Road of the Patriarch (The Sellswords #3)
Page 7UNSHACKLED
To the outside world, even to Artemis Entreri, it was a simple bakery, the place where chef Piter worked his wonders. After the sun set over Heliogabalus, Piter and his workers went home and the doors were locked, not to be opened again until the pre-dawn hours each and every day.
Entreri likely understood that the place was a bit more than that, Jarlaxle realized. Its pretensions as a simple bakery served as a front, a token of legitimacy for Jarlaxle. How might Entreri react, the drow wondered, if he discovered that Piter's bakery was also a conduit to the Underdark?
It was after dark and the door was locked. Jarlaxle, of course, had a key. He walked past the storefront casually, his gaze sweeping the area and taking in his surroundings to be certain that no one was watching.
He walked past again a few moments later, after a second inspection of the area, and quietly entered and secured the portal behind him, both with his key and with a minor incantation. In the back room, the drow moved to the leftmost of the three large ovens. He glanced over his shoulder one last time, then climbed almost completely into the oven. He reached up into the chimney, holding forth a small silver chime, and lightly tapped it against the brick.
Then he climbed back out and brushed the soot from his clothing - none of the soot was stubborn enough to cling to Jarlaxle's magical garb.
He waited patiently as the minutes slipped past, confident that his call had been heard. Finally, a form bubbled out of the oven's base, sliding effortlessly through the bricks. It grew and extended, seemed no more than a shadow, but gradually took on a humanoid shape.
Shadow became substance and Kimmuriel Oblodra, the psionicist who had been Jarlaxle's principle lieutenant in the mercenary band Bregan D'aerthe, blinked open his eyes.
"You keep me waiting," Jarlaxle remarked.
"You call at inconvenient times," Kimmuriel replied. "I have an organization to run."
Jarlaxle grinned and bowed in response. "And how fares Bregan D'aerthe, my old friend?"
"We thrive. Now that we have abandoned expansionist designs, that is. We are creatures of the Underdark, of Menzoberranzan, and there - "
"You thrive," Jarlaxle dryly finished. "Yes, I get the point."
"But it seems one that you stubbornly refuse to accept," Kimmuriel dared to argue. "You have not abandoned your designs for a kingdom in the World Above."
"A connection to greater treasures," Jarlaxle corrected, and Kimmuriel shrugged. "I will not repeat my errors perpetrated under the influence of Crenshinibon, but neither will I recoil from opportunity."
"Opportunity in the land of a paladin king?"
"Wherever it may be found."
Kimmuriel slowly shook his head.
"We are heroes of the crown, do you not know?" Jarlaxle said. "My companion is a knight of the Army of Bloodstone. Can a barony be far behind?"
"Underestimate Gareth and his friends at your peril," the psionicist warned. "I set spies to watch them from afar, as you instructed. They are not blind fools who accept your tales at face value. They have dispatched emissaries to Palishchuk and to the castle already, and they even now question their informants in Heliogabalus and in other cities, whose primary duties involve keeping track of the movements of the Citadel of Assassins."
"I would be disappointed if they were inept," Jarlaxle replied casually, as if it did not matter.
"I warn you, Jarlaxle. You will find Gareth and those adventurers who stand beside him to be the most formidable foes you have ever faced."
"I have faced the matron mothers of Menzoberranzan," the drow reminded him.
"Who were ever kept at bay by the edicts of Lady Lolth herself. Those matron mothers knew that they would displease the Spider Queen if they brought harm upon one she had so blessed as Jar - "
"I do not need you to recount my life's history to me."
"Do you not?"
The ever-confident Jarlaxle couldn't help but wince at that statement, for of course it was true. Jarlaxle had been blessed by the Spider Queen, had been ordained as one of her agents of tumult and chaos. Lady Lolth, the demon queen of chaos, had rejected Matron Baenre's sacrifice of her third-born son, as was drow tradition. Due to the work of one loyal to Lolth, Baenre's spider-shaped dagger had not penetrated the babe Jarlaxle's tender flesh, and when Lolth had magically granted Jarlaxle the memories of his infancy, of that fateful night in House Baenre, he had keenly felt his mother's desperation. How she had ground that spider-shaped dagger on his chest, terrified that the rejection of her sacrifice had portended doom for her supreme House.
