Realms of infamy a-2 Page 8

  “No, not ill, just excited. After all, this is my first feast as head of the estate.” I kept my back to her as I slipped the potion into her goblet, then poured our wine. I watched her carefully to be certain she drank it all.

  By then, the first of our guests had arrived. I went down to join them, Atera walking joyfully at my side.

  As we greeted our guests, the potion began to do its work. Atera’s face flushed, and her voice grew high and sharp. “She’s a bit anxious, but I think the wine did more than relax her,” I confided to one of the guests. I heard him repeat the comment to his wife. Soon the entire room assumed Atera was already tipsy.

  Lord Romul and Lady Laudrel were among the last to enter the hall. As Atera went to greet them, I hung back. I could not get too close, not with the beast inside me looking through my eyes at my enemy, demanding to be released.

  Some time later, Atera and I took our places at the table’s center. Lord Romul sat to Atera’s right, then Lady Laudrel. After all her planning of the evening’s feast, Atera only picked at the food. Her attention became, as the potion directed, fixed on Lord Romul. Soon she seemed openly infatuated. I pretended not to notice, not even when her hand disappeared from the table, resting no doubt in his lap. A few of the guests near us began to whisper to one another.

  The farce could not continue much longer. I gave the signal and the music began. I asked Lady Laudrel to dance.

  Lord Romul would give too great an insult if he refused to ask Atera. Red-faced and cautious, he led her onto the floor. As I danced with the stout Laudrel, I watched Atera and Romul carefully. She pressed close to him, whispered in his ear. I saw his confusion. No, he had never expected his conquest to act so boldly.

  With a firm grip on Atera’s arm, Romul led her back to the table. She pulled him beyond it to the tapestry that hung from the wall. In spite of the shadows, I and a number of others saw her kiss him. I pushed Laudrel aside so roughly that she would have fallen had someone not caught her.

  “What is the meaning of this!” I bellowed.

  Laudrel followed my gaze. She saw her husband’s embarrassment, heard Atera’s startled cry. “Your wife is… not well,” Romul said.

  “Well enough to kiss you. Is this the first time or only the most obvious of many?”

  My guests began muttering. Most sided with me. Others, seeing Romul’s confusion, were not so certain of his guilt Laudrel began to cry.

  “She is gone from the house far too often, and when she rides, she always heads north,” I went on.

  “To visit me,” Laudrel mumbled. Atera, fighting the effects of the potion, nodded. No one paid any attention to either woman. Fine people that they were, my guests were eager for blood to spill.

  “I demand satisfaction,” I said. “I will defend the honor of my wife!”

  I saw his resignation, yet still he attempted to placate me. “Your wife is ill, I tell you. And your sword arm is weak. Isn’t there some other way to settle this?”

  “Honor will make me strong.” I heard the murmur of my neighbors. Most were pleased at my response.

  Romul sighed. “Very well. But you must loan me a blade. I brought none.”

  I surveyed the crowd. There must be no hint of treachery in our duel. “Does someone have a blade for Lord Romul?”

  Five were offered. As I expected in one his age, he picked a light, thin sword more geared for fencing than battle. One of the other men offered me a similar weapon; I took it. There would be no accusations of poison when this was done.

  We squared off in the center of the hall, where only moments ago we had been dancing. As metal met metal, I felt the strength of Raven’s minion. I could win the battle at any time. Instead, I fought down the urge to attack and moved stiffly, as if the very act of holding the sword pained me.

  In his youth, Lord Romul had acquired a deadly reputation with a blade. He had not lost the skill. Were it not for my terrible inner speed and strength, he would have bested me easily. However, he continued to maintain the ruse of reluctant victim, parrying my more deadly thrusts, letting the others reach him. No doubt he hoped I would shed the first blood and, honor satisfied, call off the duel.

  When I nicked his shoulder, I saw real fear in his eyes. His face was florid and sweat formed on his brow. Exertion could kill the old as easily as a knife. I counted on that excuse. I smiled. Yes, you fool. Yes, you perverter of my wife, coveter of my lands. Yes, old man, as soon as my skin is cut, you will die.

