Maestro

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Particularly since one sitting here seems to think ’em friends?” Athrogate added and gave Gromph a sidelong glance.

  “At this point, that would hardly matter,” said Tazmikella.

  “They will greatly enhance our efforts,” Lord Parise put in. “The knowledge of the race is extensive, perhaps beyond the knowledge of any other race of beings. Their libraries are alive within their own thoughts, forefront in their everyday existence. They need not dust off ancient tomes to try to recover what their ancestors might have gleaned. It remains within their collective thought, ever and always.”

  “You seem to know much of them,” said Catti-brie.

  “I do, and with extensive experience.”

  “Then we are agreed?” Catti-brie asked.

  “Squid heads …” Athrogate muttered.

  “Best cooked with wedges o’ lemon, and fried deep,” Ambergris added.

  Catti-brie couldn’t suppress a bit of a laugh at the dwarven banter around her, but she maintained a modicum of seriousness and looked all around, eliciting agreeing nods from each of the other delegations.

  “Then we are agreed, Archmage Gromph,” she said at length. “Your illithid emissary, or delegation, is welcomed here.”

  “No delegation,” said Ilnezhara. “Just one.”

  “And we will watch him carefully,” added Tazmikella.

  “Aye, not to doubt that,” said Athrogate, who wasn’t joking at all at that moment.

  After that bit of important business, the meeting turned to the progress each member was making in his or her assigned tasks. Almost all the recounting involved research and the names of various tomes being studied, with only three exceptions.

  The dwarves detailed the rebuilding of the root of the tower, informing the group that they had recovered enough large pieces to fairly reconstruct it—as soon as the durned wizards figured out how to magically join the stuff back together. As they finished, Ambergris turned the floor over to Lady Avelyere, who was leading the way in locating the pieces of the tower, which had been blasted all around the island, into the water, and back into Luskan, and some of which, apparently, had been stolen by the greedy citizens of Luskan as mementoes, perhaps, or for their own use in the construction of ships or homes.

  “I have honed my spells of seeking to catch the emanations of the strange ancient magic still imbued upon the tower shards,” the woman explained. “With permission, I would like to bring in some members of my Coven, to expand our vision many-fold.”

  The others all nodded, except that Gromph also waved absently, clearly to signal that he was not intimidated by whatever army of sorcerers the likes of Avelyere could summon.

  When she finished, the floor at last came to the dragon sisters.

  Ilnezhara rose and spoke first, explaining the insights she had garnered from an ancient silver dragon who resided in the area and had often viewed the Hosttower of the Arcane from high above. She added a delightful anecdote the silver had recounted, for Catti-brie’s benefit no doubt, of a dwarf flying about in a flaming chariot.

  Then came Tazmikella, who wore a sly smile. “We have found another ally in this,” she announced, and she sat down and seemed as if she would say no more.

  “Would you care to elaborate?” an annoyed Gromph asked at length.

  “Not really,” said the dragon.

  “We would not wish to miss your reactions when our dear friend arrives,” Ilnezhara added.

  “This is unacceptable,” said Gromph, and all the others bristled, too, except for Catti-brie, who looked at Tazmikella and got a wink in reply.

  “Acceptable or not, it is our choice,” Tazmikella replied.

  “You will know later this day, Archmage Gromph,” said Ilnezhara. “When our friend arrives, we can send her on her way, if that is the decision of this table.”

  “Oh, it won’t be,” Tazmikella answered her sister, and both laughed.

  Catti-brie kept her gaze on Gromph through it all, judging the simmer in his amber eyes. She recognized the explosive rage there. This one wasn’t used to being trapped into a role where he was not supreme—not by any other than the most powerful matron mothers of Menzoberranzan, at least. And he clearly didn’t much like it.

  But he had erred, badly, back in the Underdark. He had cost himself dearly by bringing Demogorgon to Menzoberranzan, and thus, he was not in a position of power here.

  And it was driving him quite mad.

  Catti-brie lingered as the others departed so that she would be the last in the room with Gromph. He noted her intent long before the rest had gone, and sat staring at her from behind his tapping fingers. He had a way of flaring his eyes to make it seem as if some great catastrophe was about to befall all within his line of sight—and no doubt that look often preceded exactly that.

  Catti-brie was neither impressed nor concerned.

  “A grand speech you gave,” Gromph said when at last they were alone. “Lined with laughter to profess confidence. An amazing act, after all.”

  “No act,” the woman replied.

  “Then foolish confidence.”

  “Simple truth of the matter before us.”

  “You mistake your position here,” said Gromph. “I did not destroy you in the primordial chamber of Gauntlgrym, out of deference to those around me because I expected you might be of use to me going forward. Now, in this, you are of use to me—perhaps—but do not make the mistake of believing that the annoyance and insubordination you offer will not ever outweigh the perspective gain.”

  “Insubordination? So we are still there? Perhaps it remains you who misunderstands the situation at hand and the hierarchy in place here at the Hosttower.”

  A snarl escaped his lips.

  “I do not claim rank above you, but neither do I concede the same,” Catti-brie said.

  “Shall I show you the bared power of the archmage?”