"Matron Baenre learned centuries ago that her own fate was inextricably tied to that of Jarlaxle," Kimmuriel, one of only three living drow who knew the truth, went on. "Ever were her hands tied from retaliating against you, even on those many occasions she desperately wanted to cut out your heart."
"Lady Lolth spurned me long ago, my friend." Jarlaxle tried hard not to betray any emotions other than his typically flippant attitude, but it was difficult. On his mother's orders, the failure of the sacrificial ceremony had been buried beneath a swath of lies. She had ordered him declared dead, then wrapped in a shroud of silk and thrown into the lake known as Donigarten, as was customary for sacrificed third sons.
"But Baenre never knew of your betrayal of the Spider Queen, and her rejection of you as her favored drow," said Kimmuriel. "To Matron Baenre, to her dying breath, you were the untouchable one, the one whose flesh her dagger could not penetrate. The blessed child who, as a mere infant, utterly and completely destroyed his older brother."
"Do you suggest that I should have told the witch?"
"Hardly. I only remind you in the context of your present state," Kimmuriel said, and he offered his former master a low and respectful bow.
"Baenre found me, and Bregan D'aerthe, to be a powerful and necessary ally."
"And so Bregan D'aerthe remains an ally to House Baenre, and Matron Mother Triel, under the guidance of Kimmuriel," the psionicist said.
Jarlaxle nodded. "Kimmuriel is no fool, which is why I entrusted Bregan D'aerthe to you during my... my journey."
"Your relationship with the matron mothers was not akin to the one you now seem determined to forge in the Bloodstone Lands," Kimmuriel stated. "King Gareth will not suffer such treachery."
"You presume I will offer him a choice."
"You presume that you will hold the upper hand. Your predecessor in this adventure, a Witch-King of tremendous power, learned the error of his ways."
"And perhaps I have learned from Zhengyi's failure."
"But have you learned from your own?" Kimmuriel dared to say, and for just a brief instant, Jarlaxle's red eyes flared with anger. "You nearly brought ruin to Bregan D'aerthe," Kimmuriel pressed anyway.
"I was under the influence of a mighty artifact. My vision was clouded."
Jarlaxle took a step back, surprised by Kimmuriel's forwardness. He let his anger play out to a state of grudging acceptance - that was exactly why he had given Bregan D'aerthe over to Kimmuriel, after all. Jarlaxle had chosen a road of adventure and personal growth, one that could have proven disastrous for Bregan D'aerthe had he dragged them along. But with the possibilities he had found in Vaasa and Damara, was he, perhaps, dragging them right back into the path of ruin?
No, Jarlaxle realized as he considered his dark elf counterpart, the intelligent and independent psionicist who dared to speak to him so bluntly.
A smile grew upon his face as he looked over his friend. "There are possibilities here I cannot ignore," he said.
"Intriguing, I agree."
"But not enough to bring Bregan D'aerthe to my side should I need them," Jarlaxle reasoned.
"Not enough to risk Bregan D'aerthe. That was our agreement, was it not? Did you not install me as leader for the very purpose of building a wall between that which you created and that which you would gamble?"
Jarlaxle laughed aloud at the truth in that.
"I am wiser than I know," he said, and Kimmuriel would have laughed with him, if Kimmuriel ever laughed.
"But you will continue to monitor, of course," Jarlaxle said, and Kimmuriel nodded. "I have another duty for you."
"My network is stretched thin."
Jarlaxle shook his head. "Not for your spies, but for yourself. There is a woman, Calihye. She did not travel south with me and Entreri, though she is his lover."
"That one is not possessed of the frailties that would allow for such unreasonable emotions," Kimmuriel corrected. "She is his partner for physical release, perhaps, but it could be no more with Artemis Entreri. It is the one thing about the fool that I applaud."
"Perhaps that is the reason I find comfort around him. His demeanor reminds me of home."
Kimmuriel didn't react at all, and Jarlaxle figured the psionicist, so cunning regarding the larger issues of life but so oblivious about the little truths of existence, hadn't even realized the comparison of himself to Entreri.
"I see no incongruity between her actions and her professed intent," Jarlaxle explained, a code he had often used with his invasive lieutenant.
Kimmuriel bowed, showing his understanding.
