In The Cards

One important lesson to learn about assassination is to use whatever methods are available to you, and to pick the one most appropriate for the target in question. It makes no sense to complicate things unnecessarily. True, sometimes risks must be taken, but they should be taken because circumstances demand it, not because you think you’re the hottest thing since molten lava.

Excerpt from ‘Interview With An Assassin’

There was a mug of spiced wine on the table, still steaming hot. Dekaras wrapped his long fingers around it, taking some pleasure in the heat. He hated the cold of this place, he really did. Not only was it uncomfortable, but heavier clothing made it more difficult to move with ease, and that might make the difference between life and death. As for the snow, he didn’t really want to think too hard about that. So far he had discovered 47 different words for different kinds of snow that might be found in Icewind Dale. As far as he was concerned, they all meant the same thing. ‘Bloody cold and wet mess’.

The assassin glared darkly into the mug of dark red wine, noticing how closely the color resembled blood. He tried to push the morbid thought away. He really didn’t need any more of those. I’m in quite enough of a pathetic state already, thank you very much.

He wasn’t feeling quite as bad as when he had first learnt of Edwin’s betrayal. Active despair only flared up now and then, and had mostly given way to a sort of gray numbness, that lay like a wet blanket across his spirit. He had tried to push it aside, but so far had been unable to. In a way, despair had actually been preferable, since that at least meant feeling something. Now…there was nothing that wasn’t dulled and muted. Possibly the worst part of it was that he could remember being different, and sometimes was almost able to reach inside to his real self. Almost. But not quite.

I know I should be moving on, Dekaras thought, his black eyes still fixed on the contents of the mug. After all, Edwin is likely to need me, whether he knows it or not.

He thought he was strong enough to travel by now, and taking on a minor assignment or two had provided him with adequate travel money, more of which might be acquired on the road. But he was putting it off, reluctance wrapped like an icy hand around his heart. And I know what the problem is, don’t I? As shameful as it is to admit it.

The fact of the matter was that he was afraid. Afraid that once he found his child he would be rejected one final time, once more cast aside. And if that should happen…I do not think I would be able to survive it. Not again.

But the fear was more than painful; it was extremely humiliating. It made him feel weak and helpless, and that he hated more than anything. Pathetic. Utterly pathetic. He might be in danger. He might need me there. And I sit here worrying about my own feelings? Totally unjustifiable. I must leave. And I will. Very soon.

Only, he had told himself that for three days in a row now, ever since he’d emerged enough from the worst darkness of depression that he was able to even leave his room. It hadn’t worked yet. This is not me. Not this…indecisiveness, this lack of purpose. I must pull out of it. How dare I sit around here feeling sorry for myself when he is no doubt spinning some disastrous scheme even now? Disgraceful, that’s what it is.

Unfortunately, scolding himself only managed to make him feel even more apprehensive and doubtful of himself. He had hoped that spending a little time in the semi-company of other people might help pull him out of his black mood, but so far he hadn’t had any luck.

The bar he was sitting in was a very rough place, patronized not only by regular adventurers, but also by rogues and criminals of every kind. He almost hoped that somebody would decide to attack him. That might make him think of other matters than Edwin. But nothing so far. The rest of the patrons tended to take one look at his face, and then leave him alone. He was even left as the sole occupant of a dark and secluded corner table, despite the fact that the rest of the bar was crowded.

There was singing and carousing going on all around, and some dreadfully messy business with drinking horns that probably qualified as quaffing. The main difference between quaffing and drinking seemed to be the amount of spilling and the volume of the people involved. Two barbarians were busily having a quaffing (or possibly drinking) contest at the next table. They were both immensely muscular, and despite the cold they wore nothing but tiny little furry loincloths. The barbarians also had really low foreheads, veins that climbed like ropes across their bulging muscles, and they spoke primarily in grunts. Probably their ancestry contained more than a little yeti. That would explain a lot.

More patrons were milling around near the bar, and now and then ugly little fights broke out when somebody was jostled or thought that another customer had bypassed him. It was only about half the sticky wet spots on the bar that were made up of alcoholic drinks, and it was not a good idea to take a closer look at what the lean and snarling wolf-like dogs were fighting about in one corner.

In another corner there was a dice-game going on, laughter now and then interrupted by shouts of anger. There didn’t seem to be any bloodshed going on there though. Not yet.

Dekaras sighed. This was doing no good. He might as well go and get some sleep, and perhaps…perhaps he would be able to make himself set out in the morning.

“This place is free, isn’t it?”

