The Collected Stories, The Legend of Drizzt

Wickless in the Nether

The Year of the Banner (1368 DR)

For a long time and across many storefronts and kiosks, he could not be seen because he did not want to be seen. For Artemis Entreri, with so many years of living in the shadows, it was as easy as that. He moved along Wall Way, a solitary figure perusing the mercantile district of the Damarran Capital of Heliogabalus on a stormy night. Torrential rains sent small rivers running along the sides of the cobblestoned street, named because of its proximity to Heliogabalus’s towering outer wall.

A flash of lightning revealed the figure as he stood in front of one of the two opposing collector’s shops set on the road loop known as Wall’s Around. He was wrapped in a slick black cloak, shining with wetness. He had the drape pulled over both his shoulders in the inclement weather, but it was back on his right side enough to show the jeweled hilt of his signature dagger. He wore a flat-topped hat with a tight round brim, quite extraordinary in a land of simple hoods and scarves. Still, that hat paled in comparison to the one worn by the slender figure that drifted past him in the next flash of lightning, a great floppy, wide-brimmed affair, with one side pinned up and a gigantic feather reaching out from it.

“As we thought,” the figure whispered as he passed by, neither of them making any movement that would indicate to even a careful observer that they were conversing. “Third on the right.”

The slender figure continued on his way, his fine boots clicking loudly on the wet cobblestones.

A moment later, Entreri moved to the doorway of the collector’s shop, Tazmikella’s Bag of Silver, and with a look around, slipped inside.

A young couple sat behind one table, giggling and hardly taking notice of him. Across from them, a middle-aged man fidgeted with some small statues, dusting each and grumbling to himself as he replaced them on the shelves. He was plump and as round of face as he was of belly, which was considerable, with apple red cheeks and bright lips. Though his eyes were large, he seemed to be constantly squinting.

“Well, good enough,” he said to Entreri. “If you came in to get out of the rain, then you’re a smart one, not to doubt. Look around-perhaps you’ll even consider purchasing something. Now, there’s a thought that few in this town seem to be having! Yes, yes, why buy anything when one can just walk into the shop and ogle it?”

Entreri stared at him, but did not respond, either with words or any expression.

“As you will, then,” the man went on. “Just do please keep your wetness from the new carpets. Someone might want to actually buy one, after all.”

Hardly paying the little man any more heed, Entreri moved to the right, as he’d been instructed, to the third candlestick set in the shop’s front window. Its base was in the shape of a squatting toad-a most unattractive piece, Entreri thought, though he rarely took the time to consider beauty. He picked up the fourth candlestick first, feigned a quick look over it, then set it down and took the second, then the third. The assassin slid one sensitive finger beneath the base of the candlestick. He felt the variation in texture almost immediately, from silver to wax.

A flash of lightning outside sent his thoughts back to the tavern and the napkin the serving wench had put down on the table. He recalled the verse on that old, dirty rag, and felt the wax again.

“Wickless in the nether,” he whispered.

“What’s that?” asked the little man.

“I said that I do enjoy the feel of this piece,” Entreri lied. “The storm has ruined my candles. I came only to replace them, but now I find this most interesting candlestick.”

“You want to buy that?” asked the merchant, his tone showing that actual sales really weren’t a common event.

“Fifty silver pieces?” Entreri asked.

The little man scoffed at him and said, “Its weight alone would take twice that melted down.”

“It is pure silver?” Entreri asked, feigning surprise, for of course, he already knew that it was and had already estimated its worth to within a few coppers.

“Nothing but the best,” said the little round man as he hopped over. “Fifty gold would be closer to the price than fifty silver.”

Entreri moved to replace the candlestick, but stopped just before it went down on the window sill. He stood holding it for a few long moments.

“I will offer thirty gold,” he said. “A fair price.”

“Fair?” said the shopkeeper. “Why, it cost us forty just to acquire it!”

“Forty, then.”

“Forty-two,” insisted the little man.

Entreri shrugged and pulled a pouch from his belt. He tossed it up and down in his open palm for a moment or two, then tipped it over and spilled out a few coins. Another toss to test the weight, and he flipped it to the little man.

“Forty-two,” he agreed. “Perhaps even forty-three.”

Tucking the extra gold into another pouch, the assassin took the candlestick and moved for the door.

“Wait,” said the little man. “Is there anything else I might interest you in? You haven’t even purchased a candle, I mean, and the night is dark. And did you not come for candles? How fine that candlestick shapes the shadows when a proper light is placed atop it.”

Giggling at another table made the little man realize that he was speaking to himself, however, for Entreri was already gone.

Outside, another lightning flash illuminated the street, so bright and prolonged that Entreri could read the sign on the collector’s shop opposite: Ilnezhara’s Gold Coins.

With a glance each way, Entreri moved off, his boots not making a sound on the wet cobblestones. He had a long way to walk, all the way to the southern section of the city, but he moved swiftly with little foot traffic to hinder him. He arrived at the unremarkable building a short while later and looked around, as had been his habit for many years, before moving up the back staircase to the second floor and the door to his apartment. Another look confirmed that he was alone, and he slipped through.

The room was warm and inviting, with a fire blazing in the hearth and candles burning in the many arms of the decorated candelabra that seemed everywhere. Entreri shrugged off his cloak as he entered and flipped it onto the rack by the door where a similar fine traveling cloak hung, drying. His hat went up next, taking its place before its more sizeable companion.

