The Last Threshold

Page 51

“Mielikki,” Jarlaxle corrected.
“Aye, that’s me thinking. Heard Drizzt claim as much.”
Jarlaxle nodded, but remained intrigued by the other theory, that Lolth secretly considered Drizzt her champion of chaos, and indeed, that rogue had lived up to the billing as far as the city of Menzoberranzan was concerned.
“So ye’re thinkin’ that them shadow lords’re studying the gods and them Chosen such to find some plan o’ attack against us all?”
Jarlaxle was impressed that Athrogate had gone so quickly to that reasoning, and he reminded himself that this particular dwarf was no fool, despite his nonsensical rhyming and frivolous laughter, particularly in matters of battle strategies.
“Be interestin’ to see where we might fit into such plans of domination, eh?” the dwarf added, and Jarlaxle nodded.
Interesting indeed.
“It seems that many are interested in the rogue Do’Urden of late,” Kimmuriel said to Jarlaxle a couple of days later, when Jarlaxle and Athrogate arrived in Luskan.
“Tiago?”
“He’s a persistent one.”
“Where is Drizzt?” Jarlaxle asked.
“In or around town, though laying low, I expect,” Kimmuriel replied. “His boat arrived back in port some time ago, and he was aboard, but where he and his friends have gone, we cannot be sure.”
Jarlaxle nodded. Keeping track of any band that included Artemis Entreri would not be easy, he knew.
“Do you think that the inquiries of this Parise Ulfbinder are in any way connected to Tiago’s pursuit of Drizzt?” Kimmuriel asked. “Is it possible that the Netherese lords are trying to create a back-channel to the direct markets in Menzoberranzan?”
Jarlaxle shook his head. “Our agreement is fairly thorough,” he reminded, and Kimmuriel, who had just negotiated that very contract could not disagree. “My sense is that Parise’s interest in Drizzt extends only so far as to use Drizzt as a symbol of something larger.”
Kimmuriel nodded as Jarlaxle spoke, revealing that he was of like mind. “There have been other inquiries by the Netherese,” he explained.
“Of Drizzt?”
“No, none that I know of, but of others who have elevated themselves amongst the ranks of the mortals of Faerûn. Elminster, for one. It seems that our Netherese neighbors have taken a special interest in those who have distinguished themselves in the eyes of one god or another.”
“The Chosen,” Jarlaxle reasoned. “Or perhaps they hold an interest in the gods themselves.”
“And our duty in any such a conflict?” Kimmuriel asked.
“Profit.”
“And Menzoberranzan’s role?”
“That is more interesting,” Jarlaxle admitted, meaning that he couldn’t begin to figure it out.
“If you are correct in your assumptions regarding their interest in Drizzt, then likely Menzoberranzan will be able to pick sides as is most convenient, but if you are wrong.…”
“If Drizzt is their focus, then perhaps their plans are also focused on our people.”
“And in that regard, what then is our new agreement worth, to us and to the Netherese?”
“Let us be very cautious in the manner of goods we send to Shade Enclave,” Jarlaxle decided. “And regarding any information we disclose. I do not believe that Parise means to move against Menzoberranzan, or against Bregan D’aerthe—to what end, after all? But let us make sure that we do not help them in whatever they think to accomplish.”
“You will remain in Luskan for the time being?” Kimmuriel asked.
“You’re leaving?”
“I will go to the city of the illithids,” the psionicist announced. “Their hive mind will help us find the answers. If something grand is unfolding, then the sooner we understand it, the larger our profit.”
“How long?”
“Who can tell with mind flayers?” Kimmuriel responded with a shrug.
Jarlaxle nodded.
“Drizzt Do’Urden,” Kimmuriel stated.
Jarlaxle shrugged.
“He is here, as is Artemis Entreri,” Kimmuriel clarified. “I trust that any contact you might find will be in the interest of Bregan D’aerthe, and not in the interest of Jarlaxle.”
“They are one and the same.”
Kimmuriel stared at him hard.
“Go,” Jarlaxle said, waving him away. “I am no fool, and I recognize that the events unfolding could well be important. Where is Beniago?”
“He is around, surely in the city. He was quite useful in getting Drizzt far from Luskan for the last several months.”
“Tiago again?”
“He is stubborn,” Kimmuriel admitted. “But then, he is a Baenre, after all.”
Jarlaxle Baenre grinned and bowed at the clever remark. “Tiago may well be stepping into something larger than he understands, and to his—and to all of our—detriment.”
“As I said, he is a Baenre.”
Jarlaxle could only chuckle in response.
“Well met, again,” Jarlaxle said to Tiago Baenre when he found the young warrior holed up in an abandoned farmhouse just outside of Luskan. As Beniago had informed Jarlaxle, Tiago had several companions with him, including a brother and sister of House Xorlarrin.
Jarlaxle tipped his great hat, turning as he did in apparent deference to the drow wearing the robes of a priestess—Saribel Xorlarrin, no doubt—but in truth to let his gaze scrutinize the spellspinner standing beside her. Beniago had warned him specifically to beware the spellspinner known as Ravel Xorlarrin.