Dekaras looked up at the man who was sitting down opposite him, mildly curious at this unusual boldness. Interestingly enough, the stranger didn’t look all that dissimilar to himself. He was dark of hair and eye, with a lean and composed face. He was wearing dark clothing, which rather matched the blue-black stubble on his chin, and there was something about the ease with which he moved that suggested that he would be a dangerous opponent in a fight. He is shorter than me though. Quite a bit shorter. That might be an advantage, or not.

“It is,” Dekaras said, not particularly interested in the stranger. “Please yourself.” Perhaps the man would shut up once he realized that he wasn’t in the market for conversation and let him go on brooding in peace.

The stranger nodded, and took a deep drink from his beer, wiping the foam from his mouth. “You’re in the trade, aren’t you?” he said, with a meaningful look.

“Pardon me?”

“You know.” The stranger made a brief gesture across his throat, as of a slicing knife. “The noble art of pest removal.”

Noble art of…is he completely out of his mind? “I’m sure I have no idea what you are referring to,” Dekaras said, giving the stranger a chilly look. “You must be mistaking me for somebody else.”

“I don’t think so,” the stranger said, in a disgustingly pleased voice. “You have the look about you. I can usually tell.”

“How nice for you,” Dekaras said, idly toying with the saltshaker that was standing on the table, hoping that a demonstration of extreme boredom might be enough to make the stranger get the hint. But no, the man was clearly impervious to such subtleties, or else he didn’t care, now that he had found himself an audience.

“Of course you know who I am,” the stranger said, sounding supremely confident. At the blank look of total incomprehension that the Eastern assassin gave him he looked just a little bit annoyed, but then he rallied. “I,” he said in a grandiose but conspiratorial voice, which hinted at fanfares and drum rolls, “am…Artemis Entreri!”

There were a few moments of brief silence, during which there was a distinct lack of applause, admiring murmurs or any other signs of adoration. There was also no ‘oohing’ or ‘aaahing’ and there was absolutely no swooning or begging for autographs.

Slowly, calculatedly slowly, Dekaras raised an eyebrow. “Yes?” he said, making sure to infuse the single word with all the collected boredom of a lecture hall filled with students just after lunch.

“You know damn well who I am!” the other assassin snapped. “Everybody knows who I am! I am the Artemis Entreri! These days everybody knows my face!” The scowl on his face hinted that things might get ugly very soon if he didn’t get the recognition he clearly felt was his due.

“Oh,” Dekaras said in a mild voice. “Of course. The Artemis Entreri.” He had heard of the man of course. Who hadn’t? He didn’t doubt that he was quite deadly in a fight, probably at least as deadly as he himself was. But there were those other stories he had heard about him… “The famous assassin.” He slid the saltshaker around in a pool of partially congealed blood on the table, tracing patterns in it. “Yes, you’re quite well-known, aren’t you? Aren’t you the one who is famous for trying to kill Drizzt the Drow?” How many times has it been so far? Six? Seven? Why, I even have a bet riding on that assignment myself, that it will take him at least a dozen attempts before he gets it right – if he ever will. Now that I’ve met the man, I think perhaps I should increase the stakes.

Entreri frowned suspiciously. “Are you making fun of me?” he growled. “I don’t take kindly to that. What is your name anyway?”

Dekaras shrugged, his sharp-featured face perfectly sincere. “Would I make fun of a famous assassin like yourself? Sir, you wound me. And my name is Bron. Jacen Bron.” The alias he had used during the Iron Throne infiltration was the first that sprang to mind, and it seemed unlikely that anybody would have heard of it here. Honestly, bragging about being well known by everybody…has he no shame? What does he think he is? A bard? To tell the truth, as annoying as the encounter was, it was also…reviving him. He was feeling energized as he hadn’t in a long time, enjoying the mental sparring.

Entreri seemed mollified, and took another long swig of his ale. “That’s better,” he said. “I demand respect, you know.”

Never having thought about earning it, I’m sure.

“Tell you what,” Entreri said, a rather patronizing smile on his face. “You’re new in these parts, I can tell. I’m sure I can give you a tip or two.”

“How kind.”

“Anything to assist. One of these days you may even come close to matching me. Now, what methods do you prefer? Long sword? Short sword? Great sword? Club? Fists?”

Dekaras thought for a moment before answering. A partial truth shouldn’t be able to do any harm, he supposed. “I try to vary myself according to the task at hand,” he said. “Bladed weapons at times, sometimes ranged. Though I am also partial to poisons.”

Entreri scoffed, making a grimace of disgust. “Poisons! Those are the coward’s weapons you know, like the garotte. Only sissies use them. Not the tools of a real man. And besides, they’re totally unreliable, won’t get the job done properly.” He grinned proudly, puffing his chest out. “Now I, I prefer the open and honest way of True Combat.”

