The Ghost King Read Online Free

half-opened eye looked back at him.
    “I often ponder which is more annoying, dwarf, your snoring or your rhyming.”
    “Meself, too,” said Athrogate. “But since I’m not much hearing me snoring, I’ll be choosing the word-song.”
    Jarlaxle just shook his head and turned to walk away. “I’m still asking, elf.”
    “I thought it wise to search the grounds before our esteemed visitor arrives,” Jarlaxle replied.
    “He’ll be getting here with half the dwarfs o’ Mirabar’s Shield, not for doubting,” said Athrogate.
    True enough, Jarlaxle knew. He heard Athrogate shuffle out of his bedroll and scramble to his feet.
    “Prudence, my friend,” the drow said over his shoulder, and started away.
    “Nah, it’s more’n that,” Athrogate declared.
    Jarlaxle laughed helplessly. Few in the world knew him well enough to so easily read through his tactical deflections and assertions, but in the years Athrogate had been at his side, he had indeed let the dwarf get to know something of the true Jarlaxle Baenre. He turned and offered a grin to his dirty, bearded friend.
    “Well?” Athrogate asked. “Yer words I’m taking, but what’s got ye shaking?”
    “Shaking?”
    Athrogate shrugged. “It be what it be, and I see what it be.”
    “Enough,” Jarlaxle bade him, holding his hands out in surrender.
    “Ye tell me or I’ll rhyme at ye again,” the dwarf warned.
    “Hit me with your mighty morningstars instead, I beg you.”
    Athrogate planted his hands on his hips and stared at the dark elf hard.
    “I do not yet know,” Jarlaxle admitted. “Something …” He reached around and retrieved his enormous, wide-brimmed hat, patted it into shape, and plopped it atop his head.
    “Something?”
    “Aye,” said the drow. “A visitor, perhaps in my dreams, perhaps not.”
    “Tell me she’s a redhead.”
    “Red scales, more likely.”
    Athrogate’s face crinkled in disgust. “Ye need to dream better, elf.”
    “Indeed.”
    * * * * *
    “My daughter fares well, I trust,” Marchion Elastul remarked. He sat in a great, comfortable chair at the heavy, ornately decorated table his attendantshad brought from his palace in Mirabar, surrounded by a dozen grim-faced dwarves of Mirabar’s Shield. Across from him, in lesser thrones, sat Jarlaxle and Athrogate, who stuffed his face with bread, eggs, and all manner of delicacies. Even for a meeting in the wilderness, Elastul had demanded some manner of civilized discourse, which, to the dwarf’s ultimate joy, had included a fine breakfast.
    “Arabeth has adapted well to the changes in Luskan, yes,” Jarlaxle answered. “She and Kensidan have grown closer, and her position within the city continues to expand in prominence and power.”
    “That miserable Crow,” Elastul whispered with a sigh, referring to High Captain Kensidan, one of the four high captains who ruled the city. He knew well that Kensidan had become the dominant member of that elite group.
    “Kensidan won,” Jarlaxle reminded him. “He outwitted Arklem Greeth and the Arcane Brotherhood—no small feat!—and convinced the other high captains that his course was the best.”
    “I would have preferred Captain Deudermont.”
    Jarlaxle shrugged. “This way is more profitable for us all.”
    “To think that I’m sitting here dealing with a drow elf,” Elastul lamented. “Half of my Shield dwarves would prefer that I kill you rather than negotiate with you.”
    “That would not be wise.”
    “Or profitable?”
    “Nor healthy.”
    Elastul snorted, but his daughter Arabeth had told him enough about the creature Jarlaxle for him to know that the drow’s quip was only half a joke, and half a deadly serious threat.
    “If Kensidan the Crow and the other three high captains learn of our little arrangement here, they will not be pleased,” Elastul said.
    “Bregan D’aerthe does not answer to Kensidan and the others.”
    “But you do have an arrangement with them to trade your goods through their