He glanced at Jureemo and the man nearly fainted. But Kiniquips was too much the professional to betray an associate, even with a glance, and so the halfling looked away immediately and stumbled on.
The air erupted with a shrill whistling in Kiniquips's wake, though, and a most unusual missile, a trio of black iron balls spinning at the ends of short lengths of rope flew past the startled Jureemo and caught the fleeing halfling around the waist and legs. The balls wrapped around the poor fellow and came crunching together with devastating efficiency, cracking bones and thoroughly tangling him up.
Kiniquips hit the floor in a heap, ending up on his side, writhing in pain and whimpering pitifully. Tables skidded every which way as the patrons of the tavern scrambled to get as far from him as possible.
For in came a pair of dangerous-looking characters, an elf and a human woman, both dressed in dark leather. The elf had thrown the bolos, obviously, and moved steadily to retrieve them, his fine sword set comfortably on his hip. The woman wore a pair of bandoliers set full of gleaming throwing knives and moved with the same grace as her companion, betraying a lifetime of training.
With brutal efficiency, the elf unwound and yanked the bolos free, and the halfling shrieked again in pain.
Jureemo looked away and headed for the open door. The woman called after him, but he put his head down and hurried around the open door, turning fast for the street.
And there he was blocked by a man in plain, dirty robes. Jureemo tried to push by, but with a single hand, the man stopped him fully.
Jureemo offered a confused expression and looked down at the hand.
With a subtle shift and short thrust, the man in robes sent Jureemo stumbling back into the room, uncomfortably close to the dangerous woman.
"Wh-what attack is this?" he stammered, looking plaintively about. His continuing protests stuck in his throat, though, as he locked stares with the woman.
"This one?" she asked, turning to the elf behind her.
In response, the elf leaned on the fallen Kiniquips's broken hip, and the halfling yelped.
"That one?" the elf asked Kiniquips.
The halfling grimaced and looked away, and grunted again as the elf pressed down on his hip.
"What is the meaning of this?" Jureemo demanded, and he cautiously stepped back from the woman. Others in the tavern stirred at that display of brutality, and it occurred to Jureemo that he might garner some assistance after all.
The woman looked from him to the man in the robes. "This one, Master Kane?" she asked.
The stirring stopped immediately, and a palpable silence, almost a physical numbness, fell over the tavern.
Jureemo had to remind himself to breathe, then he gave up trying when Master Kane walked over to stand before him. The monk stared at him for a long time, and though Jureemo tried to look away, for some reason he could not. He felt naked in front of that legendary monk, as if Kane looked right through him, or right into his heart.
"You are of the Citadel of Assassins," Kane stated.
Jureemo babbled incoherently for a few moments, his head shaking and nodding all at once.
And Kane just stared.
The walls seemed to close in on the trembling assassin; he felt as if the floor was rushing up to swallow him, and he hoped it would! Panic bubbled through him. He knew that he had been discovered—Kane had stated the fact, not asked him. And those eyes! The monk didn't blink. The monk knew all of it!
Jureemo didn't reach for his own knife, set in his belt at the small of his back. He couldn't begin to imagine a fight with that monster. His sensibilities darted in every different direction, instincts replacing rational thought. He cried out suddenly and leaped for the door… or started to.
A white wooden walking stick flashed up before him, cracking him under the chin. He vaguely felt the sensation, the sweet and warm taste, of blood filling his mouth, and he sensed that walking stick sliding under his armpit. He didn't see Kane grab its free end, behind his shoulder-blade, but he did realize, briefly, that he was airborne, spinning head-over-heels, then falling free. He hit the floor flat on his back and immediately propped himself up on his elbows—
—right before the walking stick, that deadly jo stick, cracked him again across the forehead, dropping him flat to the floor.
"Take them both to the castle," Kane instructed his minions.
"This one will require the attention of a priest, perhaps even Friar Dugald," replied the elf standing over the halfling.
Kane shrugged as if it did not matter, which of course it did not. Certainly the priests would make the little one more comfortable.
Perhaps he would even be able to walk up the gallows steps under his own power.
The creature was well-dressed by the standards of Damaran nobles, let alone the expectations aroused by his obvious orc heritage. And he carried himself with an air of dignity and regal bearing, like a royal courier or a butler at one of the finer houses in Waterdeep. That fact was not lost on the half-orcs manning Palishchuk's northern wall as they watched the orc's graceful approach. He walked up as if without the slightest concern, though several arrows were trained upon him, and he dipped a polite bow as he stopped, swinging out one arm to reveal that he held a rolled scroll.
"Well met," he called in perfect Common, and with an accent very unlike anything the sentries might have expected. He seemed almost foppish, and his voice held a nasal quality, something quite uncommon in a race known for flat noses and wide nostrils. "I pray you grant me entrance to your fair city, or, if that is not to be, then I bid you to fetch your leadership."
"What business ye got here?" one of the sentries barked at him.
"Well, good sir, it is an announcement of course," the orc replied, holding forth his hand and the scroll. "And one I am instructed by my master to make once, and once only."
"Ye tell it to us and we might let ye in," the sentry replied. "Then again, we might not."
"Or we might be getting Wingham and the council," a second sentry explained.
"Then again, we might not," the first added.
The orc straightened and put one hand on his hip, standing with one foot flat and the other heel up. He made no move to unroll the scroll, or to do anything else.
"Well?" the first sentry prompted.
"I am instructed by my master to make the announcement once, and once only," the orc replied.
"Well then ye've got yerself some trouble," said the sentry. "For we aren't letting ye in, and aren't bothering our council until we know what ye're about."
"I will wait," the orc decided.
"Wait? Ack, fullblood, how long are ye to wait, then?"
The orc shrugged as if it did not matter.
"We'll leave ye to freeze dead on the path before the gate, ye fool."
"Better that than disobey my master," the orc replied without the slightest hesitation, and that made the sentries exchange curious, concerned looks. The orc pulled a rich, fur-lined cloak tightly around his shoulders and turned slightly to put his back to the wind.
"And who might yer master be, that ye're so willing to freeze?" the first sentry asked.
"King Artemis the First, of course," the orc replied.
The sentry mouthed the name silently, his eyes widening. He glanced at his companions, to see them similarly struggling to digest the words.
"Artemis Entreri sent ye?"
"Of course not, peasant," the orc replied. "I am not of sufficient significance to speak with King Artemis. I serve at the pleasure of First Citizen Jarlaxle."
The two lead sentries slipped back behind the wall. "Damned fools meant it," one said. "They built themselves a kingdom."