"You will continue to monitor?" Jarlaxle asked.
"And to inform," Kimmuriel assured him. "I do not abandon you, Jarlaxle. Never that."
"Never?"
"To date," Kimmuriel said, and despite himself, he did chortle a bit.
"It could get very dangerous here," Jarlaxle finally admitted.
"You play dangerous games with dangerous enemies."
"If it comes to war, I am well-prepared," said Jarlaxle. "The armies of the nether world await my call, and Zhengyi left behind constructs that are continually self-protecting."
"You will claim the castle."
"I already have. I own he who owns it. The dracolich is mine to command. As I said, I am well prepared. Better prepared if Bregan D'aerthe offered support. Quietly, of course."
"If it escalates, I will watch and I will judge what is best for Bregan D'aerthe," said Kimmuriel.
Jarlaxle grinned and bowed. "You will offer me an escape, of course."
"I will watch and I will judge," the psionicist said again.
Jarlaxle had to accept that. His deal with Kimmuriel precipitated on the fulcrum of Kimmuriel's independence. Kimmuriel, and not Jarlaxle, ruled Bregan D'aerthe, and would continue to until Jarlaxle returned to Menzoberranzan and formally retrieved his throne. That was as they had agreed upon after the destruction of the Crystal Shard. Neither held any illusions about that agreement, of course. Jarlaxle knew that if he stayed away from his homeland for too long, allowing Kimmuriel to make inroads into the supportive relationships Jarlaxle had built within the City of Spiders, then Kimmuriel would not relinquish control of Bregan D'aerthe without a fight.
Jarlaxle also knew that calling upon Kimmuriel in times of desperation was a risky prospect indeed, for if Kimmuriel allowed him to fall, the psionicist would stand unopposed as leader of the profitable mercenary band. But Jarlaxle understood well the drow who served as his steward. Kimmuriel had never coveted power over other drow, as had Rai-guy or Berg'inyon Baenre, or any of the other notables in the band. Kimmuriel's designs dwelt in the realm of the intellect. He was a psionicist, a creature of thought and introspection. Kimmuriel preferred intellectual sparring with illithids to bargaining for position with the wretched matron mothers of Menzoberranzan. He would rather spend his day destroying brain moles or visiting the Astral abodes of githyanki than reporting his findings to Matron Mother Triel or maneuvering Bregan D'aerthe's warriors to capitalize on any dramatic events in the nearly constant intra-House warfare.
"You try to build here," Kimmuriel remarked even as he started into the chimney and his magical road back to the Underdark. "You grasp to create something on the World Above, yet no matter your success, it could not rival that which awaits you in Menzoberranzan. I try to understand you, Jarlaxle, but even my brilliance is no match for your unpredictability. What is it you seek here that does not already await you in our homeland?"
Freedom, Jarlaxle thought, but did not say.
Of course, Kimmuriel was a psionicist, and a powerful one indeed, so Jarlaxle never really had to "say" anything to him to get his point across.
Kimmuriel stared at him for a few moments, then slowly nodded. "There is no freedom," he finally said. "There is only survival."
When Jarlaxle didn't immediately respond, the steward of Bregan D'aerthe slipped into the chimney and melted into the stone.
Jarlaxle stood staring into the oven for a long while, fearing that Kimmuriel was right.
The roadway formed a wide circle inside the sharp right angle of Heliogabalus's wall, a cul-de-sac of mercantiles. Ilnezhara's shop was nearby, as was Tazmikella's. Dozens of chandlers, cobblers, blacksmiths, weavers, tailors, wheelwrights, importers, bakers, and other craftsmen and tradesmen of every imaginable stripe made Wall's Around their working home.
A large, three-tiered fountain centered the cul-de-sac, water dribbling from top to bottom without much energy, more of a continual rolling overflow. As he had envisioned it during his approach, Entreri had thought to use the fountain as his base, his vantage point to watch the scripted attack play out around him. But as he came through another alley to gain his third angle on the fountain, he realized that Knellict's hired highwayman had beaten him to it. The man was cleverly curled inside the second bowl, and only the uneven drip of the water had clued the assassin in to the fact that something was amiss.
He considered the highwayman's dark form and sensed patience and discipline - he was no novice.
