As the lackl.u.s.ter days continued to drag, the stench of the dead in their cells grew thick, until the man thought sometimes that he must have fallen into the Nine h.e.l.ls in error, the sole living being among the Hordes. Only his creature companion kept him from being alone-and one day it, too, died.

10.

"When truth comes, knowledge leaves. Truth is big."

-Chever's last notes The day the last creature died, the man climbed from the sewers into the city. Twice along the way, he encountered sickly plants that seemed to move of their own accord. He wondered whether they were endowed with sentience as he had once thought his rose was, or if they had once been people who had found themselves on the wrong end of a wizard's spell.

He wandered into a tavern, oblivious of the wrinkled noses and the patrons who got up to move or leave when he sat near them. He stared blankly into a mug of mead for a while, and, following sudden dizziness, the world became blank and utterly white.11 ". . . go now. Can't keep holding to this . . . keeping, I mean, to ... together."

-Chever's last notes When he came to-when the white dimmed to the colors of earth-the man lay curled up in swamp mud. The first thing he saw was the rose-a hallucination. An illusion.

He reached out, palm up. The illusion's head rested softly upon his fingers. He wept.

When the tears ceased, the rose was still there.

He felt something hard beneath his ribs, lodged in the mud, and shifted to push it aside. A rock. A light touch brushed his cheek. When he had shifted, he had come nearer to the rose, and now it touched its face to his.

He pushed himself to a sitting position and cupped the bloom between his palms. It had taken root at a slant, it had fallen on its side when he had thrust it from himself in a time that seemed so long ago. Its stem had curved to enable it to capture what rays of sun it could through the swamp's mossy ceiling.

He gradually became aware of his hands, something about them had nagged at the back of his mind ever since he had awakened.

There: they had begun to rot. He felt no pain, and yet the skin hung from them in tatters. He thought he could see the bone of one of his knuckles.

So this was it. The woman had given him a disease as her parting gift, and he would die soon.

It had been worth it.

Now he would remain here. He would not leave his rose again.

Time pa.s.sed. He did not count cycles of light and dark. Sometimes he lay on his back and stared through the moss and branches at the sky. At night, he saw the stars and thought of his love on their last night together. During the day, he imagined that certain strands of the whitish green moss overhead might be the remnants of Chever's notes, caught and molded to the trees in the rain. But no-the woman had brought them back after he had tossed them away.

Why had she done it? Why had she come to his house, lied, stolen his heart, brought him to the sewers, infected him with rot?

His only regret was that he had never reached an epiphany over Chever's notes. He thought longingly of the table in the sewers where he kept them, where they doubtless rested even now. Or ... did they?

He strained to see into the blur of days between her disappearance and the present. And . . . yes, the image came: himself, standing over a table empty of all but a stump of a candle, frowning slightly, thinking vaguely that something was missing but not caring enough to think on it further.

An empty table. No notes.

She had taken them.

Of course. It made sense. What else of value had he to offer her? He had nothing special, no powers or insights. His rose was valuable only to him, but Chever's notes.. . .

He could imagine those would be valuable to many of the woman's kind. He had been so caught up in his little world of garden, studies, and mountain cabin that he had failed to think beyond it. This was the price of that failure. To ensure he would not come after his treasure ... a poison kiss.

But why had she not taken the notes sooner? He would never know. Perhaps he had been the one brief flash of light in her otherwise dark existence, her chance to know love before losing her life to whatever pit dark wizards swarmed in. Perhaps, having known love, someday she might also know remorse, penance . . . and, somewhere beyond that, peace.

Yes ... that's what he would believe.

He had propped himself up on one elbow, and now he let his head fall back to his pillow of mud.

Leeches clung to his face, and he smiled. Now the end would come.

That Curious Sword

R.A. Salvatore

The Year of the Shield (1367DR)

"It is not so different from Calimport," Artemis Entreri insisted, somewhat stubbornly.

Across the table from him, Jarlaxle merely chuckled.

"And you call my people xenophobic," the dark elf replied. "At least we are not so racist toward others of our own species!"