Entreri wiped the remaining moisture from his face with one arm, while he unfastened his belt with his other hand. He stopped short, though, and pulled out his jeweled dagger, launching it into an end-over-end flight across the room. It crossed over his small bed and dived into a silhouette he had painted on the wall-a representation of a lithe figure with a ridiculously large hat. As always, the dagger struck true, just a few inches above the bed and right in the groin area of the silhouette.

“Ouch, I suppose,” Jarlaxle said.

“At least,” said Entreri.

When he looked at his partner, Entreri nearly stepped back in surprise, for Jarlaxle had his eye patch up on his forehead, showing Entreri both his eyes at once for the very first time.

“I do find it rather unsettling,” said the drow, “that you would wish something from that region protruding over your bed.”

“If I awakened under threat and reached for my dagger, and it was anything other than that hanging over my bed, rest assured I would tear it out.”

“Ouch again, I suppose.”

“At least.”

Jarlaxle laughed at him and asked, “Why the foul mood, my friend?”

“Personality trait.”

“We deciphered the verse correctly, obviously,” said Jarlaxle, motioning for the candlestick Entreri held. “ ‘Wickless in the nether,’ indeed.”

Entreri walked toward him, but stopped short and placed the candlestick on the table as he went by.

“And all this time, I thought that remark aimed at your virility,” Entreri said as he moved past and fell onto his bed.

“The tavern wench placed the napkin on the table equidistant to us both,” Jarlaxle reminded. He produced the dirty old cloth from a pocket and held it up before Entreri. “ ‘More valuable in practical, a better bargain found,’ ” he read. “ ‘A careful eye will find the prize in sight of Wall’s Around. For pretty things that serve no use, the true art finds its tether. To those who know, illumination comes wickless in the nether.’ ”

With a sly grin as he finished, the drow mercenary inverted the candlestick and picked at the wax set in its base, in the arse of the squatting toad.

“The second line was key, of course,” he said as he popped the plug free. “Silver is more practical than gold, and so our choice of shops was settled.” Jarlaxle’s smile widened as he dipped his delicate little finger into the cavity and pressed his nail against the side, pulling forth a thin rolled parchment as he retracted the finger. “Our correct choice.”

The drow mercenary leaned forward over the table and spread the parchment before him.

“Interesting,” he said, and when no response came forth from his roommate, he said it again, and again.

After many frustrating minutes, Jarlaxle said it yet again, then nearly jumped out of his seat when he was answered by Entreri, who was standing right behind him.

“It’s a map.”

“A map?” the drow asked. “It is a series of dots, a circle, a single line, and a drop of blood. How is that a map?”

“The dots are buildings … locations. All the buildings that have played a part in this riddle we have entered,” Entreri explained. He leaned forward, indicating each as he named them. “The tavern, our apartment …”

He paused there and glanced around, not pleased to learn that whomever was behind it all knew where they lived.

“And the Wall Around,” said Jarlaxle, catching on and pointing to the circle. “Bag of Silver and Gold Coins. Indeed, the proportions of the distances seem fairly accurate.” He measured each with his fingers as he spoke, confirming his guess. “But all of this was known to us already.”

“Except for that,” said Entreri, pointing to the one mark on the far edge of the long parchment, a drop of blood very far removed from the other indicators.

“Blood?” asked the drow.

“A destination.”

The pair found the spot of blood-a rather unremarkable cabin on the side of a rocky hill far outside the wall of Heliogabalus-in the light drizzle of the following morning. The city was not visible from the cabin, for it was on the far side of the hill, nor was it near any roads.

Entreri eyed the abode suspiciously, scanning the surroundings for signs of ambush, but no threat presented itself. The roof was not high-the back side of the house, abutting the hill, rose no more than five feet above the stony ground-and there were no trees close enough to afford any archers an easy shot.

So caught up was the wary assassin in scouting the surrounding area that he was caught somewhat by surprise when a woman’s voice addressed the pair right from the small porch of the house.

“Clever and quick,” she said. “Better than I expected, really.”

The companions took a step away from each other, each sizing up the woman from a different angle. She was not unattractive, though certainly not beautiful. Her face was rather plain, and unadorned with the many powders and colors that had become all the rage in Damara among the women of the court. That face seemed a bit short, too, or perhaps that was because her shoulders seemed too wide for the rest of her frame. She appeared a little older than Entreri, probably nearing, if not already past, her fiftieth birthday. Her thin, shoulder length hair was a soft blend of gray and strawberry blond, though certainly not as lustrous as it once might have appeared.

She wore a modest dress, powder blue and simply tailored. Her shoes were low cut, quite impractical for the muddy, harsh terrain between the cabin and the city. They were shoes more common within the city gates, Entreri noted, and certainly nothing a hearty hermit so far out of town would wear.

Entreri felt Jarlaxle’s gaze upon him, so he turned to take in his friend’s smirk.

“Greetings, Lady Tazmikella,” the drow said with a great flourish and a deep bow, sweeping his wide brimmed hat off as he bent low.

Entreri, surprised by the remark, looked to the woman, noting her sudden scowl.

“Do you always take such presumptive chances?” she asked, and Entreri couldn’t tell if she was annoyed because Jarlaxle had guessed correctly, or insulted because he had so labeled her.

