"So you believe that King Gareth will obliterate Knellict and the Citadel of Assassins? He will wipe them from the Bloodstone Lands?"
Entreri mulled that over for a few moments, then shook his head. "No. He will drive them from the streets and back into their remote hideouts. Some of those will likely fall, as well. Some of the Citadel's leaders will be killed or imprisoned. But Gareth will never truly be rid of them. That is never the way." He paused and considered his own words, then chortled, "He wouldn't wish to be completely rid of them."
Jarlaxle watched him out of the corner of his eyes, and Entreri noted the little grin spreading on the drow's face. "King Gareth is a paladin," the drow reminded. "Do you doubt his sincerity?"
"Does it matter? Having the Citadel of Assassins lurking in the shadows is good for Gareth and his friends, a reminder to the people of Damara of the alternative to their hero king.
"He is no Ellery, perhaps, in that he won't deal with the Citadel, but he uses them all the same. It is the nature of power."
"You have a cynical view of the world."
"It is well earned, I assure you. And it is accurate."
"I did not say it was not."
"Yet you seem to think Gareth above reproach because he is a paladin."
"No, I think him predictable because he is guided more by principle— ill-reasoned or not—than by pragmatism. Gareth's end plan is always known, is it not? He may be served well by the Citadel, but he is likely too blinded by dogma to see that truth."
"You still have not answered my question," said Entreri. "What now for us?"
"It seems obvious."
"Enlighten me."
"Always."
"Now."
Jarlaxle gave an exasperated sigh. "We declare our independence from King Gareth, of course," he replied.
Far below the pair, very near the room where the bones of Urshula the dracolich lay, Kimmuriel Oblodra conferred with his drow lieutenants, laying out plans for the defense of the castle, for assaults from the walls and gates, and most important of all, for orderly and swift retreat back to that very chamber. Not far from the drow, a magical portal glowed a light blue. Through it came more drow warriors of Bregan D'aerthe, driving mobs of goblins, kobolds, and orcs bearing supplies, armaments, and furniture, fashioned mostly of sturdy Underdark mushrooms.
A continual line passed through the gate, and other drow went through in the other direction, back to the corresponding magical portal set in the maze of tunnels along the great Clawrift in Menzoberranzan, the complex that Bregan D'aerthe called home.
"The sooner we are gone, the better," one of Kimmuriel's lieutenants remarked, and though others nodded their accord, Kimmuriel flashed the drow a dangerous look.
"Do say," the psionicist prompted.
"This place is uneasy," the drow replied. "It teems with an energy that I do not recognize."
"And thus, an energy you fear?"
"The portcullis on the front gate… grows," another soldier added. "It was damaged by unwanted entry, and now it repairs itself of its own accord. This is no inert construction, but a magical, living creature."
"Is this place any different than the towers of the Crystal Shard?" said the first lieutenant.
"Is Jarlaxle, you mean," Kimmuriel remarked, and neither of the pair disavowed him of that notion.
"I do not know," the psionicist answered honestly. "Though I believe that Jarlaxle is acting of his own volition and wisdom here. If I did not, I would not have marched us to this wretched place." He led their gazes to the portal, and another group of goblins trudging through, bearing several rolled tapestries and carpets. "He recognizes equivocation…"
"An easy egress," one of the others remarked.
Beside them, a quartet of goblins tripped and stumbled, spilling a mushroom-fashioned hutch across the floor. Drow drivers stepped up, cracking their whips against the flesh of the miserable creatures, who all fell to their hands and knees to try to collect the broken pieces.
The soldiers beside Kimmuriel nodded, recognizing the truth of it all, that they weren't bringing anything of real value to the castle, just utilitarian furniture and simple dressings.
And fodder, of course. Goblins, orcs, and kobolds, all as easily expendable to the dark elves as a cheap piece of mushroom furniture.
"Our independence?" Artemis Entreri answered after many stunned moments. "Could we not just leave the Bloodstone Lands?"
"And take this castle with us?"
Entreri went silent, finally understanding the drow's machinations. "You were serious when you warned Palishchuk to remain neutral?"
"We must pick a name for our kingdom," Jarlaxle said, ignoring the question and confirming it all at once. "Have you any suggestions?"
Entreri looked at him with complete incredulity.
"The gauntlet is down," Jarlaxle said. "You threw it at Knellict's feet when you did not kill the merchant."
Entreri looked away again, his lips going very tight.
"Was the man not worthy of your blade? Or was he not deserving of it?"
Entreri turned a hateful gaze the drow's way.
"I thought as much," Jarlaxle said. "You might have found a better moment to discover your conscience. But it does not matter, for it had to come to this in any event. Better now, I suppose, than when Knellict grew a better appreciation for what has truly come against him."
"And what might that be? A pair of impetuous fools, a small army of gargoyles and an undead dragon we can hardly control?"
"Look more closely," Jarlaxle said slyly, and he directed Entreri's attention to the watchtower off to the right of the gatehouse. A slender form moved there, silent as, and seeming no more substantial than, the shadows.
A drow.
Entreri snapped his gaze back over Jarlaxle. "Kimmuriel?"
"Bregan D'aerthe," Jarlaxle replied. "And ample slave fodder arrive regularly through magical gates. If you wish to start a war, my friend, you need an army."
"Start a war?"
"I had hoped that we could do this more easily, and more by proxy," Jarlaxle admitted. "I had hoped that we could get the two beasts—the king and the Grandfather of Assassins—to devour each other. You played our hand too quickly."
"And now you wish to start a war?"
"No," Jarlaxle corrected. "But it is not beyond the realm of possibility. If Knellict comes, we will drive him back."
"With the drow and Urshula and all the rest?"
"With everything at our disposal. Knellict is not one to be bargained with."
"Let us just leave."
That seemed to catch Jarlaxle off guard. He leaned on the wall, staring out at the south and the darkness that was interrupted only by the glow of a few fires burning in Palishchuk and the starlight. "No," he finally answered.
"There is a big world out there, where we might get lost—sufficiently so. It would seem that we have worn out our welcome."
"With Knellict."
"That is enough."
Jarlaxle shook his head. "We can leave whenever we wish, thanks to Kimmuriel. As of now, I do not desire to go. I like it here." He paused there and let his smile fall over Entreri until the man finally acknowledged it—with a derisive snort, of course. "Consider Calihye, my friend. Remind yourself that some things are worth fighting for."
"We make a stand where we need not. Calihye is not a plot of ground or a magically created castle. There is nothing to stop her from coming with us. Your analogy cannot hold."