"My reputation precedes me," Jarlaxle said. He flashed a disarming grin and dipped another of his patented bows. "Jarlaxle, at your service, milady."
"Your reputation?" the woman scoffed. "Nay, dark-skinned one. A hundred whispers speak of you, rumors of the dastardly deeds we can expect from you, certainly, but nothing of your reputation."
"I see. And so you have come to verify that reputation?"
"To witness a dark elfin our midst," the woman replied. "I have never seen such a creature as you."
"And do I meet with your approval?"
The woman narrowed her eyes and began to slowly circle the drow.
"Your race evokes images of ferocity, and yet you seem a frail thing. I am told that I should be wary—terrified, even—and yet I find myself less than impressed by your stature and your hardly-imposing posture."
"Aye, but watch his hands," the dwarf chimed in. "He's a clever one with them slender fingers, don't ye doubt."
"A cutpurse?" she asked.
"Madame, you insult me."
"I ask of you, and I expect an honest answer," she retorted, a tremor of anger sliding into the background of her solid but melodious voice. "Many in the Fugue are known cutpurses who have come here by court edict, to work the wilderness of Vaasa and redeem themselves of their light-fingered sins."
"But I am a drow," Jarlaxle replied. "Do you think there are enough monsters in all of Vaasa that I might redeem the reputation of my heritage?"
"I care nothing for your heritage."
"Then I am but a curiosity. Ah, but you so wound me again."
"A feeling you would do well to acquaint yourself with. You still have not answered my question."
Jarlaxle tilted his head and put on a sly grin.
"Do you know who I am?" the woman asked.
"The way you ask makes me believe that I should."
The woman looked past the drow to the female elf.
"Commander Ellery, of the Army of Bloodstone, Vaasan Gate," the elf recited without pause.
"My full name."
The elf stuttered and seemed at a loss.
"I am Commander Ellery Tranth Dopray Kierney Dragonsbane Peidopare," the woman said, her tone even more imperious than before.
"Labeling your possessions must prove a chore," the drow said dryly, but the woman ignored him.
"I claim Baron Tranth as my uncle; Lady Christine Dragonsbane, Queen of Damara, as my cousin; and King Gareth Dragonsbane himself as my second cousin, once removed."
"Lady Christine and King Gareth?"
The woman squared her shoulders and her jaw.
"Cousins in opposite directions, I would hope," said Jarlaxle.
That brought a less imperious and more curious stare.
"I would hate to think that the future princes and princesses of Damara might carry on their shoulders a second head or six fingers on each hand, after all," the drow explained, and the curious look turned darker. "Ah, but the ways of royalty."
"You mock the man who chased the demon lord Orcus across the planes of existence?"
"Mock him?" Jarlaxle asked, bringing one hand to his chest and looking as if he had just been unexpectedly slapped. "Nothing could be farther from the truth, good Commander Ellery. I express relief that while you claim blood relations to both, their own ties are not so close. You see?"
She steeled her gaze. "I will learn of your reputation," she promised.
"You will wish then that you included D'aerthe in your collection of names, I assure you," the drow replied.
"Jarlaxle D'aerthe?"
"At your service," he said, sweeping into yet another bow.
"And you will be watched closely, drow," Commander Ellery went on. "If your fingers get too clever, or your mannerisms too disruptive, you will learn the weight of Bloodstone judgment."
"As you will," Jarlaxle conceded.
As Ellery turned to leave, he dipped yet another bow. He managed to glance over at Entreri as he did, offering a quick wink and the flash of a smile.
"I leave you to your meal," Ellery said to the other four, pulling herself back into her saddle. "Choose wisely the company you keep when you venture forth into Vaasa. Far too many already lay dead on that wasteland tundra, and far too many lay dead because they did not surround themselves with reliable companions."
"I will heed well your words," Jarlaxle was quick to reply, though they had not been aimed at him. "I was growing a bit leery of the short one anyway."
"Hey!" said the dwarf, and Jarlaxle flashed him that disarming grin.
Entreri turned his attention from the group of five to watch the woman ride away, noting most of all the respectful reactions to her from all she passed.
"She is a formidable one," he said when Jarlaxle appeared at his side a moment later.
"Dangerous and full of fire," Jarlaxle agreed.
"I might have to kill her."
"I might have to bed her."
Entreri turned to regard the drow. Did anything ever unsettle him? "She is a relative of King Gareth," Entreri reminded him.
Jarlaxle rubbed his slender fingers over his chin, his eyes glued to the departing figure with obvious intrigue.
He uttered only a single word in reply: "Dowry."
"Lady Ellery," said Athrogate, a dwarf renowned in the underworld of Damara as a supreme killer. He wore his black beard parted in the middle, two long braids of straight hair running down to mid-chest, each tied off at the end with a band set with a trio of sparkling blue gemstones. His eyebrows were so bushy that they somewhat covered his almost-black eyes, and his ears so large that many speculated he would be able to fly if only he learned how to flap them. " 'E's made hisself some fine company already. Be watchin' that one, I'm tellin' ye. Watchin' or killin' him, for if ye're not, then he's to be killin' us, don't ye doubt."
"It is an interesting turn, if it is anything at all beyond mere coincidence," admitted Canthan Dolittle, a studious looking fellow with beady eyes and a long straight nose. His hair, as much gray as brown, was thin, with a large bald spot atop his head that had turned bright red from a recent sunburn. The nervous, slim fellow rubbed his fingertips together as he spoke, all the while subtly twitching.
"To assume is to invite disaster," the third and most impressive of the group advised. Most impressive to those who knew the truth of him, that is, for the archmage Knellict wore nondescript clothing, with his more prized possessions stored safely away back at the Citadel of Assassins.
Athrogate licked his lips nervously as he regarded the mighty wizard, second only to Timoshenko, the Grandfather of Assassins, in that most notorious guild of killers. As an agent of Tightpurse, the leading thieves guild of Heliogabalus, Athrogate had been assigned to ride along with Jarlaxle and Entreri to Bloodstone Village, and to report to Canthan in the Fugue. He had been quite surprised to find Knellict at the camp. Few names in all the northern Realms inspired fear like that of the archmage of the Citadel of Assassins.
"Have you learned any more of the drow?" Canthan asked. "We know of his dealings with Innkeeper Feepun and the murder of the shade, Rorli."
"And the murder of Feepun," Knellict said.
"You have proof it was brought about by these two?" a surprised Canthan asked.
"You have proof it was not?"
Canthan backed off, not wanting to anger the most dangerous man in the Bloodstone Lands.
"Information of their whereabouts since the incident with Rorli has been incomplete," Knellict admitted.
"They been quiet since then from all that we're seein'," Athrogate replied, his tone revealing that he was eager to please. Though he was answering Canthan, his brown eyes kept darting over to regard Knellict. The archmage, however, quiet and calm, was simply impossible to read. "They done some dealin's with a pair o' intrestin' lady pawnbrokers, but we ain't seen 'em buy nothin' worth nothin'. Might be that they be lookin' more for lady charms than magic charms, if ye're gettin' me meanin'. Been known to fancy the ladies, them two be, especially the dark one.