“Deductive reasoning,” explained the drow.

The woman didn’t seem very impressed, or convinced, when she said, “I have your interest, it would seem, so come inside.”

She turned and walked into the cabin, and with another shared look and a pair of concerned shrugs, they moved up side by side, Jarlaxle’s enchanted boots clicking loudly even on the soft ground, and Entreri’s skilled steps making not a whisper of sound, even on the hard wood of the porch stairs.

Inside, they found the facade of the cabin wholly misleading, for the room was spacious-too much so, it seemed-and well-adorned with fabulous tapestries and rugs. Most were stitched with designs depicting the gentler pleasures of life in Damara: a shepherd with his flock on a sunny hillside, a woman singing while cleaning laundry at a stream, a group of children playing at the joust with long poles and the pennants of well-known heroes.… Candelabra and fine, sturdy plates covered the table. Dry sinks lined every wall, full of plants and flowers neatly and tastefully arranged. A chandelier hung over the center table, a simple but beautiful many-limbed piece that would have been more fitting in one of the mansions of the great city, though not in its more formal rooms.

Looking around at the decor, at the distinctive silver flavor, Entreri realized that Jarlaxle’s guess had been correct.

“Please, sit,” the woman said.

She motioned to the simple but elegant carved wooden chairs around the central table. It was hardly inexpensive furniture, Entreri noted, as he felt the weight of the chair and let his finger play in the deep grooves of superior craftsmanship.

“You have moved quickly and so you are deserving of similar effort on my part,” the woman said.

“You have heard of us and wish to hire us,” said Jarlaxle.

“Of course.”

“You do not look like one who would wish another killed.”

The woman blanched at the drow’s suggestion, Entreri noted. For that was Entreri’s role whenever they met a new prospective employer and Jarlaxle posed that very same question. Jarlaxle always liked to start such interviews in a blunt manner.

“I was told that you two were skilled in … procurement.”

“You seem to do well in that area yourself, Lady Taz …” Jarlaxle stopped short, looking for cues.

“Tazmikella,” she confirmed. “And yes, I do, and thank you for noticing. But you may have also noticed that I am not alone in my endeavors in the fine city of Heliogabalus.”

“Ilnezhara’s Gold Coins,” said Entreri.

“It is a name I cannot speak without an accompanying curse,” the woman admitted. “My rival, once my friend. And alas, she has done it again.”

“It?” the two asked together.

“Procured a piece for which she is not worthy,” said Tazmikella, and when doubting expressions came at her, she sat back in her chair and held up her hands to stop any forthcoming inquiries. “Allow me to explain.”

The woman closed her eyes and remained silent for a long while.

“Not so long ago,” she began tentatively, as if she wasn’t sure if they would get her point, “I happened across a woman sitting on a rock in a field. She did not see me, for she was wrapped in memories. At least, it seemed that way. She was singing, her eyes closed, her mind looking far away-to one she had lost, from what I could tell from the few words I could decipher. Never have I heard such passion and pain in a voice, as if every note carried her heart and soul. She touched me deeply with the beauty of her art and song.

“For me, there was simple appreciation, but my counterpart-”

“Ilnezhara,” Jarlaxle reasoned, and Tazmikella nodded.

“Ilnezhara would never have understood the beauty of that woman’s song. She would have cited how the words strained to rhyme, or the lack of proper technique and the occasional warbling in that untrained voice. It was just those imperfect warbles that pulled at my heart.”

“Because they were honest,” said Jarlaxle.

“And thus practical,” added Entreri, bringing it back to the verse that had brought them there.

“Not pretty enough for Ilnezhara, perhaps,” Jarlaxle said, building upon the thought. “But the prettiness of perfection would have tethered the honesty of emotion.”

“Exactly!” said Tazmikella. “Oh, this is a battle we have long waged. Over everything and anything, it seems. Over painting and sculpture, tapestries, song, and story. I have listened to bards, have watched them sweep away entire common rooms in tales of bold adventure, enrapturing all who would listen. And only to hear Ilnezhara, once my partner, tell me that the structure of the tale was all wrong because it did not follow some formula decided by scholars far removed from those folk in the tavern.

“We battled at auction recently, or we thought to, except that I held no interest in the painting presented. It was no more than a scribbling of lines that evoked nothing more than simple curiosity in me-the curiosity of how it could be proclaimed as art, you see.”

“Your counterpart saw it differently?” asked the drow.

“Not at first, perhaps, but when the artist explained the inner meaning, Ilnezhara’s eyes glowed. Never mind that no such meaning could be elicited through viewing the work itself. That did not matter. The piece followed the prescribed form, and so the conclusions of the artist seemed self-evident, after they were fully explained. That is the way with people like her, you see. They exist within their critical sphere of all that is culture, not to appreciate the warble in a wounded woman’s song, but to stratify all that is around them, to tighten the limits of that which meets approval and dismiss all that is accessible to the common man.”

“They make themselves feel better,” Jarlaxle explained to Entreri, who realized that he was either bored or lost.

“So, you would have us steal this painting that you did not want in the first place?” Entreri asked.

Tazmikella scoffed at the notion.

“Hardly! Cut it with your fine sword for all I care. No, there is another piece, a piece Ilnezhara came upon purely by accident, and one which she will never even try to appreciate. No, she keeps it only because she knows it would be precious to me!”

The mercenaries looked at each other.

