmers. Rather, I might be of use to them, should 
danger threaten." "Of course," Entreri replied. "Unless one 
of them crosses you, in which case you will destroy the 
entire town."
    "There is always that," Jarlaxle admitted, but he didn't 
slow his mount, and he and Entreri were getting close to the 
village now, close enough to be seen for what they were-or 
at least, for what they were pretending to be.
    There were no guards about, and the pair rode in 
undisturbed, their horses' hooves clattering on cobblestone 
roads. They pulled up before one two-story building, on 
which hung a shingle painted with a foamy mug of mead and 
naming the place as
    
    Gent eman Briar's
    Good y P ace of Si ing
    
    in lettering old and weathered.
    "Si ing," Jarlaxle read, scratching his head, and he 
gave a great and dramatic sigh. "This is a gathering hall 
for those of melancholy?"
    "Not sighing," Entreri replied. He looked at Jarlaxle, 
snorted, and rolled off the side of his horse. "Sitting, or 
perhaps sipping. Not sighing."
    "Sitting, then, or sipping," Jarlaxle announced, looping 
his right leg over his horse, and rolling over backward off 
the mount into a somersault to land gracefully on his feet. 
"Or perhaps a bit of both! Ha!" He ended with a great 
gleaming smile.
    Entreri stared at him hard yet again, and just shook his 
head, thinking that perhaps he would have been better off 
leaving this one with Rai-guy and Kimmuriel.
    A dozen patrons were inside the place, ten men and a 
pair of women, along with a grizzled old barkeep whose snarl 
seemed to be eternally etched upon his stubbly face, a 
locked expression amidst the leathery wrinkles and acne 
scars. One by one, the thirteen took note of the pair 
entering, and inevitably, each nodded or merely glanced 
away, and shot a stunned expression back at the duo, 
particularly at the dark elf, and sent a hand to the hilt of 
the nearest weapon. One man even leaped up from his chair, 
sending it skidding out behind him.
    Entreri and Jarlaxle merely tipped their hats and moved 
to the bar, making no threatening movements and keeping 
their expressions perfectly friendly.
    "What're ye about?" the barkeep barked at them. "Who're 
ye, and what's yer business?"
    "Travelers," Entreri answered, "weary of the road and 
seeking a bit of respite."
    "Well, yell not be finding it here, ye won't!" the 
barkeep growled. "Get yer hats back on yer ugly heads and 
get yer arses out me door!"
    Entreri looked to Jarlaxle, who seemed perfectly 
unperturbed. "I do believe we will stay a bit," the drow 
stated. "I do understand your hesitance, good sir . . . good 
Eman Briar," he added, remembering the sign.
    "Eman?" the barkeep echoed in obvious confusion. "Eman 
Briar, so says your placard," Jarlaxle answered innocently.
    "Eh?" the puzzled man asked, then his old yellow eyes 
lit up as he caught on, "Gentleman Briar," he insisted. "The 
L's all rotted away. Gentleman Briar."
    "Your pardon, good sir," the charming and disarming 
Jarlaxle said with a bow. He gave a great sigh and threw a 
wink at Entreri's predictable scowl. "We have come in to 
sigh, sit, and sip, a bit of all three. We want no trouble 
and bring none, I assure you. Have you not heard of me? 
Drizzt Do'Urden of Icewind Dale, who reclaimed Mithral Hall 
for dwarven King Bruenor Battlehammer?"
    "Never heard o' no Drizzit Dudden," Briar replied. "Now 
get ye outta me place afore me Mends and me haul ye out!" 
His voice rose as he spoke, and several of the gathered men 
did, as well, moving together and readying their weapons.
    Jarlaxle glanced around at the lot of them, smiling, 
seeming perfectly amused. Entreri, too, was quite 
entertained by it all, but he didn't bother looking around, 
just leaned back on his barstool, watching his friend and 
trying to see how Jarlaxle might wriggle out of this one. Of 
course, the ragged band of farmers hardly bothered the 
skilled assassin, especially since he was sitting next to 
the dangerous Jarlaxle. If they had to leave the town in 
ruin, so be it.
    Thus, Entreri did not even search the ever-present 
silent call of the imprisoned Crystal Shard. If the artifact 
wanted these simple fools to take it from Entreri, then let 
them try!
    "Did I not just tell you that I reclaimed a dwarven 
kingdom?" Jarlaxle asked. "And mostly without help. Hear me 
well, Gent Eman Briar. If you and your friends here try to 
expel me, your kin will be planting more than crops this 
season."
    It wasn't so much what he said as it was the manner in 
which he said it, so casual, so confident, so perfectly 
assured that this group could not begin to frighten him. The 
men approaching slowed to a halt, all of them glancing to 
the others for some sign of leadership.
    "Truly, I desire no trouble," Jarlaxle said calmly. "I 
have dedicated my life to erasing the prejudices-rightful 
conceptions, in many instances-that so many hold for my 
people. I am not merely a weary traveler, but a warrior for 
the causes of common men. If goblins attacked your fair 
town, I would fight beside you until they were driven away, 
or until my heart beat its last!" His voice continued a 
dramatic climb. "If a great dragon swooped down upon your 
village, I would brave its fiery breath, draw forth my 
weapons and leap to the parapets...."
    "I think they understand your point," Entreri said to 
him, grabbing him by the arm and easing him back to his 
seat.
    Gentleman Briar snorted. "Ye're not even carryin' no 
weapon, drow," he observed.
    "A thousand dead men have said the same thing," Entreri 
replied in all seriousness. Jarlaxle tipped his hat to the 
assassin. "But enough banter," Entreri added, hopping from 
his seat and pulling back his cloak to reveal his two 
fabulous weapons, the jeweled dagger and the magnificent 
Charon's Claw with its distinctive bony hilt. "If you mean 
to fight us, then do so now, that I can finish this business 
and still find a good meal, a better drink, and a warm bed 
before the fall of night. If not, then go back to your 
tables, I beg, and leave us in peace, else I'll forget my 
delusional paladin friend's desire to become the hero of the 
land."
    Again, the patrons glanced nervously at each other, and 
some grumbled under their breaths.
    "Gentleman Briar, they await your signal," Entreri 
remarked. "Choose well which signal that will be, or else 
find a way to mix blood with your drink, for you shall have 
gallons of it pooling about your tavern."
    Briar waved his hand, sending his patrons retreating to 
their respective tables, and gave a great snort and snarl. 
"Good!" Jarlaxle remarked, slapping his leg. "My reputation 
is saved from the rash actions of my impetuous friend. Now, 
if you would be so kind as to fetch me a fine and delicate 
drink, Gentleman Briar," he instructed, pulling forth his 
purse, which was bulging with coins.
    "I'm servin' no damned drow in me tavern," Briar 
insisted, crossing his thin but muscled arms over his chest. 
"Then I will gladly serve myself," Jarlaxle answered without 
hesitation, and he politely tipped his great plumed hat. "Of 
course, that will mean fewer coins for you." Briar stared at 
him hard.
    Jarlaxle ignored him and stared instead at the fairly 
wide selection of bottles on the shelves behind the bar. He 
tapped a delicate finger against his lip, scrutinizing the 
colors, and the words of the few that were actually marked. 
"Suggestions?" he asked Entreri. "Something to drink," the 
assassin replied. Jarlaxle pointed to one bottle, uttered a 
simple magical command, and snapped his finger back, and the 
bottle flew from the shelf to his waiting grasp. Two more 
points and commands had a pair of glasses sitting upon the 
bar before the companions.
    Jarlaxle reached for the bottle. The stunned and angry 
Briar snapped his hand out to grab the dark elf's arm. He 
never got close.
    Faster than Briar could possibly react, faster than he 
could think to react, Entreri snapped his hand on the bar-
keep's reaching arm, slamming it down to the bar and holding 
it fast. In the same fluid motion, the assassin's other hand 
came, holding the jeweled dagger, and Entreri plunged it 
hard into the wooden shelf right between Gentleman Briar's 
fingers. The blood drained from the man's ruddy face. "If 
you persist, there will be little left of your tavern," 
Entreri promised in the coldest, most threatening voice
    Gentleman Briar had ever heard. "Enough to build a 
proper box to bury you in, perhaps." "Doubtful," said 
Jarlaxle.
    The drow was perfectly at ease, hardly paying attention, 
seeming as though he had expected Entreri's intervention all 
along. He poured the two drinks and eased himself back, 
sniffing, and sipping his liquor.
    Entreri let the man go, glanced around to make sure that 
none of the others were moving, and slid his dagger back 
into its sheath on his belt.
    "Good sir," Jarlaxle said. "I tell you one more time 
that we have no argument with you, nor do we wish one. Our 
road behind us has been long and dry, and the road before us 
will no doubt prove equally harsh. Thus we have entered your 
fair tavern in this fair village. Why would you think to 
deny us?"
    "The better question is, why would you wish to be 
killed?" Entreri put in.
    Gentleman Briar looked from one to the other and threw 
up his hands in defeat. "To the Nine Hells with both of ye," 
he growled, spinning away.
    Entreri looked to Jarlaxle, who merely shrugged and 
said, "I have already been there. Hardly worth a return 
visit." He took up his glass and the bottle and walked away. 
Entreri, with his own glass, followed him across the room to 
the one free table in the small place.
    Of course, the two tables near that one soon became 
empty as well, when the patrons took up their glasses and 
other items and scurried away from the dark elf.
    "It will always be like this," Entreri said to his 
companion a short while later.
    "It had not been so for Drizzt Do'Urden of late, so my 
spies indicated," the drow answered. "His reputation, in 
those lands where he was known, outshone the color of his 
skin in the eyes of even the small-minded men. So, soon, 
will my own."
    "A reputation for heroic deeds?" Entreri asked with a 
doubting laugh. "Are you to become a hero for the land, 
then?" "That, or a reputation for leaving burned-out 
villages behind me," Jarlaxle replied. "Either way, I care 
little."
    That brought a smile to Entreri's face, and he dared to 
hope then that he and his companion would get along 
famously.
    Kimmuriel and Rai-guy stared at the mirror enchanted for 
divining, watching the procession of nearly a score of 
ratmen, all in their human guise, trotting into the village.
    "It is already tense," Kimmuriel observed. "If Gord 
Abrix plays correctly, the townsfolk will join with him 
against Entreri and Jarlaxle. Thirty-to-two. Fine odds."
    Rai-guy gave a derisive snort. "Strong enough odds, 
perhaps, so that Jarlaxle and Entreri will be a bit weary 
before we go in to finish the task," he said.
    Kimmuriel looked to his friend but, thinking about it, 
merely shrugged and grinned. He wasn't about to mourn the 
loss of Gord Abrix and a bunch of flea-infested wererats.
    "If they do get in and get lucky," Kimmuriel remarked, 
"we must be quick. The Crystal Shard is in there."
    "Crenshinibon is not calling to Gord Abrix and his 
fools," Rai-guy replied, his dark eyes gleaming with 
anticipation. "It is calling to me, even now. It knows we 
are close and knows how much greater it will be when I am 
the wielder."
    Kimmuriel said nothing, but studied his friend intently, 
suspecting that if Rai-guy achieved his goal, he and 
Crenshinibon would likely soon be at odds with Kimmuriel.

                         * * * * *

    "How many does the tiny village hold?" Jarlaxle asked 
when the tavern doors opened and a group of men walked in.
    Entreri started to answer flippantly, but held the 
thought and scrutinized the new group a bit more closely. 
"Not that many," he answered, shaking his head.
    
    Jarlaxle followed the assassin's lead, studying the 
movements of the new arrivals, studying their weapons- 
swords mostly, and more ornate than anything the villagers 
were carrying.
    Entreri's head snapped to the side as he noted other 
forms moving about the two small windows. He knew then, 
beyond any doubt.
    These are not villagers, Jarlaxle silently agreed, using 
the intricate sign language of the dark elves, but moving 
his fingers much more slowly than normal in deference to 
Entreri's rudimentary understanding of the form.
    "Ratmen," the assassin whispered in reply.
    "You hear the shard calling to them?"
    "I smell them," Entreri corrected. He paused a moment to 
consider whether the Crystal Shard might indeed be calling 
out to the group, a beacon for his enemies, but he just 
dismissed the thought, for it hardly mattered.
    "Sewage on their shoes," Jarlaxle noted.
    "Vermin in their blood," the assassin spat. He got up 
from his seat and took a step out from the table. "Let us 
begone," he said to Jarlaxle, loudly enough for the closest 
of the dozen ratmen who had entered the tavern to hear.
    Entreri took a step toward the door, and a second, aware 
that all eyes were upon him and his flamboyant companion, 
who was just then rising from his seat. Entreri took a third 
step, then... he leaped to the side, driving his dagger into 
the heart of the closest ratman before it could begin to 
draw its sword.
    "Murderers!" someone yelled, but Entreri hardly heard, 
leaping forward and drawing forth Charon's Claw.
    Metal rang out loudly as he brutally parried the 
swinging sword of the next closest wererat, hitting the 
blade so hard that he sent it flying out wide. A quick 
reversal sent Entreri's sword slashing out to catch the 
ratman across the face, and it fell back, clutching its torn 
eyes.
    Entreri had no time to pursue, for all the place was in 
motion then. A trio of ratmen, swords slashing the air 
before them, were closing fast. He waved Charon's Claw, 
creating a wall of ash, and leaped to the side, rolling 
under a table. The ratmen reacted, turning to pursue, but by 
the time they had their bearings, Entreri came up hard, 
bringing the table with him, launching it into their faces. 
Now he cut down low, taking a pair out at the knees, the 
fine blade cleanly severing one leg and nearly a second.
    Ratmen bore down on him, but a rain of daggers came 
whipping past the assassin, driving them back.
    Entreri waved his sword wildly, making a long and wavy 
vision-blocking wall. He managed a glance back at his 
companion to see Jarlaxle's arm furiously pumping, sending 
dagger after dagger soaring at an enemy. One group of 
ratmen, though, hoisted a table, as had Entreri, and used it 
as a shield. Several daggers thumped into it, catching fast. 
Bolstered by the impromptu shield, the group charged hard at 
the drow.
    Too occupied suddenly with more enemies of his own, 
including a couple of townsfolk, Entreri turned his 
attention back to his own situation. He brought his sword up 
parallel to the floor, intercepting the blade of one 
villager and lifting it high. Entreri started to tilt the 
blade point up, the expected parry, which would bring the 
man's sword out wide. As the farmer pushed back against the 
block, Entreri fooled him by bringing up the hilt instead, 
turning the blade down and forcing the man's sword across 
his body. Faster than the man could react with any backhand 
move, Entreri snapped his hand, his weapon's skull-capped 
pommel, into the man's face, laying him low.
    Back across came Charon's Claw, a mighty cut to 
intercept the sword of another, a ratman, and to slide 
through the parry and take the tip from another farmer's 
pitchfork. The assassin followed powerfully, stepping into 
his two foes, his sword working hard and furiously against 
the ratman's blade, driving it back, back, and to the side, 
forcing openings.
    The jeweled dagger worked fast as well, with Entreri 
making circular motions over the broken pitchfork shaft, 
turning it one way and another and keeping the inexperienced 
farmer stumbling forward and off his balance. He would have 
been an easy kill, but Entreri had other ideas.
    "Do you not understand the nature of your new allies?" 
he cried at the man, and as he spoke, he worked his sword 
even harder, slapping the blade against the wererat's sword 
to bat it slightly out of angle, and slapping the flat of 
the blade against the wererat's head. He didn't want to kill 
the creature, just to tempt the anger out of it. Again and 
again, the assassin's sword slapped at the wererat, 
bruising, taunting, stinging.
    Entreri noted the creature's twitch and knew what was 
coming.
    He drove the wererat back with a sudden but shortened 
stab, and went fully at the farmer, looping his dagger over 
and around the pitchfork, forcing it down at an angle. He 
went in one step toward the farmer, drove the wooden shaft 
down farther, forcing the man at an awkward angle that had 
him leaning on the assassin. Entreri broke away suddenly.
    The farmer stumbled forward helplessly and Entreri had 
him in a lock, looping his sword arm around the man and 
turning him as he came on so that he was then facing the 
twitching, changing wererat.
    The man gave a slight gasp, thinking his life was at its 
end, but caught fully in Entreri's grasp, a dagger at his 
back but not plunging in, he calmed enough to take in the 
spectacle.
    His scream at the horrid transformation, as the 
wererat's face broke apart, twisted and wrenched, reforming 
into the head of a giant rodent, rent the air and brought 
all attention to the sight.
    Entreri shoved the farmer toward the wrenching, changing 
ratman. To his satisfaction, he saw the farmer drive the 
broken pitchfork shaft through the beast's gut.
    Entreri spun away with many more enemies still to fight. 
The farmers were standing perplexed, not knowing which side 
to take. The assassin knew enough about the shape-changers 
to understand that he had started a chain reaction here, 
that the enraged and excited wererats would look upon their 
transformed kin and likewise revert to their more primal 
form.
    He took a moment to glance Jarlaxle's way then and saw 
the drow up in the air, levitating and turning circles, 
daggers flying from his pumping arm. Following their paths, 
Entreri saw one wererat, and another, stumble backward under 
the assault. A farmer grabbed at his calf, a blade deeply 
embedded there.
    Jarlaxle purposely hadn't killed the human, Entreri 
noted, though he surely could have.
    Entreri winced suddenly as a barrage of missiles soared 
back up at Jarlaxle, but the drow anticipated it and let go 
his levitation, dropping lightly and gracefully to the 
floor. He drew out two daggers as a host of opponents rushed 
in at him, grabbing them from hidden scabbards on his belt 
and not his enchanted bracer in a cross-armed maneuver. As 
he brought his arms back to their respective sides, Jarlaxle 
snapped his wrists and muttered something under his breath. 
The daggers elongated into fine, gleaming swords.
    The drow planted his feet wide and exploded into motion, 
his arms pumping, his swords cutting fast circles, over and 
under, at his sides, chopping the air with popping, whipping 
sounds. He brought one across his chest, then the next, 
spinning them wildly, then went up high with one, turning 
his hand to put the blade over his head and parallel with 
the floor.
    Entreri's expression soured. He had expected better of 
his drow companion. He had seen this fighting style many 
times, particularly among the pirates who frequented the 
seas off Calimport. It was called "swashbuckling," a 
deceptive, and deceptively easy, fighting technique that was 
more show than substance. The swashbuckler relied on the 
hesitance and fear of his opponents to afford him 
opportunities for better strikes. While often effective 
against weaker opponents, Entreri found the style ridiculous 
against any of true talent. He had killed several 
swashbucklers in his day-two in one fight when they had 
inadvertently tied each other up with their whirling blades-
and had never found them to be particularly challenging.
    The group of wererats coming in at Jarlaxle at that 
moment apparently didn't have much respect for the technique 
either. They quickly rushed around the drow, forming a box, 
and came in at him alternately, forcing him to turn, turn, 
and turn some more.
    Jarlaxle was more than up to the task, keeping his 
spinning swords in perfect harmony as he countered every 
testing thrust or charge.
    "They will tire him," Entreri whispered under his breath 
as he worked away from his newest opponents. He was trying 
to pick a path that would bring him to his drow friend that 
he might get Jarlaxle out of his predicament. He glanced 
back at the drow then, hoping he might get there in time, 
but honestly wondering if the disappointing Jarlaxle was 
still worth the trouble.
    He gasped, first in confusion, and then in admiration.
    Jarlaxle did a sudden back flip, twisting as he 
somersaulted so that he landed facing the opponent who had 
been at his back. The wererat stumbled away, hit twice by 
shortened stabs-shortened because Jarlaxle had other targets 
in mind.
    The drow rolled around, falling into a crouch, and 
exploded out of it with a devastating double thrust at the 
wererat opposite. The creature leaped back, throwing its 
hips behind it and slapping its blade down in a desperate 
parry.
    Before he could even think about it, Entreri cried out, 
thinking his friend doomed, for one sword-wielding wererat 
charged from Jarlaxle's direct left, another from behind and 
to the right, leaving the drow no room to skitter away.

