Explore the mind of an assassin in R.A. Salvatore's exciting conclusion to The Sellswords Trilogy!
The drow mercenary Jarlaxle and his companion, the human assassin Artemis Entreri, have begun to make a home for themselves in the rugged Bloodstone Lands. But not everyone is ready to trust a man who's spent his life killing for coin, much less a member of a race of subterranean elves known for their fanatical devotion to a demon goddess. If they want to make it out of the Bloodstone Lands alive, they'll have to learn to trust their enemies, and be suspicious of their friends.
“I am far beyond such concerns,” Kane replied. Entreri pulled the piwafwi out and slung it around his shoulders in one fluid motion. “Your cloak is of drow make, is it not?” Kane asked. “Have you spent time with the drow, in their lands?” “I am far beyond such questions,” the assassin replied, mocking the monk’s tone. Kane nodded in acceptance. “Unless you plan to compel me to answer,” Entreri said, “with this sickness you have inserted into my being.” Kane stepped back, his hands folded
middle age, thin, even skinny, with fraying white hair and beard. He wore rags and no visible jewelry other than a pair of magical rings. His belt was a simple length of rough rope, his sandals worn and threadbare. Only his walking stick, white like the wood of the tree from which it was made, seemed somewhat remarkable, and that alone would not be enough to clue anyone in to the truth of the shabby-looking creature. For Kane, a simple wanderer, had been the one to strike the fatal blow and free
almost completely into the oven. He reached up into the chimney, holding forth a small silver chime, and lightly tapped it against the brick. Then he climbed back out and brushed the soot from his clothing—none of the soot was stubborn enough to cling to Jarlaxle’s magical garb. He waited patiently as the minutes slipped past, confident that his call had been heard. Finally, a form bubbled out of the oven’s base, sliding effortlessly through the bricks. It grew and extended, seemed no more than
just unmoving, but utterly still, save the minor rise and fall of his breathing. The dragon paused, even shifted noisily a few times, leaning forward in anticipation, trying to prompt the monk to speak. But he did not. He just sat there. Many moments slipped past, and he just sat there. Tazmikella got up repeatedly and walked to the door, glancing out for any sign of her sister. Then she sat back down, offering both smiles and frowns. She asked a few questions—about the weather, about Vaasa,
sidetracked by the overwhelming presence of his ranger friend. He caught up to Olwen before the ranger reached the next group in line, and even dared tug on the man’s sleeve to halt him, or slow him at least. That brought a warning glare, Olwen locking his bright eyes on Riordan’s grasping hand then slowly lifting his gaze to meet that of the bard. “We have much yet to learn,” Riordan said as he gently pulled away. “I’ve not the time or the desire to read the history of King Artemis.” “It is