With a nod, Entreri faded back into the shadows of the alley, grabbed a rail, and scaled the side of one shop, propelling himself to the roof. Low at the edge, he studied the fountain again, though he couldn't see the would-be assailant from that angle. Silent as a shadow, he slipped from roof to roof, circling the cul-de-sac, taking in a full view of the layout.
The assassin froze in place then slipped lower on the roof, his gaze never leaving the two silhouettes. Those were Knellict's men, he knew, the wizard's insurance that nothing went amiss. Entreri couldn't make out many details, for they were well-concealed, but their lack of movement as the moments slipped past again spoke to him of discipline and training.
The easy course - to slay the merchant Beneghast and be on his way in Knellict's good graces - called out to him.
But Artemis Entreri had never been fond of the easy course.
The moment of truth, the time that Entreri had to ready himself one way or the other, slipped past, and the assassin transitioned into an almost unthinking, instinctual state. He had to move fast, back around the cul-de-sac, to put the fountain directly between himself and the two men under the porch. Roof to roof he went, fading back to the far side of each building, his body bending and twisting with each stride so that he seemed a part of the landscape and nothing more, and moving so silently that people in the buildings below his running feet wouldn't think that so much as a squirrel was skittering across their rooftops.
He came back down to the ground with equal grace, sliding flat at the eave, hooking his hand on the lip of the roof, and rolling over to extend himself fully before gently dropping to the alleyway.
He hesitated at the front corner of the building, for someone exited the door just a couple of steps to his left. That oblivious figure walked right past without taking any note of him, and continued on out of the cul-de-sac.
When a second figure appeared across the way and to his right, Entreri crouched a bit more. It was Beneghast.
The highwayman in the fountain would have noticed the merchant, as well, Entreri realized, and so he used that split second of distraction. He exploded into motion, running low and silently, then diving into a forward roll that brought him up against the lowest bowl of the fountain.
The man watched Beneghast's approach; the merchant would cross right by the fountain on the side opposite Entreri. The highwayman tried to find Entreri then, staying low and slowly swerving his head to take in as much of Wall's Around as possible, briefly locking his stare on this alleyway and that in search of the shadowy figure of the assassin he'd been told to expect.
Entreri quietly counted it out. He had already taken a measure of Beneghast's distance from the fountain, and could easily approximate the walking speed of the bent little man with a sack thrown over his shoulder.
The man in the fountain up above him was skilled, he reminded himself, and that meant that he would continue his scan for Entreri until the last possible second. But as Beneghast approached, the highwayman would have to shift his focus to the merchant.
That one moment, after the highwayman stopped his scan to look back at the target, yet before the highwayman actually found Beneghast again and moved to intercept, was Entreri's time.
He rolled up to a standing position, thin behind the stem of the fountain. He didn't allow Beneghast's approach to occupy a moment of his thought, but simply leaped up to the rim of that bottom bowl, a vertical jump of three feet. While his feet set quietly and surely on the slick, rounded rim, his left hand went out against the second bowl to secure his balance and his right hand, dagger drawn, struck hard and sure.
He felt the blade slide through the highwayman's ribs, and as soon as he noted the pressure of the initial contact, he came forward with it, releasing his grip on the second bowl and snapping his hand against the highwayman's head instead, driving him down below the water so that his cry became a burst of bubbles and nothing more.
Entreri felt the warmth of the man's blood rushing over his forearm, but the angle of the stab was all wrong for a quick in-the-heart kill. That mattered not at all to Entreri, though, for he summoned the vampiric powers of his dagger, drawing the highwayman's life-force into the magical blade, leaving him limp and lifeless in the bowl in a matter of a few heartbeats.
How convenient that the highwayman was wearing a mask, he thought, as he slipped the cloth free and quickly set it over his own face.
A short pause, a quick breath, and Entreri moved again, swiftly and gracefully, barely making a splash in the bowl as he slipped up to the rim and sprang free, landing lightly in the street beyond the wider, lower level. Beneghast noted his approach, of course, but the assassin moved so fast that the poor merchant barely had the time to gasp.
Entreri was there with frightening speed, standing right before him, the tip of his dagger just below Beneghast's Adam's apple.
He locked stares with the man, letting Beneghast see the intensity in his dark eyes, the promise of death. The merchant groaned and wobbled, as if his legs would simply give out beneath him - but of course, the dagger remained tight and held him upright. A slight grin appeared on Entreri's face, and he retracted the dagger just a bit.
