Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The old school disclaimer from the original work: 

The recognizable characters in this fanfiction were created by R. A. Salvatore in association with the legal entity Wizards of the Coast (WotC), who owns relevant copyrights to additional Forgotten Realms material referred to herein. The characters are used without permission but no material profit of any kind is being made from the following work. WotC reserve rights to Forgotten Realms material, but all characters and situations unique to this work of fan fiction are property of the writer.

devil takes hindmost

Jarlaxle was up to something, which was a given where the wily dark elf was concerned, and so far the assassin hadn’t managed to pry the information from him. The dark elf’s gift of gab was a double-edged sword. On one hand, he could make time fly with his wit and sly twists of phrase, and on the other hand, Jarlaxle had moments when he appeared incapable of shutting up.

Entreri preferred long, comfortable silences. Long uncomfortable or even awkward silences were preferable to Jarlaxle’s many lapses into excessive verbosity.

In the absence of silencing Jarlaxle’s incessant prattle, Entreri usually ignored the excess noise, but the tactic had its drawbacks. He’d once startled to realise Jarlaxle had been rambling on about important business prospects in infamous Skullport. Just as he’d shown interest, the infuriating dark elf switched topics with a knowing look on his face.

Loquaciousness aside, Entreri hadn’t managed to trip Jarlaxle into telling him his plans. If the dark elf had an ulterior motive for putting them so far out of their way, he wasn’t telling.

In truth, though, Entreri hardly cared. One direction was as good as any other until he managed to form a better plan for the remainder of his life. Introspection wasn’t his strong suit; he still had no real leadings or future plans, but he was determined to enjoy himself more than he had hitherto done. Enjoyment took practice. Enjoyment also took knowing what his travel companion was up to.

In their wanderings, Jarlaxle had led them to Chondath. It was an area Enreri doubted either of them knew much about. It had been difficult to get passage on a ship sailing across the Sea of Fallen Stars, especially with Jarlaxle evading every excuse to disguise himself.

They stepped off the boat in Iljak’s port under a sweltering midday sun and into the region’s soupy humidity. The heat was nothing Entreri wasn’t used to, but the thick moisture saturating the air wasn’t the dry heat of his desert homeland. It was like breathing thick smoke and it made him feel slightly out of breath. It made their traveling clothes stick to their bodies; even the jaunty plume in Jarlaxle’s hat sagged.

The dark elf wasn’t as affected by the humidity as much as the sun and heat. He complained insistently of that the sun caused the gagging odour of rotting fish and seaweed in the area. It wasn’t unlike other ports they’d visited, but the smell was twice as potent.

The dock was as noisy as any other. Waves lapped against the ships; a backdrop to the many layers of sound. The regular creaking of the great wooden ships as they rocked against their moorings joined the waves in counterpoint. The low roar of sailors, beasts of burden, and the shouts of port workers that recognised old friends formed an upper level of audible texture. Ravenous seagull cries fought against crotchety fish mongers. The tuneless notes of the whistles employed on the naval vessels formed a cacophonous and chaotic melody over everything else.

Visually, the dock swam with the same visions of colour and activity to be expected the world over. The crush of the crowd was the expected by-product of a busy port and intimidated those unused to it. For Entreri, it was an unwelcome reminder of how much he despised people. Unpresumptuous in height and dress, the assassin’s compact frame slipped through the crowds with ease and mobility, but with distaste for the stench that came with close quarters.

Conversely, Jarlaxle’s visual assault inspired horrified expressions from the dominant population of humans, while simultaneously astonishing them. For once, the source of their horrified double takes wasn’t Jarlaxle’s smooth ebony skin, but his hat which seemed to inspire incredulous triple takes.

“Sweet Lolth,” Jarlaxle chuckled, moving with the port’s crowds, “why didn’t we come here sooner? These people recognize sartorial brilliance when they see it, do they not?”

Uncomfortable with the attention his partner received despite the crowd pressing in from all sides, Entreri tried, and failed, to see over the people and beyond the hat’s visual block. There were times his unimposing height got on his nerves. He didn’t attempt to map the way out, the flow of the predominantly human traffic did that for them. Along the way he looked for clues to figure out why the monstrous hat drew stares.

“I doubt it is your terrible fashion sense they’re interested in.” Failing to see anything of note, Entreri tried instead to listen for verbal cues. He heard little more than comments about the nerve of the black elf appearing in broad daylight. Entreri once wondered why he was not embarrassed to be around Jarlaxle’s colourful display. The answer was easy enough; Jarlaxle was an eternal distraction for the assassin. Who would notice Entreri with an easy target like Jarlaxle walking nearby? In this, Jarlaxle suited Entreri’s needs perfectly.

Before anything of note came to Entreri’s ears, Jarlaxle motioned him over to the side of the thronged port with a circular wave of his hand. The assassin rolled his eyes at the glint of the midday sun refracting off his partner’s vast collection of rings.

Jarlaxle had found the local board reserved for criminal postings. The wood was covered in multiplicities of wanted notices. They were not alone in perusing the listings; a collection of men and women with varying degrees of obvious martial backgrounds were looking at the postings themselves. Chondath was well-known for exporting mercenaries; the unlikely pair didn’t doubt the group they stood among was locally produced.

At the heart of the board was a wooden notice that dominated the rest of the paper postings. The sign lacked the usual long list of crimes underneath the weathered image of the wanted man. Instead, it read only: Casteja Vektch, Bandit Captain. Wanted Alive, in Moderate Condition, with or without weapon. No Questions Asked. The reward listed was easily in league with what either companion expected for their services before their current arrangement. They paused and an air of speculative interest settled over them at the likely prospect.

“What do you think the moderate condition part means?” Jarlaxle asked. The crimson eye not covered by his gaudy eyepatch didn’t leave the wooden notice. “Not dead? Perhaps we should notify the sign-poster of his poor communication skills.”

“Considering the payoff,” Entreri said, “I’d say it means they don’t mind damaged product. They expect a difficult catch and they’re allowing some leeway.”

“Could we kill him for ease of transport and then reanimate him before delivery?” The dark elf drummed his fingers on the board, right across the bandit captain’s face.

