The dark elf leaned back in a chair, settling comfortably, as he always seemed to do, and listening I with more than a passing amusement. Jarlaxle had planted a device of clairaudience on the magnificent wizard's robe he had given to Rai'gy Bondalek, one of many enchanted gemstones sewn into the black cloth. This one had a clever aura, deceiving any who would detect it into thinking it was a stone the wizard wearing the robe could use to cast the clairaudience spell. And indeed it was, but it possessed another power, one with a matching stone that Jarlaxle kept, allowing the mercenary to listen in at will upon Rai'gy's conversations.
"The replica was well made and holds much of the original's dweomer," Rai'gy was saying, obviously referring to the magical, Drizzt-seeking locket.
"Then you should have no trouble in locating the rogue again and again," came the reply, the voice of Kimmuriel Oblodra.
"They are still aboard the ship," Rai'gy explained. "And from what I have heard they mean to be aboard for many more days."
"Jarlaxle demands more information," the Oblodran psionicist said, "else he will turn the duties over to me."
"Ah, yes, given to my principal adversary," the wizard said in mock seriousness.
In that distant room, Jarlaxle chuckled. The two thought it important to keep him believing that they were rivals and thus no threat to him, though in truth they had forged a tight and trusted friendship. Jarlaxle didn't mind that-in fact, he rather preferred it-because he understood that even together the psionicist and the wizard, dark elves of considerable magical talents and powers but little understanding of the motivations and nature of reasoning beings, would never move against him. They feared not so much that he would defeat them, but rather that they would prove victorious and then be forced to shoulder the responsibility for the entire volatile band.
"The best method to discern more about the rogue would be to go to him in disguise and listen to his words," Rai'gy went on. "Already I have learned much of his present course and previous events."
Jarlaxle came forward in his chair, listening intently as Rai'gy began a chant. He recognized enough of the words to understand that the wizard-priest was enacting a scrying spell, a reflective pool.
"That one there," Rai'gy said a few moments later.
"The young boy?" came Kimmuriel's response. "Yes, he would be an easy target. Humans do not prepare their children well, as do the drow."
"You could take his mind?" Rai'gy asked.
"Easily."
"Through the scrying pool?"
There came a long pause. "I do not know that it has ever been done," Kimmuriel admitted, and his tone told Jarlaxle that he was not afraid of the prospect, but rather intrigued.
"Then our eyes and ears would be right beside the outcast," Rai'gy went on. "In a form Drizzt Do'Urden would not think to distrust. A curious child, one who would love to hear his many tales of adventure."
Jarlaxle took his hand from the gemstone, and the clairaudience spell went away. He settled back into his chair and smiled widely, taking comfort in the ingenuity of his underlings.
That was the truth of his power, he realized, the ability to delegate responsibility and allow others to rightfully take their credit. The strength of Jarlaxle lay not in Jarlaxle, though even alone he could be formidable indeed, but in the competent soldiers with whom the mercenary surrounded himself. To battle Jarlaxle was to battle Bregan D'aerthe, an organization of free-thinking, amazingly competent drow warriors.
To battle Jarlaxle was to lose.
The guilds of Calimport would soon recognize that truth, the drow leader knew, and so would Drizzt Do'Urden.
"I have contacted another plane of existence and from the creatures there, beings great and wise, beings who can see into the humble affairs of the drow with hardly a thought, I have learned of the outcast and his friends, of where they have been and where they mean to go," Rai'gy Bondalek proclaimed to Jarlaxle the next day.
Jarlaxle nodded and accepted the lie, seeing Rai'gy's proclamation of some otherworldly and mysterious source as inconsequential.
"Inland, as I earlier told you," Rai'gy explained. "They took to a ship-the Quester, it is called-in Waterdeep, and now sail south for a city called Baldur's Gate, which they should reach in a matter of three days."
"Then back to land?"
"Briefly," Rai'gy answered, for indeed, Kimmuriel had learned much in his half day as a cabin boy. "They will take to ship again, a smaller craft, to travel along a river that will bring them far from the great water they call the Sword Coast. Then they will take to land travel again, to a place called the Snowflake Mountains and a structure called the Spirit Soaring, wherein dwells a mighty priest named Cadderly. They go to destroy an artifact of great power," he went on, adding details that he and not Kimmuriel had learned through use of the reflecting pool. "This artifact is Crenshinibon by name, though often referred to as the crystal shard."
