Maestro

by R. A. Salvatore

  So Drizzt found his center and his heart, and in his fortified emotional state, the ghosts became no more to him than moving decorations, like a rolling animation of Illusk’s ancient secrets and history.

  They came to an area less dusty and forlorn, and with other dark elves of Bregan D’aerthe moving about, all pausing to tip a nod to their leader, and to Drizzt. At one door, Jarlaxle paused and held his hand up to halt Drizzt. “Pray wait here,” the mercenary instructed. “I will return in a moment.”

  Drizzt moved to put his back up against the wall, and tried to appear relaxed, though he surely didn’t want to be in this place without an escort. But no sooner had Jarlaxle gone through the door than he came back out, shook his head, and apparently reconsidered,. He motioned to Drizzt to follow.

  It was a small chamber with a single bed, a single desk, and a single chair, now filled by a lone man, a human, sitting back with his soft boots up on the table.

  A man Drizzt knew well.

  “Drizzt has agreed to join our quest,” Jarlaxle explained, and Artemis Entreri nodded.

  “You will risk the ways of Menzoberranzan for the sake of Dahlia?” Drizzt asked the assassin.

  “You will?” Entreri returned with equal skepticism. “Will not Catti-brie burn with jealousy?”

  “She knows I have no interest in Dahlia in any way that is threatening to her,” Drizzt replied. “I seek to aid an old companion, nothing more.” He paused and stared hard at Entreri, beginning to decipher more regarding this unexpected valor from the assassin. “Do you understand that?”

  After a pause, Entreri offered a slight nod and said convincingly, “I am pleased to have you along.”

  Jarlaxle dropped a mask on the table beside the assassin’s legs, and Drizzt recognized that magical item. Jarlaxle had gotten it from him after he had taken it from a banshee named Agatha. It appeared as a simple white stage mask with a tie to hold it in place, but it was so much more.

  “You will walk as a drow,” Jarlaxle told Entreri. “Every step of the way from this place to Menzoberranzan and back again. We do not know what eyes will be upon us when we leave the wards my friends have enacted as protection around Illusk.”

  Entreri picked up the mask, rolled it over several times with his fingers, and at last managed a nod, one clearly of great reluctance.

  “We can afford no mistakes,” Jarlaxle explained. “So we will take no chances.”

  “Would not a simple spell of illusion suffice?”

  “Ah, but that is the beauty of Agatha’s Mask,” Jarlaxle explained. “Neither it nor the changes its wearer enacts can be detected with magic.”

  As he explained things to Entreri, Jarlaxle turned sidelong, his gaze sweeping out to include Drizzt in his warning. Drizzt was looking past Jarlaxle, though, to this enigma he knew as Entreri. He noted the assassin’s eyes widening with clear shock, a profound scowl coming over him. Drizzt didn’t even have to follow Entreri’s gaze to realize he had noted the red blade Jarlaxle wore at his hip.

  Entreri seemed as if he would melt there and then. His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but no sound came forth.

  “It was not destroyed,” Jarlaxle said, obviously noting the same thing as Drizzt.

  “Throw it back in the pit!” Entreri demanded.

  “You still do not know if your longevity is tied to the blade.”

  “It is,” Entreri stated flatly. He spat both words, and spat before and after for good measure.

  “Well, so be it, then,” Jarlaxle told him. He drew the blade, laid it on the table, then pulled off the magical gauntlet and put it down beside the sword.

  Entreri shied away, sliding his chair back. “Throw it back into the pit,” he whispered again, seeming on the edge of abject desperation.

  “No one will hold Charon’s Claw over you now,” Jarlaxle assured him. “I give it to you. The Netherese are a fading memory—they’ll not hunt the blade now.”

  “I do not want it,” Entreri said with a sneer. “Destroy it.”

  “I am sure I have no idea how that might be done,” said Jarlaxle. “Nor would I deign to do so if I did. You have long demanded of me that I help you retrieve Dahlia from Matron Mother Baenre, and so I … so we shall.”

  “Not with that,” Entreri insisted, his hateful stare never leaving the bone-hilted, red-bladed, diabolical sword. “It’s not possible.”