“I don’t know,” Entreri drawled in return. “Can we? Do you have a trick that would do that?”

“Maybe.” Jarlaxle grinned and threw the assassin a wink that looked ridiculous coming from one uncovered eye. “A bandit captain warrants this kind of attention? Wood notices, woodblock print, promise of substantial reward for delivering damaged goods? It seems strange.”

As someone with renown in a profession related to bounty hunting, Entreri could extrapolate the situation. “He may not be what the notices say. It seems more likely that he’s causing trouble and making political waves. Perhaps he’s involved with the fighting here.”

Jarlaxle nodded. “Ah, the Menzoberranzan method suggests the oppressors use the word ‘bandit’ while said bandit uses the term ‘freedom fighter.’ He could be an honourable man, fighting for worthwhile reasons.”

“The gold is good,” Entreri said, deadpan.

Jarlaxle nodded, an act that made the great plume on his huge hat bob in mad agreement. “True. In fact, I would go so far as to say the gold is very good. Well! Let’s seize the black-hearted villain and see justice served!”

Entreri snorted lightly, used to the flair for the dramatic. “It shouldn’t be hard to get information on him with a reward that high. We’ll have to worry about other bounty hunters snatching him before us.”

As a plotter tempered in the hellfire of Menzoberranzan, city of the most creative and cutthroat plotters in the Realms, Jarlaxle simply smiled. “We’ll just have to out-think them, won’t we? Or use another group to clear the way. But first, let’s question the locals.”

Before Entreri could begin to protest, Jarlaxle turned away to one of the hardened mercenaries looking at a different notice. “I say, dear man,” he began in the most agreeable of tones, “who is this Captain Vektch?”

Entreri was gratified to see the man turn to Jarlaxle with little more than a narrowing of his dark eyes and a snort at the sight of the dark elf’s hat. “Vektch? I thought you were from Sespech, but you must come from a very far off hole instead.”

Jarlaxle answered immediately with a friendly nod, appearing to take no offense at the implied insult. “Not just far, but deep, good sir. I pray you might enlighten my partner and me as to this Vektch fellow.”

At the mention of a partner the hard-bitten mercenary moved his head slightly to take in Entreri for the first time, but without letting the foppish dark elf out of his sight. Some respect entered the man’s demeanour as he took the assassin’s measure. “For the last five years he’s been leading an uprising against Eles Wianar, called the Shining Lord of Chondath by some. If you’re thinking of bagging Vektch, I suggest easier game. He’s a slippery bastard, well-liked by many people, and the only person, live or dead, I’ve ever heard of that wins wars by losing.”

Only stone drunk, from a hundred paces, and through a thick fog, would it be possible to miss the sudden gleam of intense interest on Jarlaxle’s face. Their next adventure was a forgone conclusion. Professional interest began to characterize the way Entreri processed information on the bounty.

“Win by losing?” Jarlaxle echoed, looking back at the ominous looking depiction of the man on the board.

“I’ve heard this land is sapped by conflict and dangerously vulnerable to further break up,” Entreri cut in. “Why would people support this military action against what little stability they have?”

The seasoned mercenary, for he could be nothing else, shook his head. The local man had been somewhat terse with Jarlaxle, but he seemed genuinely respectful of Entreri.

“Chondath is an aggressive land,” he said. “From what I’ve heard of Casteja Vektch, he’s a charismatic leader with a knack for getting public support. Six or seven years ago, he came into Iljak’s farming communities and started helping people rebuild from the war. His group protected people against the stray monsters wandering out of Chondalwood and made himself useful where Wianar wasn’t. He talked about the corruption in Arrabar even then, so he had plenty of sympathetic ears.”

The information was forming a loose framework in Entreri’s mind as he listened. As an assassin, he knew less about building the sort of coalitions and structures needed to wage a war on a large scale. He usually simply played the part of secret weapon inside the larger scope of vast conflicts. His association with Jarlaxle and a brief stint as a pasha of Calimport’s most notorious thieves guild that helped him put the picture together. His lack of education in the matter didn’t matter; he trusted Jarlaxle, master of intrigue, to nail down the salient details.

“Sympathetic ears are only helpful,” Entreri commented, “if there are hundreds of them and they are no longer attached to bounties. To start what must be an unpopular uprising Vektch would need funding and something to gain.”

The mercenary nodded his agreement. “Just so. As far as I know, he ain’t a local. Rumour has it he’s on Sembia or Sespech’s payroll, but any country wanting to sink hooks into another piece of Chondath might fund him. Though he was branded a bandit easily enough for robbing Arrabar caravans earlier on. That could be his funding.”

“And what he has to gain, if he wins,” Jarlaxle chuckled, reinserting himself into the informative conversation, “is the possibility of a more united Chondath, with him at the reins, or at least whoever may support his action. And he enjoys popular support because he appears a better option than Lord Wianar. Smart man.”

The mercenary gave a single nod.

“His main thrust is that Wianar is corrupt and uninterested in supporting the people,” Entreri said thoughtfully. It seemed such a simple plan, it was a wonder the government in Arrabar hadn’t made headway against Vektch. The assassin took another look at Vektch’s posting.

It wasn’t made of wood because it came with Arrabar’s seal or a promise of Wianar’s money; it was wood to last the seasons. Judging by the weathering it had sustained thus far, the sign had been up for a handful of years. All the other notices it flanking it had edges that overlapped it.

As he studied the sign, something else came to mind. One step ahead, Jarlaxle already had playfully seized their helpful mercenary’s wrist in two hands and was pumping it up and down, thanking him with much enthusiasm.

“Good sir, you have been of the utmost help to two weary travelers! Please allow us just one more question before we part ways, always to look back on this moment with warm hearts. What sort of weapon does the posting refer to?”

The man jerked his wrist out of Jarkaxle’s grasp, though his stalwart face betrayed a minimum of irritation. “It is said when he carries the sword it remains chained to his wrist. Strange-looking thing by all accounts.”

Entreri nodded his thanks to the man. Understanding the unspoken signal to end the conversation, the other human returned the nod, ignored Jarlaxle completely, and continued his searching through all the notices on the board. The assassin waited a few moments to observe the bustling crowd and the apparent lack of interest in the bandit captain’s notice, before he turned to his gaudy companion.