                         * * * * *

    "They reveal themselves," Kimmuriel said with a laugh. 
He, Rai-guy, and Berg'inyon watched the action through a 
dimensional portal that in effect put them in the thick of 
the fighting.
    Berg'inyon thought the spectacle of the changing 
wererats equally amusing. He leaped forward, then, catching 
one farmer who was inadvertently stumbling through the 
portal, stabbing the man once in the side, and shoving him 
back through and to the tavern floor.
    More forms rushed by, more cries came in at them, with 
Kimmuriel and Berg'inyon watching attentively and Rai-guy 
behind them, his eyes closed as he prepared his spells-a 
process that was taking the drow wizard longer because of 
the continuing, eager call of the imprisoned Crystal Shard.
    Gord Abrix flashed by the door.
    "Catch him!" Kimmuriel cried, and the agile Berg'inyon 
leaped through the doorway, grabbed Gord Abrix in a 
debilitating lock, and dived back through with the wererat 
in tow. He kept Gord Abrix held firmly out of the way, the 
wererat crying protests at Kimmuriel.
    But the drow psionicist wasn't listening, for he was 
focused fully on his wizard companion. His timing in closing 
the door had to be perfect.
    Jarlaxle didn't even try to get out of there, and 
Entreri realized, he had expected the attacks all along, had 
baited them.
    Down low, his left leg far in front of his right, both 
arms and blades fully extended before him, Jarlaxle somehow 
managed to reverse his grip, and in a sudden and perfectly 
balanced momentum shift, the drow came back up straight. His 
left arm and blade stabbed out to the left. The sword in his 
right hand was flipped over in his hand so that when 
Jarlaxle turned his fist down, the tip was facing behind 
him, cocking straight back.
    Both charging wererats halted suddenly, their chests 
ripped open by the perfect stabs.
    Jarlaxle retracted the blades, put them back into their 
respective spins, and turned left, the whirling blades 
drawing lines of bright blood all over the wounded wererat 
there, and completing the turn, slashing the wererat behind 
him repeatedly and finishing with a powerful crossing 
backhand maneuver that took the creature's head from its 
shoulders.
    Thus disintegrating Entreri's ideas about the weakness 
of the swashbuckling technique.
    The drow rushed past into the path of the first wererat 
he had struck, his spinning swords intercepting his 
opponent's, and bringing it into the spin with them. In a 
moment, all three blades were in the air, turning circles, 
and only two of them, Jarlaxle's, were still being held. The 
third was kept aloft by the slapping and sliding of the 
other two.
    Jarlaxle hooked the hilt of that sword with the blade of 
one of his own, angled it out to the side and launched it 
into the chest of another attacker, knocking him back and to 
the floor.
    He went ahead suddenly and brutally, blades whirling 
with perfect precision, to take the wererat's arm, then drop 
the other arm limply to its side with a well-placed blow to 
the collarbone, then slash its face, then its throat.
    Up came Jarlaxle's foot, planting against the staggered 
wererat's chest, and he kicked out, knocking the creature to 
its back and running over it.
    Entreri had meant to get to Jarlaxle's side, but 
instead, the drow came rushing up to Entreri's side, 
uttering a command under his breath that retracted one of 
his swords to dagger size. He quickly slid the weapon back 
to its sheath, and with his free hand grabbed Entreri by the 
shoulder and pulled him along.
    The puzzled assassin glanced at his companion. More 
wererats were piling into the tavern, through the windows, 
through the door, but those remaining farmers were falling 
back now, moving into purely defensive positions. Though 
more than a dozen wererats remained, Entreri did not believe 
that he and this amazingly skilled drow warrior would have 
any trouble at all tearing them apart.
    Furthermore and even more puzzling, Jarlaxle had their 
run angled for the closest wall. While putting a solid 
barrier at their backs might be effective in some cases 
against so many opponents, Entreri thought this ridiculous, 
given Jarlaxle's flamboyant, room-requiring style.
    Jarlaxle let go of Entreri then and reached up to the 
top of his huge hat.
    From somewhere unseen in the strange hat, he brought 
forth a black disk made of some fabric Entreri did not know 
and sent it spinning at the wall. It elongated as it went, 
turning flat side to the wooden wall, then it hit... and 
stuck.
    And it was no longer a disk of fabric, but rather a 
hole-a real hole-in the wall.
    Jarlaxle pushed Entreri through, dived through right 
behind him, and paused only long enough to pull the magical 
hole out behind him, leaving the wall solid once more.
    "Run!" the dark elf cried, sprinting away, with Entreri 
right on his heels.
    Before Entreri could even ask what the drow knew that he 
did not, the building exploded into a huge and consuming 
fireball that took the tavern, took all of those wererats 
still scrambling about the entrances and exits, and took the 
horses, including Entreri's and Jarlaxle's, tethered 
anywhere near to the place.
    The pair went flying to the ground but got right back 
up, running full speed out of the village and back into the 
shadows of the surrounding hills and woodlands.
    They didn't even speak for many, many minutes, just ran 
on, until Jarlaxle finally pulled up behind one bluff and 
fell against the grassy hill, huffing and puffing. "I had 
grown fond of my mount," he said. "A pity." "I did not see 
the spellcaster," Entreri remarked. "He was not in the 
room," Jarlaxle explained, "not physically, at least."
    "Then how did you sense him?" Entreri started to ask, 
but he paused and considered the logic that had led Jarlaxle 
to his saving conclusion. "Because Kimmuriel and Rai-guy 
would never take the chance that Gord Abrix and his cronies 
would get the Crystal Shard," he reasoned. "Nor would they 
ever expect the wretched wererats ever to be able to take 
the thing from us in the first place."
    "I have already explained to you that it is a common 
tactic for the two," Jarlaxle reminded. "They send their 
fodder in to engage their enemies, and Kimmuriel opens a 
window through which Rai-guy throws his potent magic."
    Entreri looked back in the direction of the village, at 
the plume of black smoke drifting into the air. "Well 
thought," he congratulated. "You saved us both."
    "Well, you at least," Jarlaxle replied, and Entreri 
looked back at him curiously, to see the drow waggling the 
fingers of one hand against his cheek, showing off a 
reddish-gold ring that Entreri had not noticed before.
    "It was just a fireball," Jarlaxle said with a grin.
    Entreri nodded and returned that grin, wondering if 
there was anything, anything at all, that Jarlaxle was not 
prepared for.
    
                        Chapter 20
               BALANCING PRUDENCE AND DESIRE

    Gord Abrix gasped and fell over as the small globe of 
fire soared past him, through the doorway, and into the 
tavern. As soon as it went through, Kimmuriel dropped the 
dimensional door. Gord Abrix had seen fireballs cast before 
and could well imagine the devastation back in the tavern. 
He knew he had just lost nearly a score of his loyal wererat 
soldiers.
    He came up unsteadily, glancing around at his three dark 
elf companions, unsure, as he always seemed to be with this 
group, of what they might do next.
    "You and your soldiers performed admirably," Rai-guy 
remarked.
    "You killed them," Gord Abrix dared to say, though 
certainly not in any accusatory tone.
    "A necessary sacrifice," Rai-guy replied. "You did not 
believe that they would have any chance of defeating Artemis 
Entreri and Jarlaxle, did you?"
    "Then why send them?" the frustrated wererat leader 
started to ask, but his voice died away as the question left 
his mouth, the reasoning dissipated by his own internal 
reminders of who these creatures truly were. Gord Abrix and 
his henchmen had been sent in for just the diversion they 
provided, to occupy Entreri and Jarlaxle while Rai-guy and 
Kimmuriel prepared their little finish.
    Kimmuriel opened the dimensional door then, showing the 
devastated tavern, charred bodies laying all about and not a 
creature stirring. The drow's lip curled up in a wicked 
smile as he surveyed the grisly scene, and a shudder coursed 
Gord Abrix's spine as he realized the fate he had only 
barely escaped.
    Berg'inyon Baenre went through the door, into what 
remained of the tavern room, which was more outdoors than 
indoors now, and returned a moment later.
    "A couple of wererats still stir but barely," the drow 
warrior informed his companions.
    "What of our friends?" Rai-guy asked.
    Berg'inyon shrugged. "I saw neither Jarlaxle nor 
Entreri," he explained. "They could be among the wreckage or 
could be burned beyond immediate recognition."
    Rai-guy considered it for a moment, and motioned for 
Berg'inyon and Gord Abrix to go back to the tavern and snoop 
around.
    "What of my soldiers?" the wererat asked.
    "If they can be saved, pull them back through," Rai-guy 
replied. "Lady Lolth will grant me the power to healing them 
. . . should I choose to do so."
    Gord Abrix started for the dimensional doorway, and 
paused and glanced back curiously at the obscure and 
dangerous drow, not sure how to sort through the wizard-
cleric's words.
    "Do you believe our prey are still in there?" Kimmuriel 
asked Rai-guy, using the drow tongue to exclude the wererat 
leader.
    Berg'inyon answered from the doorway. "They are not," he 
said with confidence, though it was obvious he hadn't found 
the time yet to scour the ruins. "It would take more than a 
diversion and a simple wizard's spell to bring down that 
pair."
    Rai-guy's eyes narrowed at the affront to his spell-
casting, but in truth, he couldn't really disagree with the 
assessment. He had been hoping he could catch his prey 
easily and tidily, but he knew better in his heart, knew 
that Jarlaxle would prove a difficult and cagey quarry.
    "Search quickly," Kimmuriel ordered.
    Berg'inyon and Gord Abrix ran off, poking through the 
smoldering ruins.
    "They are not in there," Rai-guy said to his psionicist 
friend a moment later.
    "You agree with Berg'inyon's reasoning?" Kimmuriel 
asked.
    "I hear the call of the Crystal Shard," Rai-guy 
explained with a snarl, for he did indeed hear the renewed 
call of the artifact, the prisoner of stubborn Artemis 
Entreri. "That call comes not from the tavern."
    "Then where?" Kimmuriel asked.
    Rai-guy could only shake his head in frustration. Where 
indeed. He heard the pleas, but there was no location 
attached to them, just an insistent call.
    "Bring our henchmen back to us," the wizard instructed, 
and Kimmuriel went through the doorway, returning a moment 
later with Berg'inyon, Gord Abrix, and a pair of horribly 
burned, but still very much alive, wererats.
    "Help them," Gord Abrix pleaded, dragging his torched 
friends to Rai-guy. "This is Poweeno, a close advisor and 
friend."
    Rai-guy closed his eyes and began to chant, and opened 
his eyes and held his hand out toward the prone and 
squirming Poweeno. He finished his spell by waggling his 
fingers and uttering another line of arcane words, and a 
sharp spark crackled from his fingertips, jolting the 
unfortunate wererat. The creature cried out and jerked 
spasmodically, howling in agony as smoking blood and gore 
began to ooze from its layers of horrible wounds.
    A few moments later, Poweeno lay very still, quite dead.
    "What... what have you done?" Gord Abrix demanded of 
Rai-guy, the wizard already into spellcasting once more.
    When Rai-guy didn't answer, Gord Abrix made a move 
toward him, or at least tried to. He found his feet stuck to 
the floor, as if he was standing in some powerful glue. He 
glanced about, his gaze settling on Kimmuriel. He recognized 
from the drow's satisfied expression that it was indeed the 
psionicist holding him fast in place.
    "You failed me," Rai-guy explained opening his eyes and 
holding one hand out toward the other wounded wererat.
    "You just said we performed admirably," Gord Abrix 
protested.
    "That was before I knew that Jarlaxle and Artemis 
Entreri had escaped," Rai-guy explained.
    He finished his spell, releasing a tremendous bolt of 
lightning into the other wounded wererat. The creature 
flipped over weirdly, then rolling into a fetal position, 
fast following its companion to the grave.
    Gord Abrix howled and drew forth his sword, but 
Berg'inyon was there, smashing the blade away with his own, 
fine drow weapon. The warrior looked to his two drow 
companions. On a nod from Rai-guy, he slashed Gord Abrix 
across the throat.
    The wererat, his feet still stuck fast, sank to the 
floor, staring helplessly and pleadingly at Rai-guy.
    "I do not accept failure," the drow wizard said coldly.

                         * * * * *

    "King Elbereth has sent the word out wide to our 
scouts," the elf Shayleigh assured Ivan and Pikel when the 
two dwarven emissaries arrived in Shilmista Forest to the 
west of the Snowflake Mountains. Cadderly had sent the 
dwarves straight out to their elf friends, confident that 
anyone approaching would surely be noticed by King 
Elbereth's wide network of scouts.
    Pikel gave a sound then, which seemed to Ivan to be more 
one of trepidation than one of hope, though Shayleigh had 
just given them the assurances they had come here to get.
    Or had she?
    Ivan Bouldershoulder studied the elf maiden carefully. 
With her violet eyes and thick golden hair hanging far below 
her shoulders, she was undeniably beautiful, even to the 
thinking of a dwarf whose tastes usually ran to shorter, 
thicker, and more heavily bearded females. There was 
something else about Shayleigh's posture and attitude, 
though, about the subtle undertone of her melodious voice.
    "Ye're not to kill 'em, ye know," Ivan remarked bluntly.
    Shayleigh's posture did not change very much. "You 
yourself have named them as ultimately dangerous," she 
replied, "an assassin and a drow."
    Ivan noted that the ominous flavor of her voice 
increased when she named the dark elf, as if the creature's 
mere race offended her more than the profession of his 
traveling companion.
    "Cadderly's needin' to talk to 'em," Ivan grumbled.
    "Can he not speak to the dead?"
    "Ooo," said Pikel and he hopped away suddenly, 
disappearing briefly into the underbrush, and reemerging 
with one hand behind his back. He hopped up to stand before 
Shayleigh, a disarming grin on his face. "Drizzit," he 
reminded, and he pulled his hand around, revealing a 
delicate flower he had just picked for her.
    Shayleigh could hardly hold her stern demeanor against 
that emotional assault. She smiled and took the wildflower, 
bringing it to her nose that she could smell its beautiful 
fragrance. "There is often a flower among the weeds," she 
said, catching on to Pikel's meaning. "As there may be a 
druid among a clan of dwarves. That does not mean there are 
others."
    "Hope," said Pikel.
    Shayleigh gave a helpless chuckle.
    "Ye get yer heart in the right place," Ivan warned, "so 
says Cadderly, else the Crystal Shard'II find yer heart and 
twist it to its own needs. It's a big bit o' hope he's 
puttin' on ye, elf."
    Shayleigh's sincere smile was all the assurance he 
needed.