  Drizzt could feel the pain emanating from Entreri’s every word. This sword, Charon’s Claw, had enslaved him. And with it, the Shadovar Lord Herzgo Alegni had tortured the man for decades. All of those awful memories resounded clearly now in Entreri’s tone. This was not a man used to being submissive, but the obvious level of his fear now truly touched Drizzt. Entreri really had expected to die when he threw Charon’s Claw into the primordial pit, and yet he had demanded that the sword go in. He, Drizzt, and Dahlia had ventured through danger to the bowels of Gauntlgrym for exactly that reason: to destroy Charon’s Claw, and with it, to destroy Artemis Entreri.

  It would seem that Entreri hated Charon’s Claw more than he valued his own life. The question, then, Drizzt knew, was whether or not Entreri hated the sword more than he cared for Dahlia—and that, Drizzt now suspected from Entreri’s hesitance and twisting expression, was a different matter entirely.

  “Do you not believe you can dominate the blade?” Jarlaxle asked.

  “I want nothing to do with it.”

  “But it is here, and not destroyed,” said Drizzt, “and if Jarlaxle had not retrieved it, then someone else would have. Surely such a powerful magical sword would have soon enough found a worthy wielder, and since Charon’s Claw knows you and is tied to you …”

  “Shut up,” said Entreri.

  “The choice is yours,” said Jarlaxle. “Who is the master and who the slave?”

  Entreri’s scowl showed that he wasn’t buying into that particular line of reasoning.

  “An excuse,” Drizzt interjected, rather harshly, and the other two stared at him curiously.

  “What do you know?” Jarlaxle asked.

  “I know that I am looking upon a coward, and that I never expected,” Drizzt stated. He didn’t blink as he locked Entreri’s gaze with his own. “Our human friend uses the sword to shield his deeper anger.”

  Entreri shook his head, his expression caught somewhere between outrage and doubt.

  “You loathe Charon’s Claw so you won’t have to loathe yourself,” Drizzt accused. “Isn’t that always your way? There is always some external reason for your anger, so you claim, but in truth that reason is …” He waved his hand dismissively and swung about for the door.

  “You dare?” Entreri muttered.

  “If we are to be done with this, Jarlaxle, then let us be on with it now,” Drizzt said. “I miss my wife already.”

  He paused and gave a derisive snort, and without turning, addressed Entreri, “If you mean to run up and attack me, you should do so now, while my back is turned.”

  “Shut up,” Entreri said again.

  “Because you cannot bear to hear my words?” Now Drizzt did swing around to face the man.

  Entreri stared at him hard, and for a moment it seemed he meant to leap across the room and attack Drizzt. But then he just laughed helplessly and whispered, “Yes.”

  He lowered his gaze to the table and stood there studying the vicious sword that had for so long been the instrument of his torture.

  “Who is the slave and who the master?” Jarlaxle asked again.

  “That choice is wholly your own, Artemis Entreri,” Drizzt said. “That sword, powerful as it may be, cannot compel you in any way—if you are your own master first.”

  Entreri chewed his lip for a moment, never taking his gaze from that cursed blade. Then he moved swiftly, sweeping the glove from the table and sliding his hand into it. With a growl, he took up Charon’s Claw and raised the blood-red blade up before his eyes. It seemed to Drizzt that Entreri and the sword shared a private moment then, a private bat
tle, and if Charon’s Claw had any hold over him, then it would be proven only if Entreri held it without the protective gauntlet.

  “Let us be done with this,” Entreri said, and he slid the sword into his belt. “And quickly, for surely I will be driven mad with the echoes of Drizzt Do’Urden—who has appointed himself as my conscience—sounding about me.”

  Drizzt smiled warmly at that, and even patted Entreri on the shoulder as he moved past with Jarlaxle. For all of the assassin’s grumbling and complaining, Drizzt noticed that Entreri didn’t flinch at his friendly touch.

  Not at all.

  MINOLIN FEY GASPED and put her hand to her mouth, thinking that such a sound probably wasn’t a good idea with Yvonnel posing naked save a string-of-pearls belt with a tassel of gemstones cascading down over her right hip, that leg demurely crossed over her left.

  She wasn’t gasping at Yvonnel, who looked very beautiful and had been sitting like this for long stretches over the last several days—well, in a sense she was. The reaction came from the image on the canvas in front of her, the portrait of Yvonnel now being finished by Minolin Fey’s mother, Matron Mother Byrtyn Fey.