“A flute,” Tazmikella said. “A flute carved of a single piece of gray, dry driftwood. It was fashioned long ago by a wandering monk-Idalia of the Yellow Rose was his name. He took this single piece of ugly, castoff driftwood and worked it with impeccable care, day after day. It became the focus of his very existence. He nearly died of starvation as he tried to complete his wonderful flute. And complete it he did. Oh, and from it came the most beautiful music, notes as clear as the wind through ravines of unspoiled stone.”

“And your counterpart got it from this monk?”

“Idalia has been dead for centuries,” Tazmikella explained. “And the flute thought lost. But somehow, she found it.”

“Could you not just buy it from her?” asked the drow.

“It is not for sale.”

“But you said she would not appreciate it.”

Again the woman scoffed and said, “She sets it aside, sets it away without a thought to it. It is valuable to her only because of the pain she knows I endure in not having it.”

The two mercenaries looked at each other again.

“And not just because I do not have it,” Tazmikella went on, somewhat frantically, it seemed. “She knows the pain that I and others of my humor feel because no breath will flow through the work of Idalia. Don’t you see? She is reveling in her ability to steal true beauty from the common man.”

“I do not-” Entreri began, but Jarlaxle cut him off.

“It is a travesty,” the drow said. “One that you wish us to correct.”

Tazmikella rose from the table and moved to a drawer in one of the dry sinks, returning a moment later with a small parchment in hand.

“Ilnezhara plans a showing at her place of business,” she explained, handing the notice to Jarlaxle.

“The flute is not there,” Entreri wondered aloud.

“It is at her personal abode, a singular tower northeast of the city.”

“So while Ilnezhara is at her showing, you would have us visit her home?” Jarlaxle asked.

“Or you, you alone, could go to the showing,” Tazmikella explained, indicating the drow. “Ilnezhara will find one of your … beauty, quite interesting. It should not be difficult for you to elicit an invitation to her private home.”

Jarlaxle looked at her skeptically.

“Easier than breaking into her tower,” Tazmikella explained. “She is a woman of no small means, rich enough, as am I, to buy the finest of pieces, to hire the most skilled of guards, and to create the most deadly of constructs.”

“Promising,” Entreri noted, but though he was being sarcastic with his tone, his eyes glowed at the presented challenge.

“Get that flute,” Tazmikella said, turning to face Entreri directly, “and I will reward you beyond your grandest dreams. A hundred bags of silver, perhaps?”

“And if I prefer gold?”

As soon as the words left his mouth and Tazmikella’s face went tight with a fierce scowl, the assassin figured he might have crossed over the line. He offered a quick apology in the form of a tip of his hat, then looked at Jarlaxle and nodded his agreement.

Artemis Entreri never could resist a challenge. He was supposed to hide outside the singular stone tower and await Jarlaxle’s appearance beside Ilnezhara, if the drow mercenary could manage an invitation there, as Tazmikella had hinted.

The front of the thirty-foot gray stone tower had a wide awning of polished stone, supported by four delicate white columns, two carved with the likenesses of athletic men, and two with shapely women. The tower door beneath that awning was of heavy wood, carved in its center to resemble a blooming flower-a rose, the assassin thought.

Both the pull ring and the lock were gilded, and Entreri couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast between that place and the modest house of Tazmikella.

Entreri knew that the door would be locked and probably set with devilish traps, perhaps even magical wards. He saw no guards around, however, and so he moved under cover of the waning daylight to the side of the tower, then inched his way around. At one point, he noticed the sill of a narrow window about halfway up, and his fingers instinctively felt at the stone blocks. He knew he could climb up, and easily.

Realizing that, he went instead for the door.

In short order, Entreri found a trap: a pressure plate in front of the handle. Following the logical line to the front left column, he easily disarmed that one. Then he discovered a second: a spring needle set within the lock’s tumblers. He took a block of wood from his pouch, an item he had designed precisely for that type of trap. The center was cut out, just enough to allow him to slide his lock pick through with a bit of play room. He slipped it in, wriggled it a few times, then nodded his satisfaction as he heard the expected thump against the block of wood. Retracting the block, he saw the dart, and saw that it was shiny with poison. Ilnezhara played seriously.

And so Entreri played seriously for the next few moments too, scouring every inch of that door, then rechecking. Satisfied that he had removed all of the mechanical traps, at least (for magical ones were much harder to detect), he went to work on the lock.

The door clicked open.

Entreri leaped back, rushing to the column to reset the pressure plate. He moved fast and sprang to the threshold, moving through suddenly and pushing the door closed behind him, thinking to relock it.

But as he bent with his lock picks to reset the tumblers, the door burst in, forcing him to dive aside.

“Oh, for the love of drow,” he cursed, continuing his roll off to the side as the carvings from the columns strode through, slender stone swords in hand.

Out came Charon’s Claw, Entreri’s deadly sword, his jeweled dagger appearing in his other hand. With little regard for those formidable weapons, the two closest of the stone constructs charged in, side by side. Charon’s Claw went out to meet that charge, Entreri snapping the sword left and right to force an opening. He shifted sidelong and rushed ahead, between the stone swords, between the statues, and he managed to snap off a quick slash at one with his sword, and stabbed hard at the other. Both blades bit, and for any mortal creature, either might have proved a fatal strike. But the constructs had no life energy for Entreri’s vampiric dagger to siphon, and no soul for Charon’s Claw to melt.

