Jarlaxle nodded, conceding the point. His smile told Entreri, however, that the point was moot. Jarlaxle liked it there; for the drow, apparently, that was enough.
Entreri looked over to the corner tower again, and though he saw no movement there, he knew that Jarlaxle's friends had come. He thought of Calimport and the catastrophe Bregan D'aerthe had wrought there, eliminating guilds that had stood for decades and altering the balance of power within the city with relative ease.
Would the same occur in the Bloodstone Lands?
Or was Jarlaxle's ambition even more ominous? A kingdom to rival Damara. A kingdom built on an army of drow and slave fodder, on undead servants and animated gargoyles, and forged in a bargain with a dracolich?
Entreri shuddered, and it was not from the cold northern wind.
"A gargoyle," Arrayan remarked, nodding toward the dark castle wall where a humanoid, winged creature had taken flight, moving from one guard tower to another. "The castle is alive."
"Curse them," Olgerkhan grunted, while Wingham only sighed.
"We should have known better than to trust a drow," Arrayan said.
"How often have I heard those words about our own half-orc race," Wingham was quick to answer, drawing surprised looks from both of his companions.
"The castle is alive," Olgerkhan reiterated.
"And Palishchuk has not been threatened," said Wingham. "As Jarlaxle promised."
"You would trust the word of a drow?" Olgerkhan asked.
Wingham's answer came in the form of a shrug and the simple reply of, "Have we a choice?"
"We beat the castle once," Olgerkhan growled in defiance, and he held a clenched fist up before him, the muscles in his arm bulging and knotting.
"You beat an unthinking animation," Wingham corrected. "This time, it has a brain."
"And one who has marched several steps ahead of us," Arrayan agreed. "Even inside, when they saved me from Canthan. When they brought you back to life through the vampirism of Entreri's dagger," she said to Olgerkhan, stealing much of his bluster. "Jarlaxle understood it all where I, and the wizard Canthan, did not. I wonder if even then his goal was not to destroy the construct, but to control it."
"His castle stands here, alive and strong, and King Gareth's is to the south," Wingham remarked. "And Palishchuk is in between them."
"Again," Arrayan said with great resignation, "as it was with Zhengyi."
"I am no longer surprised by the clumsiness of the surface races," Kimmuriel Oblodra said to Jarlaxle. The two were very near the same spot on the wall where Jarlaxle had held his conversation with Artemis Entreri a short while before, and as with then, they looked out to the south. Not to Palishchuk, though, for Kimmuriel had directed Jarlaxle's attention to a copse of leafless trees a bit to the right, in the shadow of a small hill. Neither drow could make out the forms that Kimmuriel had promised his former leader lurked in there, a trio of half-orcs.
"There is a wizard among them," Kimmuriel said. "She is of little consequence and no real power."
"Arrayan," Jarlaxle explained. "She has her uses, and is comfort to weary eyes—as much as any with orc heritage could be, of course."
"Your promises did not hold much sway in the town, it seems."
"They are being careful, and who can blame them?"
"They will know that the construct is awakening," said Kimmuriel. "The gargoyles fly about."
Jarlaxle nodded, making it obvious that they did so at his behest. "Have they seen any of your scouts? Are they aware of any drow about other than myself?"
Kimmuriel scoffed at the ridiculous notion. Drow were not seen by such pitiful creatures as these unless they wanted to be seen.
"Show them, then," Jarlaxle instructed.
Kimmuriel stared hard at him, to which Jarlaxle nodded a confirmation.
"You would use terror to hold them at bay?" Kimmuriel asked. "That speaks of diplomatic weakness."
"Palishchuk will have to choose eventually."
"Between Jarlaxle—"
"King Artemis the First," Jarlaxle corrected with a grin.
"Between Jarlaxle," the stubborn Kimmuriel insisted, "and King Gareth?"
"I surely hope not—not for a long while, at least," Jarlaxle replied. "I doubt that Gareth will be quick to charge to the north, but the Citadel of Assassins is likely already infiltrating Palishchuk. It is my hope that the half-orcs will think it unwise to provide aid to Knellict's vile crew."
"Because they will be more fearful of Jarlaxle and the dark elves?"
"Of course."
"Your fear tactics will work against you when King Gareth comes calling," Kimmuriel warned, and he knew that he had struck a chord there by Jarlaxle's long pause.
"By that time, I hope to have Knellict long dispatched," Jarlaxle explained. "We can then build a measure of trust to the half-orcs. Enough trust coupled with the fear that will force them to keep King Gareth at arm's length."
Kimmuriel was shaking his head as he looked back to the southwest.
"Show them," Jarlaxle said to him. "And allow them to go on their way."
Kimmuriel wasn't about to question Jarlaxle just then, for his words to his doubting lieutenants just a short while before had been spoken sincerely. It was Jarlaxle's scheme, and in truth, Kimmuriel, for all of his growing confidence, recognized that standing beside him was a drow who had survived the intrigue of Menzoberranzan and elsewhere for several centuries. With the notable exception of the near-disaster in Calimport, had Jarlaxle's schemes ever failed?
And that near-disaster, Kimmuriel pointedly reminded himself, had been caused in no small part by the corrupting influence of the artifact known as Crenshinibon.
The psionicist could not manage a reassuring expression to his companion, though. For all of the history of successful manipulations Jarlaxle brought to the table, Kimmuriel had familiarized himself quite extensively with the recent events in the region known as the Bloodstone Lands, and had come to understand well the power King Gareth Dragonsbane could wield.
Jarlaxle's own actions showed him clearly that he was not alone in his fears, he realized. Jarlaxle had not reclaimed control of Bregan D'aerthe, though he had bade Kimmuriel to garner all of their resources. For all of his outward confidence, Jarlaxle was hedging his bets by allowing Kimmuriel complete control. He was protecting himself from that very confidence.
Understanding the compliment that Jarlaxle was once again paying to him, Kimmuriel offered a salute before going on his way.
CHAPTER 11
THE LURE
Jureemo Pascadadle put his back against the wall just inside the door of the tavern and heaved a great sigh of relief. Out in the street, several of his companions lay dead or incapacitated, and several others had been dragged off by the thugs from Spysong.
Glad indeed was Jureemo that he had been given the rear guard position, watching the back of his Citadel crew as they had closed in on the dark elf and the assassin. "Spysong," he muttered under his breath, his throat filling with bile.
The door burst open beside him and the man fell back with a shriek. In stumbled Kiniquips the Short, a slender—by halfling standards—little rogue of great renown within the organization. Kiniquips was a master of disguise, actually serving as a trainer of such at the Citadel, and was often the point halfling on Citadel of Assassins operations in Heliogabalus. He had spent the better part of two years creating his waif alter-ego. Watching him stumble through the common room, though, Jureemo knew that the halfling's cover had been blown. His shirt was ripped and a bright line of blood showed across his left shoulder, and it looked like a substantial part of his dark brown hair had been torn away, as well.