Jarlaxle's eyes narrowed at the mention. He had heard of Crenshinibon before in a story concerning a mighty demon and Drizzt Do'Urden. Pieces began to fall into place then, the beginnings of a cunning plan creeping into the corners of his mind. "So that is where they shall go," he said. "As important, where have they been?"
"They came from Icewind Dale, they say," Rai'gy reported. "A land of cold ice and blowing wind. And they left behind one named Wulfgar, a mighty warrior. They believe him to be in the city of Luskan, north of Water-deep along the same seacoast."
"Why did he not accompany them?"
Rai'gy shook his head. "He is troubled, I believe, though I know not why. Perhaps he has lost something or has found tragedy."
"Speculation," Jarlaxle said. "Mere assumptions. And such things will lead to mistakes that we can ill afford."
"What part plays Wulfgar?" Rai'gy asked with some surprise.
"Perhaps no part, perhaps a vital one," Jarlaxle answered. "I cannot decide until I know more of him. If you cannot learn more, then perhaps it is time I go to Kimmuriel for answers." He noted the way the wizard-priest stiffened at his words, as though Jarlaxle had slapped him.
"Do you wish to learn more of the outcast or of this Wulfgar?" Rai'gy asked, his voice sharp.
"More of Cadderly," Jarlaxle replied, drawing a frustrated sigh from his off-balance companion. Rai'gy didn't even move to answer. He just turned about, threw his hands up in the air and walked away.
Jarlaxle was finished with him anyway. The names of Crenshinibon and Wulfgar had him deep in thought. He had heard of both; of Wulfgar, given by a handmaiden to Lolth and from Lolth to Errtu, the demon who sought the Crystal Shard. Perhaps it was time for the mercenary leader to go and pay a visit to Errtu, though truly he hated dealing with the unpredictable and ultimately dangerous creatures of the Abyss. Jarlaxle survived by understanding the motivations of his enemies, but demons rarely held any definite motivations and could certainly alter their desires moment by moment.
But there were other ways with other allies. The mercenary drew out a slender wand and with a thought teleported his body back to Menzoberranzan.
His newest lieutenant, once a proud member of the ruling house, was waiting for him.
"Go to your brother Gromph," Jarlaxle instructed. "Tell him that I wish to learn of the story of the human named Wulfgar, the demon Errtu, and the artifact known as Crenshinibon."
"Wulfgar was taken in the first raid on Mithral Hall, the realm of Clan Battlehammer," Berg'inyon Baenre answered, for he knew well the tale. "By a handmaiden, and given to Lolth."
"But where from there?" Jarlaxle asked. "He is back on our plane of existence, it would seem, on the surface."
Berg'inyon's expression showed his surprise at that. Few ever escaped the clutches of the Spider Queen. But then, he admitted silently, nothing about Drizzt Do'Urden had ever been predictable. "I will find my brother this day," he assured Jarlaxle.
"Tell him that I wish to know of a mighty priest named Cadderly," Jarlaxle added, and he tossed Berg'inyon a small amulet. "It is imbued with the emanations of my location," he explained, "that your brother might find me or send a messenger."
Again Berg'inyon nodded.
"All is well?" Jarlaxle asked.
"The city remains quiet," the lieutenant reported, and Jarlaxle was not surprised. Ever since the last assault upon Mithral Hall several years before, when Matron Baenre, the figurehead of Menzoberranzan for centuries, had been killed, the city had been outwardly quiet above the tumult of private planning. To her credit, Triel Baenre, Matron Baenre's oldest daughter, had done a credible job of holding the house together. But despite her efforts it seemed likely that the city would soon know interhouse wars beyond the scope of anything previously experienced. Jarlaxle had decided to strike out for the surface, to extend his grasp, thus making his mercenary band invaluable to any house with aspirations for greater power.
The key to it all now, Jarlaxle understood, was to keep everyone on his side even as they waged war with each other. It was a line he had learned to walk with perfection centuries before.