They were not his preferred opponents, Entreri knew, and he lamented that no one seemed to hire flesh and blood guards anymore.

He didn’t dwell on it, though, and pressed past the two male statues.

The two females came at Entreri fast and hard, leaping at him and clawing the air with stony fingers.

Entreri hit the floor in a sidelong roll. He got kicked by both, but accepted the heavy hits so that he could send both tumbling forward, off balance, to smash into their male counterparts. Stone crumbled and dust flew in the heavy collision, and Entreri was fast to his feet, wading in from behind and bashing hard with his powerful sword.

As the statues unwound and turned on him in force, Entreri called upon another of Charon’s Claw’s tricks, waving the blade in a wide arc and summoning forth a black wall of ash as he did. Behind that optical barrier, the assassin went out to the side, then reversed and charged right back in as the lead statues crashed through the opaque screen.

Again his sword went to work ferociously, chopping at the stone. And again, Entreri waved a wall of clouding ash and rushed away.

In the temporary reprieve, he noted that two of the statues were down and crumbled, and a third, one of the women, was hopping toward him on one leg, its other lying on the floor. Beside it came one of the males, seemingly unscathed.

Entreri rushed ahead to meet that charge before the male could get far out in front of the crippled female. In came the stone sword, and Entreri hooked it expertly with his dagger and turned it out, then jerked it back in as he went out, slipping past the male and going low, then cutting across with his sword, taking the remaining leg from the hopping female. She crashed down hard and Entreri came up fast, planting his foot on her face and springing away just in front of a mighty downward chop from the male’s sword.

A downward chop that split the female’s head in half.

Entreri hit the ground in a spin and came right back in, one against one. He slipped Charon’s Claw inside the blade of the thrusting stone sword, then lifted as he turned to drive the weapon and weapon arm up high. He stepped forward and jabbed his dagger hard into the armpit of the statue, then disengaged Charon’s Claw at such an angle that he was able to crack it down across the statue’s face as he moved off to the side. The statue turned to pursue, but Entreri was already reversing his direction, moving with perfect balance and sudden speed.

He hit the statue across the face again as he passed, but that was merely the feint, for as the statue threw its sword arm up to block, Entreri turned and rushed under that arm, coming out the other way in perfect balance and position to slam Charon’s Claw against the upper arm of the already-damaged sword arm.

That arm fell to the floor.

The statue came on, clawing at him with its one hand. Entreri’s blades worked in a blur, expertly taking the fingers from the statue’s hand one at a time.

Then he whittled the hand to a stump in short order. The statue tried to head butt him, but its head fell to the floor.

“Stubborn rock,” Entreri remarked, and he lifted his foot up, braced it against the torso, and shoved the lifeless thing away and to the floor.

His weapons went away in the flash of an eye, and he turned to regard the room, taking in the sight of treasure after treasure.

“I’m working for the wrong person,” he mumbled, awestricken.

He shrugged and began his search for the driftwood flute of Idalia. Before long, he realized that the destroyed statues were deconstructing, their essence and materials drifting back out the open door to the columns-as he’d expected they would.

When they were finally back in place outside on the columns, magically repairing as if nothing had happened, Entreri closed and locked the door. Anyone approaching would think all was as it had been, or so he hoped.

As soon as the couple walked through the tower door and he got a good look at the infamous Ilnezhara, Entreri wondered if there might not be more to Tazmikella’s antipathy toward her former friend than simple merchant rivalry. For Ilnezhara seemed everything that Tazmikella was not. Her hair hung long and lustrous, and so rich in hue that Entreri couldn’t decide if it was reddish-blond or reddish-brown, or even copper colored, perhaps. Her eyes were blue and big-enormous, actually, but they did not unbalance her bright face. Though her nose was thin and straight, and her cheekbones high and pronounced, her lips were as thick and delicious as any Entreri had ever seen. She was taller than the five-and-a-half-foot Jarlaxle by several inches, and moved her slender form with as much grace as the nimble drow.

“I do find you entertaining,” she said to the drow, and she tossed her thick hair.

Entreri knew that he was well hidden, tucked in a cranny partly covered by a tapestry and concealed by a many-armed rack holding bowls of many colors. There was no way that Ilnezhara could see him, but when she tossed her hair and her face flashed his way, he felt the intensity of her gaze upon him.

She went right back to her conversation with Jarlaxle, and Entreri silently scolded himself. When had he ever so questioned his abilities? Had he been taken in by the woman’s beauty? He shook the thought away and concentrated on the conversation playing out before him. The couple were seated on a divan then, with Ilnezhara curled up beside the charming drow, her finger delicately tracing circles on his chest, for she had opened the top two buttons of his fine white shirt. She was speaking of entertainment, still.

“It is my way,” Jarlaxle replied. “I have traveled so many of the surface lands, from tavern to tavern and palace to palace, entertaining peasants and kings alike. I find my charms my only defense against the inevitable impressions offered by my black skin.”

“With song? Will you sing to me, Jarlaxle?”

“Song, yes, but my talents are more musical.”

“With instruments? I have a fine collection, of course.”

She pulled herself from the divan and began striding toward the back of the room. There were indeed many instruments back there, Entreri knew, for of course he had searched much of the tower already. Several lutes and a magnificent harp, all of exceeding quality and workmanship, graced the back area of this first floor.