  Matron Mother Byrtyn was a noted artist, her work always a pleasure to behold, and her best work manifested in portraits.

  But Yvonnel had demanded no interpretation. She had explicitly instructed Matron Mother Byrtyn to paint her exactly as she appeared. And Yvonnel, this little tyrant who had sprung forth from Minolin Fey’s loins, had gone further when explaining things to Minolin Fey. If Byrtyn failed at this task, Yvonnel meant to turn her into a drider.

  Looking at the painting now, undeniably beautiful, but surely quite different from the living Yvonnel sitting on the divan in front of them, Minolin Fey believed her mother doomed.

  Matron Mother Byrtyn nodded and stepped back, looked at Yvonnel, then back at the painting, and she nodded again.

  “Grand!” Yvonnel exclaimed, and she leaped up from her seat.

  “No!” Minolin Fey cried, drawing a surprised look from her mother and a knowing smile from Yvonnel. “No,” she said more calmly. “It must be presented formally, touched up to perfection and unveiled from beneath a proper cloth.”

  Yvonnel said nothing, just kept smiling. She didn’t bother to collect the robes lying beside the divan, but padded on bare feet toward the canvas.

  Minolin Fey reflexively went for the canvas.

  “Do not touch that,” Yvonnel warned. She kept coming, and now her smile was dangerous indeed, one that chased Minolin Fey back from the canvas. The wife of Gromph, the mother of Yvonnel, held her breath as Yvonnel, naked as a baby but so deadly, came around the edge of the canvas.

  And there stood Matron Mother Byrtyn, smiling proudly, oblivious to the fate that was about to befall her. Minolin Fey closed her eyes.

  “Brilliant!” Yvonnel shouted, and Minolin Fey jumped back and stared dumbfounded—the painting was beautiful and yes, brilliant, but it hardly resembled the naked woman standing next to it.

  “It feels as if I’m looking into a mirror,” Yvonnel went on. “Truly your talent exceeds what my mother claimed.”

  “Your mother?” Matron Mother Byrtyn replied. “And which Baenre …?”

  “Your daughter,” Yvonnel said, “my mother, Minolin Fey Baenre.”

  Matron Mother Byrtyn stared at the woman curiously, and with a bit of ire, clearly. Though this was a Baenre daughter, and one who had paid Matron Mother Byrtyn well, she did not have leave to speak to a matron mother of a Ruling House in such a manner.

  But Byrtyn’s expression didn’t hold when she turned to regard Minolin Fey, who nodded sheepishly.

  “Ah, I see you have much to talk about, Mother,” Yvonnel said in a tease, “and Grandmother.”

  She tapped the edge of the painting and walked away, laughing. She didn’t even pause to scoop up her discarded robes, just walked out naked into the hallway and closed the door behind her.

  Minolin Fey stared at the painting, well aware that Matron Mother Byrtyn’s stern gaze was upon her. Perhaps she should have warned her mother—she just wasn’t sure of her proper place around Yvonnel.

  Now she had to explain, in any case, but even that urgency could not tear her eyes from the painting. She had seen Matron Mother Byrtyn’s work many times in her life, and the discrepancy between the painting and the flesh of Yvonnel seemed so very odd to her, so very unusual. Even Yvonnel’s hair was cut differently than the woman pictured. And her breasts were very different, not nearly as large as Byrtyn had painted.

  Minolin Fey ran her hands over her face and through her own white hair, unable to reconcile the scene in front of her, as she so often was where her unusual daughter was concerned.

  “I WAS BEGINNING to wonder if you would forget a courtesy visit and already be on your way,” Catti-brie said when Jarlaxle at last caught up to her in her tent beside the ruins of the Hosttower. There was no mistaking the edge in her voice, a purposeful reminder to Jarlaxle that she wasn’t very happy with him pulling her husband back to the city of his birth.

  “My associates are gathering supplies. It is a long journey, and not one where scavenging for food and water is advisable.” He ended with a wink and a smile, but it was clearly lost on the woman. Jarlaxle merely shrugged then, and placed a stack of parchments and scroll tubes down on the table between him and Catti-brie.