                         * * * * *

    "Brother Chaunticleer has outlined a grand scheme for 
keeping the children busy," Danica said to Cadderly. "I will 
be ready to leave as soon as the artifact arrives."
    Cadderly's expression hardly seemed to support that 
notion.
    "You did not think I would let you go visit an ancient 
dragon without me beside you, did you?" Danica asked, 
sincerely wounded. Cadderly blew a sigh.
    "We've met one before and would have had no trouble at 
all with it if we had not brought it along with us across 
the mountains," the woman reminded.
    "This time may be more difficult," Cadderly explained. 
"I will be expending energy merely in controlling the 
Crystal Shard at the same time I am dealing with the beast. 
Worse, the artifact will also be speaking to the dragon, I 
am sure. What better wielder for an instrument of chaos and 
destruction than a mighty red dragon?"
    "How strong is your magic?" Danica asked. "Not that 
strong, I fear," Cadderly replied. "All the more reason that 
I, and Ivan and Pikel, must be with you," Danica remarked.
    "Without the aid of Deneir, do you give any of us a 
chance of battling such a wyrm?" the priest asked sincerely. 
"If Deneir is not with you, you will need us to drag you out 
of there and quickly," the woman said with a wide smile. "Is 
that not what your friends are supposed to do?"
    Cadderly started to respond, but he really couldn't say 
much against the look of determination, and of something 
even more than that-of serenity-stamped across Danica's fair 
face. Of course she meant to go with him, and he knew he 
couldn't possibly prevent that unless he left magically and 
with great deception. Of course, Ivan and Pikel would travel 
with him as well, though he had to wince when he considered 
the would-be druid, Pikel, facing a red dragon. They did not 
want to disturb the great beast any more than to borrow its 
fiery breath for a single burst of fire. Pikel, so dedicated 
to the natural, might not be so willing to walk away from a 
dragon, which was perhaps the greatest perversion of nature 
in all the world.
    Danica cupped her hand under Cadderly's chin then and 
tilted his head back up so that he was eyeing her directly 
as she moved very close to him.
    "We will finish this and to our satisfaction," she said, 
and she kissed him gently on the lips. "We have battled 
worse, my love."
    Cadderly didn't begin to deny her words, or her 
presence, or her determination to go along on this important 
and dangerous journey. He brought her closer and kissed her 
again and again.

                         * * * * *

    "We are too busy elsewhere," Sharlotta Vespers tried to 
explain to Kimmuriel and Rai-guy. The pair were not pleased 
to learn that Dallabad had somehow been infiltrated by spies 
of great warlords from Memnon.
    The dark elves exchanged concerned looks. Sharlotta had 
insisted repeatedly that every spy had been caught and 
killed, but what if she were wrong? What if even one spy had 
escaped to tell the warlords in Memnon the truth about the 
change at Dallabad? Or what if other spies had now discerned 
the real power behind the overthrow of House Basadoni?
    "Every danger that Jarlaxle has sown may soon come to 
harvest," Kimmuriel said to his companion in the drow 
tongue.
    While Sharlotta understood the words well enough, she 
surely didn't catch the subtleties of the common drow 
saying, one that referred to revenge taken on a drow house 
for crimes against another house. Kimmuriel's words were a 
stern warning, a reminder that Jarlaxle's involvement with 
Crenshinibon may have left them all vulnerable, no matter 
what remedial steps they now took.
    Rai-guy nodded and stroked his chin, whispering 
something under his breath that the others could not catch. 
He stepped forward suddenly to stand right before Sharlotta, 
bringing his hands up in front of him, thumb-to-thumb. He 
uttered another word, and a gout of flame burst forth, 
engulfing the surprised woman's head. She slapped at the 
fire and screamed, running around the room, and dived to the 
floor, rolling.
    "Make sure that all others who know too much are 
similarly uninformed," Rai-guy said coldly, as Sharlotta 
finally died on the floor at bis feet.
    Kimmuriel nodded, his expression grim, though a hint of 
an eager grin did turn up the edges of his thin lips.
    "I will open the portal back to Menzoberranzan," the 
wizard explained. "I hold no love for this place and know 
now, as do you, that our potential gains here do not 
outweigh the risk to Bregan D'aerthe. I do not even consider 
it a pity that Jarlaxle foolishly overstepped the bounds of 
rational caution,"
    "Better that he did," Kimmuriel agreed. "That we can be 
on our way to the caverns where we truly belong." He glanced 
down at Sharlotta, her head blackened and smoking, and 
smiled once more. He bowed to his companion, his friend of 
like mind, and left the room, eager to begin the debriefing 
of others.
    Rai-guy also left the room, though through another door, 
one that led him to the staircase to the basement of House 
Basadoni, where he could relax more privately in secure 
chambers. His words of retreat to Kimmuriel followed his 
every step.
    Logical words. Words of survival in a place grown too 
dangerous.
    But still... there remained a call in his head, an 
insistent intrusion, a plea for help.
    A promise of greatness beyond his comprehension.
    Rai-guy settled into a comfortable chair in his private 
room, reminding himself continually that a return to 
Menzoberranzan was the correct move for Bregan D'aerthe, 
that the risk of remaining on the surface, even in pursuit 
of the powerful artifact, was too great for the potential 
gains.
    Soon after, the exhausted drow fell into a sort of 
reverie, as close to true sleep as a dark elf might know.
    And in that "sleep," the call of Crenshinibon came again 
to Rai-guy, a plea for help, for rescue, and a promise of 
great gain in return.
    That predictable call was soon magnified a hundred times 
over, with even greater promises of glory and power, with 
images not of magnificent crystalline towers on the deserts 
of Calimshan, but of a tower of the purest opal set in the 
center of Menzoberranzan, a black structure gleaming with 
inner heat and energy.
    Rat-guy's reminders of prudence could not hold against 
that image, against the parade of Matron Mothers, the hated 
Triel Baenre among them, coming to the tower to pay homage 
to him.
    The dark elf s eyes popped open wide. He collected his 
thoughts and sprang from the chair, moving quickly to locate 
Kimmuriel, to alter the psionisict's instructions. Yes, he 
would open the gate back to Menzoberranzan, and yes, much of 
Bregan D'aerthe would return to their home.
    But Rai-guy and Kimmuriel were not finished here just 
yet. They would remain with a strike force until the Crystal 
Shard had found a proper wielder, a dark elf wizard-cleric 
who would bring to the artifact its greatest level of power, 
and who would take from it the same.

                         * * * * *

    In a dark chamber far under Dallabad Oasis, Yha-raskrik 
silently congratulated himself on altering the promises of 
the Crystal Shard more greatly to entice Rai-guy. Kimmuriel 
had informed Yharaskrik of the change in Bregan D'aerthe's 
plans, but though Yharaskrik had outwardly accepted that 
change, the illithid was not willing to let the artifact go 
running off unchecked just yet. Through great concentration 
and mind control, Yharaskrik had been able to catch the 
subtle notes of the artifact's quiet call, but the illithid 
had not been able to begin to backtrack that call to the 
source.
    Yharaskrik needed Bregan D'aerthe a bit longer, though 
the illithid recognized that once the drow band had 
fulfilled its purpose in locating the Crystal Shard, he and 
Rai-guy would likely be on opposite sides of the inevitable 
battle.
    Let that be as it may, Yharaskrik realized. Kimmuriel 
Oblodra, a fellow psionicist who understood the deeper 
truths about Crenshinibon's shortcomings, would surely stand 
on his side of the battlefield.
    
                        Chapter 21
                    THE MASK OF A GOD

    Why would you live in a desert, when such beauty is so 
near?" Jarlaxle asked Entreri.
    The pair had moved quickly in the days after the 
disaster at Gentleman Briar's tavern, with Entreri even 
enlisting one wizard they found in an out-of-the-way tower 
magically to transport them many miles closer to their goal 
of the Spirit Soaring and the priest, Cadderly.
    It didn't hurt, of course, that Jarlaxle seemed to have 
an inexhaustible supply of gold coins.
    Now the Snowflake Mountains were in clear sight, 
towering before them. Summer was on the wane, and the wind 
blew chill, but Entreri could hardly argue Jarlaxle's 
assessment of the landscape. It surprised the assassin that 
a drow would find beauty in such a surface environment. They 
looked down on a canopy of great and ancient trees that 
filled a long, wide vale nestled right up against the 
Snowflake's westernmost slopes. Even Entreri, who seemed to 
spend most of his time denying beauty, could not deny the 
majesty of the mountains themselves, tall and jagged, capped 
with bright snow gleaming brilliantly in the daylight.
    "Calimport is where I make my living," Entreri answered 
after a while.
    Jarlaxle snorted at the thought. "With your skills, you 
could make your home anywhere in the world," he said. "In 
Waterdeep or in Luskan, in Icewind Dale or even here. Few 
would deny the value of a powerful warrior in cities large 
and villages small. None would evict Artemis Entreri-unless, 
of course, they knew the man as I know him."
    That brought a narrow-eyed gaze from the assassin, but 
it was all in jest, both knew-or perhaps it wasn't. Even in 
that case, there was too much truth to Jarlaxle's statement 
for Entreri rationally to take offense.
    "We must swing around the mountains to the south to get 
to Carradoon, and the trails leading us to the Spirit 
Soaring," Entreri explained. "A few days should have us 
standing before Cadderly, if we make all haste."
    "All haste, then," said Jarlaxle. "Let us be rid of the 
artifact, and ..." He paused and looked curiously at 
Entreri.
    Then what?
    That question hung palpably in the air between them, 
though it had not been spoken. Ever since they had fled the 
crystalline tower in Dallabad, the pair had run with purpose 
and direction-to the Spirit Soaring to be rid of the 
dangerous artifact-but what, indeed, awaited them after 
that? Was Jarlaxle to return to Calimport to resume his 
command of Bregan D'aerthe? both wondered. Entreri knew at 
once as he pondered the possibility that he would not follow 
his dark elf companion in that case. Even if Jarlaxle could 
somehow overcome the seeds of change sown by Rai-guy and 
Kimmuriel, Entreri had no desire to be with the drow band 
again. He had no desire to measure his every step in light 
of the knowledge that the vast majority of his supposed 
allies would prefer it if he were dead.
    Where would they go? Together or apart? Both were 
contemplating that question when a voice, strong yet 
melodic, resonant with power, drifted across the field to 
them.
    "Halt and yield!" it said.
    Entreri and Jarlaxle glanced over as one to see a 
solitary figure, a female elf, beautiful and graceful. She 
was approaching them openly, a finely crafted sword at her 
side.
    "Yield?" Jarlaxle muttered. "Must everyone expect us to 
yield? And halt? Why, we were not even moving!"
    Entreri was hardly listening, was focusing his senses on 
the trees around them. The elf maiden's gait told him much, 
and he confirmed his suspicions almost immediately, spotting 
one, and another, elf archer among the boughs, bows trained 
upon him and his companion.
    "She is not alone," the assassin whispered to Jarlaxle, 
though he tried to keep the smile on his face as he spoke, 
an inviting expression for the approaching warrior.
    "Elves rarely are," Jarlaxle replied quietly. 
"Particularly when they are confronting drow."
    Entreri couldn't hold his smile, facing that simple 
truth. He expected the arrows to begin raining down upon 
them at any moment.
    "Greetings!" Jarlaxle called loudly. He swept off his 
hat, making a point to show his heritage openly.
    Entreri noted that the elf maiden did wince and slow 
briefly at the revelation, for even from her distance-and 
she was still thirty strides away-Jarlaxle, without the 
visually overwhelming hat, was obviously drow.
    She came a bit closer, her expression holding perfectly 
calm and steady, revealing nothing. It occurred to Entreri 
then that this was no chance meeting. He took a moment to 
listen for the silent call of Crenshinibon, to try to 
determine if the Crystal Shard had brought in more opponents 
to free it from Entreri's grasp.
    He sensed nothing unusual, no contact at all between the 
artifact and this elf.
    "There are a hundred warriors about you," the elf maiden 
said, stopping some twenty paces from the pair. "They would 
like nothing better than to pierce your tiny drow heart with 
their arrows, but we have not come here for that-unless you 
so desire it."
    "Preposterous!" Jarlaxle said, quite animatedly. "Why 
would I desire such a thing, fair elf? I am Drizzt Do'Urden 
of Icewind Dale, a ranger, and of heart not unlike your own, 
I am sure!"
    The elf s lips grew very thin.
    "She does not know of you, my friend," Entreri offered.
    "Shayleigh of Shilmista Forest knows of Drizzt 
Do'Urden," Shayleigh assured them both. "And she knows of 
Jarlaxle of Bregan D'aerthe, and of Artemis Entreri, most 
vile of assassins."
    That made the pair blink more than a few times. "Must be 
the Crystal Shard telling her," Jarlaxle whispered to his 
companion.
    Entreri didn't deny that, but neither did he believe it. 
He closed his eyes, trying to sense some connection between 
the artifact and the elf maiden again, and again he found 
nothing. Nothing at all.
    But how else could she know?
    "And you are Shayleigh of Shilmista?" Jarlaxle asked 
politely. "Or were you, perchance, speaking of another?"
    "I am Shayleigh," the elf announced. "I, and my friends 
gathered in the trees all around you, were sent out here to 
find you, Jarlaxle of Bregan D'aerthe. You carry an item of 
great importance to us."
    "Not I," the drow said, feigning confusion and glad that 
he could further mask that confusion by speaking truthful 
words.
    "The Crystal Shard is in the possession of Jarlaxle and 
Artemis Entreri," Shayleigh stated definitively. "I care not 
which of you carries it, only that you have it."
    "They will strike fast," Jarlaxle whispered to Entreri. 
"The shard coaxes them in. No parlay here, I fear."
    Entreri didn't get that feeling, not at all. The Crystal 
Shard was not calling to Shayleigh, nor to any of the other 
elves. If it had been, that call had undoubtedly been 
completely denied.
    The assassin saw Jarlaxle making some subtle motions 
then-the movements of a spell, he figured-and he put a hand 
on the dark elf s arm, holding him still.
    "We do indeed possess the item you claim," Entreri said 
to Shayleigh, stepping up ahead of Jarlaxle. He was playing 
a hunch here, and nothing more. "We are bringing it to 
Cadderly of the Spirit Soaring."
    "For what purpose?" Shayleigh asked. "That he may rid 
the world of it," Entreri answered boldly. "You say that you 
know of Drizzt Do'Urden. If that is true, and if you know 
Cadderly of the Spirit Soaring as well-which I believe you 
do-then you likely know that Drizzt was bringing this very 
artifact to Cadderly."
    "Until it was stolen from him by a dark elf posing as 
Cadderly," Shayleigh said determinedly and in a leading 
tone. In truth, that was about as much as Cadderly had told 
her about how this particular pair had come to acquire the 
artifact.
    "There are reasons for things that a casual observer 
might not understand," Jarlaxle interjected. "Be satisfied 
with the knowledge that we have the Crystal Shard and are 
delivering it, rightfully so, to Cadderly of the Spirit 
Soaring, that he might rid the world of the menace that is 
Crenshinibon."
    Shayleigh motioned to the trees, and her companions 
walked out from the shadows. There were dozens of grim-faced 
elves, warriors all, armed with crafted bows and wearing 
fine weapons and gleaming, supple armor.
    "I was instructed to deliver you to the Spirit Soaring," 
Shayleigh explained. "It was not clear whether or not you 
had to be alive. Walk swiftly and silently, make no 
movements that indicate any hostility, and perhaps you will 
live to see the great doors of the cathedral, though I 
assure you that I hope you do not."
    She turned then and started away. The elves began to 
close in on the dark elf and his assassin companion, with 
their bows still in hand and arrows aimed for the kill.
    "This is going better than I expected," Jarlaxle said 
dryly.
    "You are an eternal optimist, then," Entreri replied in 
the same tone. He searched all around for some weakness in 
the ring of elves, but he saw only swift, inescapable death 
stamped on every fair face.
    Jarlaxle saw it, too, even more clearly. "We are 
caught," he remarked.
    "And if they know all the details of our encounter with 
Drizzt Do'Urden. . . ." Entreri said ominously, letting the 
words hang in the air.
    Jarlaxle held his wry smile until Entreri had turned 
away, hoping that he wouldn't be forced to reveal the truth 
of that encounter to his companion. He didn't want to tell 
Entreri that Drizzt was still alive. While Jarlaxle believed 
Entreri had gone beyond that destructive obsession with 
Drizzt, if he was wrong and Entreri learned the truth, he 
would likely be fighting for his life against the skilled 
warrior.
    Jarlaxle glanced around at the many grim-faced elves and 
decided he already had enough problems.
    As the meeting at the Spirit Soaring wore on, Cadderly 
fired back a testy remark concerning the feelings between 
the drow and the surface elves when Jarlaxle implied that he 
and his companion really couldn't trust anyone who brought 
them in under a guard of a score of angry elves.
    "But you have already said that this is not about us," 
Jarlaxle reasoned. He glanced over at Entreri, but the 
assassin wasn't offering any support, wasn't offering 
anything at all.
    Entreri hadn't spoken a word since they'd arrived, and 
neither had Cadderly's second at the meeting, a confident 
woman named Danica. Indeed, she and Entreri seemed cut of 
similar stuff-and neither of them seemed to like that fact. 
They had been staring, glowering at each other for nearly 
the entire time, as if there was some hidden agenda between 
them, some personal feud.
    "True enough," Cadderly finally admitted. "In another 
situation, I would have many questions to ask of you, 
Jarlaxle of Menzoberranzan, and most of them far from 
complimentary toward your apparent actions."
    "A trial?" the dark elf asked with a snort. "Is that 
your place, then, Magistrate Cadderly?"
    The yellow-bearded dwarf behind the priest, obviously 
the more serious of the two dwarves, grumbled and shifted 
uncomfortably. His green-bearded brother just held his 
stupid, naive smile. To Jarlaxle's way of thinking, where he 
was always searching for layers under lies, that smile 
marked the green-bearded dwarf as the more dangerous of the 
two.
    Cadderly eyed Jarlaxle without blinking. "We must all 
answer for our actions," he said.
    "But to whom?" the drow countered. "Do you even begin to 
believe that you can understand the life I have lived, 
judgmental priest? How might you fare in the darkness of 
Menzoberranzan, I wonder?"
    He meant to continue, but both Entreri and Danica broke 
their silence then, saying in unison, "Enough of this!" 
"Ooo," mumbled the green-bearded dwarf, for the room went 
perfectly silent. Entreri and Danica were as surprised as 
the others at the coordination of their remarks. They stared 
hard at each other, seeming on the verge of battle.
    "Let us conclude this," Cadderly said. "Give over the 
Crystal Shard and go on your way. Let your past haunt your 
own consciences then, and I will be concerned only with that 
which you do in the future. If you remain near to the Spirit 
Soaring, then know that your actions are indeed my province, 
and know that I will be watching."
    "I tremble at the thought," Entreri said, before 
Jarlaxle could utter a similar, though less blunt, reply. 
"Unfortunately, for all of us, our time together has only 
just begun. I need you to destroy the wretched artifact, and 
you need me because I carry it."
    "Give it over," Danica said, eyeing the man coldly. 
Entreri smirked at her. "No." "I am sworn to destroy it," 
Cadderly argued. "I have heard such words before," Entreri 
replied. "Thus far, I am the only one who has been able to 
ignore the temptation of the artifact, and therefore, it 
remains with me until it is destroyed." He felt an inner 
twinge at that, a combination of a plea, a threat, and the 
purest rage he had ever known, all emanating from the 
imprisoned Crystal Shard.
    Danica scoffed as if his claim was purely preposterous, 
but Cadderly held her in check.
    "There is no need for such heroics from you," the priest 
assured Entreri. "You do not need to do this."
    "I do," Entreri replied, though when he looked to 
Jarlaxle, it seemed to him as if his drow companion was 
siding with Cadderly.
    Entreri could certainly see that point of view. Powerful 
enemies pursued them, and the Crystal Shard itself was not 
likely to be destroyed without a terrific battle. Still, 
Entreri knew in his heart that he had to see this through. 
He hated the artifact profoundly. He needed to see this 
controlling, awful item be utterly obliterated. He didn't 
know why he felt so strongly, but he did, plain and simple, 
and he wasn't giving over the artifact not to Cadderly or to 
Danica, not to Rai-guy and Kimmuriel, not to anyone while he 
still had breath in his body. "I will finish this," Cadderly 
remarked. "So you say," the assassin answered sarcastically 
and without hesitation.
    "I am a priest of Deneir," Cadderly started to protest. 
"I name supposedly goodly priests among the least 
trustworthy of all creatures," Entreri interrupted coldly. 
"They are on my scale just below troglodytes and green 
slime, the greatest hypocrites and liars in all the world."
    "Please, my friend, do not temper your feelings," 
Jarlaxle said dryly.
    "I would have thought that such a distinction would 
belong to assassins, murderers, and thieves," Danica 
remarked, her tone and expression making her hatred for 
Artemis Entreri quite evident.
    "Dear girl, Artemis Entreri is no thief," Jarlaxle said 
with a grin, hoping to diffuse some of the mounting tension 
before it exploded-and he and his companion found themselves 
squared off against the formidable array within this room 
and without, where scores of priests and a group of elves 
were no doubt discussing the arrival of the two less-than-
exemplary characters with more than a passing concern.
    Cadderly put a hand on Danica's arm, calming her, and 
took a deep breath and started to reason it all out again.
    Again Entreri cut him short. "However you wish to parse 
your words, the simple truth is that I possess the Crystal 
Shard, and that I, above all others who have tried, have 
shown the control necessary to hold its call in check.
    "If you wish to take the artifact from me," Entreri 
continued, "then try, but know that I'll not give it over 
easily- and that I will even utilize the powers of the 
artifact against you. I wish it destroyed-you wish it 
destroyed, so you say. Thus, we do it together."
    Cadderly paused for a long while, glanced over at Danica 
a couple of times, and to Jarlaxle, and neither offered him 
any answers. With a shrug, the priest looked back at 
Entreri.
    "As you wish," he agreed. "The artifact must be engulfed 
in magical darkness and breathed upon by an ancient and huge 
red dragon."
    Jarlaxle nodded, but then stopped, his dark eyes going 
wide. "Give it to him," he said to his companion.
    Artemis Entreri, though he had no desire to face a red 
dragon of any size or age, feared more the consequence of 
Crenshinibon's becoming free to wield its power once more. 
He knew how to destroy it now-they all did-and the Crystal 
Shard would never suffer them to live, unless that life was 
as its servant.
    That possibility Artemis Entreri loathed most of all.
    Jarlaxle thought to mention that Drizzt Do'Urden had 
shown equal control, but he held the thought silent, not 
wanting to bring up the drow ranger in any context. Given 
Cadderly's understanding of the situation, it seemed obvious 
to Jarlaxle that the priest knew the truth of his encounter 
with Drizzt, and Jarlaxle did not want Entreri to discover 
that his nemesis was still alive-not now, at least, with so 
many other pressing issues before him.
    Jarlaxle considered blurting it all out, on a sudden 
thought that speaking the truth plainly would heighten 
Entreri's willingness to be done with all of this, to give 
over the shard that he and Jarlaxle could pursue a more 
important matter-that of finding the drow ranger.
    Jarlaxle held it back, and smiled, recognizing the 
source of the inspiration as a subtle telepathic ruse by the 
imprisoned artifact.
    "Clever," he whispered, and merely smiled as all eyes 
turned to regard him.