The dark elf was staring at the posting in question as if his one-eyed gaze would force the wanted man right out of the old ink. His face was arranged in a thoughtful look that confirmed there was more to the situation than he was letting on. “For a human, he’s quite handsome, isn’t he?”

An expression of near incredulity passed across the assassin’s face. It faded faster than it arrived; Jarlaxle was an expert at bizarre commentary. It was a ploy he used to throw both friends and enemies off in order to glean every bit of information he could at the cheapest possible price.

“Your type?” Entreri smirked; he was used to turning the dark elf’s odd comments and queries back on him.

The verbal riposte did not ruffle Jarlaxle in the least. He turned a philosophical smile with a wicked twist on his human companion. “Yes and no, but that has nothing to do with his looks. I wonder, if I was a wanted male, would my poster reflect my best features?”

The answer was hardly one Entreri cared to dissect or entertain, let alone picture in his mind’s eye. Instead he grasped a handful of the dark elf’s colourful cape and tugged him along to find lodging and information that would dictate the sort of supplies they would need. “I somehow doubt his looks have anything to do with anything. The sooner you tell me what you’re up to, the happier I’ll be.”

Jarlaxle chuckled and allowed himself to be towed. “Do you really think so? Why do you always think that I have some ulterior motive to everything I do? Sometimes, Master Entreri, an adventure is simply that; an adventure.”

Without missing stride, the assassin shook his grim head. “Truly, I would like to believe that, because I can already see this hunt is going to be complicated enough.”

They found lodging near the edge of town. Most of the inns near the port were either full or unaccommodating to dark elves, whether they were the famously good Drizzt Do’Urden or not. Neither of the two minded much; the farther they were from the dock and its noise and noxious vapours the better. Many innkeepers were more irritated with Jarlaxle’s hat for reasons the two could not guess. It was at their final stop they discovered the problem was not so much the hat, but the colour of the outrageous diatryma feather. Purple feathers were a sign of loyalty to former Chondath-controlled Sespech.

The surprising information brought a smirk to Entreri’s face; he hoped Jarlaxle would be forced to remove one of his many terrible sartorial choices from sight. Unfortunately, the Jarlaxle simply plucked out the feather out of the wide brimmed monstrosity and blew lightly on it until it slowly achieved a rich red hue.

With a spartanly appointed room rented, which Entreri inspected for traps or trouble, the two split up to collect information on their mark. At the end of the day they reconvened at their second-rate inn’s smoky main room to discuss what they’d learned.

“These people are brilliant,” Jarlaxle said with delight and poured another shot of alcohol into the steaming black brew before him. “Too bad your countrymen in Calimshan threw in perfume instead. That was vile stuff, my friend.”

“You’re insulting the alcohol by putting it in that rot,” Entreri replied, looking over a map of the road ahead. He’d found the only reason he’d resumed drinking the foul coffee was for the warmth it had instantly conveyed through his body. The region was hot, but the springtime nights were still cold and the high level of humidity only helped sink the chill into one’s bones.

“On the contrary,” the dark elf grinned, patting the warm mug good-naturedly, “it is much nicer than Calimshan coffee, even without the alcohol. No nasty little dregs for your allies and prospects to laugh at when they see them in your teeth.”

Entreri smirked in mockery. “If you don’t know how to drink Calishite coffee properly, you can’t be considered a credible judge.”

Enjoying the argument more than the hot drink, Jarlaxle happily rejoined, “It isn’t the method, Artemis, it is the result. This tastes better, therefore, it isbetter.”

The map rolled up as soon as the assassin put it down on the table. He fixed the exasperating dark elf with a level stare that conveyed volumes of ire. “You’re distracting me over this swill?”

Jarlaxle would never have guessed his sober companion to be a connoisseur of the dark brew, or patriotic for that matter. Over the last thousand miles he rarely managed to get Entreri interested in such petty arguments; the previous one had been about Calishite horses. His glee knew practically no bounds. As an added goad, the he downed a good deal of the brew. “Swill you say?”

Entreri took the map up again and unrolled it in a smooth, one-handed move. “Swill.”

“But Entreri,” Jarlaxle said, feigning innocent confusion as he leaned the bare few inches necessary to cast his hat’s shadow over the part of the map Enterir was staring at, “don’t you see the flaw in your reasoning?”

An iron gaze shot up from the map and straight into Jarlaxle’s uncovered and flawlessly red eye. “This can only end in sadness, Jarlaxle.”

The dark elf went on, still feigning confusion. “I’ve never actually seen you drink Calishite coffee, but here you are drinking the so-called local swill. What sort of conclusion am I to make?”

“If we were to strain horse manure through pillow sheets and throw in honey and alcohol,” the assassin replied, and looked down again at his map, “you’d probably like that, too.”

“No,” Jarlaxle said with as serious an air of consideration he could maintain without breaking out into laughter, “I don’t think I would. Though I guess it would depend on if it came from a Calishite horse or not.”

With the mention of their last ridiculous argument, the human fighter shook his head. Entreri must have known from the start he’d been baited but had defended his native coffee without thinking. “I’ll be happy to witness the taste test.”

Chuckling to himself, Jarlaxle sat back in his chair, content to study the assassin’s face as he continued with the map. “You won’t help me strain the manure?” He asked in a placid voice that couldn’t conceal the merry glint in his unnerving red eye.

Unbidden, another smirk pulled at the corner of the assassin’s mouth. “No, but I will provide the pillow sheets.”

“Floral prints, I hope, with elven tatting?”

Despite the gleeful tone of Jarlaxle’s voice, Entreri refused show anything more than a wicked smile. “Nothing less for Calishite horses.”

“Nothing more for Jarlaxle?”

“Nothing more than an oilskin map down your throat and a pair of daggers in your eyes.”

Jarlaxle sat back laughing at the threat. Baiting Entreri was rarely an easy task, but when done successfully, the dark elf took great delight in the occasion. Seeing the man’s gray eyes still scan the map, Jarlaxle shook his head merrily.

“Don’t we need the map?” His tone was all the innocence his face could not pretend at.