“You were not invited,” Tiago said sternly.
“Nor were you, yet here you are, far from Menzoberranzan, far even from Gauntlgrym,” Jarlaxle returned.
“I am Baenre. I go where I please.”
“You’re in Bregan D’aerthe territory, young weapons master. You would have done well to inform us of your intent.”
“Bregan D’aerthe,” Tiago spat with clear contempt.
“So you continue your hunt for Drizzt Do’Urden.”
“This is none of your affair.”
Jarlaxle grinned.
“Where is he?” Tiago demanded.
“I thought you just said it was none of my affair.”
“You play dangerous games,” said Tiago.
“I? Why, young weapons master, you are the one hunting a fellow drow, and without the imprimatur of Matron Mother Quenthel.” The mercenary leader made a point to glance the way of the Xorlarrins as he spoke, and judging from their reaction, his words had hit a mark.
But Tiago remained obstinate, predictably so, given his bloodlines.
“Where is he?” Tiago demanded.
“I know not.”
“He went forth on a boat—Minnow Skipper by name,” Tiago said. “Now that boat has returned, and Drizzt with her, but he seems to have disappeared.”
“You know more about it than I, apparently,” said Jarlaxle. “I have only very recently returned from unrelated business.”
“From where?”
Jarlaxle scoffed at the demand.
“You should consider my position,” Tiago said to him. “My family and my rank. Matron Mother Quenthel will not be pleased to learn that Jarlaxle of Bregan D’aerthe hindered my pursuit of the rogue.”
“What Matron Mother Quenthel will or will not say may well surprise you, confident one,” Jarlaxle returned. “You pursue that which you do not understand.”
“I am to fear him?” Tiago said with dripping sarcasm.
“Perhaps you are to fear the wrath of Lady Lolth should you succeed in your quest,” Jarlaxle replied, again glancing at the Xorlarrins, and Saribel seemed to sway a bit at that surprising remark.
“You would do well to step aside and remain aside,” Tiago said threateningly. “Already, I have seen too much of Jarlaxle.”
“Perhaps I feel that I owed it to Matron Mother Quenthel to properly warn her misguided warrior before he ventures into a darkness he does not understand,” Jarlaxle returned with a wry grin.
“You owe it?” Tiago asked incredulously. “You owe it to House Baenre?”
“Our finest client.”
“And merely that, Jarlaxle?” Tiago asked, not hiding the implication that he knew more than he was letting on, and indeed, his sudden cockiness had Jarlaxle on his guard. “Is that your only interest in House Baenre, Houseless mercenary?”
Jarlaxle considered the specific wording of this sly young Baenre for a long while. Tiago knew the truth of Jarlaxle? Who else might know, then? His heritage had always been a secret even from most of the family. As far as Jarlaxle knew, only Gromph, who was one of the very few drow older than Jarlaxle, and the matron mother herself knew his heritage, along with Kimmuriel.
But Tiago’s air of superiority was no false bravado, and it was clearly based on something Tiago knew that he should not.
“Step carefully,” Jarlaxle said, and he bowed and turned on his heel, taking his abrupt leave, for he could not be away from this brash young upstart and his powerful friends quickly enough for his liking. Rarely had Jarlaxle found himself in a position of such a disadvantage.
He rushed back to Luskan, and found Beniago in short order.
But Beniago had no answers for him, for they still had found no sign of Drizzt and his five companions. The group had left Minnow Skipper when she docked, every one, and Beniago had traced them to a specific inn, even to a room they had rented for a private gathering.
But from there, nothing. It was as if they had simply disappeared.
The old drow mercenary—and he felt very old at that moment—could only blow a resigned sigh, for this was one of those rare occasions when events were outside of Jarlaxle’s ability to control them.
Between the Netherese lords, Tiago Baenre and his hunting band, and the mysterious disappearance of Drizzt and his companions, too many wheels were turning in too many different directions for his liking.
Chapter 20: The Menagerie
THE MOMENTS BECAME AN HOUR, THE HOURS BECAME A DAY, AND DRIZZT and Effron had nowhere to go. They broke out their packs in the small square of the magical cell, each side of which was no longer than a tall man’s height.
In their packs, they had food and water for several more days, but their inability to get anything beyond the magical bars had the cell smelling rank, but soon enough, even that faded into the background of monotony, as did the low humming sound of the lightning magic infusing the bars.
After one night, or perhaps it was a day, of fitful sleep, Effron awakened to find Drizzt inspecting the bars. Icingdeath in his hand, Drizzt eyed the joints where the bars met the ceiling and the floor, and he even dared prod at one.
The shock sent him flying backward, to crash into the opposite bars, which sparked angrily and threw him aside. Sitting on the ground, his long white hair dancing wildly with the charge, Drizzt took a series of deep breaths, trying to recover his sensibilities.
“Not very bright,” said Effron. “Amusing to watch, however.”
“There must be a way out of here.”
“Must there be?” the young tiefling asked. “Draygo Quick is a master in matters of imprisonment, I assure you. His menagerie is vast. I know of none who have escaped, humanoid or monster, and that includes your wondrous panther.”