                         * * * * *

    Soon after, while Cadderly and his friends made 
preparations for the journey to the lair of some dragon 
Cadderly knew of, Entreri and Jarlaxle walked the grounds 
outside of the magnificent Spirit Soaring, well aware, of 
course, that many watchful eyes were upon their every move.
    "It is undeniably beautiful, do you not agree?" Jarlaxle 
asked, looking back at the soaring cathedral, with its tall 
spires, flying buttresses, and great, colored windows.
    "The mask of a god," Entreri replied sourly.
    "The mask or the face?" asked the always-surprising 
Jarlaxle.
    Entreri stared hard at his companion, and back at the 
towering cathedral. "The mask," he said, "or perhaps the 
illusion, concocted by those who seek to elevate themselves 
above all others and have not the skills to do so."
    Jarlaxle looked at him curiously.
    "A man inferior with the blade or with his thoughts can 
still so elevate himself," Entreri explained curtly, "if he 
can impart the belief that some god or other speaks through 
him. It is the greatest deception in all the world, and one 
embraced by kings and lords, while minor lying thieves on 
the streets of Calimport and other cities lose their tongues 
for so attempting to coax the purses of others."
    That struck Jarlaxle as the most poignant and revealing 
insight he had yet pried from the mouth of the elusive 
Artemis Entreri, a great clue as to who this man truly was.
    Up to that point, Jarlaxle had been trying to figure out 
a way that he could wait behind while Entreri, Cadderly, and 
whomever Cadderly chose to bring along went to face the 
dragon and destroy the artifact.
    Now, because of this seemingly unrelated glimpse into 
the heart of Artemis Entreri, Jarlaxle realized he had to go 
along.
    
                        Chapter 22
                 IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

    The great beast lay at rest, but even in slumber did the 
dragon seem a terrible and wrathful thing. It curled 
catlike, its long tail running up past its head, its huge, 
scaly back rising like a giant wave and sinking in a great 
exhalation that sent plumes of gray smoke from its nostrils 
and injected a vibrating rumble throughout the stone of the 
cavern floor. There was no light in the rocky chamber, save 
the glow of the dragon itself, a reddish-gold hue-a hot 
light, as if the beast were too full of energy and savage 
fires to hold it all in with mere scales.
    On the other end of the scrying mirror, the six unlikely 
companions-Cadderly, Danica, Ivan, Pikel, Entreri, and 
Jarlaxle-watched the dragon with a mixture of awe and dread.
    "We could use Shayleigh and her archers," Danica 
remarked, but of course, that was not possible, since the 
elves had absolutely refused to work alongside the dark elf 
for any purpose whatsoever and had returned to their forest 
home in Shilmista.
    "We could use King Elbereth's entire army," Cadderly 
added.
    "Ooo," said Pikel, who seemed truly mesmerized by the 
beast, a great wyrm at least as large and horrific as old 
Fyrentennimar.
    "There is the dragon," Cadderly said, turning to 
Entreri. "Are you certain you still wish to accompany me?" 
His question ended weakly, though, given the eager glow in 
Artemis Entreri's eyes.
    The assassin reached into his pouch and brought forth 
the Crystal Shard.
    "Witness your doom," he whispered to the artifact. He 
felt the shard reaching out desperately and powerfully- 
Cadderly felt those sensations as well. It called to 
Jarlaxle first, and indeed, the opportunistic drow did begin 
physically to reach for it, but he resisted.
    "Put it away," Danica whispered harshly, looking from 
the green-glowing shard to the shifting beast. "It will 
awaken the dragon!"
    "My dear, do you expect to coax the fiery breath from a 
dragon that remains asleep?" Jarlaxle reminded her, but 
Danica turned an angry glare at him.
    Entreri, hearing the Crystal Shard's call clearly and 
recognizing its attempt, understood that the woman spoke 
wisely, though, for while they would indeed have to wake the 
beast, they would be far better served if it did not know 
why. The assassin looked at the artifact and gave a 
confident, cocky grin, and dropped it back into his pouch 
and nodded for Cadderly to disenchant the scrying mirror. 
"When do we go?" the assassin asked Cadderly, and his tone 
made it perfectly clear that he wasn't shaken in the least 
by the sight of the monstrous dragon, made it clear that he 
was eager to be done with the destruction of the vile 
artifact.
    "I have to prepare the proper spells," Cadderly replied. 
"It will not be long."
    The priest motioned for Danica and his other friends to 
escort their two undesirable companions away then, though he 
only dropped the image from the scrying mirror temporarily. 
As soon as he was alone, he called up the dragon cave again, 
after placing another spell upon himself that allowed him to 
see in the dark. He sent the roving eye of the scrying 
mirror all around the large, intricate lair.
    There were many great cracks in the floor, he noted, and 
when he followed one down, he came to recognize that a maze 
of tunnels and chambers lay beneath the sleeping wyrm. 
Furthermore, Cadderly wasn't convinced that the dragon's 
cave was very secure structurally. Not at all.
    He'd have to keep that well in mind while choosing the 
spells he would bring with him to the home of this great 
beast known as Hephaestus.

                         * * * * *

    Rai-guy, deep in concentration, his eyes closed, allowed 
the calls of Crenshinibon to invade his thoughts fully. He 
caught only flashes of anger and despair, the pleas for 
help, the promises of ultimate glory.
    He saw some other images, as well, particularly one of a 
great curled red dragon, and he heard a word, a name echoing 
in his head: Hephaestus.
    Rai-guy knew he had to act quickly. He settled back in 
his private chamber beneath House Basadoni and prayed with 
all his heart to his Lady Lolth, telling her of the Crystal 
Shard, and of the glorious chaos the artifact might allow 
him to bring to the world.
    For hours, Rai-guy stayed alone, praying, sending away 
any who knocked at his door-Berg'inyon and Kimmuriel among 
them-with a gruff and definitive retort.
    Then, when he believed he'd caught the attention of his 
dark Spider Queen, or at least the ear of one of her 
minions, the wizard fell into powerful spellcasting, opening 
an extra-planar gate.
    As always with such a spell, Rai-guy had to take care 
that no unwanted or overly powerful planar denizens walked 
through that gate. His suspicions were correct, though, and 
indeed, the creature that came through the portal was one of 
the yochlol. These were the handmaidens of Lolth, beasts 
that more resembled half-melted candles with longer 
appendages than the Spider Queen herself.
    Rai-guy held his breath, wondering suddenly and 
fearfully if he had erred in letting on about the artifact. 
Might Lolth desire the artifact herself and instruct Rai-guy 
to deliver it to her?
    "You have called for help from the Lady," the yochlol 
said, its voice watery and guttural all at once, a dual-
toned and horrible sound.
    "I wish to return to Menzoberranzan," Rai-guy admitted, 
"and yet I cannot at this time. An instrument of chaos is 
about to be destroyed . .."
    "Lady Lolth knows of the artifact, Crenshinibon, Rai-guy 
of House Teyachumet," the yochlol replied, and the title the 
creature bestowed upon him surprised the drow wizard-cleric.
    He had indeed been a son of House Teyachumet-but that 
house of Ched Nasad had been obliterated more than a century 
before. A subtle reminder, the drow realized, that the 
memory of Lolth and her minions was long indeed.
    And a warning, perhaps, that he should take great care 
about how he planned to put the mighty artifact to use in 
the city of Lolth's greatest priestesses.
    Rai-guy saw his dreams of domination over Menzober-
ranzan melt then and there.
    "Where will you retrieve this item?" the handmaiden 
asked.
    Rai-guy stammered a reply, his thoughts elsewhere for 
the moment. "Hephaestus's lair ... a red dragon," he said. 
"I know not where . . ."
    "Your answer will be given," the handmaiden promised.
    It turned around and walked through Rai-guy's gate, and 
the portal closed immediately, though the drow wizard had 
done nothing to dispel it.
    Had Lolth herself been watching the exchange? Rai-guy 
had to wonder and to fear. Again he understood the futility 
of his dreams of conquest over Menzoberranzan. The Crystal 
Shard was powerful indeed, perhaps powerful enough for Rai-
guy to manipulate or otherwise unseat enough of the Matron 
Mothers for him to achieve a position of tremendous power, 
but something about the way the yochlol had spoken his full 
name told him he should be careful indeed. Lady Lolth would 
not permit such a change in the balance of Menzoberranzan's 
power structure.
    For just a brief moment, Rai-guy considered abandoning 
his quest to retrieve the Crystal Shard, considered taking 
his remaining allies and his gains and retreating to 
Menzoberranzan as the coleader, along with his friend, 
Kimmuriel, of Bregan D'aerthe.
    A brief moment it was, for the call of the Crystal Shard 
came rushing back to him then, whispering its promises of 
power and glory, showing Rai-guy that the surface was not so 
forbidding a place as he believed. With Crenshinibon, the 
dark elf could carry on Jarlaxle's designs, but in more 
appropriate regions-a mountainous area teeming with goblins, 
perhaps-and build a magnificent and undyingly loyal legion 
of minions, of slaves.
    The drow wizard rubbed his slender black fingers 
together, waiting anxiously for the answer the yochlol had 
promised him.