  I forced him back to the dining table, then in a move no one could have expected, I deliberately fell against him. My arm sliced open on the edge of his blade.

  The shell was cracked. The creature inside me departed with the first drop of my blood, taking all its strength with it. “Have you had enough?” I heard Lord Romul whisper as I lay at his feet, too exhausted to move, barely able to breathe.

  I looked up. I wanted to whisper that it would never be over, but words failed me as I saw the thing I had unleashed.

  Black and formless as the clouds of a deadly storm, its only clear features were its huge red eyes, which smoldered with a predatory light. The creature examined Lord Romul, standing with his sword lowered, looking less like an enemy than a concerned father who had unwittingly wounded his son during training.

  It looked at Atera, trembling as she stood at the head of the table, frightened of me, of Romul, of the strange impulses within her brought on by the potion.

  It looked at Raven. I think perhaps Raven lied to me. I think he saw the spirit; its summoning was his doing, after all.

  And finally it turned to me. Its expression became one of interest, of need. Raven had said it killed with its touch and the power of its gaze. I tried to look away and found I could not. I tried to move but was paralyzed. “I’m not responsible!” I screamed. Though I knew I damned myself, I had to say the words, “You were charged to protect me. Now, kill my enemy.”

  It obeyed.

  The blackness of its form rolled over me. A deadly weight pushed down on me. My heart fluttered, my body became cold.

  “Sharven!” Atera shrieked. She tried to rush to my side, but Raven held her back. Her tears were genuine, and the grief tore at my soul. I would have apologized for all my wrongs had I not already been robbed of the power to speak.

  And through the unblinking eyes of one already dead, I saw Raven move behind Atera and gently pull her away from my body, holding her as she sobbed uncontrollably. I saw his expression as he looked over her shoulder at me-one of triumph. He had won. And suddenly he appeared much younger than I’d believed him to be.

  But then, there are spells for youth as well as strength.

  I thought of his remarks to me, and understood their meaning for the first time. Yet, the creature he had conjured for me had done exactly what I had demanded-it had found my worst enemy and it had killed. Now my spirit remains.

  Raven required no spells to make Atera love him, though he did give her one to soften her grief over my demise. I do not hate him for that; there are many more valid reasons for hate.

  I stood in the hall with the other guests and watched him wed my wife. I went into the bridal chamber, and after, with fury to give me strength, I went into the little room where I had studied with Raven. Though it took tremendous effort, I have managed to put pen to parchment and finish this account.

  Perhaps Atera will one day read it. More likely Raven will find it first and destroy it. If so, I will set the words down again, as often as I must.

  Even petty revenge is sweet Raven will never rest easy in my house.

  The Third Level

  R. A. Salvatore

  The young man’s dark eyes shifted from side to side, always moving, always alert. He caught a movement to the left, between two ramshackle wood-and-clay huts.

  Just a child at play, wisely taking to the shadows.

  Back to the right, he noticed a woman deep in the recesses beyond a window that was just a hole in the wall, for no one in this section of C
alimport was wealthy enough to afford glass. The woman stayed back, standing perfectly still, watching him and unaware that he, in turn, watched her.

  He felt like a hunting cat crossing the plain, she just another of the many deer, hoping he would take no notice.

  Young Artemis Entreri liked that feeling, that power. He had worked this street-if that’s what it could be called, for it was little more than a haphazard cluster of unremarkable shacks dropped across a field of cart-torn mud-for more than five years, since he was but a boy of nine.

  He stopped and slowly turned toward the window, and the woman shrank away at the merest hint of a threat.

  Entreri smiled and resumed his surveying. This was his street, he told himself, a place he had staked out three months after his arrival in Calimport. The place had no formal name, but now, because of him, it had an identity. It was the area where Artemis Entreri was boss.