Dekaras was silent for a few moments, uncertain whether he had heard the other man correctly. Open and honest way of…Can he possibly be serious? Can he really be that much of a buffoon? “Isn’t that a little inconvenient?” he asked, toying with the lid of the saltshaker. “Surely, under most circumstances our profession requires a certain…discretion? And sometimes, ‘cowardly’ methods are the best way of getting the job done efficiently and above all silently, sparing you the noise of combat that might attract more guards, as well as the risk of getting hurt.”

Entreri shook his head triumphantly. “Not when you’re the best, it isn’t. In fact, I have this little thing I like to do, just for fun.” He smiled. “Sometimes, I enjoy giving the targets some non-fatal wounds, and leave them lying around bleeding for hours. Then, once they’ve used up all their healing spells or potions I come back, laugh in their face and finish them off. Isn’t that the coolest thing you’ve ever head of?”

By this point, Dekaras was uncertain whether he wanted to laugh in the other asssasin’s face, or cry over the fact that he didn’t seem to want to shut up. He’s insane. He has to be. Bragging about making unclean and needlessly drawn-out kills like that, simply to amuse himself. “Excuse me,” he politely asked. “But may I just ask one question? Have you ever considered that somebody might come across your slowly bleeding victim, patch them up and have a small army of guards waiting for you when you return to gloat? Superior numbers may overwhelm even the greatest of fighters.”

Entreri looked vaguely puzzled. “You know…” he said. “I never really thought about that. Oh well, it’s worked so far.”

Which goes to show that the gods watch over small children and madmen, I suppose. “It occurs to me,” Dekaras said in his politest voice as he let the saltshaker slide between his fingers, “that perhaps you are not entirely satisfied with being an assassin. Seeing that you have this thing for ‘open and honest’ combat, I mean. And not wanting to make full use of the resources open to you, thus taking unnecessary risks that I’m sure your clients would not approve of, did they know of them. And I seem to recall one story about you not wanting to kill Drizzt, unless he would fight you back. Have you ever thought about the possibility that you may have missed your true calling in life, and that you might be happier pursuing another path? Such as that of…the paladin, perhaps?” This mortal insult was delivered with a faint smile calculated to incense, and Dekaras seriously hoped that the other would choose to attack him. The small crossbow he was holding under the table, its poisoned bolts aimed in the direction of Entreri’s groin, should suffice to teach him a thing or two about ‘true combat’.

However, Entreri’s face crumbled, and he sagged across the table, sighing heavily. “I tried!” he cried out. “The gods know that I tried. As a little kid…lost in the streets…all I wanted was to fight honorably, don’t you know? To…to find a true purpose. So I went to the local Order of the Radiant Heart, when they were recruiting new squires.” He swallowed, and buried his face in his ale. “They…they had this wooden hand, see? ‘You Must Be This Tall To Enter The Order’. And…and they told me I was too short!” His eyes were blazing with fury by now. “Oh sure the old paladin was nice about it. ‘There you go son,’ he told me. ‘I’m sure there are plenty of other useful things you can do with yourself.’ And I did. Oh, how I did!” He was sobbing gently onto the table now. “And…and Drizzt won’t even fight me properly anymore! It’s not fair!”

“Riiiight,” Dekaras said, feeling a strong urge to remove himself from the premises before the other man started confessing any more embarrassing secrets, such as secretly having a crush on Drizzt. Besides, he had already set things up to prove his point. “Look! Isn’t that him over there?” he cried out, pointing into the crowd on the other side of the bar.

“What? Where?” Artemis Entreri spun around, his voice wild with excitement. When he failed to spot his nemesis he turned around again, only to find that his new confidant was curiously absent, and not to be seen anywhere. Puzzled, he took a deep drink of beer, and then spit it out violently all over the table, gargling and choking. “What the…” And as he noticed the empty saltshaker on the table, he started feeling the first creeping hints of insecurity and doubt.

Meanwhile, Dekaras was rapidly crossing the town border, heading for a caravan station he knew lay a few miles to the south. Despite the fact that his breath made clouds of steam in the air, he didn’t feel cold at all, rather he felt extremely invigorated. There was a new spring in his step, and the old fire had quite returned to his eyes. I think that was exactly what I needed to cheer me up a little. I guess that taught him a thing or two about the efficiency of ‘cowardly methods’. True, he was still very much upset with Edwin and hurt by his actions, but he wasn’t about to let it hold him back any longer. He would do what he had to do and go to his child, no matter his own feelings about it and what might happen. Smiling faintly to himself, he headed south. Yes, it feels good to have a goal again. Places to go. And people to meet. Definitely people to meet.