                         * * * * *

    "You cannot deny the beauty," Jarlaxle remarked, he and 
Entreri again sitting outside of the cathedral, relaxing 
before their journey. Both were well aware that many wary 
gazes were focused upon them from many vantage points.
    "Its very purpose denies that beauty," Entreri replied, 
his tone showing that he had little desire to replay this 
conversation yet again.
    Jarlaxle studied the man closely, as if hoping that 
physical scrutiny alone would unlock this apparently dark 
episode in Artemis Entreri's past. The drow wasn't surprised 
by Entreri's dislike of "hypocritical" priests. In many 
ways, Jarlaxle agreed with him. The dark elf had been alive 
for a long, long time, and had often ventured out of 
Menzoberranzan-and had known the movements of practically 
every visitor to that dark city-and he had seen enough of 
the many varied religious sects of Toril to understand the 
hypocritical nature of many so-called priests. There was 
something far deeper than that looming here within Artemis 
Entreri, though, something visceral.
    It had to be an event in Entreri's past, a deeply 
disturbing episode involving a priest. Perhaps he had been 
wrongly accused of some crime and tortured by a priest, who 
often served as jailers for the smaller communities of the 
surface. Perhaps he had known love once, and that woman had 
been stolen from him or had been murdered by a priest.
    Whatever it was, Jarlaxle could clearly see the hatred 
in Entreri's dark eyes as the man looked upon the 
magnificent-and it was magnificent, by any standards- Spirit 
Soaring. Even for Jarlaxle, a creature of the Under-dark, 
the place lived up to its name, for when he gazed upon those 
soaring towers, his very soul was lifted, his spirit 
enlightened and elevated.
    Not so for his companion, obviously, and yet another 
mystery of Artemis Entreri for Jarlaxle to unravel. He did 
indeed find this man interesting.
    "Where will you go after the artifact is destroyed?" 
Entreri asked unexpectedly.
    Jarlaxle had to pause, both fully to digest the question 
and to consider his answer-for in truth, he really had no 
answer. "If we destroy it, you mean," he corrected. "Have 
you ever dealt with the likes of a red dragon, my friend?"
    "Cadderly has, as I'm sure have you," Entreri replied.
    "Only once, and I truly have little desire ever to speak 
with such a beast again," Jarlaxle said. "One cannot reason 
with a red dragon beyond a certain level, because they are 
not creatures with any definitive goals for personal gain. 
They see, they destroy, and take what is left over. A simple 
existence, really, and one that makes them all the more 
dangerous."
    "Then let it see the Crystal Shard and destroy it," 
Entreri remarked, and he felt a twinge then as Crenshini-bon 
cried out.
    "Why?" Jarlaxle asked suddenly, and Entreri recognized 
that his ever-opportunistic friend had heard that silent 
call.
    "Why?" the assassin echoed, turning to regard Jarlaxle 
fully.
    "Perhaps we are being premature in our planning," 
Jarlaxle explained. "We know how to destroy the Crystal
    Shard now-likely that will be enough for us to use 
against the artifact to bend it continually to our will."
    Entreri started to laugh.
    "There is truth in what I say, and a gain to be had in 
following my reasoning," Jarlaxle insisted. "Crenshinibon 
began to manipulate me, no doubt, but now that we have 
determined that you, and not the artifact, are truly the 
master of your relationship, why must we rush ahead to 
destroy it? Why not determine first if you might control the 
item enough for our own gain?"
    "Because if you know, beyond doubt, that you can destroy 
it, and the Crystal Shard knows that, as well, there may 
well be no need to destroy it," Entreri played along.
    "Exactly!" said the now-excited dark elf.
    "Because if you know you can destroy the crystalline 
tower, then there is no possible way that you will wind up 
with two crystalline towers," Entreri replied sarcastically, 
and the eager grin disappeared from Jarlaxle's black-skinned 
face in the blink of an astonished eye.
    "It did it again," the drow remarked dryly.
    "Same bait on the hook, and the Jarlaxle fish chomps 
even harder," Entreri replied.
    "The cathedral is beautiful, I say," Jarlaxle remarked, 
looking away and pointedly changing the subject.
    Entreri laughed again.
    Delay him, then, Yharaskrik imparted to Kimmuriel when 
the drow told the illithid the plan to intercept Jarlaxle, 
Entreri, and the priest Cadderly and his friends at the lair 
of Hephaestus the red dragon.
    Rai-guy will not be deterred in any way short of open 
battle, Kimmuriel explained. He will have the Crystal Shard 
at all costs.
    Because the Crystal Shard so instructs him, Yharaskrik 
replied.
    Yet it seems as if he has freed himself, partially at 
least, from its grasp, Kimmuriel argued. He dismissed many 
of the drow soldiers back to our warren in Menzoberranzan 
and has systematically relinquished our holdings here on the 
surface.
    True enough, the illithid admitted, but you are fooling 
yourself if you believe that the Crystal Shard will allow 
Rai-guy to take it to the lightless depths of the Underdark. 
It is a relic that derives its power from the light of the 
sun.
    Rai-guy believes that a few crystalline towers on the 
surface will allow the artifact to channel that sunlight 
power back to Menzoberranzan, Kimmuriel explained, for 
indeed, the drow wizard had told him of that very 
possibility-a possibility that Crenshinibon itself had 
imparted to Rai-guy.
    Rai-guy has come to see many possibilities, Yha-
raskrik's thoughts imparted, and there was a measure of 
doubt, translated into sarcasm, in the illithid's response. 
The source of those varied and marvelous possibilities is 
always the same.
    It was a point on which Kimmuriel Oblodra, who now found 
himself caught in the middle of five dangerous adversaries-
Rai-guy, Yharaskrik, Jarlaxle, Artemis Entreri, and the 
Crystal Shard itself-did not wish to dwell. There was little 
he could do to alter the approaching events. He would not go 
against Rai-guy, out of respect for the wizard-cleric's 
prowess and intelligence, and also because of his deep 
relationship with the drow. Of his potential enemies, 
Kimmuriel feared Yharaskrik least of all. With Rai-guy at 
his side, he knew the illithid could not win. Kimmuriel 
could neutralize Yharaskrik's mental weaponry long enough 
for Rai-guy to obliterate the creature.
    While he held respect for the manipulative powers of the 
Crystal Shard and knew that the mighty artifact would not be 
pleased with any psionicist, Kimmuriel was honestly 
beginning to believe that the artifact was indeed a fine 
match for Rai-guy, a joining that would be of mutual 
benefit. Jarlaxle hadn't been able to control the artifact, 
but Jarlaxle had not been properly forewarned about its 
manipulative powers. Kimmuriel doubted that Rai-guy would 
make that same mistake.
    Still, the psionicist believed that all would be simpler 
and cleaner if the Crystal Shard were indeed destroyed, but 
he wasn't about to go against Rai-guy to ensure that event.
    He looked at the illithid and realized that he already 
had gone against his friend, to some extent, merely by 
informing this bulbous-headed creature, who was certainly an 
enemy of Rai-guy, that Rai-guy meant to enter an alliance 
with the Crystal Shard.
    Kimmuriel bowed to Yharaskrik out of respect, and 
floated away on psionic winds, back to House Basadoni and 
his private chambers. Not far down the hall, he knew, Rai-
guy was awaiting his answer from the yochlol and plotting 
his strike against Jarlaxle and the fallen leader's newfound 
companions.
    Kimmuriel had no idea where he was going to fit into all 
of this.
    
                        Chapter 23
                  THE FACE OF DISASTER

    Artemis Entreri eyed the priest of Deneir with obvious 
mistrust as Cadderly walked up before him and began a slow 
chant. Cadderly had already cast prepared defensive spells 
upon himself, Danica, Ivan, and Pikel, but it occurred to 
Entreri that the priest might use this opportunity to get 
rid of him. What better way to destroy Entreri than to have 
him face the breath of a dragon errantly thinking he had 
proper magical defenses against such a firestorm?
    The assassin glanced over at Jarlaxle, who had refused 
Cadderly's aid, claiming he had his own methods. The dark 
elf nodded to him and waggled his fingers, silently assuring 
Entreri that Cadderly had indeed placed the antifire 
enchantment upon him.
    When he was done, Cadderly stepped back and inspected 
the group. "I still believe that I can do this better 
alone," he remarked, drawing a scowl from both Danica and 
Entreri.
    "If it was as simple as erecting a fire barrier and 
tossing out the artifact for the dragon to breathe upon, I 
would agree," Jarlaxle replied. "You may need to goad the 
beast to breathe, I fear. Wyrms are not quick to use their 
most powerful weapon."
    "When it sees us all, it will more likely loose its 
breath," Danica reasoned.
    "Poof!" agreed Pikel.
    "Contingencies, my dear Cadderly," said Jarlaxle. "We 
must allow for every contingency, must prepare for every 
eventuality and turn in the game. With an ancient and 
intelligent wyrm, no variable is unlikely."
    Their conversation ended as they both noted Pikel 
hopping about his brother, sprinkling some powder over the 
protesting and slapping Ivan, while singing a whimsical 
song. He finished with a wide smile, and hopped up and 
whispered into Ivan's ear.
    "Says he got a spell of his own to add," the yellow-
bearded dwarf remarked. "Put one on meself and on himself, 
and's wondering which o' ye othersll be wantin' one."
    "What type of spell?"
    "Another fire protection," Ivan explained. "Says doodads 
can do that."
    That brought a laugh to Jarlaxle-not because he didn't 
believe the dwarf's every word, but because he found the 
entire spectacle of a dwarven druid quite charming. He bowed 
to Pikel and accepted the dwarf's next spellcasting. The 
others followed suit.
    "We will be as quick as possible," Cadderly explained, 
moving them all to the large window at the back of the room 
on a high floor in one of the Spirit Soaring's towering 
spires. "Our goal is to destroy the item and nothing more. 
We are not to battle the beast, not to raise its ire, and," 
he looked at Entreri and Jarlaxle as he finished, "surely 
not to attempt to steal anything from mighty Hephaestus.
    "Remember," the priest added, "the enchantments upon you 
may diminish one blast of Hephaestus's fire, perhaps two, 
but not much more than that."
    "One will be enough," Entreri replied.
    "Too much," muttered Jarlaxle.
    "Does everyone know his or her role and position when we 
enter the dragon's main chamber?" Danica ,asked, ignoring 
the grumbling drow.
    No questions came back at her. Taking that as an 
affirmative answer, Cadderly began casting yet again, a 
wind-walking spell that soon carried them out of the 
cathedral and across the miles to the south and east to the 
caverns of mighty Hephaestus. The priest didn't magically 
walk them in the front door, but rather soared along deeper 
chambers, the understructure of the cavern complex, coming 
into a large antechamber to the dragon's main lair.
    When he broke the spell, depositing their material forms 
in the cavern, they could hear the great sighing sound of 
the sleeping wyrm, the huge intake and smoky exhalation.
    Jarlaxle put a finger to pursed lips and inched ahead, 
as silent as could be. He disappeared around an outcropping 
of stone, and came right back in, actually clutching the 
wall to steady himself. He looked at the others and nodded 
grimly, though there could be no doubt he had seen the beast 
simply from the expression on his normally confident face.
    Cadderly and Entreri led the way, Danica and Jarlaxle 
followed, with the Bouldershoulder brothers behind. The 
tunnel behind the outcropping wound only for a short 
distance, and opened up widely into a huge cavern, its floor 
crisscrossed by many cracks and crevices.
    The companions hardly noticed the physical features of 
that room, though, for there before them, looming like a 
mountain of doom, lay Hephaestus, its red-gold scales 
gleaming from its own inner heat. The beast was huge, even 
curled as it was, its size alone mocking them and making 
every one of them want to fall to his knees and pay homage.
    That was one of the traps in dealing with dragons, that 
awe-inspiring aura of sheer power, that emanation of 
helplessness to all who would look upon their horrible 
splendor. These were not novice warriors, though, trying to 
make a quick stab at great fame. These were seasoned 
veterans, every one. Each, with the exception of Artemis 
Entreri, had faced a beast such as Hephaestus before. 
Despite his inexperience in this particular arena, nothing 
in all the world-not a dragon, not an arch-devil, not a 
demon lord-could take the heart from Artemis Entreri.
    The wyrm's eye, seeming more like that of a cat than a 
lizard, with a green iris and a slitted pupil that quickly 
widened to adjust to the dim light, popped open as soon as 
the group entered. Hephaestus watched their every movement.
    "Did you think to catch me sleeping?" the dragon said 
quietly, which still made its voice sound like an avalanche 
to the companions.
    Cadderly called out a cueing word to his companions, and 
snapped his fingers, bringing forth a magical light that 
filled all the chamber.
    Up snapped Hephaestus's great horned head, the pupils of 
its eyes fast thinning. It turned as it rose, to face the 
impertinent priest directly.
    To the side, Entreri eased the Crystal Shard out of his 
pouch, ready to throw it before the beast as soon as 
Hephaestus seemed about to loose its fiery breath. Jarlaxle, 
too, was ready, for his job in this was to use his innate 
dark elf powers to bring forth a globe of darkness over the 
artifact as the flames consumed it.
    "Thieves!" the dragon roared. Its voice shook the 
chamber and sent shudders through the floor-a poignant 
reminder to Cadderly of the instability of this place. "You 
have come to steal the treasure of Hephaestus. You have 
prepared your proper spells and wear items of magic that you 
consider powerful, but are you truly prepared? Can any mere 
mortal truly be prepared to face the awful splendor that is 
Hephaestus?"
    Cadderly tuned out the words and fell into the song of 
Deneir, seeking some powerful spell, some type of mighty 
magical chaos, perhaps, as he had once used against 
Fyrentennimar, that he could trick the beast and be done 
with this. His best spells against the previous dragon had 
been of reverse aging, lessening the beast with mighty 
spellcasting, but he could not use those this time, for so 
doing would diminish the dragon's breath as well, and defeat 
their very purpose in being there. He had other magic at his 
disposal, though, and the Song of Deneir rang triumphantly 
in his head. Along with that song, though, the priest heard 
the calls of Crenshinibon, discordant notes in the melody 
and surely a distraction.
    "Something is amiss," Jarlaxle whispered to Entreri. 
"The beast expected us and anticipates our movements. It 
should have risen with attacks, not words."
    Entreri glanced at him, and back at Hephaestus, the 
great head swaying back and forth, back and forth. He 
glanced down at the Crystal Shard, wondering if it had 
betrayed them to the beast.
    Indeed, Crenshinibon was sending forth its plea at that 
time, to the beast and against Cadderly's spellcasting, but 
it had not been the Crystal Shard that had warned Hephaestus 
of intruders. No, that distinction fell to a certain dark 
elf wizard-cleric, hiding in a tunnel across the way along 
with a handful of drow companions. Right before Cadderly and 
the others had wind-walked into the lair, Rai-guy had sent a 
magical whisper to Hephaestus, a warning of intruders and a 
suggestion that these thieves had come with magic designed 
to use the creature's own breath against it.
    Now Rai-guy waited for the appearance of the Crystal 
Shard, for the moment when he and his companions, including 
Kammuriel, could strike hard and begone, their prize in 
hand.
    "Thieves we are, and we'll have your treasure!" shouted 
Jarlaxle. He used a language that none of the others, save 
Hephaestus, understood, a tongue of the red dragons, and one 
that the great wyrms believed that few others could begin to 
master. Jarlaxle, using a whistle that he kept on a chain 
around his neck, spoke it with perfect inflection. 
Hephaestus's head snapped down in line with him, the wyrm's 
eyes going wide.
    Entreri dived aside in a roll, coming right back to his 
feet.
    "What did you say?" the assassin asked.
    Jarlaxle's fingers worked furiously. He thinks that I am 
another red dragon.
    There seemed a long, long moment of absolute quiet, of a 
gigantic hush before a more gigantic storm. Then everything 
exploded into motion, beginning with Cadderly's leap 
forward, his arm extended, finger pointing accusingly at the 
beast.
    "Hephaestus!" the priest roared at the appropriate 
moment of spellcasting. "Burn me if you can!"
    It was more than a dare, more than a challenge, and more 
than a threat. It was a magical compulsion, launched through 
a powerful spell. Though forewarned by some vague 
suggestions against the action, Hephaestus sucked in its 
tremendous breath, the force of the intake drawing 
Cadderly's curly brown locks forward onto his face.
    Entreri dived ahead and pulled forth Crenshinibon, 
tossing it to the floor before the priest. Jarlaxle, even as 
Hephaestus tilted back its head, came forward with the great 
exhalation and produced his globe of darkness.
    No! Crenshinibon screamed in Entreri's head, so powerful 
and angry a call that the assassin grabbed at his ears and 
stumbled aside, dazed.
    The artifact's call was abruptly cut off.
    Hephaestus's head came forward, a great line of fire 
roaring down, mocking Jarlaxle's globe, mocking Cadderly and 
all his spells.

                         * * * * *

    Even as the globe of darkness came up over the Crystal 
Shard, Rai-guy grabbed at it with a spell of telekinesis, a 
sudden and powerful burst of snatching power that sent the 
item flying fast across the way, past Hephaestus, who was 
seemingly oblivious to it, and down the corridor to the 
hiding wizard-cleric's waiting hand.
    Rai-guy's red-glowing eyes narrowed as he turned to 
regard Kimmuriel, for it had been Kimmuriel's task to so 
snatch the item-a task the psionicist had apparently 
neglected.
    I was not fast enough, the psionicist's fingers waggled 
at his companion.
    But Rai-guy knew better, and so did Crenshinibon, for 
the powers of the mind were among the quickest of magic to 
enact. Still staring hard at his companion, Rai-guy began 
spellcasting once more, aiming for the great chamber.
    On and on went the fiery maelstrom, and in the middle of 
it stood Cadderly, his arms out wide, praying to Deneir to 
see him through.
    Danica, Ivan, and Pikel stared at him intently, praying 
as well, but Jarlaxle was more concerned with his darkness, 
and Entreri was looking more to Jarlaxle.
    "I hear not the continuing call of Crenshinibon!" 
Entreri cried hopefully above the fiery roar.
    Jarlaxle was shaking his head. "The darkness should have 
been consumed by the artifact's destruction," he cried back, 
sensing that something was terribly, terribly wrong.
    The fires ended, leaving a seething Hephaestus still 
staring at the unharmed priest of Deneir. The dragon's eyes 
narrowed to threatening slits.
    Jarlaxle dispelled his darkness globe, and there 
remained no sign of Crenshinibon among the bubbling, molten 
stone.
    "We done it!" Ivan cried.
    "Home!" Pikel pleaded.
    "No," insisted Jarlaxle.
    Before he could explain, a low humming sound filled the 
chamber, a noise the dark elf had heard before and one that 
didn't strike him as overly pleasant at that dangerous 
moment.
    "A magical dispel!" the dark elf warned. "Our 
enchantments are threatened!"
    This left them, they all realized, in a room with an 
outraged, ancient, huge red dragon without many of their 
protections in place.
    "What d' we do?" Ivan growled, slapping the handle of 
his battle axe across his open palm.
    "Wee!" Pikel answered.
    'Wee?" the perplexed yellow-bearded dwarf echoed, his 
face screwed up as he stared at his green-haired brother.
    "Wee!" Pikel said again, and to accentuate his point, he 
grabbed Ivan by the collar and ran him a short distance to 
the side, to the edge of a crevice, and leaped off, taking 
Ivan on the dive with him.
    Hephaestus's great wings beat the air, lifting the huge 
wyrm's front half high above the floor. Its hind legs clawed 
at the floor, digging deep gullies in the stone.
    "Run away!" Cadderly cried, agreeing wholeheartedly with 
Pikel's choice. "All of you!"
    Danica rushed forward, as did Jarlaxle, the woman 
rolling into a ready crouch before the wyrm. Hephaestus 
wasted not a second in snapping its great maw down at her. 
She scrambled aside, coming up from her roll in a crouch 
again, taunting the beast.
    Cadderly couldn't watch it, reminding himself that he 
simply had to trust in her. She was buying him precious 
moments, he knew, that he might launch another magical 
attack or defensive spell, perhaps, at Hephaestus. He fell 
into the song of Deneir again and heard its notes more 
clearly this time, as he sorted through an array of spells 
to launch.
    He heard a scream, Danica's scream, and he looked up to 
see Hephaestus's fiery breath drive down upon her, striking 
the stone floor and spraying up in an inverted fan of fires.
    Cadderly, too, cried out, and reached desperately into 
the song of Deneir for the first spell he could find that 
would alter that horrible scene, the first enchantment he 
could think of to stop it.
    He brought forth an earthquake.
    Even as it started-a violent shudder and rumbling, like 
waves on a pond, lifting and rolling the floor-Jarlaxle drew 
the dragon's attention his way by hitting the beast with a 
stream of stinging daggers.
    Entreri, too, moved-and surprised himself by going ahead 
instead of back, toward the spot where Hephaestus had just 
breathed.
    There, too, there was only bubbling stone.
    Cadderly called out for Danica, desperately, but his 
voice fell away as the floor collapsed beneath him.