"Oh, I am murdered!" the merchant squealed, and Entreri smiled wider and made no move to silence him. "Oh, fie, that my life should be taken by... by..."
"Ah, ah," Entreri warned, lifting one finger of his free hand up before Beneghast and wagging it back and forth.
The merchant fell silent, except for the short gasps of his breathing.
"Drop your sack behind you," Entreri instructed.
The satchel hit the ground.
Entreri paused, considering the two watching from under the porch. They were tense, he knew, on edge and ready to strike, and wondering where Entreri might be.
The assassin paced slowly around Beneghast, smoothly picking up the sack as he moved around behind the man. His eyes never left the merchant, but also, he looked past the man, noting movement behind the windows and open doors of several shops. A whistle in the distance told him that the city guard had been alerted. No doubt Knellict's paid stooges were fast approaching to arrest the murderous highwayman even then.
And no doubt, the two fools under the porch across the way were wringing their hands and cursing under their breath that Artemis Entreri had yet to make an appearance.
"If you want to live, you will do exactly as I instruct - and even then, I cannot guarantee that you will escape with your life," Entreri told Beneghast. The man yelped - or started to, before Entreri cut him short. "You have one chance. Do you understand?"
"Y-yes," the merchant stammered, nodding stupidly.
"A bit of discretion would go a long way toward keeping my dagger out of your heart," the assassin told him.
"Y-yes - yes - " Beneghast stammered, but then stopped and slapped a hand across his mouth.
"When I tell you to run, you will go straight ahead," Entreri explained. "Turn into the alley on this side of the emporium - do not pass the porch. Do you understand?"
The sound of shouting came to them, from down the straight road leading to Wall's Around.
"Run," said Entreri.
Beneghast leaped into motion, screaming and sprinting, stumbling like a fool and nearly falling onto his face. He veered out toward the center of the road and seemed as if in his panic he would run right past the porch - to his sudden demise, no doubt - but then he stumbled again at the last moment and came out of it running straight into the alley.
Whistles and shouts closed from behind, but Entreri didn't even glance that way. He watched the two forms rush out from under the porch, two men, one large, one small - or perhaps the small one was a woman. They both looked Entreri's way, to which he offered a simple shrug, then the large one charged down the alley behind Beneghast, while the smaller began gesturing as if casting a spell.
So intent was that one on the fleeing Beneghast, that she - for it was indeed a woman - never even noted Entreri's swift approach. Just as she was about to release her spell, a blade flashed down before her, trailing a line of magical ash that hung in the air, blocking her view.
"What - ?" she gasped and fell back a step, turning to regard Entreri just as he pulled the mask down from his face.
"I just wanted you to see the truth," he said.
The woman's eyes popped open wide, and her jaw dropped.
The woman shrieked again and turned to flee, but Entreri smacked her with his sword, again to no avail, and kicked her trailing foot back over her leading ankle. She tripped up and fell flat, immediately rolling to her back and raising her hands defensively before her.
"Do not kill me!" she begged. "Please, I have wealth."
He hit her again, and again, and again. "How many will your shield stop?" he said as she thrashed helplessly below him.
Beneghast's cry echoed out of the alleyway.
Entreri kicked the female mage one more time, then leveled Charon's Claw at her, the magnificent red blade barely an inch from her wide eyes.
"Tell your master that I am not a pawn," he said.
The woman bobbed her head frantically, and Entreri nodded and ran off. He noted two guards passing the fountain in hot pursuit, but he outdistanced them, disappearing into the darkness of the alley. As he did, he threw the sack up to a roof and ran on. Past a pile of discarded boxes and a broken wagon, he came in sight of Beneghast, down against the wall and bleeding, one hand up before his face pitifully. Above him loomed the larger assassin from the porch, a warhammer raised for the kill.
Entreri's dagger flew down the alleyway, striking true in the side of the killer's chest. The man staggered a step but did not go down. He turned and offered a defensive stance, though he couldn't help but lurch to the side from the pain.
Charon's Claw in both hands, Entreri went in with sudden and overwhelming fury. He swiped across, right to left, and the murderer, no novice to battle, blocked and disengaged quickly enough to keep his hammer in front of him.