With the conversation turning toward a topic Entreri was probably more interested in, the assassin looked up from the map. “Not if we commit it to memory.” He placed the map on the table, smoothed it out and held down opposing edges with his mug and a plate from Jarlaxle’s dinner.

The staff in every establishment they found themselves in always seemed to wait until the two departed before collecting anything the pair used. Entreri found it annoying as he hated any kind of clutter. Jarlaxle merely found it amusing and often ordered small item on small item, to see how big a heap they could collect before the servers overcame their fear and tried to clear the table. On particularly dull nights, Jarlaxle was given to constructing precarious dining ware sculptures, balanced on an eggcup when available.

Interested, Jarlaxle leaned over to look at the map Entreri had brought back from their time apart. “Hmm, it looks very brown. And yet very green, too.”

“It’s generally accepted that Vektch’s forces have strongholds within Chondalwood and secretly among the farming communities between the Arran River and Iljak, mostly near the Old Road, just south of the wood.” Entreri tapped a finger on the map. “We should head in that direction and look for an Arrabar army to observe.

“Wianar’s general is a woman rumoured to be from Ixinos. She replaced his last general who was executed for his inability to bring Vektch in. She often leads troops into battle against Vektch and he retreats before her. At night, when her people are settled in, our bandit captain assaults them and keeps them from rest only to retreat when forces are mobilized. Can you guess what happens next?”

A grin of dark admiration slowly encompassed Jarlaxle’s face. “Her forces settle down and he attacks again. She gets no sleep and he rotates his marauders. I bet she’d like to peel his face off with her nails. What are the casualties like in this kind of warfare?”

Entreri snorted softly. Perhaps he was impressed. “We can only guess. Wianar and his general aren’t going to make information like that public. According to Wianar, Vektch’s group has lost over half their number and will soon be defeated. That as opposed to the first year of conflict where he claimed to have wiped them out. It’s more than a war of attrition.”

Jarlaxle’s chair creaked as he leaned back. He crossed his arms behind his head and brought his boots up to drop heavily, noisily, onto the table. “I’m willing to bet the Shining Lord of Chondath has lost a disproportionate number of warriors when compared to our bandit captain. What else did you learn of his tactics and background? Anything that will help us understand our bandit captain?”

There was a long pause as Entreri considered Jarlaxle’s question. His eyes narrowed to suspicious slits of annoyance. Jarlaxle had an idea what the assassin was thinking. Entreri often accused Jarlaxle of not keeping up his end of the partnership and, thus far Jarlaxle hadn’t contributed to the knowledge sharing. “Why don’t you tell me what you learned about this little jaunt, first?”

There it was. Jarlaxle smiled and gestured to Entreri. “Age before beauty, my good friend.”

An unintentional look of disgust made a brief appearance on Entreri’s normally inexpressive face. “Did you even bother to look into this bandit at all?”

“Not exactly,” Jarlaxle replied with a shameless smile.

Entreri’s hand twitched toward Jarlaxle’s boots and the mercenary prepared for his feet to be pushed off the table. Instead, Entreri dipped his head menacingly until his cold eyes stared through long locks of his black hair. “What did you do after we parted ways today?”

The game of infuriating Entreri was close to going too far. Jarlaxle raised his hands before him and gestured for his deadly friend to calm down. “Don’t worry, I didn’t spend the time idly. I’ve made some important arrangements that may or may not work out to our satisfaction. I also made an appointment to talk to somebody about our situation. What I get out of that appointment depends on what you learned of Casteja Vektch.”

Somewhat placated, but still suspicious, Entreri began again. “I think Vektch has come up with a form of fighting that’s effective against organized attacks. It’s as the man said on the docks today; Vektch’s forces continually lose strongholds, land, and strategic positions. In terms of normal warfare, he hasn’t won a single battle, but in terms of casualties, he’s lost the least. Wianar has yet to stop him.”

Leaning further on the back legs of his chair, Jarlaxle rocked back and forth a moment, relying on his boot heels to anchor him safely to the table. Failing that, levitation. “He’s a thinker, probably brilliant. Wins by losing. Helps the common people in order to buy them off emotionally. Charismatic. Handsome. At worst, he’s a born politician and at best, a lost Menzoberranzan relation. Why, I’m tempted to paint him black and kidnap him!”

“Why don’t we skip the paint part,” Entreri suggested with little enthusiasm.

“If you insist.” Jarlaxle chuckled before turning more serious. “Ah, by the way, did you notice how little interest there was in the posting at the docks?”

The assassin nodded. “Nobody believes they can take the man in alive. Perhaps it has something to do with his sword.”

The chair dropped immediately forward to all four feet. Jarlaxle swung his boots off the table and leaned forward with keen interest. “Will you be parting with your magnificent, albeit gruesomely evil, skeleton sword?”

“No.” The answer was immediate and resolute, much like Entreri himself. The subtext was clear: Jarlaxle would be a fool to want the blade. “Vektch’s sword has a large, orange gemstone ranging from blade to hilt over the crosspiece. Rumour has it that the sword allows Vektch to read minds and shield his own. The sword may be sentient. The notice states he is wanted alive and nobody thinks that is possible with the sword chained to his wrist.”

Jarlaxle deflated quickly. He sank back against his chair; a psionic item with a will of its own sounded drearily familiar. “I see. Well, that is very good information. I wonder what kind of personality the sword has? If it has the gift of silent magic, will you be able to defend against it?”

The assassin’s gray-clad shoulders lifted and fell. His menacing sword and gauntlet combination had become a part of him, though Jarlaxle doubted he took either for granted. “You should know the gauntlet can’t keep it from reading my mind.”

Jarlaxle nodded sagely, dismissing any traces of fear the ghost of Crenshinibon inspired. He stared at the map on the table without focusing on it, mind full of motion. At length, he nodded a second time and slowly straightened to stand in front of his chair. Jarlaxle languidly, showing more of his taut stomach than he knew Entreri wanted to see. Suitably unhurried, he picked up his mug of coffee again.

“I’ll see what I can do about the mind reading. For now, I think a walk in the cool night air with the stars overhead will help me think.”