                         * * * * *

    "Let us begone, and quickly," Kimmuriel remarked, 
"before the great wyrm recognizes that there were more than 
those six intruders in its lair this day."
    He and the other drow had already moved some distance 
down the tunnel, away from the main chamber. Leaving 
altogether seemed a prudent suggestion, one that had 
Berg'inyon Baenre and the other five drow soldiers nodding 
eagerly, but one that, for some reason, did not seem 
acceptable to the stern Rai-guy.
    "No," he said firmly. "They must all die, here and now."
    "As the dragon will likely kill them," Berg'inyon 
agreed, but Rai-guy was shaking his head, indicating that 
such a probability simply wasn't good enough for him.
    Rai-guy and Crenshinibon were already fully into their 
bonding by then. The Crystal Shard demanded that Cadderly 
and the others, these infidels who understood the secret to 
its destruction, be killed immediately. It demanded that 
nothing concerning the group be left to chance. Besides, it 
telepathically coaxed Rai-guy, would not a red dragon be an 
enormous asset to add to Bregan D'aerthe?
    "Find them and kill them, every one!" Rai-guy demanded 
emphatically.
    Berg'inyon considered the command, and broke his 
soldiers into two groups and ran off with one group, the 
other heading a different direction. Kimmuriel spent a 
longer time staring hard at Rai-guy, seeming less than 
pleased. He, too, disappeared eventually, seemed simply to 
fall through the floor.
    Leaving Rai-guy alone with his newest and most beloved 
ally.

                         * * * * *

    In an alcove off to the side of the tunnel where Rai-guy 
stood, Yharaskrik's less-than-corporeal form slid through 
the stone and materialized, the illithid's Crenshinibon-
defeating lantern in its hand.
    
                        Chapter 24
                          CHAOS

    With skills honed to absolute perfection, Danica had 
avoided the flames by a short distance, close enough so that 
her skin was bright red on the left side of her face. No 
magic would aid Danica now, she knew, only her thousands and 
thousands of hours of difficult training, those many years 
she had spent perfecting her style of fighting and, more 
importantly, dodging. Danica had no intention of battling 
the great wyrm, of striking out in any offensive manner 
against a beast she doubted she could even hurt, let alone 
slay. All her abilities, all her energy and concentration, 
was solely on the defensive now, her posture a balanced 
crouch that would allow her to skitter out to either side, 
ahead, or back.
    Hephaestus's fang-filled jaws snapped down at her with a 
tremendous clapping noise, but the dragon hit only air as 
the monk dived out to the right. A claw followed, a swipe 
that surely would have cut Danica into pieces, except that 
she altered the momentum of her roll to go straight back in 
a sudden retreat.
    Then came the breath, another burst of fire that seemed 
to go on and on forever.
    Danica had to dive and roll a couple of times to put out 
the flames on the back side of her clothing. Sensing that
    Hephaestus had noted her escape and would adjust the 
line of fiery breath, she cut a fast corner around a jag in 
the wall, throwing herself flat against the stone behind the 
protective rock.
    She noted two figures then. Artemis Entreri was running 
her way, but leaping short of her position into a wide 
crevice that had opened with Cadderly's earthquake. The 
strange dark elf, Jarlaxle, skittered behind the dragon, and 
to Danica's astonishment, launched a spell Hephaestus's way. 
A sudden arc of lightning caught the dragon's attention and 
gave Danica a moment of freedom. She didn't waste it.
    Danica ran flat out, leaping even as the spinning 
Hephaestus swept its great tail around to squash her. She 
disappeared into the same crevice as had Artemis Entreri.
    She knew as soon as she crossed the lip of the crack 
that she was in trouble-but still far less trouble, she 
supposed, than she would have found back in the dragon's 
lair. The descent twisted and turned, lined with broken and 
often sharp-edged, stone. Again Danica's training came into 
play, her hands and legs working furiously to buffer the 
blows and slow her descent. Some distance down, the crack 
opened into a chamber, and Danica had nothing to hold onto 
for the last twenty feet of her drop. Still, she coordinated 
her movements so that she landed feet first, but with her 
legs turned slightly, propelling her into a sidelong 
somersault. She tumbled over and over again, her roll 
absorbing the momentum of the fall.
    She came up to her feet a few moments later, and there 
before her, leaning on a wall looking bruised but hardly 
battered, stood Artemis Entreri. He was staring at her 
intently and held a lit torch in his hand but tossed it 
aside as soon as Danica took note of him.
    "I had thought you consumed by the first of Hephaestus's 
fires," the assassin remarked, coming away from the wall and 
drawing both sword and dagger, the smaller blade glowing 
with a white, fiery light.
    "One cannot always get what one most wants," the woman 
answered coldly.
    "You have hated me since the moment you saw me," the 
assassin remarked, ending with a chuckle to show that he 
hardly cared.
    "Long before that, Artemis Entreri," Danica replied 
coldly, and she advanced a step, eyeing the assassin's 
weapons intently.
    "We know not what enemies we will find down here," 
Entreri explained, but he knew even as he said the words, as 
he looked upon Danica's mask of hatred, that no explanation 
would suffice, that anything short of his surrender to her 
would invite her wrath. Artemis Entreri had little desire to 
battle the woman, to do any unnecessary fighting down here, 
but neither would he shy from any fight.
    "Indeed," was all that Danica answered. She continued 
coming forward.
    This had been coming for some time, both knew, and 
despite the fact that they were both separated from their 
respective companions, despite the fact that an angry dragon 
was barely fifty feet above their heads, and all of it in a 
cavern that seemed on the verge of complete collapse, Danica 
saw this encounter as more than an opportunity but a 
necessity.
    For all his logic and common sense, Artemis Entreri 
really wasn't disappointed by her feelings.

                         * * * * *

    As soon as Hephaestus began its stunningly fast spin, 
Jarlaxle had to question the wisdom of his distracting 
lightning bolt. Still, the drow had reacted as any ally 
would, taking the beast's attention so that both Entreri and 
the woman might escape.
    In truth, after the initial shock of seeing an outraged 
red dragon turning at him, Jarlaxle wasn't overly worried. 
Despite the powerful dispel that had saturated the room- too 
powerful a spell for any dragon to cast, the mercenary 
leader recognized-Jarlaxle remained confident that he 
possessed enough tricks to get away from this one.
    Hephaestus's great jaws snapped down at the drow, who 
was standing perfectly still and seemed an easy target. The 
magic of Jarlaxle's cloak forced the wyrm to miss, and 
Hephaestus roared all the louder when its head slammed into 
a solid wall.
    Next, predictably, came the fiery breath, but even as 
Hephaestus began its great exhale, Jarlaxle waggled a ringed 
finger, opening a dimension door that brought him behind the 
dragon. He could have simply skittered away then, but he 
wanted to hold the beast at bay a little bit longer. Out 
came a wand, one of several the drow carried, and it spewed 
a gob of greenish semiliquid at the very tip of Hephaestus's 
twitching tail.
    "Now you are caught!" Jarlaxle proclaimed loudly as the 
fiery breath at last ceased.
    Hephaestus spun around again, and indeed, the wyrm's 
tail looped about, its end stuck fast by the temporary but 
incredibly effective goo.
    Jarlaxle let fly another wad from the wand, this one 
smacking the dragon in the face.
    Of course, then Jarlaxle remembered why he had never 
wanted to face such a beast as this again, for Hephaestus 
went into a terrific frenzy, issuing growls through its 
clamped mouth that resonated through the very stones of the 
cavern. It thrashed about so wildly its tail tore the stone 
from the floor.
    With a tip of his wide-brimmed hat, the mercenary drow 
called upon his magical ring again, one of the last portal-
enacting enchantments it could offer, and disappeared back 
behind the wyrm, a bit further along the wall than he had 
been before his first dimension door. There was another exit 
from the room back there, one that Jarlaxle suspected would 
bring him to some old friends.
    Some old friends who likely had the Crystal Shard, he 
knew, for certainly it had not been destroyed by 
Hephaestus's first breath, certainly it had been magically 
stolen away right before the powerful magic-defeating spell 
had filled the room.
    The last thing Jarlaxle wanted was for Rai-guy and 
Kimmuriel to get their hands on the Crystal Shard and, 
undoubtedly, come looking for him once more.
    He was out of the cavern a moment later, the thunderous 
sounds of Hephaestus's thrashing thankfully left behind. He 
reached up into his marvelous hat and brought forth a piece 
of black cloth in the shape of a small bat. He whispered a 
few magical words and tossed it into the air. The cloth 
swatch transformed into a living, breathing creature, a 
servant of its creator that fluttered back to Jar-laxle's 
shoulder. The drow whispered some instructions into its ear 
and tossed it up before him again, and his little scout flew 
off into the gloom.
    "We will take Hephaestus as our own," Rai-guy whispered 
to the Crystal Shard, the drow considering all the great 
gains that might be made this day. Logically, the dark elf 
knew he should be well on his way out of the place, for 
could Kim-muriel and the others really defeat Jarlaxle and 
the powerful companions he had brought to the dragon's lair?
    Rai-guy smiled, hardly afraid, for how could he be 
fearful with Crenshinibon in his possession? Soon, very 
soon, he knew, he would be allied with a great wyrm. He 
turned and started down the wide tunnel toward the main 
chamber of Hephaestus's lair.
    He noticed some movement off to the side, in an alcove, 
and Crenshinibon screamed a warning in his head.
    Yharaskrik stepped out, not ten paces away. The 
tentacles around the illithid's mouth were waving 
menacingly.
    "Kimmuriel's friend, no doubt," the dark elf remarked, 
"who betrayed Kohrin Soulez."
    Betrayal implies alliance, Yharaskrik telepathically 
answered. There was no betrayal.
    "If you were to venture here with us, then why not do so 
openly?" the drow asked.
    I came for you, not with you, the ever-confident 
illithid answered.
    Rai-guy understood well what was going on, for the 
Crystal Shard was making its abject hatred of the creature 
quite apparent in his thoughts.
    "The drow and your race have been allied many times in 
the past," Rai-guy remarked, "and rarely have we found 
reason to do battle. So it should be now."
    The wizard wasn't trying to talk the illithid out of any 
rash actions out of fear-far from it. He was thinking he 
might have, perhaps, made another powerful connection here, 
one that could be exploited.
    The screaming in his mind, Crenshinibon's absolute 
hatred of the mind flayer, made that alliance seem less 
likely.
    And even less likely a moment later, when Yharaskrik lit 
the magical lantern and aimed its glow Crenshinibon's way. 
The protests in the drow wizard's mind faded far, far away.
    The artifact will be brought back before the dragon, 
came Yharaskrik's telepathic call. It was a psionically 
enhanced command, and one that had Rai-guy involuntarily 
taking a step toward the main chamber once more.
    The cunning dark elf had survived more than a century in 
the hostile territory of his own homeland, and he was no 
novice to any type of battle. He fought back against the 
compelling suggestion and rooted his feet to the floor, 
turning back to regard the octopus-headed creature, his red-
glowing eyes narrowing threateningly.
    "Release the Crystal Shard and perhaps we will let you 
live," Rai-guy said.
    It must be destroyed! Yharaskrik screamed into his mind. 
It is an item of no gain, of loss to all, even to itself. As 
the creature finished, it held the lantern up even higher 
and advanced a step, its tentacles wriggling out, reaching 
for Rai-guy hungrily though the drow was still too far away 
for any physical attack, but not out of range for psionic 
attacks, the drow found out a split second later, even as he 
began casting his own spell.
    A blast of stunning and confusing energy washed over 
him, reached into him, and scrambled his mind. He felt 
himself falling over backward, watched almost helplessly as 
his line of vision rolled up the wall, and to the high 
ceiling.
    He called for Crenshinibon, but it was too far away, 
lost in the swirl of the magical lantern's glow. He thought 
of the illithid, of those horrid tentacles burrowing under 
his skin, reaching for his brain.
    Rai-guy steadied himself and fought desperately, finally 
regaining his balance and glancing back to see Yharaskrik 
very close-too close, those tentacles almost touching him.
    He nearly exploded into the motion of yet another spell-
casting, but he recognized that he had to be more subtle 
here, that he had to make the creature believe he was 
defeated. That was the secret of battling illithids, as many 
drow had been trained. Play upon their arrogance. 
Yharaskrik, like all of its kind, would hardly be able to 
comprehend that an inferior creature like a drow had somehow 
resisted its psionic attacks.
    Rai-guy worked a simple spell, with subtle movements, 
and all the while feigning helplessness.
    It must be done! the illithid screamed in his thoughts. 
The tentacles moved toward Rai-guy's face, and Yha-raskrik's 
hand reached for the Crystal Shard.
    Rai-guy released his spell. It was not a devastating 
blast, not a rumble of some great explosion, not a bolt of 
lightning nor a gout of fire. A simple gust of wind came 
from the drow's hand, a sharp and surprising burst that 
snapped Yha-raskrik's tentacles back across its ugly face, 
that blew the creature's robes back behind it and forced it 
to retreat a step.
    That blew out the lantern.
    Yharaskrik glanced down, thought to summon some psionic 
energy to relight the lantern, and looked up and thought to 
strike Rai-guy with another psionic blast of scrambling 
energy, fearing some second spellcasting.
    As quickly as the illithid could begin to do either of 
those things, a wave of crushing emotions washed over it, a 
Crenshinibon-imparted flood of despair and hopelessness, 
and, paradoxically of hope, with subtle promises that all 
could be put right, with greater glory gained for all.
    Yharaskrik's psionic defenses came up almost 
immediately, dulling the Crystal Shard's demanding call.
    A jolt of energy, the shocking grasp of Rai-guy, caught 
the illithid on the chest, lifted it from the ground, and 
sent it sprawling backward to the floor.
    "Fool!" Rai-guy growled. "Do you think I need Cren-
shinibon to destroy the likes of you?"
    Indeed, when Yharaskrik looked back at the drow wizard, 
thinking to attack mentally, he stared at the end of a small 
black wand. The illithid let go the blast anyway, and indeed 
it staggered Rai-guy backward, but the drow had already 
enacted the power of the wand. It was a wand similar to the 
one Jarlaxle had used to pin down Hephaestus's tail and 
momentarily clamp the dragon's mouth shut.
    It took Rai-guy a long moment to fight through this 
burst of scrambling energy, but when he did stand straight 
again, he laughed aloud at the spectacle of the illithid 
splayed out on the floor, held in place by a viscid green 
glob.
    The mental domination from Crenshinibon began on the 
creature anew, wearing at its resolve. Rai-guy walked to 
tower over Yharaskrik, to look the helpless mind flayer in 
the bulbous eye, letting it know in no uncertain terms that 
this fight was at its end.
    She had no apparent weapon, but Entreri knew better than 
to ask for her surrender, knew well enough what this skilled 
warrior was capable of. He had battled fighting monks 
before, though not often, and had always found them full of 
surprises. He could see the honed muscles of Danica's legs 
twitching eagerly, the woman wanting badly to come at him.
    "Why do you hate me so?" the assassin asked with a wry 
grin, halting his advance a mere three strides from Danica. 
"Or is it, perhaps, that you simply fear me and are afraid 
to show it? For you should fear me, you understand."
    Danica stared at him hard. She did indeed hate this man, 
and had heard much about him from Drizzt Do'Urden, and even 
more-and even more damning-testimony from Catti-brie. 
Everything about him assaulted her sensibilities. To Danica, 
finding Artemis Entreri in the company of dark elves seemed 
more an indictment of the dark elves.
    "But perhaps we would do better to settle our 
differences when we are far, far from this place," Entreri 
offered. "Though our fight is inevitable in your eyes, is it 
not?"
    "Logic would so dictate to both," Danica replied. As she 
finished the sentence, she came forward in a rush, slid down 
to the floor beneath Entreri's extending blade, and swept 
him from his feet. "But neither of us is a slave to wise 
thinking, are we, foul assassin?"
    Entreri accepted the trip without resistance, indeed, 
even helped the flow of Danica's leg along by tumbling 
backward, throwing himself into a roll, and lifting his feet 
up high to get them over her swinging leg. He didn't quite 
get all the way back to his feet before reversing momentum, 
planting his toes, and throwing himself forward in a sudden, 
devastating rush.
    Danica, still prone, angled herself to put her feet in 
line with the charging Entreri, then rolled back suddenly 
and with perfect timing to get one foot against the 
assassin's inner thigh as he fell over her, his sword 
reaching for her gut. With precision born of desperation, 
Danica rolled back up onto her shoulders, every muscle in 
her torso and legs working in perfect coordination to drive 
Entreri away, to keep that awful sword back.
    He went up and over, flying past Danica and dipping his 
head at the last moment to go into a forward roll. He came 
back to his feet with a spin, facing the monk, who was up 
and charging, and stopping cold in her tracks as she faced 
again the deadly sword and its dagger companion.
    Entreri felt the adrenaline coursing through his body, 
the rush of a true challenge. As much as he realized the 
foolishness of it all, he was enjoying this.
    So was the woman.
    The sound of a voice came from the side, the melodious 
call of a dark elf. "Do slay each other and save us the 
trouble," Berg'inyon Baenre explained, entering the small 
area along with a pair of dark elf companions. All three of 
them carried twin swords that gleamed with powerful 
enchantments.

