"Why have you done this?"

"I serve the king."

"You challenge the rightful king," Olgerkhan interjected.

From under the great brow of his ostentatious hat, Jarlaxle narrowed his red-glowing eyes and thinned his lips, locking Olgerkhan in a stare that surely reminded the burly warrior of his recent adventure beside the drow. Olgerkhan's crossed arms slipped down to his side and he even stepped back a bit, the aggressiveness melting from his posture. With that one look, Jarlaxle had reminded him of Canthan, to be sure.

"The Bloodstone Lands were opened to you and Artemis Entreri both," Wingham said, forcing the drow to look back his way. "Opportunity awaited you. With respect and song, and the appreciation of all the people, you and Entreri could have had much of what you desire without this confrontation. Would King Gareth have denied you the castle?"

"I doubt he would approve of the magic it offers," the drow replied.

"Even without it! A knight of the order can lay claim to a barony that is as yet unclaimed and untamed. Negotiations with Gareth would have handed the castle to you, and would have earned you the allegiance of Palishchuk, as well, a friendship we were all too willing to extend. Likely, King Gareth would have been grateful to have such worthy warriors helping him to tame the northern wilderness."

"And why should we help Gareth extend his claim? Are you so willing to kneel, Wingham?"

Both half-orcs stiffened at the insult, but Wingham didn't back away. "Kneel?"

"If King Gareth tells Wingham to kneel, his knees will soil, no doubt."

"It is respect freely given."

Jarlaxle laughed at him. "It is the obedience of resignation."

Olgerkhan grumbled something indecipherable, shaking his head, and Jarlaxle wasn't really surprised that he had confused that one. Wingham, though, just continued to stare, his expression showing clearly that he wasn't buying the premise one bit.

"Ah well, it is a sad state, is it not?" Jarlaxle asked. "It is the way. The way it has been for millennia uncounted, and the way it will be until the end of time."

"And you accuse me of resignation?"

"I accept the truisms of ambition," he explained. "What is resignation to you is relished by me." He looked down and pulled his fine piwafwi open a bit to reveal his black leather trousers. "I do not dirty my fine clothes. Not for any man. Not for any king."

"King Gareth will tarnish them with your own blood!" Olgerkhan promised.

Jarlaxle shrugged as if it did not matter.

"You called us out here," said Wingham. "Is there more a point to it than this banter? When you came through Palishchuk, you asked nothing of us, and we were glad to offer you the same."

"But now King Gareth marches," Jarlaxle replied. "The situation is changed, of course. Palishchuk finds herself caught between the breaking waves of possibility. To remain between them as they crest is to be crushed by both. It is time to swim, Wingham."

Olgerkhan stood with his tusky jaw hanging open, a look upon his ugly face so perfectly blank that Jarlaxle nearly laughed out loud. Wingham, though, nodded as he grasped the analogy and its dire implications all too clearly.

"You would have us war with King Gareth, who saved us from the Witch-King and has been a great friend to us?" the worldly old half-orc asked.

Jarlaxle grinned knowingly as he weighed the determination in Wingham's words—a resolve that he knew he would not weaken however great the threat of Kimmuriel's drow armies. In fact, it was a resolve that he had counted on since he had learned of Gareth's bold initiative against the new King of Vaasa.

"Palishchuk will not betray King Gareth," Wingham stated, and the drow knew that he was speaking truth.

"We do not forget the time of Zhengyi," Wingham went on, and his need to justify his position amused Jarlaxle. "We remember well the darkness of the Witch-King and the light named Gareth who risked all, who risked his life, his friends, and all of Damara to ensure that we were not out here all alone against a foe we could not defeat."

"It is a fine tale," the drow agreed.

"We will not betray King Gareth," Wingham said again.

"I never said that you should," Jarlaxle replied, and Wingham's steely gaze melted into one of confusion. "The Army of Bloodstone has marched, with their fine glittering weapons and shining armor. A most impressive sight, to be sure. They come armed and armored, and with wizards and priests aplenty.

"And yet, on the other side, you are faced with the unknown," Jarlaxle continued. "Other than the reputation of my kin and what you so painfully learned of the powers of the Zhengyian castle. I do not make your choice for you, my friend. I only seek to explain to you that the waves are closing and you must swim into one or the other or be destroyed. The time of neutrality has passed. I had not thought it would come to this—not so quickly, at least—but it has, and I would be remiss as a friend if I did not help you to understand."

"A friend?" Olgerkhan roared. "A friend who brings war to Palishchuk's door?"

"My army is not marching," Jarlaxle remarked, and at his reference to an army, he noted Wingham's eyebrows arching just a bit.

"But you come with threats," said Olgerkhan.

"Nay, far from it," Jarlaxle was quick to reply. "King Artemis is a man of peace. Look to the south for the winds of war, not to the north." He turned from the brutish Olgerkhan to Wingham's doubting expression, and added, "It would seem that King Gareth is not a man who shares."

"With thieves?" Wingham dared to ask. "Who take that which is not theirs? Who lay claim to a kingdom without cause of blood or deed?"

"Deed?" Jarlaxle replied as if wounded. "We conquered the castle, did we not? It was King Artemis who slew the dracolich, after all. Your friend beside you can testify to that, though he lay on the ground helplessly when Artemis struck the fateful blow."

Olgerkhan bristled and seemed stung by the simple truth, but did not reply.

"So claim the castle, and bargain with King Gareth for a barony," Wingham suggested. "Avert the war, for the sake of all."

"A contract that would entail our fealty to Gareth, no doubt," the drow said.

"And did you not promise exactly that when you accepted the honors bestowed upon you at King Gareth's court?"

"A moment of duress."

Wingham's expression soured. "You have no claim."

Jarlaxle shrugged, again as if it did not matter. "Perhaps you will be proven correct. Perhaps not. Ultimately, the claim goes to the strongest, does it not? In the final sort of things, I mean. He who remains alive, remains alive to write the histories in a light favorable to him and his cause. Surely as worldly as you are, you know well the histories of the world, Master Wingham. Surely you recognize that armies carrying banners are almost always thieves—until they win."

Wingham didn't flinch, and Jarlaxle knew enough about him, about people in general, to understand that he clutched at the rather pitiful—from Jarlaxle's perspective—ideal of a higher justice, of a universal truism of right and wrong. No man could be more broken, after all, than he who at last must face the truth that his king, his living god, is flawed.

"Look forward, good Wingham," Jarlaxle offered. "The outcome is not known to you, but the result after the battle is indeed. The victor will determine which king rules the land of Vaasa. One wave will overtake the other, and will flatten all the water under its weight. That is the truth facing Palishchuk, however we might feel about it. And in that light, I would caution you to withhold your judgment about who rightfully—and more importantly, who practically—will rule in Vaasa."

Wingham seemed to blanch for just a moment, but he squared his shoulders and firmed his jaw, his round, flat face tightening with admirable determination. "Palishchuk will not battle against King Gareth," he stated.