Entreri, of course, wouldn’t believe the excuse for a second. “I see. Tell your friend hello for me.”

Jarlaxle paused mid-turn and grinned back at the assassin. “Yes, I must do that. And while I’m out, please get some beauty sleep, Artemis. Recall that I have to look at that scruffy face of yours every day.”

Entreri watched the flamboyant dark elf turn and leave, his collection of jewellery chiming and boots making audible impacts on the hardwood flooring. Despite the use of his given name, the assassin did not immediately think of slipping his deadly dagger between any of Jarlaxle’s vertebrae. He would never admit it, but Jarlaxle’s uncanny ability to enjoy himself in almost any situation was a model he was trying to decipher.

Chapter Text

A man feared that he might find an assassin;
Another that he might find a victim.
One was more wise than the other.
-Stephen Crane

The night passed uneventfully for Entreri. He didn’t question Jarlaxle when he returned but continued to map out the most likely route to a region that saw frequent militant action. Jarlaxle was more quiet than usual which came as a mixed blessing. Entreri had no trouble nodding off with the dark elf silently making his mysterious calculations. Even if it was a worrisome sign, Entreri enjoyed the lack of noise while he had it.

A light sleeper despite his years, Entreri had no trouble rousing hours later at the sound of Jarlaxle’s jewelry chiming as he moved around the small room. The noise was the dark elf’s unspoken wake up call. Like his hard-soled boots, the jewelry was as silent or noisy as Jarlaxle desired. Over the many miles, both of them had developed somewhat considerate habits like this which they never admitted, much less commented on.

They continued in silence, stowing what little gear they brought with them. Thanks to his array of handy magical items, Jarlaxle’s equipment was considerably less noticeable. He made up for that with his usual visual display. Entreri’s rucksack was deceptive only in that he was ruthlessly efficient and sparing in his travel gear.

The sun was just spreading a flush of pink across the cloud-dotted sky when they hit Iljak’s streets. Heavy dew smothered the scents of the city, prompting a sigh of relief from Jarlaxle. The excitement of any city pleased his jaded tastes, but he often complained that the scents left much to be desired. He observed the city’s morning traffic, perhaps taking pleasure in watching the brisk business before they moved beyond the city walls.

It wasn’t until the two had left their unremarkable inn far behind that conversation began. Content to let silence reign as long as possible, Entreri was comfortable walking the city streets in an uncommunicative state. He knew Jarlaxle well enough to know it wouldn’t last all morning.

“Are we going to get horses?”

Entreri nodded absently, expecting the inquiry. “I already hired them and put down the deposit. You’ll pay the other fees.”

“That hardly seems fair,” Jarlaxle commented dryly. “I lose money and you get yours back later? Who paid for our lodgings?”

The assassin shrugged with no remorse. “If I have to do most of the work, you’ll have to spend most of the money.”

“You think I didn’t do as much as you, my friend?” Jarlaxle shook his head, but his uncovered eye glinted. “I’ve arranged for some help on this adventure and I verified the area our bandit captain will be working in this week. Doesn’t that rate?”

Entreri was hardly surprised; Jarlaxle could turn up information and ingenious plans of action at a moment’s notice. He nodded casually. “It rates, but fails to inspire my generosity.”

Jarlaxle snorted, but did not respond to the wit. Knowing him as Entreri did, Jarlaxle clearly thought Entreri  was getting the short end of the deal; wealth and comfort were high on his list of priorities and he was uniquely gifted at coming into both. As long Jarlaxle remained amused, though, he would continue to let Entreri think he was getting one over on him.

The horses Entreri had selected were fine animals, but that didn’t stop Jarlaxle from trying to haggle over the fees. The woman holding the horses for them refused to budge an inch on the price. She stood with the proud beasts, staring at Jarlaxle with disinterest as he tried repeatedly to deflate the fees with slight of tongue, claims of dissatisfaction, and flirtation.

Throughout the conversation the horse merchant merely stood, answering many of Jarlaxle’s claims with logic and his charm with a long-suffering attitude. In the end, the price didn’t change and Jarlaxle paid it without complaint, though he did advise the young lady to smile a little. She ignored his advice and took his money with a frown.

“This town is a sad place,” Jarlaxle remarked further down the road. “I haven’t suspected the city guard would accost me for my race, but all the blank stares after the initial looks of shock ahave gotten dull.”

“Everyone here hides their emotions,” Entreri replied. “A sensible enough society.”

A smug grin spread across Jarlaxle’s face at the words. “Spoken like a truly cold-hearted man. What happened to your prospects of joining a paladin’s holy order?”

Entreri gave the dark elf a poisonous look. “Keep up the judgmental drivel and I’ll deliver you to a paladin’s holy order.”

Jarlaxle chuckled. “Point taken, my friend, and a very sharp, bleedy sort of point at that.”

Despite Jarlaxle’s confirmation of their quarry’s location for the weeks, Entreri inquired about Vektch on their way out of the city gates. The plentiful soldiers manning the gate were helpful, but they kept casting watchful looks at Jarlaxle. They told Entreri about bandit sightings in the southern reaches of Chondalwood, but advised Vektch rarely kept with any group of bandits for long. One of the soldiers even produced a few papers he called bandit propaganda. He gave them to Entreri and wished him luck.

The vast fields outside the city were heavy laden with morning dew. An ocean of green stalks bowed under the weight of the moisture and shone brightly, refracting the sun’s rays until they gleamed golden-green. As it evaporated, the dew enhanced the earthy smell of good soil and fragrant greenery. Jarlaxle announced the scent was much more to his taste and even Entreri managed to note the pleasant morning ambience.

In the early morning chill, crickets droned rhythmically, dragonflies buzzed, and ground fowl called out to one another. Overhead, patches of windswept clouds scudded along beneath the washed-out sky. It was easy to forget the bustling port wasn’t far distant. The only reminder was an infrquent breeze that brought the smell of salt water to mingle with the scent of the earth.

As they rode toward Shamph, the large city at the crossroad of the Emerald Way and the Old Road, Entreri read one of the notices over and handed Jarlaxle another to peruse. He wasn’t surprised at the straightforward message or the ease in which the author made thier points. The character of the propaganda was concise and logical, even when detailing instances that described the governor of Iljak as Arrabar’s stooge. No wonder the city guard had proved so helpful. Each handbill was an interesting new piece to an over-arching picture that he felt he was only beginning to see.