"Go to Gromph quickly," he instructed. "This is of utmost importance. I must have my answers before Narbondel brightens a hands' pillars," he explained, using a common expression to mean before five days had passed. The expression "hands' pillars" represented the five fingers on one hand.
Berg'inyon departed, and with a silent mental instruction to his wand Jarlaxle was back in Calimport. As quickly as his body moved, so too moved his thoughts to another pressing issue. Berg'inyon would not fail him, nor would Gromph, nor would Rai'gy and Kimmuriel. He knew that with all confidence, and that knowledge allowed him to focus on this very night's work: the takeover of the Basadoni Guild.
"Who is there?" came the old voice, a voice full of calmness despite the apparent danger.
Entreri, having just stepped through one of Kimmuriel Oblodra's dimensional portals, heard it as if from far, far away, as the assassin fought to orient himself to his new surroundings. He was in Pasha Basadoni's private room, behind a lavish dressing screen. Finally finding his center of balance and consciousness, the assassin spent a moment studying his surroundings, his ears pricked for the slightest of sounds: breathing or the steady footfalls of a practiced killer.
But of course he and Kimmuriel had properly scouted the room and the whereabouts of the pasha's lieutenants, and they knew that the old and helpless man was quite alone.
"Who is there?" came another call.
Entreri walked out around the screen and into the candlelight, shifting his bolero back on his head that the old man might see him clearly, and that the assassin might gaze upon Basadoni.
How pitiful the old man looked, a hollow shell of his former self, his former glory. Once Pasha Basadoni had been the most powerful guildmaster in Calimport, but now he was just an old man, a figurehead, a puppet whose strings could be pulled by several different people at once.
Entreri, despite himself, hated those string pullers.
"You should not have come," Basadoni rasped at him. "Flee the city, for you cannot live here. Too many, too many."
"You have spent two decades underestimating me," Entreri replied lightly, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. "When will you learn the truth?"
That brought a phlegm-filled chuckle from Basadoni, and Entreri flashed a rare smile.
"I have known the truth of Artemis Entreri since he was a street urchin killing intruders with sharpened stones," the old man reminded him.
"Intruders you sent," said Entreri.
Basadoni conceded the point with a grin. "I had to test you."
"And have I passed, Pasha?" Entreri considered his own tone as he spoke the words. The two were speaking like old Mends, and in a manner they were indeed. But now, because of the actions of Basadoni's lieutenants, they were also mortal enemies. Still the pasha seemed quite at ease here, alone and helpless with Entreri. At first, the assassin had thought that the man might be better prepared than he had assumed, but after carefully inspecting the room and the partially upright bed that held the old man, he was secure in the fact that Basadoni had no tricks to play. Entreri was in control, and that didn't seem to bother Pasha Basadoni as much as it should.
"Always, always," Basadoni replied, but then his smile dissipated into a grimace. "Until now. Now you have failed, and at a task too easy."
Entreri shrugged as if it did not matter. "The targeted man was pitiful," he explained. "Truly. Am I, the assassin who passed all of your tests, who ascended to sit beside you though I was still but a young man, to murder wretched peasants who owe a debt that a novice pickpocket could cover in half a day's work?"
"That was not the point," Basadoni insisted. "I let you back in, but you have been gone a long time, and thus you had to prove yourself. Not to me," the pasha quickly added, seeing the assassin's frown.
"No, to your foolish lieutenants," Entreri reasoned.
"They have earned their positions."
"That is my fear."
"Now it is Artemis Entreri who underestimates," Pasha Basadoni insisted. "Each of the three have their place and serve me well."
"Well enough to keep me out of your house?" Entreri asked.
Pasha Basadoni gave a great sigh. "Have you come to kill me?" he asked, and then he laughed again. "No, not that. You would not kill me, because you have no reason to. You know, of course, that if you somehow succeed against Kadran Gordeon and the others, I will take you back in."
"Another test?" Entreri asked dryly.
"If so, then one you created."
"By sparing the life of a wretch who likely would have preferred death?" Entreri said, shaking his head as if the whole notion was purely ridiculous.
A flicker of understanding sharpened Basadoni's old gray eyes. "So it was not sympathy," he said, grinning.
"Sympathy?"