"You talk the part of the fool."

"I talked my way into the city, did I not?" Jarlaxle replied with that mischievous grin of his.

It was true enough. He and Entreri had come north and east, to the region known as the Bloodstone Lands. There, word had it, adventurers could do a fine business in goblin ears and the like, taken from the wild lands of Vaasa to the north of the kingdom of Damara and this city, Damara's capital, Heliogabalus. Liberally invoking the name of Gareth Dragonsbane, and reminding the city guards that the Paladin King of Damara was a man known for tolerance and understanding, a man known for judging all people by their actions and not their heritage, the dark elf had convinced the city's stern protectors to allow him entry.

They had agreed mostly because Jarlaxle was like no other dark elf they had ever heard of-and none of them had ever seen one. Outrageously dressed with a flamboyant wide-brimmed hat capped by a huge purple feather, a flowing cape-blue on the day he had entered the city, since turned red-an eye patch that daily changed from eye to eye, and with no apparent weapons, the drow seemed more a conversation piece than any threat to the security of the great city. They had let him and Entreri, with his magnificent sword and jeweled dagger, enter the city but had promised to watch over them carefully.

After a couple of hours, the a.s.sa.s.sin and the drow knew that promise was one the lazy guards didn't intend to keep.

"You're taking far too long!" Entreri yelled across the somewhat crowded tavern, at the hapless waitress who had taken their order for drinks and food.

They knew she was in no hurry to return to them, for she had been trembling visibly at the sight of a drow elf all the time she was trying to concentrate on their words.

The woman blanched and started toward the bar, then turned around, then turned around again, as if she didn't know what to do. At a nearby table, a pair of men looked from her to Entreri, their expressions sour.

The a.s.sa.s.sin sat calmly, almost hoping that the pair would make a move. He was in an especially foul mood over the last couple of months, ever since he and Jarlaxle had destroyed the Crystal Shard.

The road had been boring and uneventful, even with his flamboyant companion, and Jarlaxle's plan to come to the Bloodstone Lands to make a reputation and some coin by killing goblins and other monsters sounded more to Entreri like a job for his former arch-nemesis Drizzt and his "gallant" friends.

Still, Entreri had to admit that their options were a bit limited, since Calimport was shut off to them and they'd have a hard time truly establishing themselves in the bowery of any other city.

"You've fl.u.s.tered her," Jarlaxle remarked.

Entreri just shrugged.

"You know, my friend, there is a saying among the drow n.o.bles that if someone treats you well but is wicked to the peasants, then he is truly a wicked person. Now, in my society, that is a compliment, but here?"

Entreri sat back and lifted the front of his round, thin-brimmed hat-Jarlaxle called it a "bolero"-high above his eyes, so that the drow could clearly see his stare, could see the skepticism in his dark eyes.

"Do not pretend you don't care," Jarlaxle said against that smirk.

"Now my conscience is a dark elf?" Entreri asked incredulously. "How low must I have sunk."

"Artemis Entreri is a better man than to whip a serving girl," was all Jarlaxle said, pointedly turning away.

With a frustrated growl, Entreri shoved back from the table and started across the room, his smallform moving silently and gracefully, almost as if he was floating across the room, heading for the serving girl. He pa.s.sed the table with the two loud onlookers, and one of them started to stand as if to block the way, but a look from Entreri, so cold and strong, was enough to alter that plan.

"You," Entreri called to the girl.

She stopped, and everything in the place seemed to come to a complete halt, all conversations ending abruptly.

Well, except for the knowing chuckle from a peculiar looking dark elf at the back of the room.

The serving girl slowly turned to watch Entreri's approach. He moved right up to her and fell to one knee. "I beg your pardon, good lady," he apologized. He held out his hand and dropped a few gold coins onto her tray.

The young woman stared at him in disbelief. Entreri came up from his bow to stand before her. "I expect that you've forgotten what we ordered," he said, "which is understandable, given the . . ." He paused and glanced back at Jarlaxle, then finished,"... unusual look of my friend. I will tell you our preferences again, and with my apologies for not seeing your dilemma earlier."