“He’s published many handbills claiming evidence of Wianar’s corruption and continuous self-serving behavior,” the assassin remarked. “He’s literate, at least.”

“And articulate,” Jarlaxle mused, eyes quickly scanning the page Entreri had handed him. “I need to add this to his list of dubious admirable traits. I knew he was a thinker, but a propagandist as well? Perhaps we shouldn’t take him in, rather, let’s join his cause!”

Entreri sucked in a deep breath of earthy morning air and released it in a hissing sigh. The last time they had joined a gaggle of bandits had left a bad taste in his mouth and Jarlaxle on a high horse. “Revolutionists don’t pay as well as the governments they try to overthrow.”

“That’s right,” the dark elf smirked, “we’re doing it for money this time. I’d prefer to do it for fun, but profit is nice, too.”

The latter half of the comment drew a sidelong glance from Entreri. He was certain Jarlaxle was already enjoying the situation; it was a bizarre ability. As they rode, he continued to read his handbill but another part of his mind was devoted to the situation. Was a morning ride prefacing a journey into militant infested country really enjoyable? Or was it anticipation of the challenge to come?

His musing was interrupted when he read another claim from his second page. “Does yours mention the Shining Idiot of Arrabar allowing the Red Wizards an enclave?” The assassin stared at his handbill, contemplating the possibility of falsehood. “That must have doubled Casteja’s sympathizers overnight.”

“No.” Jarlaxle raised a finger. “Wait, do you mean those mad slavers from Thay? That is ill-advised. Most of the dour ho-hum people around here stare terribly at signs of magic.”

Entreri didn’t ask how Jarlaxle managed to figure out the last bit; one less tale of moronic exploits suited the assassin well. “The same. This sheet accuses Wianar of being a Red Wizard puppet. That could be possible, but until Vektch makes a full-scale assault on Arrabar, Wianar can afford to make unpopular decisions.”

“Wianar wants the Wizards’ magic on his side as added security. That means he doesn’t think our bandit is really so far from assaulting Arrabar,” Jarlaxle responded. “It depends on how you look at the timeline. I believe Vektch had this in mind when he showed up in Arrabar seven years ago. Humans are so obsessed with time; they always want things done as quickly as possible. I think Casteja has transcended this basic human shortcoming.”

Entreri gave Jarlaxle with a quizzical look. Having heard far worse from Jarlaxle’s allies, he was far from offended by the blanket criticism of the human race. Patience was hardly an exclusive trait, but most humanity had little in stock. However, it was Jarlaxle’s sudden use of the bandit’s given name that seemed odd. He wondered if this was the answer to his sense that Jarlaxle had an ulterior motive in bringing them to Chondath. Did they come in order to meet some old friend? If so, why the secrecy and games?

Finding he didn’t really care one way or the other, Entreri didn’t become alarmed or irritated. The situation was a novel and satisfying challenge. If the man was known to Jarlaxle, the question wasn’t whether or not they would really be capturing him, but whether they would be turning him in.

“Wianar and his general probably want him alive for information,” the assassin commented, watching his partner surreptitiously. “If Vektch is really so patient, he might find himself enduring years of torture while they try to coax his tongue.”

Jarlaxle chuckled in response, thus dispeling the friendship angle. “I dare say he will! Especially after all the trouble he’s caused. The man’s in for more than his share of hardship and suffering and it is unfortunate for him that our desire for coin is stronger than our sympathy.”

Without an answer, but also without worry, Entreri shrugged his suspicions off. He would continue to work at the edges of the issue, and do his best not to alert sly Jarlaxle to his interest. Getting to the conflicted region their quarry was said to be located was more important. He kept them on the road from Iljak with plans to shadow a Chondath army division in order to see the so-called bandits at work.

The quickest route was through Chondalwood by the Old Road. Neither of he or Jarlaxle were enthusiastic about venturing into the monster-infested area: it was hardly suitable for Arrabar or Iljak’s armies to travel by, even if the local druids or other creatures were disposed to let them do so. It was far better for an army to march outside and away from a forest’s natural cover. However, Entreri was certain it would take little time to locate a military presence once they cleared the wood. After all, armies weren’t easily hidden.

The heat and humidity of Chondath’s late spring was hard on them both, more so the dark elf. Temperatures had risen with the sun, evaporating the rest of the dew and filled the air with heat and high humidity. Jarlaxle loudly and repeatedly mentoned how relieved he was that his wide-brimmed hat shaded his head and much of his shoulders from the sunlight. Entreri assumed Jarlaxle’s tight-fitting clothing that was more of a bother. Jarlaxle had undoubtedly been in humid areas of the Underdark, of course, but that experience did not compare with the exacerbation of the sun’s rays. More than once, Entreri caught Jarlaxle scowling at the fine perspiration on his dark arms.

As the day heated up, Entreri casually shed layers of clothing from his upper body. The heat still had little affect on him, but the humidity stuck to his skin and glued his clothing, suited for a cool Northern spring, to his flesh. By late afternoon, he was down to a loose sleeveless tunic with his cloak bundled neatly on the back of the saddle blanket and his leather shirt draped across his thighs. He was more concerned about Jarlaxle and the way his black skin absorbed the sun’s heat than he was about his own Calishite hide. Not because he cared, he told himself, but because he didn’t want the dark elf to slow them down by succumbing to something like sun stroke or heat exhaustion like some foolish tourist in his native Calimshan.

Eventually he wordlessly tossed the dark elf a sand colored Calishite shirt he’d taken for the desert escape out of Calimshan many long months ago. Jarlaxle caught the loose shirt with a look of pained disgust, but dropped his hat on the saddle horn long enough to pull the garment over his torso. Not so different in size or build, the shirt fit the male well, but his expression made it clear he wasn’t happy with such a drab solution; even if it was meant to save his arms and the expanse of bare skin beneath his vest from burning.