“Your wonderful fingers must trace delicate sounds about the strings of a lute,” Ilnezhara said-rather lewdly, Entreri thought-as she lifted a lute from a soft case to show to Jarlaxle.

“In truth, it is my kiss,” said the drow. Entreri tried not to let his disgusted sigh be heard. “My breath. I favor the flute above all.”

“The flute?” echoed Ilnezhara. “Why, indeed, I have one of amazing timbre, though it is not much to view.”

Jarlaxle leaned toward her. Entreri held his breath, not even realizing that it all seemed too easy.

Ilnezhara continued toward the back of the room.

“Would you like to see it?” she asked coyly. “Or rather, would you like to see where I keep it?”

Jarlaxle’s smile melted into a look of confusion.

“Or are you hoping, perhaps, that your sneaky friend has already found it, and so when I open its case, it will not be there?” the woman went on.

“My lady …”

“He is still here. Why do you not ask him?” Ilnezhara stated, and she turned her gaze over to the cranny at the side, staring directly at the hidden Entreri.

“Play with my friends!” Ilnezhara cried suddenly, and she lifted her hand and waved it in a circle. Immediately, several statuettes-a pair of gargoyles, a lizard, and a bear-began to grow and twist.

“Not more constructs!” Entreri growled, bursting from his concealing cubby.

Jarlaxle sprang from the divan, but Ilnezhara moved with equal speed, slipping behind a screen and running off.

“Well done,” Jarlaxle said to Entreri, the two taking up the chase.

Entreri thought to argue that he had defeated every entry-way trap, and that he could not have expected Ilnezhara to be so prepared, but he stayed silent, having no real answer to the sarcasm.

Behind the screen, they found a corridor between the racks of artwork and jewelry cases. Up ahead, the woman’s form slipped behind yet another delicate, painted screen, and as it was very near to the curving back wall, it seemed as if they had her-and would get to her before the constructs fully animated and caught up to them.

“You have nowhere to run!” Jarlaxle called, but even as he spoke, he and Entreri saw the wall above the screen crack open, a secret door swinging in.

“You didn’t find that?” the drow asked.

“I had but a few minutes,” Entreri argued, and he went left around the screen as Jarlaxle went right.

Entreri hit the door first, shouldering it in and fully expecting that he would find himself out the back side of the tower. As he pushed through, though, he felt that there was nothing beneath his foot. He grabbed hard at the door, finding a pull ring, and held on, hanging in mid air as it continued to swing. As he came around and took in the scene before him, he nearly dropped, as his jaw surely did.

For he was not outside, but in a vast magically-lighted chamber, an extra-dimensional space, it had to be, going on and on beyond Entreri’s sight. Having served among the wealthiest merchants in Calimport, and with the richest pashas, Artemis Entreri was no stranger to treasure hoards. But never before in all his life had he imagined a collection of coins, jewels, and artifacts to rival this! Mounds of gold taller than he lay scattered about the floor, glittering with thousands of jewels sitting on their shining sides. Swords and armor, statues and instruments, bowls and amazing furniture pieces were everywhere, every item showing wonderful craftsmanship and care in design.

Entreri glanced back to see Jarlaxle at the threshold, staring in and appearing equally dumbfounded.

“An illusion,” Entreri said.

Jarlaxle shifted his eye patch from one eye to the other and peered intently into the room.

“No, it’s not,” the drow said, and he glanced back to the tower’s entry room.

With a shrug, Jarlaxle casually stepped into the room, dropping the eight feet or so to the floor. Hearing the clatter of the approaching constructs behind him, Entreri let go of the door, swinging it closed as he dropped. It shut with a resounding thud, and the tumult disappeared.

“It is wonderful, yes?” Ilnezhara asked, stepping out from behind a pile of gold.

“By the gods …” whispered Entreri, and he glanced at his partner.

“I have heard of such treasures, good lady,” the drow said. “But always in the care of-”

“Don’t even say it,” whispered Entreri, but it didn’t matter anyway, for Ilnezhara’s features began to shift and scrunch suddenly, accompanied by the sound of cracking bones.

A huge copper-colored tail sprang out behind her, and gigantic wings sprouted from her shoulders.

“A dragon,” Entreri remarked. “Another stinking dragon. What game is this with you?” he asked his partner. “You keep placing me in front of stinking dragons! In all my life, I had never even seen a wyrm, and now, beside you, I have come to know them far too well.”

“You took me to the first one,” Jarlaxle reminded.

“To get rid of that cursed artifact, yes!” Entreri countered. “You remember, of course. The artifact that had you under a destructive spell? Would I have chosen to go to the lair of a dragon, else?”

“It does not matter,” Jarlaxle argued.

“Of course it matters,” Entreri spat back. “You keep taking me to stinking dragons.”

Ilnezhara’s “ahem” shook the ground beneath their feet and drew them from their private argument.

“I could do without the disparaging adjectives, thank you very much,” she said to them when she had their attention, her voice sounding very similar to what it had been when she had appeared as a human woman, except that it was multiplied in volume many times over.

“I suspect we need not worry about the constructs coming in to attack us,” said Jarlaxle.

The dragon smiled, rows of teeth as long as Entreri’s arm gleaming in the magical light.