"You're mad," he gasped, intercepting an overhand chop.
Entreri noted how forcefully that hammer came up to parry, and was not surprised in the least when the man moved forward underneath the angle of Charon's Claw. Nor did Entreri try to prevent that movement, nor did he twist aside. He simply loosened his grip on Charon's Claw and went forward as well, coming against the big man, who tried to overpower him and bull rush him to the ground.
Except Artemis Entreri was much stronger than he looked, and also had his hand clamped around the hilt of the jeweled dagger. A slight twist stopped the momentum of the large man as surely as any stone wall ever could. The killer looked down at Entreri, his hammer falling free to clang to the ground beside the fallen Charon's Claw. A look of absolute horror crossed his face, a look that never failed to bring a grin to Artemis Entreri's lips.
Entreri twisted the dagger again. He could have drawn the man's life-force out, utterly destroying his soul, but he found a moment of mercy. Instead of utter annihilation, he settled for the simple kill.
Entreri eased the dying man to the ground, and picked up Charon's Claw as he did.
"You... he saved me," Beneghast said, and the change in pronoun clued Entreri in to the fact that they were not alone. He came up fast and spun, facing the two guards - men he knew to be in Knellict's employ.
The expressions on the faces of the two guards revealed their utter confusion. Entreri hadn't followed the script.
"Saved you?" Entreri scoffed at Beneghast. "No amount of your gold will make me follow you down your road of lies! Take this man," Entreri ordered the guards. "He murdered the merchant Beneghast and left him dead in the fountain. His companion lies dead here, by my own hand, and he has promised me riches if I feign ignorance of his murderous ways."
The guards exchanged confused looks and Entreri was certain that he could have knocked them both over if he merely blew upon them. To the side, Beneghast stuttered and stammered, spitting all over himself.
Entreri silenced him with a look, then reached down and grabbed him by the front of his tunic. As he roughly pulled the merchant to his feet, purposely bringing a concealing grunt from the man, he whispered into his ear, "If you wish to live, play along."
He stood straight and shoved Beneghast into the arms of the confused guards.
"Be quick and escort him away. There may be more murderers hiding in the shadows."
They didn't know what to do - that much remained plain on their faces. They finally turned and started away, Beneghast in tow. The merchant managed to look back at Entreri, who nodded and winked, then put a finger to his pursed lips.
Did the guards fall for the ruse, Entreri wondered? Did they know Beneghast and the Citadel of Assassins's killers? He had seen no recognition on their faces in the moment before he had made his choice.
And even if he was wrong, even if they knew the truth of Beneghast's identity and subsequently killed him, what did Artemis Entreri care?
He tried to tell himself that, over and over, but he found himself back up on the rooftops. He moved to retrieve the merchant's sack - no reason he shouldn't collect some reward for his good deed, after all - then slipped along the tops of the buildings, shadowing the movements of the guards and their prisoner. As he expected, the corrupted soldiers didn't stay out in the street, but turned down another alleyway, one that opened out the back end, where they and their "prisoner" could easily escape.
"Go on, then," Entreri heard one tell Beneghast.
"Knellict's not to like losing one of his men," the other remarked.
"Not our affair," the other said. "That merchant fellow is dead and this one's to leave. That's all we were told to do."
On the roof above them, Entreri smiled. He watched Beneghast stumble out the back side of the alleyway, running as if his life depended on it - for surely it did.
The two guards followed slowly, chatting amongst themselves. One of them produced a small bag and jiggled it to show that it was full of coins.
Entreri looked at the sack he carried, then glanced back at the pair. For the first time since he had entered Wall's Around, the assassin paused to consider the ramifications of his course. He knew that he had just bought himself and Jarlaxle a lot of trouble from a very dangerous enemy. He could have gone along with Knellict's orders so easily.
But that would have meant accepting his fate, admitting that he was reverting to the life he had lived in Calimport, when he had been no more than a killing tool for Pasha Basadoni and so many others.
"No," he whispered and shook his head. He wasn't going back to that life, not ever, whatever the cost. He looked at the departing guards again.
He shrugged.
He dropped the sack.
He jumped down between the guards, weapons drawn.
He left soon after, a sack over one shoulder, and a bag of coins tied to his belt.