Entreri apparently comprehended, for his hand inched toward the item but fell limp, too weak to continue.
Regis shook his head and took up his walking stick. Keeping the dagger firm against the cloak, he reached below the spur and prodded Entreri.
The assassin did not respond.
Regis poked him again, much harder, then several more times before he was convinced the assassin was indeed helpless. His smile wide, Regis worked the tip of the walking stick under the chain around the assassin's neck and gently angled it out and around, lifting the pendant free.
'How does it feel?' Regis asked as he gathered in his precious ruby. He poked down with the stick, popping Entreri on the back of the head.
'How does it feel to be helpless, a prisoner of someone else's whims? How many have you put another in the position you now enjoy?' Regis popped him again. 'A hundred?'
Regis moved to strike again, but then he noticed some thing else of value hanging on a cord from the assassin's belt. Retrieving this item would be far more difficult than getting the pendant, but Regis was a thief, after all, and he prided himself (secretly, of course) on being a good one. He looped his silken rope about the spur and swung low, placing his foot on Entreri's back for balance.
The mask was his.
For good measure, the thieving halfling fished his hands through the assassin's pockets, finding a small purse and a fairly valuable gemstone.
Entreri groaned and tried to swing about. Frightened by the movement, Regis was back on the spur in the blink of an eye, the dagger again firmly against the tattered cloak's seam.
'I could show mercy,' the halfling remarked, looking up to the vultures circling overhead, the carrion birds that had shown the way to Entreri. 'I could get Bruenor and Drizzt to bring you in. Perhaps you have information that might prove valuable.'
Regis's memories of Entreri's tortures came flooding back when he noticed his own hand, missing two fingers that the assassin had cut away-with the very dagger Regis now held. How beautifully ironic, Regis thought.
'No,' he decided. 'I do not feel particularly merciful this day.' He looked up again. 'I should leave you hanging here for the vultures to pick at,' he said.
Entreri in no way reacted.
Regis shook his head. He could be cold, but not to that level, not to the level of Artemis Entreri. 'The enchanted wings saved you when Drizzt let you fall,' he said, 'but they are no more!'
Regis flicked his wrist, severing the cloak's remaining seam, and let the assassin's weight do the rest.
Entreri was still hanging when Regis slid back off the spur, but the cloak had begun to tear.
Artemis Entreri had run out of tricks.
Chapter 25 In The Palm Of Her Hand
Matron Baenre sat back easily in the cushioned chair, her withered fingers tapping impatiently on the hard stone arms of the seat. A similar chair, the only other furnishing in this particu lar meeting room, rested across from her, and in it sat the most extraordinary mercenary.
Jarlaxle had just returned from Mithril Hall with a report that Matron Baenre had fully expected.
'Drizzt Do'Urden remains free,' she muttered under her breath. Oddly enough, it seemed to Jarlaxle as if that fact did not displease the conniving matron mother. What was Baenre up to this time? the mercenary wondered.
'I blame Vierna,' Jarlaxle said calmly. 'She underestimated the wiles of her younger brother.' He gave a sly chuckle. 'And paid for her mistake with her life.'
'I blame you,' Matron Baenre quickly put in. 'How will you pay?'
Jarlaxle did not smile, but simply returned the threat with a solid glare. He knew Baenre well enough to under stand that, like an animal, she could smell fear, and that smell often guided her next actions.
Matron Baenre matched the stern look, fingers tap— tapping.
'The dwarves organized against us more quickly than we believed possible,' the mercenary went on after a few uncomfortable moments of silence. 'Their defenses are strong, as is their resolve and, apparently, their loyalty to Drizzt Do'Urden. My plan'-he emphasized the personal reference-'worked perfectly. We took Drizzt Do'Urden without much trouble. But Vierna, against my wishes, allowed the human spy his deal before she
had put enough distance between us and Mithril Hall. She did not under stand the loyalty of Drizzt Do'Urden's friends.'
'You were sent to retrieve Drizzt Do'Urden,' Matron Baenre said too quietly. 'Drizzt is not here. Thus, you have failed.'
Jarlaxle went silent once more. There was no sense in arguing Matron Baenre's logic, he knew, for she needed no approval, and sought none, in any of her actions. This was Menzoberranzan, and in the drow city, Matron Baenre had no peer.
Still, Jarlaxle wasn't afraid that the withered matron mother would kill him. She continued with her tongue— lashing, her voice rising into a shriek by the time she was done with the scolding, but, through it all, Jarlaxle got the distinct impression that she was enjoying herself. The game was still on, after all; Drizzt Do'Urden remained free and waiting to be caught, and Jarlaxle knew that Matron Baenre would not see the loss of a couple dozen soldiers— male, at that-and Vierna Do'Urden as any great price.
Matron Baenre then began discussing the many ways that she might torture Jarlaxle to death-she favored 'skin-stealing,' a drow method of taking a victim's skin, one inch at a time, using various acids and specially designed jagged knives.
Jarlaxle had all he could handle in biting back his laughter at that notion.
Matron Baenre stopped suddenly, and the mercenary feared that she had figured out that he was not taking her seriously. That, Jarlaxle knew, could be a fatal mistake. Baenre didn't care about Vierna or the dead males-she apparently was pleased that Drizzt was still on the loose— but to wound her pride was to surely die a slow and agonizing death.
Baenre's pause went on interminably; she even looked away. When she turned back to Jarlaxle, he breathed a sincere sigh of relief, for she was at ease, smiling widely as though something had just come to her.
'I am not pleased,' she said, an obvious lie, 'but I will forgive your failure this time. You have brought back valuable information.'
Jarlaxle knew who she was referring to.
'Leave me,' she said, waving her hand with apparent disinterest.
Jarlaxle would have preferred to stay longer, to get some hint at what the beautifully conniving matron mother might be plotting. He knew better than to contradict Baenre when she was in such a curious mood, though. Jarlaxle had survived as a rogue for centuries because he knew when to take his leave.
He pulled himself up from the chair and eased his weight onto a broken leg, then winced and nearly fell over into Baenre's lap. Shaking his head, Jarlaxle picked up his cane.
'Triel did not complete the healing,' the mercenary said apologetically. 'She treated my wound, as you instructed, but I did not feel that all of her energy was into the spell.'
'You deserve it, I am sure,' was all the cold Matron Baenre would offer, and she waved Jarlaxle away once more. Baenre had probably instructed her daughter to leave him in pain, and was probably taking great pleasure in watching him limp from the room.
As soon as the door was closed behind the departing mercenary, Matron Baenre enjoyed a heartfelt laugh. Baenre had sanctioned the attempt at capturing Drizzt Do'Urden, but that did not mean that she hoped it would succeed. In truth, the withered matron mother was hoping that things would turn out pretty much as they had.
'You are not a fool, Jarlaxle. That is why I let you live,' she said to the empty room. 'You must realize by now that this is not about Drizzt Do'Urden. He is an inconvenience, a moss gnat, and hardly worthy of my thoughts.