“You do entertain me, pretty drow,” she said. “Though I lament that you are not as wise as I had believed. To try to steal from a dragon at the behest of a fool like Tazmikella? For it was she who sent you, of course. The foolish woman can never understand why I always seem to best her.”

“Go,” Jarlaxle whispered, and the assassin broke left, while the drow broke right.

But the dragon moved, too, breathing forth.

Entreri cried out and dived into a roll, not knowing what to expect. He felt the wind of dragon breath passing over him, but came back to his feet, apparently unhurt. His elation at that lasted only a moment, though, until he realized that he was moving much more slowly.

“You cannot win, of course, nor is there any escape,” said Ilnezhara. “Tell me, pretty drow, would you have come here to steal from me if you had known of my true identity?”

Entreri looked past the dragon to see Jarlaxle simply standing there, vulnerable, before the great wyrm. His incredulous expression was all the answer Ilnezhara needed.

“I thought not,” she said. “You admit defeat, then?”

Jarlaxle just shrugged and held his arms out to the sides.

“Good, good,” said the dragon.

Her bones began to crunch again, and soon she appeared in her human form.

“I did not know that copper dragons were so adept at shape-changing,” the drow said, finding his voice.

“I spent many years studying under an archmage,” Ilnezhara replied. “The passage of centuries can be quite boring, you understand.”

“I do, yes,” the drow answered. “Though my friend …”

He swept his arm out toward Entreri.

“Your friend who still thinks he might get behind me and stab me with his puny dagger, or cut off my head with his mighty sword? Indeed, that is a formidable weapon,” she said to Entreri. “Would you try it against Ilnezhara?”

The assassin glared at her, but did not answer.

“Or perhaps you would give it to me, in exchange for your lives?”

“Yes, he would,” Jarlaxle was quick to answer.

Entreri turned his scowl on his friend, but realized that he really couldn’t argue the point.

“Or perhaps,” said Ilnezhara, “you would instead agree to perform a service for me. Yes, you seem uniquely qualified for this.”

“You need something stolen from Tazmikella,” Entreri reasoned.

Ilnezhara scoffed at the notion and said, “What could she have that would begin to interest me? No, of course not. Kill her.”

“Kill her?” Jarlaxle echoed.

“Yes, I grow weary of our facade of a friendship, or friendly rivalry, and I grow impatient. I do not wish to wait the few decades until old age takes her or renders her too infirm to continue her silly games. Kill her and arouse no suspicion from the authorities. If you can do that, then perhaps I will forgive your transgression.”

“Perhaps?” asked the drow.

“Perhaps,” answered the dragon, and when the two thieves hesitated, she added, “Do you believe that you can find a better deal?”

Entreri watched Tazmikella stiffen when she noticed Jarlaxle sitting casually in a chair in the back of her modest cabin.

“You have the flute of Idalia?” she asked, breathless.

“Hardly,” the drow replied. “It would seem that you did not fully inform us regarding the disposition of your rival.”

From his hiding spot off to the side, Entreri measured Tazmikella’s reaction. He and Jarlaxle had agreed that if the woman knew Ilnezhara’s true form, then they would indeed kill her, and without remorse.

“I told you she would be well protected,” Tazmikella started to say, and she stiffened again as a dagger came against her back.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “I hired you honestl-” She paused. “She sent you back here to kill me, didn’t she? She offered you gold against my silver.”

Entreri hardly heard her question. He hadn’t even pricked her with his vicious, life-drawing dagger, and yet the enchanted blade had sent such a surge of energy up his arm that the hairs were standing on end. Trembling, confused, the assassin lifted his free hand, placed it against Tazmikella’s shoulder, and gave a push.

He might as well have tried to push a mountain.

Entreri groaned and retracted both open hand and dagger.

“For the love of an eight-legged demon queen,” he muttered as he walked off to the side, shaking his head in disgust.

He glanced over at Jarlaxle, who was staring at him curiously.

“Her?” the drow asked.

Entreri nodded.

Tazmikella sighed and said, “My own sister sent you to kill me.…”

“Your sister?” asked the drow.

“One dragon’s not good enough for you, is it?” Entreri growled at his partner. “Now you’ve put me in the middle of a feud between two!”

“All that you had to do was steal a simple flute,” Tazmikella reminded them.

“From a dragon,” said Entreri.

“I thought you quick and clever.”

“Better if we had known the power of our enemy.”

“And now you have come to kill me,” said Tazmikella. “Oh, is there no room for loyalty anymore?”

“We weren’t going to kill you, actually,” said Jarlaxle.

“You would say that now.”

“If we found out that you knew you were sending us into the home of a dragon, then yes, we might have killed you,” Entreri added.

“You’ll note that my friend did not drive the blade into your back,” said the drow. “We came to talk, not murder.”

“So, now that you are aware of my … disposition, you wish to parley? Perhaps I can persuade you to go and kill Ilnezhara.”

“My good … lady,” the drow said, and he dipped a polite bow. “We prefer not to involve ourselves in such feuds. We are thieves-freely admitted! — but not killers.”

“I can think of a drow I wouldn’t mind killing right now,” said Entreri, and he took some hope, at least, in noticing that Tazmikella smirked with amusement.

“I would suggest that you and your sister sort this out reasonably. Through talk and not battle. Your king carries Dragonsbane as his surname, does he not? I would doubt that Gareth would be pleased with having his principal city leveled in the fight between a pair of great dragons.”

