“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
