But there were other ways with other allies. The mercenary drew out a slender wand and with a thought teleported his body back to Menzoberranzan.
His newest lieutenant, once a proud member of the ruling house, was waiting for him.
'Go to your brother Gromph,' Jarlaxle instructed. 'Tell him that I wish to learn of the story of the human named Wulfgar, the demon Errtu, and the artifact known as Crenshinibon.'
'Wulfgar was taken in the first raid on Mithral Hall, the realm of Clan Battlehammer,' Berg'inyon Baenre answered, for he knew well the tale. 'By a handmaiden, and given to Lolth.'
'But where from there?' Jarlaxle asked. 'He is back on our plane of existence, it would seem, on the surface.'
Berg'inyon's expression showed his surprise at that. Few ever escaped the clutches of the Spider Queen. But then, he admitted silently, nothing about Drizzt Do'Urden had ever been predictable. 'I will find my brother this day,' he assured Jarlaxle.
'Tell him that I wish to know of a mighty priest named Cadderly,' Jarlaxle added, and he tossed Berg'inyon a small amulet. 'It is imbued with the emanations of my location,' he explained, 'that your brother might find me or send a messenger.'
Again Berg'inyon nodded.
'All is well?' Jarlaxle asked.
'The city remains quiet,' the lieutenant reported, and Jarlaxle was not surprised. Ever since the last assault upon Mithral Hall several years before, when Matron Baenre, the figurehead of Menzoberranzan for centuries, had been killed, the city had been outwardly quiet above the tumult of private planning. To her credit, Triel Baenre, Matron Baenre's oldest daughter, had done a credible job of holding the house together. But despite her efforts it seemed likely that the city would soon know interhouse wars beyond the scope of anything previously experienced. Jarlaxle had decided to strike out for the surface, to extend his grasp, thus making his mercenary band invaluable to any house with aspirations for greater power.
The key to it all now, Jarlaxle understood, was to keep everyone on his side even as they waged war with each other. It was a line he had learned to walk with perfection centuries before.
'Go to Gromph quickly,' he instructed. 'This is of utmost importance. I must have my answers before Narbondel brightens a hands' pillars,' he explained, using a common expression to mean before five days had passed. The expression 'hands' pillars' represented the five fingers on one hand.
Berg'inyon departed, and with a silent mental instruction to his wand Jarlaxle was back in Calimport. As quickly as his body moved, so too moved his thoughts to another pressing issue. Berg'inyon would not fail him, nor would Gromph, nor would Rai'gy and Kimmuriel. He knew that with all confidence, and that knowledge allowed him to focus on this very night's work: the takeover of the Basadoni Guild.
'Who is there?' came the old voice, a voice full of calmness despite the apparent danger.
Entreri, having just stepped through one of Kimmuriel Oblodra's dimensional portals, heard it as if from far, far away, as the assassin fought to orient himself to his new surroundings. He was in Pasha Basadoni's private room, behind a lavish dressing screen. Finally finding his center of balance and consciousness, the assassin spent a moment studying his surroundings, his ears pricked for the slightest of sounds: breathing or the steady footfalls of a practiced killer.
But of course he and Kimmuriel had properly scouted the room and the whereabouts of the pasha's lieutenants, and they knew that the old and helpless man was quite alone.
'Who is there?' came another call.
Entreri walked out around the screen and into the candlelight, shifting his bolero back on his head that the old man might see him clearly, and that the assassin might gaze upon Basadoni.
How pitiful the old man looked, a hollow shell of his former self, his former glory. Once Pasha Basadoni had been the most powerful guildmaster in Calimport, but now he was just an old man, a figurehead, a puppet whose strings could be pulled by several different people at once.
Entreri, despite himself, hated those string pullers.
'You should not have come,' Basadoni rasped at him. 'Flee the city, for you cannot live here. Too many, too many.'
'You have spent two decades underestimating me,' Entreri replied lightly, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. 'When will you learn the truth?'
That brought a phlegm-filled chuckle from Basadoni, and Entreri flashed a rare smile.
'I have known the truth of Artemis Entreri since he was a street urchin killing intruders with sharpened stones,' the old man reminded him.
'Intruders you sent,' said Entreri.
Basadoni conceded the point with a grin. 'I had to test you.'
'And have I passed, Pasha?' Entreri considered his own tone as he spoke the words. The two were speaking like old Mends, and in a manner they were indeed. But now, because of the actions of Basadoni's lieutenants, they were also mortal enemies. Still the pasha seemed quite at ease here, alone and helpless with Entreri. At first, the assassin had thought that the man might be better prepared than he had assumed, but after carefully inspecting the room and the partially upright bed that held the old man, he was secure in the fact that Basadoni had no tricks to play. Entreri was in control, and that didn't seem to bother Pasha Basadoni as much as it should.
'Always, always,' Basadoni replied, but then his smile dissipated into a grimace. 'Until now. Now you have failed, and at a task too easy.'
Entreri shrugged as if it did not matter. 'The targeted man was pitiful,' he explained. 'Truly. Am I, the assassin who passed all of your tests, who ascended to sit beside you though I was still but a young man, to murder wretched peasants who owe a debt that a novice pickpocket could cover in half a day's work?'
'That was not the point,' Basadoni insisted. 'I let you back in, but you have been gone a long time, and thus you had to prove yourself. Not to me,' the pasha quickly added, seeing the assassin's frown.
'No, to your foolish lieutenants,' Entreri reasoned.
'They have earned their positions.'
'That is my fear.'
'Now it is Artemis Entreri who underestimates,' Pasha Basadoni insisted. 'Each of the three have their place and serve me well.'
'Well enough to keep me out of your house?' Entreri asked.
Pasha Basadoni gave a great sigh. 'Have you come to kill me?' he asked, and then he laughed again. 'No, not that. You would not kill me, because you have no reason to. You know, of course, that if you somehow succeed against Kadran Gordeon and the others, I will take you back in.'
'Another test?' Entreri asked dryly.
'If so, then one you created.'
'By sparing the life of a wretch who likely would have preferred death?' Entreri said, shaking his head as if the whole notion was purely ridiculous.
A flicker of understanding sharpened Basadoni's old gray eyes. 'So it was not sympathy,' he said, grinning.
'Sympathy?'
'For the wretch,' the old man explained. 'No, you care nothing for him, care not that he was subsequently murdered. No, no, and I should have understood. It was not sympathy that stayed the hand of Artemis Entreri. Never that! It was pride, simple, foolish pride. You would not lower yourself to the level of street enforcer, and thus you started a war you cannot win. Oh, fool!'
'Cannot win?' Entreri echoed. 'You assume much.' He studied the old man for a long moment, locking gazes. 'Tell me, Pasha, who do you wish to win?' he asked.
'Pride again,' Basadoni replied with a flourish of his skinny arms that stole much of his strength and left him gasping. 'But the point,' he continued a moment later, 'in any case, is moot. What you truly ask is if I still care for you, and of course I do. I remember well your ascent through my guild, as well as any father recalls the growth of his son. I do not wish you ill in this war you have begun, though you understand that there is little I can do to prevent these events that you and Kadran, prideful fools both, have put in order. And of course, as I said before, you cannot win.'