“Yes, dear sister,” came another voice, and Entreri groaned again.

Jarlaxle bowed even lower as Ilnezhara stepped into view, as if she had simply materialized out of nowhere.

“I told you they wouldn’t try to kill me,” Tazmikella replied.

“Only because that one discovered your true identity before he plunged his dagger home,” Ilnezhara argued.

“That is not entirely true,” said Entreri, but they weren’t listening to him.

“I suppose I could not blame them if they did try to kill me,” said Tazmikella. “They were instructed to do so by a dragon, after all.”

“Self-preservation is a powerful incentive,” her sister agreed as she moved next to Jarlaxle.

Ilnezhara reached up and unbuttoned his shirt, and again began tracing lines on his chest with her long finger.

“You wish to play with me before you kill me, then?” Jarlaxle asked her.

“Kill you?” Ilnezhara said with feigned horror. “Pretty drow, why would I ever wish such a thing as that? Oh no, I have plans for you, to be sure, but killing you isn’t in them.”

She snuggled a bit closer as she spoke, and Jarlaxle grinned, seeming very pleased.

“She’s a dragon!” Entreri said, and all three looked at him.

There usually wasn’t much emotion in Artemis Entreri’s voice, but so heavily weighted were those three words that it hit the others as profoundly as if he had rushed across the room, grabbed Jarlaxle by the collar, lifted him from the ground, and slammed him against the wall, shouting, “Are you mad?” with abandon.

“That one is so unimaginative,” Ilnezhara said to her sister.

“He is practical.”

“He is boring,” Ilnezhara corrected. She smirked at Entreri. “Tell me, human, as you walk along the muddy trail, do you not wonder what might be inside the gilded coach that passes you by?”

“You’re a dragon,” said Entreri.

Ilnezhara laughed at him.

“You have no idea what that means,” Ilnezhara promised.

She put her arm around Jarlaxle and pulled him close.

“I know that if you squeeze harder, Jarlaxle’s intestines will come out of his mouth,” Entreri said, stealing Ilnezhara’s superior smile.

“He has no imagination,” Jarlaxle assured her.

“You are such a peasant,” Ilnezhara said to Entreri. “Perhaps you should get better acquainted with my sister.”

Entreri rubbed a hand over his face, and looked at Tazmikella, who seemed quite amused by it all.

“Enough of this,” Tazmikella declared. “It is settled, then.”

“Is it?” Entreri asked.

“You work for us now,” Ilnezhara explained. “You do show cleverness and wit, even if that one is without imagination.”

“We had to learn, you must understand,” added her sister.

“Are we to understand that this whole thing was designed as a test for us?” asked Jarlaxle.

“Dragons.…” Entreri muttered.

“Of course,” said Ilnezhara.

“Then you two do not wish to battle to the death?”

“Of course not,” both sisters said together.

“We wish to increase our hoards,” said Tazmikella. “That is where you come in. We have maps that need following, and rumors that need confirming. You will work for us.”

“Do not doubt that we will reward you greatly,” Ilnezhara purred.

She pulled Jarlaxle closer, drawing an unintentional grunt from him.

“She’s a dragon,” Entreri said.

“Peasant,” Ilnezhara shot back. She laughed again, then pulled Jarlaxle around and released him back toward the door. “Go now back to your apartment. We will fashion some instructions for you shortly.”

“Your discretion is demanded,” her sister added.

“Of course,” said Jarlaxle, and he bowed low again, sweeping off his feathered hat.

“Oh, and here,” said Ilnezhara. She pulled out a plain-looking flute of gray driftwood. “You earned this,” she said. She motioned as if to toss it to the drow, but turned and flipped it out to Entreri instead. “Learn it well, peasant-to amuse me, and also because you might find it possessed of a bit of its own magic. Perhaps you will come to better appreciate beauty you cannot yet understand.”

Jarlaxle grinned and bowed again, but Entreri just tucked the flute into his belt and headed straight for the door, wanting to get far away while it was still possible. He passed by Tazmikella, thinking to go right out into the night, but she held up her hand and stopped him as completely as if he had walked into a castle wall.

“Discretion,” she reminded.

Entreri nodded and slipped aside, then went out into the foggy night, Jarlaxle right behind him.

“It worked out quite well, I think,” said the drow, moving up beside him.

Jarlaxle reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder, and in the cover of that shake, the drow’s other arm snaked behind his back, reaching out and gently lifting the flute from Entreri’s belt.

“Dragons.…” Entreri argued.

He shoved Jarlaxle’s arm away, and used the cover of the movement to flash his other hand across and secretly take back the flute, even as Jarlaxle set it in his belt.

“Are you so much the peasant, as beautiful Ilnezhara claims?” asked the drow, moving back beside his partner. “Your imagination, man! Have we ever known wealthier benefactors? Or more alluring?”

“Alluring? They’re dragons!”

“Yes, they are,” said a smug Jarlaxle, and he seemed quite entranced with that notion.

Of course, that didn’t stop him from sliding his hand across to relieve Entreri of the magical flute once more. The drow brought it farther around his back to a waiting loop on his belt-a magical loop that would tighten and resist thieving fingers.

Except that what Jarlaxle thought was the loop was really Entreri’s cupped hand and the man wasted no time in bringing the flute back.

Such was the fog in the friendship of thieves.