                         * * * * *

    Coughing and bleeding from a dozen scrapes, Cadderly 
pulled himself out of the rockslide and stumbled across a 
small corridor. He fished in a pouch to bring forth his 
light tube, a cylindrical object with a continual light 
spell cast into it, the enchantment focused into an 
adjustable beam out one end. He had to find Danica. He had 
to see her again. That last image of her, the dragon's fiery 
breath falling over her, had him dizzy with fear.
    What would his life be without Danica? What would he say 
to the children? Everything about the life of Cadderly 
Bonaduce was wrapped inextricably around that wonderful and 
capable woman.
    Yes, capable, he pointedly told himself again and again, 
as he staggered along in the dusty corridor, pausing only 
once to cast a minor spell of healing upon a particularly 
deep cut on one shoulder. He bent over and coughed again, 
and spat out some dirt that had gotten into his throat.
    He shook his head, muttered again that he had to find 
her, and stood straight, pointing his light ahead-pointing 
his light so that it reflected off of the black skin of a 
drow.
    That beam stung Kimmuriel Oblodra's sensitive eyes, but 
he was not caught unawares by it.
    It all fell into place quickly for the intelligent 
priest. He had learned much of Jarlaxle in speaking with the 
drow and his assassin companion and had deduced much more 
with information gleaned from denizens of the lower planes. 
He was indeed surprised to see another dark elf- who could 
not be?-but he was far from overwhelmed.
    The drow and Cadderly stood ten paces apart, staring at 
each other, sizing each other up. Kimmuriel reached for the 
priest's mind with psionic energy-enough energy to crush the 
willpower of a normal man.
    But Cadderly Bonaduce was no normal human. The manner in 
which he accessed his god, the flowing song of Deneir, was 
somewhat akin to the powers of psionics. It was a method of 
the purest mental discipline.
    Cadderly could not lash out with his mind, as Kimmuriel 
had just done, but he could surely defend against such an 
attack, and furthermore, he surely recognized the attack for 
what it was.
    He thought of the Crystal Shard then, of all he knew 
about it, of its mannerisms and its powers.
    The drow psionicist waved a hand, breaking the mental 
connection, and drew out a gleaming sword. He enacted 
another psionic power, one that would physically enhance him 
for the coming fight.
    Cadderly did no similar preparations. He just stood 
staring at Kimmuriel and grinning knowingly. He cast one 
simple spell of translation.
    The drow regarded him curiously, inviting an 
explanation.
    "You wish Crenshinibon destroyed as much as I," the 
priest remarked, his magic translating the words as they 
came out of his mouth, "You are a psionicist, the bane of 
the Crystal Shard, its most hated enemy."
    Kimmuriel paused and stared hard, with his physical and 
his mental eye. "What do you know, foolish human?" he asked.
    "The Crystal Shard will not suffer you to live for 
long," Cadderly said, "and you know it."
    "You believe I would help a human against Rai-guy?" 
Kimmuriel asked incredulously.
    Cadderly didn't know who this Rai-guy might be, but 
Kimmuriel's question made it obvious that he was a dark elf 
of some power and importance.
    "Save yourself, then, and leave," Cadderly offered, and 
he said it with such calm and confidence that Kimmuriel 
narrowed his eyes and regarded him even more closely.
    Again came the psionic intrusions. This time Cadderly 
let the drow in somewhat, guided his probing mind's eye to 
the song of Deneir, let him see the truth of the power of 
the harmonious flow, let him see the truth of his doom 
should he persist in this battle.
    The psionic connection again went away, and Kimmuriel 
stood up straight, staring hard at Cadderly.
    "I am not normally this generous, dark elf," Cadderly 
said, "but I have greater problems before me. You hold no 
love for Crenshinibon and wish it destroyed perhaps more 
passionately than do I. If it is not, if your companion, 
this
    Rai-guy you spoke of, is allowed to possess it, it will 
be the end of you. So help me if you will in destroying the 
Crystal Shard. If you and your kin intend to return to your 
lightless home, I will in no way interfere."
    Kimmuriel held his impassive pose for a short while, and 
smiled and shook his head. "You will find Rai-guy a 
formidable foe," he promised, "especially with Crenshinibon 
in his possession."
    Before Cadderly could begin to respond, Kimmuriel waved 
his hand and became something less than corporeal. That 
transparent form turned and simply walked through the stone 
wall.
    Cadderly waited a long moment and breathed a huge sigh 
of relief. How he had improvised there and bluffed. The 
spells he had prepared this day were for dealing with 
dragons, not dark elves, and the power of that one was 
substantial indeed. He had felt that keenly with the psionic 
intrusions.
    Now he had a name, Rai-guy, and now his fears about the 
truth of Hephaestus's breathing had been confirmed. 
Cadderly, like Jarlaxle, understood enough about the mighty 
relic to know that if the breath had destroyed Crenshinibon, 
everyone in the area would have known it in no uncertain 
terms. Now Cadderly could guess easily enough where and how 
the Crystal Shard had gone. Knowing that there were other 
dark elves about, compounding the problem of one very angry 
red dragon, didn't make him feel any better about the 
prospects for his three missing friends.
    He started away as fast as he dared, and fell again into 
the song of Deneir, praying for guidance to Danica's side.
    "Always I seem doomed to protect those I most despise," 
Entreri whispered to Danica, motioning with his hand for the 
woman to shift over to the side.
    The dark elves broke ranks. One moved to square off 
against Danica, and Berg'inyon and one other headed for the 
assassin. Berglnyon waved his companion aside.
    "Kill the woman, and quickly," he said in the drow 
tongue. "I wish to try this one alone."
    Entreri glanced over at Danica and held up two fingers, 
pointing to the two that would go for her, and pointing to 
her. The woman gave a quick nod, and a great deal passed 
between them in that instant. She would try to keep the two 
dark elves busy, but both understood that Entreri would have 
to be done with the third quickly.
    "I have often wondered how I would fare against Drizzt 
Do'Urden," Berg'inyon said to the assassin. "Now that I will 
apparently never get the chance, I will settle for you, 
Drizzt's equal by all accounts."
    Entreri bowed. "It is good to know that I serve some 
value for you, cowardly son of House Baenre," he said.
    He knew as he came back up that Berg'inyon wouldn't 
hesitate in the face of those words. Still, the sheer 
ferocity of the drow's attack nearly had Entreri beaten 
before the fight ever really began. He leaped back, staying 
up on his heels, skittering away as the two swords came in 
hard, side by side down low, then low again, then high, then 
at his belly. He jumped back once, twice, thrice, then 
managed to bat his sword across those of Berg'inyon on the 
fourth double-thrust, hoping to drive the blades down low. 
This was no farmer he faced, and no orc or wererat, but a 
skilled, veteran drow warrior. Berg'inyon kept his left-
handed sword pressing up against the assassin's blade, but 
dropped his right into a quick circle, then came up and over 
hard.
    The jeweled dagger hooked it and turned it aside at the 
last second. Entreri rolled his other hand over, the tip of 
his own sword going toward Berg'inyon. He didn't follow 
through with the thrust, though, but continued the roll, 
bringing his blade down and around under the drow's, and 
stabbing straight ahead.
    Berg'inyon quickly turned his left-hand blade across his 
body and down, disengaged his right from the dagger and 
brought it across over the left, further driving Entreri's 
sword down. In the same fluid motion, the skilled drow 
rolled his right-hand blade up and over his crossing left, 
the blade going forward at the assassin's head, a brilliant 
move that Berg'inyon knew would be the end of Artemis 
Entreri.

                         * * * * *

    Across the way, Danica fared no better. Her fight was a 
mixture of pure chaos and lightning fast, almost violent 
movement. The woman crouched and dropped, sprang up hard, 
and rushed side to side, avoiding slash after slash of drow 
blades. These two were nowhere near as good as the one 
across the way battling her companion, but they were dark 
elves after all, and even the weakest of drow warriors was 
skilled by surface standards. Furthermore, they knew each 
other well and complemented each other's movements with 
deadly precision, preventing Danica from getting any real 
counterattacks. Every time one came ahead in a rush that 
seemed to offer the woman some hope of rolling past his 
double-thrusting blades, or even skittering in under them 
and kicking at a knee, the companion drow beat her to the 
potential attack zone, two gleaming swords holding her at 
bay.
    With those long blades and precise movements, they were 
working her to exhaustion. She had to react, to overreact 
even, to every thrust and slash. She had to leap away from a 
blade sent across by a mere flick of a drow wrist.
    She looked over at Entreri and the other drow, their 
blades ringing in a wild song and with the dark elf seeming, 
if anything, to be gaining an advantage. She knew she had to 
try something dangerous, even desperate.
    Danica came ahead in a rush, and cut left suddenly, 
bursting out to the side though she had only three strides 
to the wall. Seeing her apparently caught, the closest dark 
elf cut fast in pursuit, stabbing at... nothing.
    Danica ran right up the wall, turning over as she went 
and kicking out into a backward somersault that brought her 
down and to the side of the pursuing dark elf. She fell low 
as she landed and spun around viciously, one leg extended to 
kick out the dark elf s legs.
    She would have had him, but there was his companion, 
swords extended, blade driving deeply into Danica's thigh. 
She howled and scrambled back, kicking futilely at the 
pursuing dark elves.
    A globe of darkness fell over her. She slammed her back 
against the stone and had nowhere left to go.
    He ran along, with the less-than-corporeal Kimmuriel 
Oblodra following close behind.
    "You seek an exit?" the drow psionicist asked with a 
voice that seemed impossibly thin.
    "I seek my friends," Cadderly replied.
    "They are out of the mountain, likely," Kimmuriel 
remarked, and that slowed the priest considerably.
    For indeed, would not Danica and the dwarves search for 
a way out of the mountain-and there were many easy exits 
from the lower tunnels, Cadderly knew from his searching of 
the place before this journey. Dozens of corridors 
crisscrossed down there, but a quiet pause and a lifted and 
wetted finger would show the drafts of air. Certainly Ivan 
and Pikel would have little trouble in finding their way out 
of the underground maze, but what of Danica?
    "Something comes this way," Kimmuriel warned, and 
Cadderly turned to see the drow shrink back against the 
wall, and stand perfectly still, seeming simply to 
disappear.
    Cadderly knew the drow wouldn't aid him in any fight and 
would likely even join in if the approaching footsteps were 
those of Kimmuriel's dark elf companions.
    They were not, Cadderly knew almost as soon as that 
worry cropped up, for these were not the steps of any 
stealthy creature.
    "Ye stupid doo-dad!" came the roar of a familiar voice. 
"Droppin' me in a hole, and one full o' rocks!"
    "Ooo oi!" Pikel replied as they came bounding around the 
bend in the tunnel, right into the path of Cadderly's light 
beam.
    Ivan shrieked and started to charge, but Pikel grabbed 
him and pulled him down, whispering into his ear.
    "Hey, ye're right," the yellow-bearded dwarf admitted. 
"Damned drows don't use light."
    Cadderly came up beside them. "Where is Danica?"
    Any relief the two dwarves had felt at the sight of 
their friend disappeared immediately.
    "Help me find her!" Cadderly said to the dwarves and to 
Kimmuriel, as he spun around.
    Kimmuriel Oblodra, apparently fearing that Cadderly and 
his companions would not be safe traveling company, was 
already long gone.
    His smile, a wicked grin indeed, widened as one of his 
blades came up over the other, for he knew that Entreri had 
nothing left with which to parry. Out went Berg'inyon's 
killing stab.
    But the assassin was not there!
    Berg'inyon's thoughts whirled frantically. Where had he 
gone? How were his weapons still in place with the previous 
parries? He knew Entreri could not have moved far, and yet, 
he was not there.
    The angle of the sudden disengage clued Berg'inyon in to 
the truth, told the drow that in the same moment Berg'inyon 
had executed the roll, Entreri had also come forward, but 
down low, using Berg'inyon's own blade as the visual block.
    The dark elf silently congratulated the cunning human, 
this man rumored to be the equal of Drizzt Do'Urden, even as 
he felt the jeweled dagger sliding into his back, reaching 
for his heart.
    "You should have kept one of your lackeys with you," 
Entreri whispered in the drow's ear, easing the dying 
Berg'inyon Baenre to the floor. "He could have died beside 
you."
    The assassin pulled free his dagger and turned around to 
consider the woman. He saw her get slashed, saw her skitter 
away, saw the globe fall over her.
    Entreri winced as the two dark elves-too far away for 
him to offer any timely assistance-rolled out in opposite 
directions, flanking the woman and rushing into that 
darkness, swords before them.

                         * * * * *

    Just a split second before the darkness fell, the dark 
elf standing before Danica to the right began to execute a 
roll farther that way, spinning a circle to bring him around 
quickly and with momentum, the only clue for Danica.
    The other one, she guessed, was moving to her left, but 
both were surely coming in at a tight enough angle to 
prevent her from rushing straight ahead between them. Those 
three options: left, right, and ahead, were unavailable, as 
was moving back, for the stone of the wall was solid indeed.
    She sensed their movements, not specifically, but enough 
to realize that they were coming in fast for the kill.
    One option presented itself. One alone.
    Danica leaped straight up, tucking her legs under her, 
so full of desperation that she hardly felt the burn of the 
wound in her thigh.
    She couldn't see the double-thrust low attack of the 
drow to her right, nor the double-thrust high attack from 
the one on the left, but she felt the disturbance below her 
as she cleared both sets of blades. She came up high in a 
tuck, and kicked out to both sides with a sudden and 
devastating spreading snap of her legs.
    She connected on both sides, driving a foot into the 
forehead of the drow on her right, and another into the 
throat of the drow on her left. She pressed through to 
complete extension, sending both dark elves flying away. She 
landed in perfect balance and burst ahead three running 
steps. A forward dive brought her rolling out of the 
darkness. She came up and around-to see the dark elf now on 
her left, and the one she had kicked on the forehead, still 
staggering backward out of the darkness globe and into the 
waiting grasp of Artemis Entreri.
    The drow jerked suddenly, violently, and Entreri's fine 
sword exploded through his chest. The assassin held it there 
for a moment, let Charon's Claw work its demonic power, and 
the dark elf s face began to smolder, burn, and roll back 
from his skull.
    Danica looked away, focusing on the darkness, waiting 
for the other dark elf to come rushing out. Blood was 
pouring from her wounded leg, and her strength was fast 
receding.
    She was too lightheaded a moment later to hear the final 
gurgling of the drow dying in the darkness globe, its throat 
too crushed to bring in anymore air, but even if she had 
heard that reassuring sound, it would have done little to 
bolster her hopes.
    She could not hold her footing, she knew, or her 
consciousness.
    Artemis Entreri, surely no ally, was still very much 
alive, and very, very close.