"For the wretch," the old man explained. "No, you care nothing for him, care not that he was subsequently murdered. No, no, and I should have understood. It was not sympathy that stayed the hand of Artemis Entreri. Never that! It was pride, simple, foolish pride. You would not lower yourself to the level of street enforcer, and thus you started a war you cannot win. Oh, fool!"
"Cannot win?" Entreri echoed. "You assume much." He studied the old man for a long moment, locking gazes. "Tell me, Pasha, who do you wish to win?" he asked.
"Pride again," Basadoni replied with a flourish of his skinny arms that stole much of his strength and left him gasping. "But the point," he continued a moment later, "in any case, is moot. What you truly ask is if I still care for you, and of course I do. I remember well your ascent through my guild, as well as any father recalls the growth of his son. I do not wish you ill in this war you have begun, though you understand that there is little I can do to prevent these events that you and Kadran, prideful fools both, have put in order. And of course, as I said before, you cannot win."
"You do not understand everything."
"Enough," the old man said. "I know that you have no allegiance among the other guilds, not even with Dwahvel and her little ones or Quentin Bodeau and his meager band. Oh, they swear neutrality-we would have it no other way-but they will not aid you in your fight, and neither will any of the other truly powerful guilds. And thus are you doomed."
"And you know of every guild?" Entreri asked slyly.
"Even the wretched wererats of the sewers," Pasha Basadoni said with confidence, but Entreri noted a hint at the edges of his tone that showed he was not as smug as he outwardly pretended. There was a sadness here, Entreri knew, a weariness and, obviously, a lack of control. The lieutenants ran the guild.
"I tell you this out of admission for all that you did for me," the assassin said, and he was not surprised to see the wise old pasha's eyes narrow warily. "Call it loyalty, call it a last debt repaid," Entreri went on, and he was sincere-about the forewarning, at least-"you do not know all, and your lieutenants shall not prevail against me."
"Ever the confident one," the pasha said with another phlegm-filled laugh.
"And never wrong," Entreri added, and he tipped his bolero and walked behind the dressing screen, back to the waiting dimensional portal.
"You have made every defense?" Pasha Basadoni asked with true concern, for the old man knew enough about Artemis Entreri to take the assassin's warning seriously. As soon as Entreri had left him, Basadoni had gathered his lieutenants. He didn't tell them of his visitor, but he wanted to ensure that they were ready. The time was near, he knew, very near.
Sharlotta, Hand, and Gordeon all nodded-somewhat condescendingly, Basadoni noted. "They will come this night," he announced. Before any of the three could question where he might have garnered that information, he added, "I can feel their eyes upon us."
"Of course, my Pasha," purred Sharlotta, bending low to kiss the old man's forehead.
Basadoni laughed at her and laughed all the louder when a guard shouted from the hallway that the house had been breached.
"In the sub-cellar!" the man cried. "From the sewers!"
"The wererat guild?" Kadran Gordeon asked incredulously. "Domo Quillilo assured us that he would not-"
"Domo Quillilo stayed out of Entreri's way, then," Basadoni interrupted.
"Entreri has not come alone," Kadran reasoned.
"Then he will not die alone," Sharlotta said, seeming unconcerned. "A pity."
Kadran nodded, drew his sword, and turned to leave. Basadoni, with great effort, grabbed his arm. "Entreri will come in separately from his allies," the old man warned. "For you."
"More to my pleasure, then," Kadran growled in reply. "Go lead our defenses," he told Hand. "And when Entreri is dead, I will bring his head to you that we may show it to those stupid enough to join with him."
Hand had barely exited the room when he was nearly run over by a soldier coming up from the cellars. "Kobolds!" the man cried, his expression showing that he hardly believed the claim as he spoke it. "Entreri's allies are smelly rat kobolds."
"Lead on, then," said Hand, much more confidently. Against the power of the guild house, with two wizards and two hundred soldiers, kobolds- even if they poured in by the thousands-would prove no more than a minor inconvenience.
Back in the room, the other two lieutenants heard the claim and stared at each other in disbelief, then broke into wide smiles.
Pasha Basadoni, lying on the bed and watching them, didn't share that mirth. Entreri was up to something, he knew, something big, and kobolds would hardly be the worst of it.