The many people they passed making their way to Iljak seemed to stare far less at Jarlaxle after he donned the sensible garment. This was a source of relief to Entreri, who felt he’d achieved a small victory against his partner’s overstated war on eyesight. He knew the dark elf would shed the shirt as soon as they reached the city.

The horses were used to the weather conditions and made excellent time on the road toward Shamph. They arrived at the large city by early evening and were again lodged by nightfall. Jarlaxle’s presence continued to be met with stony silence, but that was preferable to the aggressive displays they met in other lands. Good gold went a long way to securing hospitality, though news of their bandit was of a different character outside Iljak.

Their inn keeper was tight-lipped on the subject even though Jarlaxle overpaid extravagantly when paying for their evening meal. It took sharing a bottle of wine with the man’s daughter and more of Jarlaxle’s mellifluous charm before they began to hear a new side to the uprising.

According to the young woman, who was either not as skilled at concealing her curiosity as her father or cared less about doing so, Casteja Vektch was the brave leader of the Chondathan Liberation Forces; an army fighting to depose Eles Wianar. Entreri rolled his eyes at Jarlaxle’s ability to keep the girl’s glass full. It seemed a wonder she had shown interest in them at all, but as she continued to add heroic details to the ‘army of liberators,’ Entreri put the puzzle together. She was a moth: a person attracted to excitement and danger.

The girl seemed young and foolish, but Entreri knew that her interest signaled support for Vektch close to an important port and an even more important city. It boded badly for Arrabar. Jarlaxle’s speculation about Eles Wianar granting the Red Wizards an enclave became more valid.

Eventually annoyed by the girl’s infatuation with their target and the seductive danger Jarlaxle was all too happy to play, Entreri stood and excused himself. He said nothing to the girl, but signed to Jarlaxle in dark elf code; If the girl disappears from her father’s sight, we’ll lose what little welcome we have.

I’d be happy to let him watch, came Jarlaxle’s reply.

Entreri gave a look of disgust, but was satisfied Jarlaxle would at least do a job of squeezing the young woman of all the information she had. When he was done separating the kernels of truth from the chaff, he would probably finish by pumping her ego a bit and then leave her pining. Anything else the assassin did not want to hear about from Jarlaxle or, more importantly, their temporary landlord.

The assassin headed for their room with the intention of studying the map and planning their trip on the Old Road through Chondalwood. If possible, he wanted to join a caravan heading through the wood or perhaps even a band of mercenaries. The locals would know better what to expect from the wood other than the amorphous warnings about vicious satyrs and a vengeful coalition of druids. There was also the small matter of Jarlaxle’s heritage stirring up trouble among the rumored wild elf population.

Even though he had a room key, Entreri almost picked the lock to their room by sheer force of habit. Shaking his head, he slid the key from the leather band at his wrist and into the sturdy lock. The heavy tumblers thudded within the mechanism, creating a substantial and irritating noise in the hall. His annoyance left when the noise triggered a rustle from within the rented room.

The scenario wasn’t unexpected; Entreri continued without the slightest hesitation. He turned the latch and pushed the door in, never missing a beat. Just as naturally, he walked into the room, ready for the ambush; jewelled dagger at his side in an overhand grip.

The attack did not come from either side of the door. In fact, there was no immediate attack at all. Entreri could see the intruder through the gloom the hallway’s lights did little to pierce, sitting still on one of the two hard beds in the small room. It was a short, too slim vision of textured blackness that stared up at Entreri with pale yellow eyes. Unlike most wretched dark elves, and they were all wretches by Entreri’s estimation, this one had black hair. The jet locks fell over a soft-featured, charcoal face that held an expression of sombre patience.

Despite the lack of threatening body language, it took a concerted expenditure of will not to immediately unsheathe Charon’s Claw and shear the creature in half. If there was anything Entreri did not want to see, it was another dark elf.

In less time than it took to enter the room, the assassin took the dark elf’s measure. By all appearances, the creature was young, an advantage in Entreri’s favour. Negating the advantage, and immediately disturbing Entreri, was the lack of visible weapons. His body tensed and he was ready to either leap back out of the room or surge forward to slaughter the motionless form.

“Please close the door.” The dark elf’s voice was soft as it was quiet and strongly accented, though not the accent Entreri came to expect from dark elves. The creature did not appear to be from Menzoberranzan at all.

Entreri made no move to close the door, simply continued to stare at the intruder with an expression that promised he would slit the young male’s throat if he made any sudden moves. In response, the dark elf shifted his head slightly to one side; an indication of curiosity that was not reflected in his pale eyes.

“Even though you are a human,” the odd dark elf spoke, again quietly, and with little inflection, “I’m not skilled enough to kill you. I could only leave you with lasting damage before you ended me.”

The blunt comment put Entreri at odds. Was this genuine respect or a ploy? He hated the endless onion skin of dark elven plots and intrigue. One never could tell where one stood with the deceptive creatures. “Why are you here? I warn you, I tolerate lies less than unwanted guests.”

No expression moved the dark elf’s boyish features; he continued to sit quietly on the bed, legs out straight and crossed at the ankles. If anything, he seemed bored. “Jarlaxle requested me. Kindly fetch him or take off your shirt and let me start.”

This statement put Entreri back on his heels. What the hell was Jarlaxle playing at? Entreri’s narrow gaze had been hateful before, but now it positively burned. He wondered how upset his partner would be to find the youth’s corpse outside the door.

Fortunately for the intruder, the audible report of hard heeled boots on the flooring sounded down the hall. To indicate his extreme ire, Entreri began to casually twirl his jewelled dagger in a stationary circle with one finger. It was not a nervous habit, but a clear sign made to burn angry energy.

Jarlaxle was not unprepared for the tension he was entering; he’d known Kimmuriel would deliver the boy that night. He had allowed Entreri to find him just for the sport of riling him. When he saw the level of the man’s irritation, though, he sighed. He walked into the tense atmosphere, pulled the door shut behind him and smiled congenially between the two. Entreri glared at Jarlaxle, while the unfamiliar dark elf got to his feet and lowered his gaze to the floor in respect.

“I see you’ve met the charming Jakadirek Mi’iduor,” the flamboyant dark elf chuckled, amused both by Entreri’s familiarity and the lad’s contrasting respect. “He’ll be doing some work for us.”