                         * * * * *

    Yharaskrik was overwhelmed. The combination of Rai-guy's 
magic and the continuing mental attack of the Crystal Shard 
had the illithid completely overmatched. Yharaskrik couldn't 
even focus its mental energies enough at that moment to melt 
away through the stone, away from the imprisoning goo.
    "Surrender!" the drow wizard-cleric demanded. "You 
cannot escape us. We will take your word that you will 
promise fealty to us," the drow explained, oblivious to the 
shadowy form that darted out behind him to retrieve an item. 
"Crenshinibon will know if you lie, but if you speak of 
honest fealty, you will be rewarded!"
    Indeed, as the dark elf proclaimed those words, 
Crenshinibon echoed them deep in Yharaskrik's mind. The 
thought of servitude to Crenshinibon, one of the most hated 
artifacts for all of the mind flayers, surely repulsed the 
bulbous-headed creature, but so, too, did the thought of 
obliteration. That was precisely what Yharaskrik faced. The 
illithid could not win, could not escape. Crenshinibon would 
melt its mind even as Rai-guy blasted its body.
    I yield, the illithid telepathically communicated to 
both of its attackers.
    Rai-guy relented his magic and considered Crenshinibon. 
The artifact informed him that Yharaskrik had truthfully 
surrendered.
    "Wisely done," the drow said to the illithid. "What a 
waste your death would be when you might bolster my army, 
when you might serve me as liaison to your powerful people."
    "My people hate Crenshinibon and will not hear those 
calls," Yharaskrik said in its watery voice.
    "But you understand differently," said the drow. He 
spoke a quick spell, dissolving the goo around the illithid. 
"You see the value of it now."
    "A value above that of death, yes," Yharaskrik admitted, 
climbing back to its feet.
    "Well, well, my traitorous lieutenant," came a voice 
from the side. Both Rai-guy and Yharaskrik turned to see 
Jarlaxle perched a bit higher on the wall, tucked into an 
alcove.
    Rai-guy growled and called upon Crenshinibon mentally to 
crush his former master. Even as he started that silent 
call, up came the magical lantern. Its glow fell over the 
artifact, defeating its powers.
    Rai-guy growled again. "You need do more than defeat the 
artifact!" he roared and swept his arm out toward 
Yharaskrik. "Have you met my new friend?"
    "Indeed, and formidable," Jarlaxle admitted, tipping his 
wide-brimmed hat in deference to the powerful illithid. 
"Have you met mine?" As he finished, his gaze aimed to the 
side, further along the wide tunnel.
    Rai-guy swallowed hard, knowing the truth before he even 
turned that way. He began waving his arms wildly, trying to 
bring up some defensive magic.
    Using his innate drow abilities, Jarlaxle dropped a 
globe of darkness over the wizard and the mind flayer, a 
split second before Hephaestus's fiery breath fell over 
them, immolating them in a terrible blast of devastation.
    Jarlaxle leaned back and shielded his eyes from the glow 
of the fire, the reddish-orange line that so disappeared 
into the blackness.
    Then there came a sudden sizzling noise, and the 
darkness was no more. The tunnel reverted to its normal 
blackness, lightened somewhat by the glow of the dragon. 
That light intensified a hundred times over, a thousand 
times over, into a brilliant glow, as if the sun itself had 
fallen upon them.
    Crenshinibon, Jarlaxle realized. The dragon's breath had 
done its work, and the binding energy of the artifact had 
been breached. In the moment before the glare became too 
great, Jarlaxle saw the surprised look on the reptilian face 
of the great wyrm, saw the charred corpse of his former 
lieutenant, and saw a weird image of Yharaskrik, for the 
illithid had begun to melt into the stone when Hephaestus 
had breathed. The retreat had done little good, since 
Hephaestus's breath had bubbled the stone.
    It was soon too bright for the eyes of the drow. "Well 
fired . . . er, breathed," he said to Hephaestus.
    Jarlaxle spun around, slipped through a crack at the 
back of the alcove, and sprinted away not a moment too soon. 
Hephaestus's terrible breath came forth yet again, melting 
the stone in the alcove, chasing Jarlaxle down the tunnel, 
and singeing the seat of his trousers.
    He ran and ran in the still-brightening light. Cren-
shinibon's releasing power filled every crack in every 
stone. Soon Jarlaxle knew he was near the outside wall, and 
so he utilized his magical hole again, throwing it against 
the wall and crawling through into the twilight of the 
outside beyond.
    That area, too, brightened immediately and considerably, 
seeming as if the sun had risen. The light poured through 
Jarlaxle's magical hole. With a snap of his wrist, the drow 
took the magic item away, closing the portal and dimming the 
area to natural light again-except for the myriad beams 
shooting out of the glowing mountain in other places.
    "Danica!" came Cadderly's frantic call behind him. 
"Where is Danica?"
    Jarlaxle turned to see the priest and the two bumbling 
dwarves-an odd pair of brothers if ever the drow had seen 
one-running toward him.
    "She went down the hole after Artemis Entreri," Jarlaxle 
said in a comforting tone. "A fine and resourceful ally."
    "Boom!" said Pikel Bouldershoulder.
    "What's the light about?" Ivan added.
    Jarlaxle looked back to the mountain and shrugged. "It 
would seem that your formula for defeating the Crystal Shard 
was correct after all," the drow said to Cadderly.
    He turned with a smile, but that look was not reflected 
on the face of the priest. He was staring back at the 
mountain with horror, wondering and worrying about his dear 
wife.
    
                        Chapter 25
                   THE LIGHT AT THE END
                      OF THE TUNNEL

    Hephaestus was an intelligent dragon, smart enough to 
master many powerful spells, to speak the tongues of a dozen 
races, to defeat all of the many, many foes who had come 
against it. The dragon had lived for centuries, gaining 
wisdom as dragons do, and in that depth of wisdom, 
Hephaestus recognized that it should not be staring at the 
brilliance of the Crystal Shard's released energy.
    But the dragon could not turn away from the brilliance, 
from the sheerest and brightest, the purest power it had 
ever seen.
    The wyrm marveled as a skeletal shadow rolled out of the 
brilliantly glowing object, then another, and a third, and 
so on, until the specters of seven long-consumed liches 
danced about the destroyed Crystal Shard, as they had danced 
around the object during its dark creation.
    Then, one by one, they dissipated into nothingness.
    The dragon stared incredulously, feeling the honest 
emotions as clearly as if it were empathically bound to the 
next form that flowed out of the artifact, the shadow of a 
man, hunched and broken with sadness. The stolen soul of the 
long-dead sheik sat on the floor, staring at the stone 
forlornly, an aura so devastated flowing out from the shadow 
that Hephaestus the Merciless felt a twinge in its cold 
heart.
    That last specter, too, thinned to nothingness, and, 
finally, the light of the Crystal Shard dimmed.
    Only then did Hephaestus recognize the depth of its 
mistake. Only then did the ancient red dragon realize that 
it was now totally blind, its eyes utterly destroyed by the 
pureness of the power released.
    The dragon roared-how it roared! The greatest scream of 
anger, of rage, that ever-angry Hephaestus had ever issued. 
In that roar, too, was a measure of fear, of regret, of the 
realization that the wyrm could not dare go forth from its 
lair to pursue the intruders who had brought this cursed 
item before it, could not go out from the confines to the 
open world where it would need its eyes as well as those 
other keen senses to truly thrive, indeed to survive.
    Hephaestus's olfactory senses told the wyrm that it had 
at least destroyed the drow and the illithid that had been 
standing in the corridor a few moments before. Taking that 
satisfaction in the realization that it was likely the only 
satisfaction Hephaestus could hope to find this day, the 
wyrm retreated to the large chamber secretly and magically 
concealed behind its main sleeping hall, the chamber where 
there was only one possible entrance, and the one where the 
dragon kept its piled hoard of gold, gems, jewels, and 
trinkets.
    There the outraged but defeated wyrm curled up again, 
desiring sleep, peaceful slumber among its hoarded riches, 
hoping that the passing years would cure its burned eyes. It 
would dream, yes it would, of consuming those intruders, and 
it would set its great intelligent mind to work at solving 
the problem of blindness if the slumber did not bring the 
desired cure.

                         * * * * *

    Cadderly nearly leaped for joy when the form came 
rushing out of the tunnels, but when he recognized the 
running man for who he was, Artemis Entreri, and noted that 
the woman slung across his shoulders was hardly moving and 
was covered in blood, his heart sank fast.
    "What'd ye do to her?" Ivan roared, starting forward, 
but he found that he was moving slowly, as if in a dream. He 
looked to Pikel and found that his brother, too, was moving 
with unnatural sluggishness.
    "Be at ease," Jarlaxle said to them. "Danica's wounds 
are not of Entreri's doing."
    "How can ye know?" Ivan demanded.
    "He would have left her dead in the darkness," the drow 
reasoned, and the simple logic of it did indeed calm the 
volatile brothers a bit.
    Cadderly, though, ran on. As he was beyond the 
parameters of Jarlaxle's spell when it was cast, he was not 
slowed in the least. He rushed up to Entreri, who, upon 
seeing his approach, had stopped and turned one shoulder 
down, moving Danica to a standing, or at least leaning, 
position.
    "Drow blade," the assassin said as soon as Cadderly got 
close enough to see the wound-and the feeble attempt at 
tying it off the assassin had made.
    The priest went to work at once, falling into the song 
of Deneir, bringing forth all the healing energies he could 
find. Indeed, he discovered to his absolute relief that his 
love's wounds were not so critical, that she would certainly 
mend and quickly enough.
    By the time he finished, the Bouldershoulders and 
Jarlaxle had arrived. Cadderly looked up at the dwarves and 
smiled and nodded, and turned a puzzled expression on the 
assassin.
    "Her actions saved me in the tunnels," Entreri said 
sourly. "I do not enjoy being in anyone's debt." That said, 
he walked away, not once looking back.
    Cadderly and his companions, including Danica, caught up 
to Entreri and Jarlaxle later on that day, after it became 
apparent, to everyone's relief, that Hephaestus would not be 
coming out of its lair in pursuit.
    "We are returning to the Spirit Soaring with the same 
spell that brought us here," the priest announced. "It would 
be impolite, at least, if I did not offer you magical 
transport for the journey back."
    Jarlaxle looked at him curiously.
    "No tricks," Cadderly assured the cagey drow. "I hold no 
trials over either of you, for your actions have been no 
less than honorable since you came to my domain. I do warn 
you both, however, that I will tolerate no-"
    "Why would we wish to return with you?" Artemis Entreri 
cut him short. "What in your hole of falsehood is for our 
gain?"
    Cadderly started to respond-in many directions all at 
once. He wanted to yell at the man, to coerce the man, to 
convert the man, to destroy the man-anything he could do 
against that sudden wall of negativism. In the end, he said 
not a word, for indeed, what at the Spirit Soaring would be 
for the benefit of these two?
    Much, he supposed, if they desired to mend their souls 
and their ways. Entreri's actions with Danica did hint that 
there might indeed be a possibility of that in the future. 
On a whim, the priest entered Deneir's song and brought 
forth a minor spell, one that revealed the general weal of 
those he surveyed.
    A quick look at Entreri and Jarlaxle was all he needed 
to confirm that the Spirit Soaring, Carradoon, Shilmista 
Forest, and all the region about that section of the 
Snowflake Mountains would be better off if these two went in 
the opposite direction.
    "Farewell, then," he said with a tip of his hat. "At 
least you found the opportunity to do one noble act in your 
wretched existence, Artemis Entreri." He walked by the pair, 
Ivan and Pikel in tow.
    Danica took her time, though, eyeing Entreri with every 
step. "I am not ungrateful for what you did when my wound 
overcame me," she admitted, "but neither would I shy from 
finishing that which we started in the tunnels below 
Hephaestus's lair."
    Entreri started to say, "To what end?" but changed his 
mind before the first word had escaped his lips. He merely 
shrugged, smiled, and let the woman pass.
    "A new rival for Entreri?" Jarlaxle remarked when the 
four had gone. "A replacement for Drizzt, perhaps?"
    "Hardly," Entreri replied.
    "She is not worthy, then?"
    The assassin only shrugged, not caring enough to try to 
determine whether she was or not.
    Jarlaxle's laugh brought him from his contemplation.
    "Growth," the drow remarked.
    "I warn you that I'll tolerate little of your 
judgments," Entreri replied.
    Jarlaxle laughed all the harder. "Then you plan to 
remain with me."
    Entreri looked at him hard, stealing the mirth, 
considering a question that he could not immediately answer.
    "Very well, then," Jarlaxle said lightheartedly, as if 
he took the silence as confirmation. "But I warn you, if you 
cross me, I will have to kill you."
    "That will be difficult to do from beyond the grave," 
Entreri promised.
    Jarlaxle laughed once more. "When I was young," he 
began, "a friend of mine, a weapon master whose ultimate 
frustration was that he believed I was the better fighter- 
though in truth, the one time I bested him was more good 
fortune than superior skill-remarked to me that at last he 
had found one who would grow to be at least my equal, and 
perhaps my superior, a child, really, who showed more 
promise as a warrior than any before.
    "That weapon master's name was Zaknafein-you may have 
heard of him," Jarlaxle went on.
    Entreri shook his head.
    "The young warrior he spoke of was none other than 
Drizzt Do'Urden," Jarlaxle explained with a grin.
    Entreri tried hard to show no emotion, but his inner 
feelings at the surprise betrayed him a tiny bit, and 
certainly enough for Jarlaxle to note it. "And did the 
prophecy of Zaknafein come true?" Entreri asked.
    "If it did, does that hold any revelation for Artemis 
Entreri?" Jarlaxle asked slyly. "For would discovering the 
relative strength of Drizzt and Jarlaxle tell Entreri 
anything pertinent? How does Artemis Entreri believe he 
measures up against Drizzt Do'Urden?" Then the critical 
question: "Does Entreri believe he truly defeated Drizzt?"
    Entreri looked at Jarlaxle long and hard, but as he 
stared, his expression inevitably softened. "Does it 
matter?" he answered, and that indeed was the answer that 
Jarlaxle most wanted to hear from his new, and, to his way 
of thinking, long-term companion.
    "We are not yet done here," Jarlaxle announced then, 
changing the subject abruptly. "There is one group lingering 
about, fearful and angry. Their leader has decided that he 
cannot leave yet, not with things as they stand."
    Entreri didn't ask, but just followed Jarlaxle as the 
dark elf made his way around the outcroppings of mountain 
stone. The assassin fell back a few steps when he saw the 
group Jarlaxle had spoken of: four dark elves led by a 
dangerous psionicist. Entreri put his hands immediately to 
the hilt of his deadly dagger and sword. A short distance 
away, Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel spoke in the drow tongue, but 
Entreri could make out most of their words.
    "Do we battle now?" Kimmuriel Oblodra asked when 
Jarlaxle neared.
    "Rai-guy is dead, the Crystal Shard destroyed," Jarlaxle 
replied. "What would be the purpose?"
    Entreri noted that Kimmuriel did not wince at either 
proclamation.
    "Ah, but I guess that you have tasted the sweetness of 
power, yes?" Jarlaxle asked with a chuckle. "You are seated 
at the head of Bregan D'aerthe now, it would seem, and you 
suppose all by yourself. You have little desire to 
relinquish your garnered position?"
    Kimmuriel started to shake his head-it was obvious to 
Entreri that he was about to try to make peace here with 
Jarlaxle-but the surprising Jarlaxle cut short Kim-muriel's 
response. "Very well then!" Jarlaxle said dramatically. "I 
have little desire for yet another fight, Kimmuriel, and I 
accept and understand that my actions of late have likely 
earned me too many enemies within the ranks of Bregan 
D'aerthe for my return as leader."
    "You are surrendering?" Kimmuriel asked doubtfully, and 
he seemed even more on his guard then, as did the foot-
soldiers standing behind him.
    "Hardly," Jarlaxle replied with another chuckle. "And I 
warn you, if you continue to do battle with me, or even to 
pursue me and track my whereabouts, I will indeed challenge 
you for the position you have rightly earned."
    Entreri listened intently, shaking his head, certain 
that he must be getting some of the words, at least, very 
wrong.
    Kimmuriel started to respond, but stuttered over a few 
words, and just gave up with a great sigh.
    "Do well with Bregan D'aerthe," Jarlaxle warned. "I will 
rejoin you one day and will demand of you that we share the 
leadership. I expect to find a band of mercenaries as strong 
as the one I now willingly leave behind." He looked to the 
other three. "Serve him with honor."
    "Any reunion between us will not be in Calimport," 
Kimmuriel assured him, "nor anywhere else on the cursed 
surface. I am bound for home, Jarlaxle, back to the caverns 
that are our true domain."
    Jarlaxle nodded, as did the three foot-soldiers.
    "And you?" Kimmuriel asked.
    The former mercenary leader only shrugged and smiled 
again. "I cannot know where I most wish to be because I have 
not seen all that there is."
    Again, Kimmuriel could only stare at his former leader 
curiously. In the end, he merely nodded and, with a snap of 
his fingers and a thought, opened a dimensional portal 
through which he and his three minions passed.
    "Why?" Entreri asked, moving up beside his unexpected 
companion.
    "Why?" Jarlaxle echoed.
    "You could have returned with them," the assassin 
clarified, "though I'd have never gone with you. You chose 
not to go, not to resume control of your band. Why would you 
give that up to remain out here, to remain beside me?"
    Jarlaxle thought it over for a few moments. Then, using 
words that Entreri himself had used before, he said with a 
laugh, "Perhaps I hate drow more than I hate humans."
    In that instant, Artemis Entreri could have been blown 
over by a gentle breeze. He didn't even want to know how 
Jarlaxle had known to say that.
    
                          Epilogue

    For days, Entreri and Jarlaxle wandered the region, at 
last happening upon a town where the folk had heard of 
Drizzt Do'Urden and seemed, at least, to accept the imposter 
Jar-laxle's presence.
    In the nondescript and ramshackle little common house 
that served as a tavern, Artemis Entreri discovered a 
posting that he found, in light of his present situation, 
somewhat promising.
    "Bounty hunters?" Jarlaxle asked with surprise when 
Entreri presented the posting to him. The drow was sitting 
in a corner, sipping wine and with his back to the corner. 
"A call by the forces of justice for bounty hunters?" "A 
call by someone," Entreri corrected, sliding into a chair 
across the table. "Whether it begets justice or not seems of 
little consequence."
    Jarlaxle looked at him with a wry grin. "Does it?" he 
said, seeming less than convinced. "And what gain did you 
derive, then, from carrying Danica from the tunnels?"
    "The gain of keeping a powerful priest from becoming an 
enemy," the pragmatic Entreri answered coldly.
    "Or perhaps there was more," said Jarlaxle. "Perhaps 
Artemis Entreri had not the heart to let the woman die alone 
in the darkness."
    Entreri shrugged as if it did not matter.
    "How many of Artemis Entreri's victims would be 
surprised?" Jarlaxle asked, pressing the point.
    "How many of Artemis Entreri's victims deserved better 
than they found?" the assassin retorted.
    There it was, Jarlaxle knew, the justification for a 
life lived in the shadows. To a degree, the drow, who had 
survived among shadows darker than anything Entreri had ever 
known, couldn't rightfully disagree. Perhaps, in that 
context, there was more to the measure of Artemis Entreri. 
Still, the transformation of this killer to the side of 
justice seemed a curious and odd occurrence.
    "Artemis the Compassionate?" he had to ask.
    Entreri sat perfectly still for a moment, digesting the 
words. "Perhaps," he said with a nod. "And perhaps if you 
keep saying foolish things, I will show you some compassion 
and kill you quickly. Then again, perhaps not."
    Jarlaxle enjoyed a great laugh at that, at the absurdity 
of it all, of the newfound life that loomed before him. He 
understood Entreri well enough to take the man's threats 
seriously, but in truth, the dark elf trusted Entreri the 
way he would trust one of his own brothers.
    However, Jarlaxle Baenre, the third son of Matron 
Baenre, once sacrificed to Lady Lolth by his mother and his 
siblings, knew better than to trust his own brother.