Kobolds indeed led the way into the Basadoni guild house, up from the sewers where frightened were-rats-as per their agreement with Entreri-stayed hidden in shadows, out of the way. Jarlaxle had brought a considerable number of the smelly little creatures with him from Menzoberranzan. Bregan D'aerthe was housed primarily along the rim of the great Clawrift that rent the drow city, and in there the kobolds bred and bred, thousands and thousands of the things. Three hundred had accompanied the forty drow to Calimport, and they now led the charge, running wildly through all the lower corridors of the guild house, inadvertently setting off the traps, both mechanical and magical, and marking the locations of the Basadoni soldiers.
Behind them came the drow host, silent as death.
Kimmuriel Oblodra, Jarlaxle, and Entreri moved up one slanting corridor, flanked by a foursome of drow warriors holding hand crossbows readied with poison-tipped darts. Up ahead the corridor opened into a wide room, and a group of kobolds scrambled across, chased by a threesome of archers.
"Click, click, click," went the crossbows, and the three archers stumbled, staggered, and slumped to the floor, deep in sleep.
An explosion to the side sent the kobolds, half the previous number, scrambling back the other way.
"Not a magical blast," Kimmuriel remarked.
Jarlaxle sent a pair of his soldiers out wide the other way, flanking the human position. Kimmuriel took a more direct route, opening a dimensional door diagonally across the wide floor to the open edge of the corridor from which the explosion had come. As soon as the door appeared, leading into another long, ascending corridor, he and Entreri spotted the bombers. There was a group of men rushing behind a barricade, flanked by several large kegs.
"Drow elf!" one of the men shouted, pointing to the open door. Kimmuriel stood across the dimensional space behind the other door.
"Light it! Light it!" cried another man. A third brought a torch over to light the long rag hanging off the top of one keg.
Kimmuriel reached into his mind yet again, focusing on the keg, on the latent energy within the wood planking. He touched that energy, exciting it. Before the men could even begin to roll the barrel out from behind the barricade it blew apart, then exploded again as the burning wick hit the oil.
A flaming man tumbled out from the barricade, rolling frantically down the corridor, trying to douse the flames. A second, less injured, staggered into the open, and one of the remaining drow soldiers put a hand crossbow dart into his face.
Kimmuriel dropped the dimensional door-better to run through the room-and the group set off, rushing past the burning corpse and the sleeping and badly injured man, past the third victim of the explosion, curled in death in a fetal position in the corner of the small cubby, then down a side passage. There they found three more men, two asleep and a third lying dead before the feet of the two soldiers Jarlaxle had sent out to flank.
And so it went throughout the lower levels, with the dark elves overrunning all obstacles. Jarlaxle had taken only his finest warriors with him to the surface: renegade, houseless dark elves who had once belonged to noble houses, who had trained for decades, centuries even, for just this kind of close-quartered, room-to-room, tunnel-to-tunnel combat. A brigade of knights in shining mail and with wizard supporters might prove a credible enemy to the dark elves on an open field of battle. These street thugs, though, with their small daggers, short swords, and minor magics, and with no foreknowledge of the enemy that had come against them, fell systematically to Jarlaxle's steadily moving band. Basadoni's men surrendered position after position, retreating higher and higher into the guild house proper.
Jarlaxle found Rai'gy Bondalek and half a dozen warriors moving along the street level of the house.
"They had two wizards," the wizard-priest explained. "I put them in a globe of silence and-"
"Pray tell me you did not destroy them," said the mercenary leader, who knew well the value of wizards.
"We hit them with darts," Rai'gy explained. "But one had a stoneskin enchantment about him and had to be destroyed."
Jarlaxle could accept that. "Finish the business at hand," he said to Rai'gy. "I will take Entreri to claim his place in the higher rooms."
"And him?" Rai'gy asked sourly, motioning toward Kimmuriel.
Knowing their little secret, Jarlaxle did well to hide his smile. "Lead on," he instructed Entreri.
They encountered another group of heavily armed soldiers, but Jarlaxle used one of his many wands to entrap them all within globs of goo. Another one did slip away-or would have, except that Artemis Entreri knew well the tactics of such men. He saw the shadow lengthening against the wall and directed the shot well.
