The obvious benefit to such an arrangement was that it prevented any tolls from being forced on the frequent merchant caravans traveling between the cities. The downside, of course, was that caravans often had to defend themselves from competing interests and bandits.
The wreckage of a trio of wagons beside the small pond in the shadow of the palms showed that one recent caravan had not done so successfully.
"Perhaps we should have bid the dragons stay beside us just a bit longer," Jarlaxle remarked when he and Athrogate came up on the bluff and looked down at the many white-robed forms milling about the place.
"Desert nomads," Entreri explained. "They hold no allegiance to elves or to dwarves, or even to humans who are not of their tribe."
"They sacked them wagons?" Athrogate asked.
"Or found them destroyed," said Jarlaxle.
"They did it," Entreri insisted. "That caravan was destroyed within the tenday, or else the wood would have already been scavenged. The night gets cold here, as you will learn soon enough, and wood is greatly treasured." He nodded to the south of the small oasis pond, where buzzards hopped about. "The carrion birds haven't even finished their feast. This caravan was sacked within the last couple of days, and there are your highwaymen, enjoying their respite."
"How long will they remain?" Jarlaxle asked.
"As long as they choose. There is no pattern to the nomads' wandering. They roam, they fight, they steal, and they eat."
"Sounds like a good life to me," Athrogate remarked. "Though I'd be looking for a bit o' the drink to top it all off!"
Entreri scowled at him.
"At least he's not rhyming anymore," Jarlaxle whispered. "Though his words tear no less."
"So if we go down there, we're looking at a fight?" Athrogate asked.
"Perhaps. Perhaps not," said Entreri. "Desert nomads fight for gain and gain alone. If they saw us as a threat, or as worthy victims, they would fight. Else, they would ask of us stories, and perhaps even share their spoils. They are an unpredictable lot."
"That makes them dangerous," said Athrogate.
"That makes them intriguing," Jarlaxle corrected. He slid down from his hell horse and dismissed it, pocketing the figurine.
"Ah well, if it's a fight, all the better," Athrogate said and began to dismount.
Jarlaxle stopped him, though. "Stay here and stay astride," the drow instructed.
"Yerself's going down there?"
"Us?" Entreri asked.
Jarlaxle considered the oasis and began a quick count. "There can't be more than twenty of the creatures. And I find that I am thirsty."
Entreri knew well that Jarlaxle could summon some drink if that were the case, or could create an entire extra-dimensional chamber full of food and fine wine if he so desired. "I did not come here to engage in random fights in the desert," he said, his expression sour.
"But you came here for information, or at least, you will need information to find that which you seek. Who better to tell us of the road to Memnon, or the current disposition within the city? Let us learn what we might."
Entreri stared at his troublesome companion for a long while, but he did indeed draw his foot over his horse and drop to the sand. He dismissed the nightmare and placed the figurine in his belt pouch, within easy reach.
"If we need you, charge in hard and fast," Jarlaxle said to Athrogate.
"Don't know any other way," the dwarf replied.
"Which is why I value your companionship," the drow said. "And you will find, I do believe, that your mount is possessed of the same fighting spirit—and a few tricks of its own."
Entreri looked to the dwarf as he sat astride that strange-looking, fierce war boar. He glanced back at the oasis and the white headgear of the nomads. He could well imagine where events were leading, but he found himself walking beside Jarlaxle down the western face of the high dune nonetheless.
"The nomads have been known to fill uninvited guests with arrows, then seek their answers in the items on the corpses," Entreri said as they neared the oasis—and already several sets of eyes turned their way.
Jarlaxle whispered something that the assassin could not make out, and Entreri felt a surge of warmth within him, rolling from his core to tickle all of his being, arms, legs, and head.
"If they let fly with their bows, they'll find only more questions," Jarlaxle replied.
"Questions in the arrows that will be lying at our feet?" Entreri rightly surmised.
"It will take a mighty bolt to get through that enchantment, I assure you."
Just before the duo stepped onto the sudden transformation of sand to grass, a pair of men rushed over to block their way. Both held wide-bladed weapons—khopesh blades, they were called—and with an ease that showed them to be quite skilled with them.
"You tink to joost walk trooh our camp?" one asked in the common language of the land, one that neither Entreri or Jarlaxle had heard in many months, and spoken with so severe an accent that it took both of them a moment to decipher the words.
"Show us the boundary, and we will walk around," said Entreri.
"De boundary? Why de boundary is de oasis, silly man."
"Ah, but if that is the case, then how are we to fill our skins from the pond?" Jarlaxle asked.
"Dat ees a problem," the nomad agreed. "But for you and not for me." Beside him, the other put his second hand to the long hilt of the great khopesh sword.
"We are not here to fight," said Entreri. "Nor do we care about your dealings with the caravan."
"Caravan?" the man echoed. "Dese wagons? But we found dem here. Poor men. Dey should take more care. Bandits, you know."
"Indeed," said Entreri. "And their ill luck is not my concern. We have come for some water, that we might be on our way. Nothing more" — he eyed the second nomad, who seemed quite eager to put his great sword into action— "and nothing less. By edict of the pashas of both Memnon and Calimport, these oases are open and free."
A dangerous grin creased the face of the first man.
"But we will pay anyway," said Entreri, similarly grinning. "We will take the water we need and in exchange we will entertain you with tales of our exploits beside Pasha Basadoni in Calimport."
The nomad's grin disappeared in the blink of an eye. "Basadoni?"
"Ah, Artemis, they know the name!" said Jarlaxle.
Both bandits blanched at the mention of Entreri's name, and the second one actually fell back a step, his hands loosening on the hilt of the khopesh.
"Well… yes," the first stammered. "We would not be friends of de desert if we did not accept barter, of course."
Entreri snorted and walked right past him, brushing him with his shoulder and pushing him aside. Jarlaxle kept close beside him the thirty feet to the pond's edge.
"Your reputation precedes you," the drow mentioned quietly.
Entreri snorted again as if he did not care, and bent low to put his water-skin in the cool waters. By the time he stood straight again, several other desert nomads approached, including an enormously fat man dressed in richer robes of white and red. Instead of the simple cloth hoods the others wore, he wore a white and red turban, stitched with golden thread, and he carried a jeweled scepter wrought of solid gold. His gold-colored shoes were no less ornate, with their toes stretching forward and rolling up into an almost complete circle.
He moved to stand a few feet from the pair, while his bodyguards fanned out in a semicircle about them.