  How far he had come in five years, hitching a ride all the way from the city of Memnon. Artemis chuckled at the term “all the way.” In truth, Memnon was the closest city to Calimport, but in the barren desert land of Calimshan, even the closest city was a long and difficult ride.

  Difficult to be sure, but Entreri had made it, had survived, despite the brutal duties the merchants of that caravan had given him, despite the determined advances of one lecherous old man, a smelly unshaven lout who seemed to think that a nine-year-old boy—

  Artemis shook that memory from his head, refusing to follow its inevitable course. He had survived the caravan trek and had stolen away from the merchants on the second day in Calimport, soon after he had learned that they had taken him along ultimately to sell him into slavery.

  There was no need to remember anything before that, the teenager told himself, neither the journey from Memnon, nor the horrors before the journey that had sent him running from home. Still, he could smell the breath of that lecherous old man, like the breath of his own father, and his uncle.

  The pain pushed him back to his angry edge, made him steel his dark eyes and tighten the honed muscles along his arms. He had made it. That was all that counted. This was his street, a place of safety, where no one threatened him.

  Artemis resumed his surveillance of his domain, his eyes scanning left to right, then back across the way. He saw every movement and every shadow-always the hunting cat, looking more for prey than for danger.

  He couldn’t help but chuckle self-deprecatingly at the grandeur of his “kingdom.” His street? Only because no other thief would bother to claim it. Artemis could work six days rolling every one of the many drunks who fell down in the mud in this impoverished section and barely scrape enough coins together to eat a decent meal on the seventh.

  Still, that was enough for the waif who had fled his home; it had sustained him and given him back his pride over the past five years. Now he was a young man, fourteen years old… or almost fourteen. Artemis didn’t remember his exact birthdate, just that there had been a brief period right before the even briefer season of rain, when times in his house were not so terrible.

  Again, the young man shook the unwanted memories from his head. He was fourteen, he decided; as if in confirmation, he looked down at his finely toned, lithe frame, barely a hundred and thirty pounds, but with tightened muscles covering every inch. He was fourteen, and he was rightly proud, because he had survived and he had thrived. He surveyed his street, his domain, and his smallish chest expanded. Even the old drunks were afraid of him, showed him proper respect when they addressed him.

  He had earned it, and everybody in this little shanty town within the city of Calimport-a city that was nothing more than a collection of a thousand or more little shanty towns huddled about the white marble and gold-laced structures of the wealthy merchants-respected him, feared him.

  Everybody except one.

  The new tough, a young man probably three or four years older than Artemis, had arrived earlier in the tenday. He did not ask permission of Artemis before he began rolling the wretches in the mud, or even walking into homes in broad daylight and terrorizing whoever was inside. The stranger forced Artemis’s subjects into making him a meal, or into offering him whatever other niceties could be found.

  That was the part that angered Artemis more than anything. Artemis held no love, no respect, for the common folk of his carved-out kingdom, but he had seen the newcomer’s type before-in both his horrid past and in his troubled nightmares. In truth, there was room on Artemis’s street for two thugs. In the five days that the new tough had been about, he and Artemis hadn’t even seen each other. And certainly none of Artemis’s wretched informants had asked for Protection against this new terror. None of them would dare even to speak with Artemis unless he asked them a direct question.

  But there remained the not-inconsiderable matter of pride.

  Artemis peered around the shack’s corner, down the muddy lane. “Right on schedule,” he whispered as the newcomer strolled onto the other end of this relatively straight section of road. “Predictable.” Artemis curled his lip up, thinking that predictability was indeed a weakness. He would have to remember that.

  The new thug’s eyes were dark, his hair, like Entreri’s, black as the waters of the Kandad Oasis, so black that every other color seemed to be mixed together in its depths. A native-born Calimshite, Artemis decided, probably a man not unlike himself.

  What tortured past had put the invader on his street? he mused. There is no room for that kind of empathy, Artemis scolded himself. Compassion gets you killed.