Kadran Gordeon's eyes widened when Hand stumbled into the room, gasping and clutching at his hip. "Dark elves," the man explained, slumping in the arms of his comrade. "Entreri. The bastard brought dark elves!"
Hand slipped to the floor, fast asleep.
Kadran Gordeon let him fall and ran on, out the back door of the room, across the wide ballroom of the second floor, and up the sweeping staircase.
Entreri and his friends noted every movement.
"That is the one?" Jarlaxle asked.
Entreri nodded. "I will kill him," he promised, starting away, but Jarlaxle grabbed his shoulder. Entreri turned to see the mercenary leader looking slyly at Kimmuriel.
"Would you like to fully humiliate the man?" Jarlaxle asked.
Before Entreri could respond, Kimmuriel came up to stand right before him. "Join with me," the drow psionicist said, lifting his fingers for Entreri's forehead.
The ever-wary assassin brushed the reaching hand away.
Kimmuriel tried to explain, but Entreri knew only the basics of drow language, not the subtleties. The psionicist's words sounded more like the joining of lovers than anything Entreri understood. Frustrated, Kimmuriel turned to Jarlaxle and started talking so fast that it seemed to Entreri as if he was saying one long word.
"He has a trick for you to play," Jarlaxle explained in the common surface tongue. "He wishes to get into your mind, but only briefly, to enact a kinetic barrier and show you how to maintain it."
"A kinetic barrier?" the confused assassin asked.
"Trust him this one time," Jarlaxle bade. "Kimmuriel Oblodra is among the greatest practitioners of the rare and powerful psionic magic and is so skilled with it that he can often lend some of his power to another, albeit briefly."
"He will teach me?" Entreri asked skeptically.
Kimmuriel laughed at the absurd notion.
"The mind magic is a gift, a rare gift, and not a lesson to be taught," Jarlaxle explained. "But Kimmuriel can lend you a bit of the power, enough to humiliate Kadran Gordeon."
Entreri's expression showed that he wasn't so sure of any of this.
"We could kill you at any time by more conventional means if we so decided," Jarlaxle reminded him. He nodded to Kimmuriel, and Artemis Entreri did not back away.
And so Entreri got his first personal understanding of psionics and walked up the sweeping staircase unafraid. Across the way a concealed archer let fly, and Entreri took the arrow right in the back-or would have, except that the kinetic barrier stopped the arrow's flight, fully absorbing its energy.
Sharlotta heard the ruckus in the outer rooms of the royal complex and figured that Gordeon had returned. She still had no idea of the rout in the lower halls, though, and so she decided to move quickly, to use this opportunity well. From one of the long sleeves of her alluring gown she drew out a slender knife, moving with purpose for the door that would lead into a larger room, with the door of Pasha Basadoni across the way.
Finally she would be done with the man, and it would look as if Entreri or one of his associates had completed the assassination.
Sharlotta paused at the door, hearing another slam beyond and the sound of running feet. Gordeon was on the move, as was another.
Had Entreri gained this level?
The thought assaulted her but did not dissuade her. There were other ways, more secret ways, though the route would be longer. She went to the back of her room, removed a specific book from her bookshelf, then slipped into the corridor that opened behind the case.
Entreri caught up to Kadran Gordeon soon after in a complex of many small rooms. The man rushed out the side, sword slashing. He hit Entreri a dozen times at least and the assassin, focusing his thoughts with supreme concentration, didn't even try to block. Instead he just took them and stole their energy, feeling the power building, building within him.
Eyes wide, mouth agape, Kadran Gordeon back-pedaled. "What manner of demon are you?" the man gasped, falling back through a door into the room where Sharlotta, small dagger in hand, had just come out of another concealed passage, standing along a wall to the side of Pasha Basadoni's bed.
Entreri, brimming with confidence, strode in.
On came Gordeon again, sword slashing. This time Entreri drew the sword Jarlaxle had given him and countered, parrying each slash perfectly. He felt his mental concentration waning and knew that he had to react soon or be consumed by the pent-up energy, so when Gordeon came with a sidelong slash, Entreri dipped the tip of his blade below the angle of the cut, then brought it up and over quickly, stepping under, turning about, and rolling his sword around. He took Gordeon off balance and crashed into the man, knocking him to the floor and coming down atop him, weapon pinning weapon.
