"Dragons-" Entreri muttered.
"Of course," said Ilnezhara.
"Then you two do not wish to battle to the death?"
"Of course not," both sisters said together.
"We wish to increase our hoards," said Tazmikella. "That is where you come in. We have maps that need following, and rumors that need confirming. You will work for us."
"Do not doubt that we will reward you greatly," Ilnezhara purred.
She pulled Jarlaxle closer, drawing an unintentional grunt from him.
"She's a dragon," Entreri said.
"Peasant," Ilnezhara shot back. She laughed again, then pulled Jarlaxle around and released him back toward the door. "Go now back to your apartment. We will fashion some instructions for you shortly."
"Your discretion is demanded," her sister added.
"Of course," said Jarlaxle, and he bowed low again, sweeping off his feathered hat.
"Oh, and here," said Ilnezhara. She pulled out a plain-looking flute of gray driftwood. "You earned this," she said. She motioned as if to toss it to the drow, but turned and flipped it out to Entreri instead. "Learn it well, peasant-to amuse me, and also because you might find it possessed of a bit of its own magic. Perhaps you will come to better appreciate beauty you cannot yet understand."
Jarlaxle grinned and bowed again, but Entreri just tucked the flute into his belt and headed straight for the door, wanting to get far away while it was still possible. He passed by Tazmikella, thinking to go right out into the night, but she held up her hand and stopped him as completely as if he had walked into a castle wall.
"Discretion," she reminded.
Entreri nodded and slipped aside, then went out into the foggy night, Jarlaxle right behind him.
"It worked out quite well, I think," said the drow, moving up beside him.
Jarlaxle reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder, and in the cover of that shake, the drow's other arm snaked behind his back, reaching out and gently lifting the flute from Entreri's belt.
"Dragons…." Entreri argued.
He shoved Jarlaxle's arm away, and used the cover of the movement to flash his other hand across and secretly take back the flute, even as Jarlaxle set it in his belt.
"Are you so much the peasant, as beautiful Ilnezhara claims?" asked the drow, moving back beside his partner. "Your imagination, man! Have we ever known wealthier benefactors? Or more alluring?"
"Alluring? They're dragons!"
"Yes, they are," said a smug Jarlaxle, and he seemed quite entranced with that notion.
Of course, that didn't stop him from sliding his hand across to relieve Entreri of the magical flute once more. The drow brought it farther around his back to a waiting loop on his belt-a magical loop that would tighten and resist thieving fingers.
Except that what Jarlaxle thought was the loop was really Entreri's cupped hand and the man wasted no time in bringing the flute back.
Such was the fog in the friendship of thieves.
SERPESTRILLVYTH
Richard Baker
Flamerule, the Year of the Banner
On the hottest day of the summer, Erzimar rode into the dusty town with the Company of the Argent Hawk at his back. A cooper looked up from his work as Erzimar and his companions rode past, clutching an iron hoop in his broad hands. A small knot of women speaking together in the thin shade of a browned oak stopped their gossiping to stare at the travelers.
The half-elf Gethred dismounted with a creak of leather and shrugged his cloak from his shoulder, leaving his sword arm clear. Despite the heat, the handsome swordsman wore a breastplate of gold-chased steel. Sweat and dust grimed his face. He took in the dry, bare ground, and the straw-thatched homes and workshops with a single slow look.
"What's the name of this town again?" he asked.
"Pelldith Lake," answered Isildra. She, too, wore mail and leather, though her surcoat was emblazoned with the sleepless eye of Helm's faith. She drew off her gauntlets to wipe strong hands across her brow, frowning at the dirt around her. "That's what they said in Elturel, anyway."
Erzimar swung himself down from his own mount. Short and wiry, Erzimar did not mind the sweltering summer heat as much as his companions. He was a Shaaran, from the sweltering cities by the Lake of Steam, with golden-bronze skin and straight black hair. He wore a short, curved scimitar at his belt. But his preferred weapon was the staff of rich mahogany he carried across the saddlebow.
"There's the inn," he said.
"It'll do," Bragor the dwarf said as he lowered himself gingerly to the ground from his sturdy pony. As round and strong as a barrel of oak, the taciturn dwarf didn't like riding much, and liked riding on a hot day even less. "I don't care if this is the right village or not, I'm not going another mile today."
The Vaasan swordsman Murgolm followed suit, sparing one sullen look for the staring townsfolk before shaking the sweat from his long, black hair. Murgolm spoke little Common, but he had some Dwarvish and therefore tended to stay close to Bragor, who translated for him at need.
They led their horses into the inn yard, which was shaded by a line of tall, dusty poplars. A young stable boy with ungainly long arms and legs and a mop of sandy hair hurried out to meet them, blinking in the sunlight. He stood staring at the travelers while Geth-red returned his empty gaze.
"See to our mounts, lad," Gethred called. "Don't let them drink yet, they're hot. Bring in our saddlebags and packs when you're done."
"Yes, sir!"
"Now, lad, where can a fellow find something to wash the dust of the road from his throat?"
"Right through there, sir," the stable boy said. He pointed at the inn's door. "There's a taproom inside." He stared at the travelers again, his face working awkwardly as he struggled with something he wanted to say. Erzimar exchanged glances with his companions as they waited. Bragor turned away with a dour curse, tired of waiting, but then the lad broke free of his paralysis with a small hop and asked in an excited rush, "Are you here about the dragon?"
Erzimar simply nodded at the boy. The stable boy gaped in amazement as the travelers shook the road dust from their cloaks and went into the warm gloom of the inn's common room. Heavy footsteps sounded on creaking floorboards, and the innkeeper appeared-a short, stout fellow with sweat gleaming on his bald head. His face was sallow, with gray stubble discoloring his jowls and small, quick eyes.
"Good day, travelers," he began. "I am Rothas, the master of this house. How many rooms will you be needing, then?"
"We'll take three," Gethred said. "And we'll take any good ale you've got in your ice cellar, and something to eat, too. The quicker, the better."
"Of course, sir…"
The innkeeper hesitated, in much the same way that the stable boy had.
Erzimar took pity on the fellow and said, "Yes, Rothas, we've come about the dragon."
Two hours later, Erzimar felt almost comfortable again. His thirst was well quenched, he had a good meal under his ribs, and he'd even found half an hour to dunk himself in the cold lake nearby. He sat alongside Gethred, Bragor, Murgolm, and Isildra in five wooden chairs that had been lined up along one wall of the inn's common room. Opposite them sat the half-dozen aldermen of Pelldith Lake. Two dozen more onlookers clustered in the back of the room, silent and watchful.
The aldermen included the innkeeper Rothas, and the cooper Ethern, the fellow Erzimar had seen as he rode into town.