“What work will he be doing that requires me taking off my shirt?” Entreri, ever blunt and angry.

Jarlaxle smiled grandly, showing a crescent of teeth. “He’s not a masseuse or prostitute, if that’s your prudish worry. Though, I really think you could use both. Rather, he’s a tailor!”

“I’d prefer a masseuse and prostitute!” The assassin exclaimed instantly, his gray eyes flew pointedly to Jarlaxle’s bright array of clothing.

His response keyed Jarlaxle’s sudden laughter. The assassin’s angry incredulity was everything that made traveling with him enjoyable. “No, no,” the maddening dark elf laughed, gesturing helplessly at the obediently silent dark elf standing by the bed. “I have my own tailor! The boy hasn’t sewn a stitch for me.”

Entreri turned a suspicious look from Jarlaxle to the black-haired Jakadirek. “We can get tailors here in Shamph to sew clothes appropriate to the weather.”

The statement prompted a subtle sneer from Jakadirek. Beyond the simple reaction, he kept his face averted.

“We could,” Jarlaxle commented. His mirth had subsided but his spirits were still quite high. “But, they wouldn’t protect us like Jaka’s would. Would they, my dear boy? And by our lady’s eight legs, lift your head, would you?”

Jakadirek’s head came up, though his gaze never quite focused on Jarlaxle’s face. “Of course, but I don’t have much material left. It’s a good thing your human is an agreeable shape.”

“I’m remembering why I hate dark elves,” Entreri growled.

“You forgot?” Jarlaxle quipped, but advised the boy to keep in mind that Entreri was not part of a skin-yielding herd. The assassin showed more disgust at the uniquely dark elf conversation. Jarlaxle knew Entreri was interested in the prospect of light clothing with protective qualities and that meant he would be willing to give the dark elf his measurements for them.

When the short, but effective exchange ended, Jaka withdrew a long length of red measuring cord from the coarse black silk of his piwafwi. He moved toward Entreri with smooth caution.

Used to tailors above and below the surface world, Entreri recited his measurements for the young male. Jarlaxle always thought it odd that Entreri hated anyone touching him, but he’d once gone further and said a dark elf’s touch was worse. It was like, he had said, having his flesh scouted for the optimal location for a spider’s venomous bite.

Young Jaka shook his head. “If I am to judge by the fit of your current clothing, those measurements aren’t exact. Human bodies change faster with age; muscles retreat, fat deposits encroach, the skin becomes less elastic and harder to work with…”

The lad trailed off, seeming to remember that he was supposed to be respectful to the human, which was just as well; by the look on his face Entreri didn’t like where the conversation was leading. “Not another word if it’s going to be about working with human skin.”

Throwing another glare at Jarlaxle, Entreri stripped off his shirt and tossed it onto one of the bed posts. For a dark elf, the tailor wasn’t particularly tall; the top of his head barely reached Entreri’s eyes. Jaka was swift with his hands, he drew his cord across the breadth of the Entreri’s bare chest and along and around his arms in swift and graceful extensions. As the tailor went about his impersonal work, his lips mouthed measurements, but he made no noise.

Entreri watched the dark elf’s progress hawkishly in the room’s only mirror as he moved to the assassin’s back. It took less than a few minutes for him to complete the process and when he was done he approached Jarlaxle directly. Jarlaxle smiled at him and undid the closures of his tight vest. He let the garment slide backwards down his arms and chuckled at Entreri’s looks of dire warning.

Jaka’s work on Jarlaxle took almost half the time since Jarlaxle knew the routine well and gave the tailor’s professional hands greater freedom. Jarlaxle was at home in the situation, even chatted with the boy throughout the measurements, though the lad only replied in short phrases in his distinctive accent.

When he finished with Jarlaxle, Jaka coiled the red cord and slipped it back into his piwafwi. “I don’t have enough material for trousers, but I can create two tunics.”

Jarlaxle’s fine eyebrows rose in a unique expression of light-hearted suspicion. “You aren’t telling me this because you don’t like wasting the last of it on a human, are you?”

For a long moment, the lad stared at Jarlaxle in his unfocused way before answering simply. “No.”

Jarlaxle nodded, as if he believed the boy. “Good, because you’ll be working with him in the not-so-distant future and you don’t want the experience to be marred by a dagger to the back.”

Both Entreri and Jaka narrowed their eyes in reaction to Jarlaxle’s casual comment. The assassin obviously didn’t like the tailor, but Jarlaxle had known he wouldn’t. Jaka made no reply, choosing to show his disdain by slipping his gaze back to the floor.

“We don’t need a tailor to go with us,” Entreri ground out.

Jaka continued to say nothing, though the muscles underneath his smooth jaw bunched. His reaction caused Entreri’s eyes to narrow. The assassin turned his hard gaze back on Jarlaxle, but said nothing. That, Jarlaxle supposed, would come later.

“You’re right,” Jarlaxle announced, slipping his vest back on. “What we really need is somebody who can protect you from a psionic weapon.”

Entreri slowly reached up to the side of his own head and placed two fingers on his temple as if to assuage a sudden, and very intense, headache. “He’s one of Kimmuriel’s family?

“Possibly,” Jarlaxle replied, watching Jaka’s careful lack of reaction. “He’s from a far-removed city. Kimmuriel is training him in return for future favours and because I think he enjoys the boy’s quiet demeanour.”

For Entreri it was a hard call to decide if he felt sorry for the young dark elf having to deal with Kimmuriel or hate him because he would have to rely on him. The thought of depending on anyone but himself inspired the assassin’s ire and disgust. He had hoped his gauntlet would be more effective against psychic attack, but it was difficult to protect against something that hit with the speed of thought.

Close to Jarlaxle, the young dark elf sighed and withdrew an item Entreri had seen, and used, before. It was a whistle, not unlike Jarlaxle’s, only instead of summoning silence, it signaled the dark elf the assassin hated most in Bregan D’aerthe: Kimmuriel, current leader of Jarlaxle’s mercenary band.

“I’ll have the work done by this city’s morning,” the lad assured them and raised the whistle to his lips.