"Never?"
"To date," Kimmuriel said, and despite himself, he did chortle a bit.
"It could get very dangerous here," Jarlaxle finally admitted.
"You play dangerous games with dangerous enemies."
"If it comes to war, I am well-prepared," said Jarlaxle. "The armies of the nether world await my call, and Zhengyi left behind constructs that are continually self-protecting."
"You will claim the castle."
"I already have. I own he who owns it. The dracolich is mine to command. As I said, I am well prepared. Better prepared if Bregan D'aerthe offered support. Quietly, of course."
"If it escalates, I will watch and I will judge what is best for Bregan D'aerthe," said Kimmuriel.
Jarlaxle grinned and bowed. "You will offer me an escape, of course."
"I will watch and I will judge," the psionicist said again.
Jarlaxle had to accept that. His deal with Kimmuriel precipitated on the fulcrum of Kimmuriel's independence. Kimmuriel, and not Jarlaxle, ruled Bregan D'aerthe, and would continue to until Jarlaxle returned to Menzoberranzan and formally retrieved his throne. That was as they had agreed upon after the destruction of the Crystal Shard. Neither held any illusions about that agreement, of course. Jarlaxle knew that if he stayed away from his homeland for too long, allowing Kimmuriel to make inroads into the supportive relationships Jarlaxle had built within the City of Spiders, then Kimmuriel would not relinquish control of Bregan D'aerthe without a fight.
Jarlaxle also knew that calling upon Kimmuriel in times of desperation was a risky prospect indeed, for if Kimmuriel allowed him to fall, the psionicist would stand unopposed as leader of the profitable mercenary band. But Jarlaxle understood well the drow who served as his steward. Kimmuriel had never coveted power over other drow, as had Rai-guy or Berg'inyon Baenre, or any of the other notables in the band. Kimmuriel's designs dwelt in the realm of the intellect. He was a psionicist, a creature of thought and introspection. Kimmuriel preferred intellectual sparring with illithids to bargaining for position with the wretched matron mothers of Menzoberranzan. He would rather spend his day destroying brain moles or visiting the Astral abodes of githyanki than reporting his findings to Matron Mother Triel or maneuvering Bregan D'aerthe's warriors to capitalize on any dramatic events in the nearly constant intra-House warfare.
"You try to build here," Kimmuriel remarked even as he started into the chimney and his magical road back to the Underdark. "You grasp to create something on the World Above, yet no matter your success, it could not rival that which awaits you in Menzoberranzan. I try to understand you, Jarlaxle, but even my brilliance is no match for your unpredictability. What is it you seek here that does not already await you in our homeland?"
Freedom, Jarlaxle thought, but did not say.
Of course, Kimmuriel was a psionicist, and a powerful one indeed, so Jarlaxle never really had to «say» anything to him to get his point across.
Kimmuriel stared at him for a few moments, then slowly nodded. "There is no freedom," he finally said. "There is only survival."
When Jarlaxle didn't immediately respond, the steward of Bregan D'aerthe slipped into the chimney and melted into the stone.
Jarlaxle stood staring into the oven for a long while, fearing that Kimmuriel was right.
The roadway formed a wide circle inside the sharp right angle of Heliogabalus's wall, a cul-de-sac of mercantiles. Ilnezhara's shop was nearby, as was Tazmikella's. Dozens of chandlers, cobblers, blacksmiths, weavers, tailors, wheelwrights, importers, bakers, and other craftsmen and tradesmen of every imaginable stripe made Wall's Around their working home.
A large, three-tiered fountain centered the cul-de-sac, water dribbling from top to bottom without much energy, more of a continual rolling overflow. As he had envisioned it during his approach, Entreri had thought to use the fountain as his base, his vantage point to watch the scripted attack play out around him. But as he came through another alley to gain his third angle on the fountain, he realized that Knellict's hired highwayman had beaten him to it. The man was cleverly curled inside the second bowl, and only the uneven drip of the water had clued the assassin in to the fact that something was amiss.
He considered the highwayman's dark form and sensed patience and discipline—he was no novice.
With a nod, Entreri faded back into the shadows of the alley, grabbed a rail, and scaled the side of one shop, propelling himself to the roof. Low at the edge, he studied the fountain again, though he couldn't see the would-be assailant from that angle. Silent as a shadow, he slipped from roof to roof, circling the cul-de-sac, taking in a full view of the layout.
And noting two more figures lurking in the darkness under the porch of a darkened emporium.
The assassin froze in place then slipped lower on the roof, his gaze never leaving the two silhouettes. Those were Knellict's men, he knew, the wizard's insurance that nothing went amiss. Entreri couldn't make out many details, for they were well-concealed, but their lack of movement as the moments slipped past again spoke to him of discipline and training.
The easy course—to slay the merchant Beneghast and be on his way in Knellict's good graces—called out to him.
But Artemis Entreri had never been fond of the easy course.
The moment of truth, the time that Entreri had to ready himself one way or the other, slipped past, and the assassin transitioned into an almost unthinking, instinctual state. He had to move fast, back around the cul-de-sac, to put the fountain directly between himself and the two men under the porch. Roof to roof he went, fading back to the far side of each building, his body bending and twisting with each stride so that he seemed a part of the landscape and nothing more, and moving so silently that people in the buildings below his running feet wouldn't think that so much as a squirrel was skittering across their rooftops.
He came back down to the ground with equal grace, sliding flat at the eave, hooking his hand on the lip of the roof, and rolling over to extend himself fully before gently dropping to the alleyway.
He hesitated at the front corner of the building, for someone exited the door just a couple of steps to his left. That oblivious figure walked right past without taking any note of him, and continued on out of the cul-de-sac.
When a second figure appeared across the way and to his right, Entreri crouched a bit more. It was Beneghast.
The highwayman in the fountain would have noticed the merchant, as well, Entreri realized, and so he used that split second of distraction. He exploded into motion, running low and silently, then diving into a forward roll that brought him up against the lowest bowl of the fountain.
The man watched Beneghast's approach; the merchant would cross right by the fountain on the side opposite Entreri. The highwayman tried to find Entreri then, staying low and slowly swerving his head to take in as much of Wall's Around as possible, briefly locking his stare on this alleyway and that in search of the shadowy figure of the assassin he'd been told to expect.
Entreri quietly counted it out. He had already taken a measure of Beneghast's distance from the fountain, and could easily approximate the walking speed of the bent little man with a sack thrown over his shoulder.
The man in the fountain up above him was skilled, he reminded himself, and that meant that he would continue his scan for Entreri until the last possible second. But as Beneghast approached, the highwayman would have to shift his focus to the merchant.
That one moment, after the highwayman stopped his scan to look back at the target, yet before the highwayman actually found Beneghast again and moved to intercept, was Entreri's time.
He rolled up to a standing position, thin behind the stem of the fountain. He didn't allow Beneghast's approach to occupy a moment of his thought, but simply leaped up to the rim of that bottom bowl, a vertical jump of three feet. While his feet set quietly and surely on the slick, rounded rim, his left hand went out against the second bowl to secure his balance and his right hand, dagger drawn, struck hard and sure.