  With a deep, steadying breath, Artemis steeled his gaze once more and watched coldly as the invader threw a staggering old man to the ground and tore open the wretch’s threadbare purse. Apparently unsatisfied with the meager take, the young man yanked a half-rotted board from the uneven edge of the nearest shack and whacked his pitiful victim across the forehead. The old man whined and pleaded, but the tough struck him again, flattening his nose. He was on his knees, face covered in bright blood, begging and crying, but got hit again and again until his sobs were muffled by the mud that half-buried his broken face.

  Artemis found that he cared nothing for the old wretch. He did care, though, that the man had begged this newcomer, had pleaded with a master who had come uninvited to Artemis Entreri’s place.

  Entreri’s hands went down to his pockets, slipped inside, feeling the only weapons he bothered to carry, two small handfuls of sand and a flat, edged rock. He gave a sigh that reflected both resignation and the tingling excitement of impending battle. He started out from the corner, but paused to consider his own feelings. He was the hunting cat, the master here, so he was rightfully defending his carved-out domain. But there remained a sadness Artemis could not deny, a resignation he could not understand.

  Somewhere deep inside him, in a pocket sealed away by the horrors he had known, Artemis knew things should not be like this. Yet the realization did not turn him away from the battle-to-come. Instead, it made him even angrier.

  A feral growl escaped Artemis’s lips as he stepped around the shack, out into the open and right in the path of the approaching thug.

  The older boy stopped, likewise regarding his adversary. He knew of Artemis, of course, the same way Artemis knew of him.

  “At last you show yourself openly,” the newcomer said confidently. He was bigger than slender Artemis, though there was very little extra weight on his warrior’s frame. His shoulders had been broadened by maturity, by an extra few years of a hard life. His muscles, though not so thick, twitched like strong cords.

  “I have been looking for you,” he said, inching closer. His caution tipped observant Artemis that he was more nervous than his bravado revealed.

  “I’ve never lived in the shadows,” Artemis replied. “You could have found me any day, any time.”

  “Why would I bother?”

  Artemis considered the ridiculous question, then gave a little shrug, deciding not to justify the boastful retort with an answer.

  �
��You know why I’m here,” the man said at length, his tone sharper than before-a further indication that his nerves were on edge.

  “Funny, I thought I was the one who’d found you,” Artemis replied. He hid well his concern that this thug might be here, might be on Artemis’s street, with more of a purpose than he’d presumed.

  “You had no choice but to find me,” the invader asserted firmly.

  There it was again, that implication of a deeper purpose. It occurred to Artemis then that this man, for he was indeed a man and no street waif, should already be above staking out a claim to such a squalid area as this. Even if he were new to the trade, this course would not be the course for an adult ruffian. He should be allied with one of the many thieves’ guilds in this city of thieves. Why, then, had he come? And why alone?

  Had he been kicked out of a guild, perhaps?

  For a brief moment, Artemis feared he might be in over his head. His opponent was an adult, and possibly a veteran rogue. Entreri shook the notion away, saw that his reasoning was not sound. Young upstarts did not get “kicked out” of Calimport’s thieves’ guilds; they merely disappeared — and no one bothered to question their abrupt absence. But this opponent was not, obviously, some child who had been forced out on his own.

  “Who are you?” Artemis asked bluntly. He wished he could take the question back as soon as the words had left his mouth, fearing he had just tipped the thug off to his own ignorance. Artemis was ultimately alone in his place. He had no network surrounding him, no spies of any merit and little understanding of the true power structures of Calimport.

  The thug smiled and spent a long moment studying his opponent. Artemis was small, and probably as quick and sure in a fight as the guild’s reports had indicated. He stood easily, his hands still in the pockets of his ragged breeches, his bare, brown-tanned arms small, but sculpted with finely honed muscles. The thug knew Artemis had no allies, had been told that before he had been sent out here. Yet this boy — and in the older thief’s eyes, Artemis was indeed a boy — stood easily and seemed composed far beyond his years. One other thing bothered the man.