  “Gromph has translated the Illusk references to the Hosttower so that you might easily peruse them,” he explained.

  “How generous of him,” the woman remarked sarcastically. “For alas, he would believe, wouldn’t he, that such simple spells of translation are beyond me.”

  “I recognize and accept your anger,” Jarlaxle told her, and he offered a gracious bow.

  “You have no right to ask this of Drizzt.”

  Jarlaxle rocked back on his heels, which was not a typical response from the ever-wary mercenary.

  “Look around you,” he replied. “Do you believe all of this happened by good fortune? Or some spontaneous act of the gods? Those parchments on your table—do you understand the lengths I traveled to uncover them and decipher them?”

  “I do understa—”

  “I have delivered Archmage Gromph to you!” Jarlaxle interrupted. “The Archmage of Menzoberranzan, the most powerful drow wizard in Faerûn! And one who can destroy me, utterly. You do not understand, good lady. Oh, certainly you comprehend the basic details of what I have done, but you do not begin to understand the risks I have placed upon myself.”

  “And upon my husband!”

  “Yes, and upon you! Do you wish to secure Gauntlgrym? If so, then this is how. It is not an easy task, for any of us. And yes, I understand how the idea of Drizzt walking back into Menzoberranzan terrifies you. But make no mistake here, Catti-brie, your own course is no less dangerous, nor is mine. The victory we won to initially reclaim the dwarven halls might well prove the easiest one of all.”

  “What does Drizzt returning to Menzoberranzan have to do with securing Gauntlgrym?”

  “Nothing,” Jarlaxle answered, and he managed a smile. “And everything. This is not a journey to simply rescue his old companion. This is a quest to placate the archmage and to give to him, and to me and to all the other drow associates who now stand with your father, a measure of hope and respect.”

  Catti-brie stared at him incredulously, and clearly she could not sort out those cryptic references.

  But Jarlaxle didn’t back down under that scouring gaze. He stood resolute, and even nodded to reaffirm his position.

  “I must admit that it is an impressive assemblage you have gathered here,” said Catti-brie. “Myself and Gromph and the Harpells, and a thousand dwarves and Luskan helpers besides.”

  “We will rebuild this tower.”

  “Why?” Catti-brie asked. “Why is this so important to you?”

  “Why is it so important to you?”

  “King Bruenor is my father.”

  “And my friend,” Jarlaxle said, but Ca
tti-brie was shaking her head even as he answered.

  “Is it for your own power here in Luskan?” she asked. “Do you think the renewal of the Hosttower will strengthen your mercenary band? Or that it will perhaps offer more independence for you from the demanding and demeaning calls of the Matron Mothers of Menzoberranzan?”

  “It is all of that,” Jarlaxle admitted.

  “Archmage Gromph?”

  “Yes, him too. I have many interests here, some my own, some for Bregan D’aerthe, some for Luskan, some for Gromph. I do not deny any of that. But I also have interests here for King Bruenor, and for you. And, of course, for Drizzt, whom I have come to love as a brother.”

  “Strong language.”

  “I consider my every word carefully before I speak,” Jarlaxle replied.

  Catti-brie nodded, and Jarlaxle was glad that she would let it go at that. He wasn’t really sure exactly what he was looking for beyond a few immediate gains. But there was something more, Jarlaxle knew in his heart, though he couldn’t bring himself to admit it or express it.

  It went back to Gromph, and to Matron Mother Zeerith, the only matron mother who had ever—to his knowledge—truly appreciated the plight of Menzoberranzan’s male drow. Jarlaxle held no illusions that he could transform drow society, but he was determined to begin that shift at least, and in doing so, to bring himself a level of greater autonomy from the matron mothers of that city, particularly from his ridiculous sister, Matron Mother Quenthel.

  “It is an awesome force we have assembled here,” Catti-brie admitted, walking to the tent flap and looking out at the dwarves, who were already hard at work gathering together any surviving pieces of the shattered tower. “And yet I fear our task will still be above us. I have looked at the parchments you earlier provided.” She snorted and shook her head. “I feel like a child trying to decipher the treatises of the great philosophers, or like a dimwitted goblin reading the spellbook of Elminster!” She turned back and offered a sheepish grin. “But I am not alone,” she said with a determined nod. “We will get this done.”