Sharlotta lifted her arm to throw her knife into Basadoni but then shifted, seeing the too-tempting target of Artemis Entreri's back as the man went down atop Kadran Gordeon.
But then she shifted again as another, darker form entered the room. She cocked to throw, but the drow was quicker. A dagger sliced her wrist, pinning her arm to the wall. Another dagger stuck in the wall to the right of her head, then another to the left. Another grazed the side of her chest, and then another as Jarlaxle pumped his arm rapidly, sending a seemingly endless stream of steel her way.
Gordeon punched Entreri in the face.
That, too, was absorbed.
"I do grow tired of your foolishness," said Entreri, putting his hand on Gordeon's chest, ignoring the man's free hand as it pumped punch after punch at his face.
With a thought Entreri released the energy, all of it, the arrow, the many sword hits, the many punches. His hand sank into Gordeon's chest, melting the skin and ribs below it. A rolling fountain of blood erupted, spewing into the air and falling back on Gordeon's surprised expression, filling his mouth as he tried to scream in horror.
And then he was dead.
Entreri got up to see Sharlotta standing against the wall, hands in the air-one pinned to the wall-facing Jarlaxle, who had yet another dagger ready. Several other drow, including Kimmuriel and Rai'gy, had come into the room behind their leader. The assassin quickly moved between her and Basadoni, noting the dagger Sharlotta had obviously dropped on the floor right beside the bed. He turned his sly gaze on the dangerous woman.
"It would seem that I arrived just in time, Pasha," Entreri explained, picking up the weapon. "Sharlotta, thinking the guild house secure, had apparently decided to use the battle to her advantage, finally ridding herself of you."
Both Entreri and Basadoni looked at Sharlotta. She stood impassive, obviously caught, though she finally managed to extract the material of her sleeve from the sticking dagger.
"She did not know the truth of her enemies," Jaraxle explained.
Entreri looked at him and nodded. The dark elves all stepped back, allowing the assassin his moment.
"Should I kill her?" Entreri asked Basadoni.
"Why ask my permission?" the pasha replied, obviously none too pleased. "Am I then to credit you for this? For bringing dark elves to my house?"
"I acted as I needed to survive," Entreri replied. "Most of the house survives, neutralized but not killed. Kadran Gordeon is dead-never could I have trusted that one-but Hand survives. And so we will go on under the same arrangement as before, with three Lieutenants and one guildmaster." He looked to Jarlaxle, then back to Sharlotta. "Of course, my friend Jarlaxle desires a position of lieutenant," he said. "One well-earned, and that I cannot deny."
Sharlotta stiffened, expecting then to die, for she could do simple math.
Indeed Entreri did originally mean to kill her, but when he glanced back to Basadoni, when he looked again upon the feeble old man, such a shadow of his former glory, he reversed the direction of his sword and put it through Pasha Basadoni's heart instead.
"Three lieutenants," he said to the stunned Sharlotta. "Hand, Jarlaxle, and you."
"So Entreri is guildmaster," the woman remarked with a crooked grin. "You said you could not trust Kadran Gordeon, yet you recognize that I am more honorable," she said seductively, coming forward a step.
Entreri's sword came out and about too fast for her to follow, its tip stopping against the tender flesh of her throat. "Trust you?" the assassin balked. "No, but neither do I fear you. Do as you are instructed, and you will live." He shifted the angle of his blade slightly so that it tucked under her chin, and he nicked her there. "Exactly as instructed," he warned, "else I will take your pretty face from you, one cut at a time."
Entreri turned to Jarlaxle.
"The house will be secured within the hour," the dark elf assured him. "Then you and your human lieutenants can decide the fate of those taken and put out on the streets whatever word suits you as guildmaster."
Entreri had thought that this moment would bring some measure of satisfaction. He was glad that Kadran Gordeon was dead and glad that the old wretch Basadoni had been given a well-deserved rest.
"As you wish, my Pasha," Sharlotta purred from the side.
The title turned his stomach.