All around him, the patrons went back to their private conversations. The waitress beamed a great smile, obviously relieved.

Entreri started to go on, to ask her forgiveness, but he couldn't quite bring himself to do that.

"My thanks," he said, and he reiterated the order, then turned back and rejoined Jarlaxle.

"Wonderful!" the dark elf said. "I do believe that I will have you in a paladin's order within a year!"

Entreri narrowed his dark eyes to which Jarlaxle only laughed.

"Thinked I was gonna have to kick yer a.r.s.e outta here," came a voice from the side.

The companions turned to see the innkeeper, a burly older man who looked like a good portion of his chest had slipped to his belly. Still, the large man held an imposing aura about him. Before either of them could take his words as a threat or an insult, though, the man widened a crooked, gap-toothed smile at them.

"Was glad ye made me girl, Kitzy, happy." He pulled out a chair, reversed it, then straddled it, placing his huge elbows on the table and leaning forward. "So what's bringing a pair like you to Heliogabalus?"

"I just wanted to see a city that could boast of such a stupid name," Entreri quipped, and the innkeeper howled and slapped his thigh.

"We have heard that there is fame and fortune to be made in this country," Jarlaxle said in all seriousness, "for those strong enough and cunning enough to find it."

"And that'd be yerself?"

"Some might think so," the dark elf replied, and he gave a shrug. "As you can imagine, it is not easy for one of my heritage to gain acceptance. Perhaps this is an opportunity worth investigating."

"A hero drow?"

"You have, perhaps, heard of Drizzt Do'Urden?" Jarlaxle asked.

Once before, he had tried to use that name for himself, to impress some farmers who, it turned out, had never heard of the unusual drow warrior of Icewind Dale.

Entreri watched his friend's performance with budding anger, recognizing the ploy for what it was.

Jarlaxle had been frustrated with his inability to impersonate Drizzt, or at least, with the lack of gain he would derive from impersonating someone that no one had ever heard of, but perhaps if this man knew of Drizzt, Jarlaxle could a.s.sume the ident.i.ty anew, and begin this phase of his journey a bit higher on the feeding chain of Heliogabalus.

"Drizzit Dudden?" the man echoed badly, scratching his head. "Nope, can't say that I have. He another drow?"

"Another corpse," Entreri put in, and he shot Jarlaxle a glare, not appreciating that Jarlaxle kept bringing up that one's name.

Artemis Entreri was done with Drizzt. He had beaten the drow in their last encounter-with help from a dark elf psionicist-but more importantly than killing Drizzt, Entreri had exorcised the demon within himself, the need to ever deal with that one again."It does not matter," Jarlaxle said, apparently catching the cue and bringing the conversation back in place.

"So ye're here to make a name for yerselfs, eh? I expect ye'll be headin' up Vaasa way."

"I expect that you ask too many questions," said Entreri, and Jarlaxle tossed him another scowl.

"You do seem rather inquisitive," the drow added, mostly to downplay Entreri's tone.

"Well that's me business," the innkeeper replied. "Folks'!! be askin' me about the strange pair that came through."

"Strange?" Entreri asked.

"Ye got a drow elf with ye."

"True enough."

"So if ye're tellin' me yer tale, then ye're really saving yerselfs some trouble," the innkeeper went on.

"The town herald," Jarlaxle said dryly.

That's me business."

"Well, it is as we have already told you," the dark elf replied. He stood up and offered a polite bow.

"I am Jarlaxle, and this is my friend, Artemis Entreri."

As the innkeeper replied with the customary "Well met," Entreri put another frown on and glowered at the dark elf, hardly believing that Jarlaxle had just given out their names. The innkeeper offered his name in reply, which Entreri didn't bother to catch, then began telling them a few tales about men who had gone up to fight in Vaasa, which interested Entreri even less. Then, after a call from the bar area, the man excused himself and walked away.

"What?" Jarlaxle asked against Entreri's frown.

"You are so willing to give out our ident.i.ties?" "Why would I not be?"

Entreri's expression showed clearly that the reasons should be obvious.