  “A threat?”

  Gromph lifted his hand and slowly began to turn it in the air, palm rotating to face up. He looked as if he was gathering magical energy, and Catti-brie could feel that he was doing just that.

  “Hold!” she demanded.

  “Wise choice.”

  “Oh, if ye insist on continuing, then know ye’ll be findin’ a willing opponent,” Catti-brie clarified, her reversion to Dwarvish brogue a clear sign, even to her, that Gromph was indeed getting her hackles up. “But know that ye’re thinkin’ to wage a fight ye canno’ win.”

  “You have no idea, young human.”

  “Not so young,” the woman replied. “And sure but I’m old enough to understand the jar o’ worms ye’d be opening. If ye beat me—”

  “No doubt,” Gromph said evenly.

  “Then Drizzt would kill you,” Catti-brie replied with equal enunciation and tone.

  Gromph snorted as if that notion was even more preposterous—and Catti-brie knew it probably was. Could Drizzt, could any warrior, ever even get close to this mighty spellcaster?

  But she didn’t back down. “And King Bruenor would send every dwarf in Faerûn to hunt ye and kill ye. Every one. Not to doubt, and oh, but they’d come for ye by the thousand.”

  Gromph seemed to be paying more attention then.

  “And Jarlaxle, such a dear friend of me husband, would reveal ye to the Matron Mother o’ Menzoberranzan,” she stated. “Oh, but he would. So for just yer stubborn pride, ye’d throw all the best chances away, would ye now?”

  She paused and rose, and brushed some hair from the front of her magical blouse, and in doing so, brushed away, too, her Dwarvish edge.

  “I am not your enemy, Archmage Gromph,” she said in proper Common. “We are allied in this endeavor, and when the Hosttower is rebuilt, I have no interest in the structure or its hierarchy, other than continuing the flow of its magic to hold the primordial in check. And I have learned enough of the ancient magic here, of how it was constructed and the safeguards that were placed upon it and still remain in the residue of the tower, to understand
that the magical flow to Gauntlgrym is something that no one will be able to do anything about once we are finished with our work. Not even you, should you claim the title as Archmage of the Hosttower of the Arcane, as I expect is both your and Jarlaxle’s plan. And so, you see, dear Archmage Gromph, that I simply do not care about your personal designs regarding the lordship of the Hosttower beyond our alliance here, no more than I care that Jarlaxle rules Luskan from the shadows. It is not my affair, and so I am not your enemy. We would both be better served to keep it that way.”

  Gromph kept tap-tapping his fingers together, staring at the woman for a long, long time.

  Catti-brie recognized that to be as solid an answer as she was going to get from the angry wizard, so she smiled again shook her head, and walked past Gromph to the doorway beyond.

  For all her confidence, she was indeed quite relieved when she reached the hall and closed the door behind her.

  THE WIND BLEW cold off the dark waters of Luskan Harbor, carrying drizzle with the smell of brine.

  Catti-brie was so engaged she hardly noticed the chill or the wetness as she stood with her shawl tightly wrapped around her. To her right stood Ilnezhara and Tazmikella. On the other side, Lord Parise Ulfbinder and Lady Avelyere whispered quietly with Penelope, Kipper, and the other Harpells. Back behind them all, Archmage Gromph sat on a grand chair he had summoned from nowhere, one finger casually rubbing across the lips of his handsome face. Catti-brie understood that there was something dangerous in that look from Gromph. Likely, he spent as much time considering the weaknesses and vulnerabilities of his allies as he did in focusing on the monumental task at hand.

  Catti-brie purposefully and repeatedly reminded herself of that truth. Her personal experiences with drow on the surface of Faerûn, with her husband of course, but even with Jarlaxle and his associates, were not indicative of the methods and ethos of the sinister culture of Menzoberranzan.

  She could not tell herself that truth too often.

  Archmage Gromph was tied to Jarlaxle now not out of temperament, but out of necessity. He was a product of Menzoberranzan, who had thrived in those shadows and by all accounts instigated more than a little of the calamity around him.

  This was not Jarlaxle. This was Gromph Baenre. This drow was dangerous.

  The woman silently nodded as she played through the reminder, telling herself to be ever vigilant.

  But then she imagined Gromph towering over her, in a very different light. His amber eyes bored into her, devouring her every inch of flesh. She saw his lips. She both heard and felt his breath. In her mind’s eye, he raised his hand and freed some mysterious magic, and goose bumps grew upon Catti-brie’s arms.

  A confused Catti-brie dismissed the thought forcefully, rejected it and silently berated herself.

  She meant to turn and scowl at Gromph then, just to reassure herself, but was distracted when, all around the principal wizards, a thousand dwarves halted their work, the whole area going suddenly quiet. Catti-brie looked on curiously, her gaze going from one group of dwarves to the next, when she realized that they were all looking in the same direction: out to sea, to the southwest.

  The woman turned back slowly, noting the other wizards and sages around her, jaws inevitably dropping open, and the dragon sisters smiling.

  She was not surprised, then, but surely amazed, when she again gazed out to sea, then high above the surface to the gray and black outlines of the heavy cloud cover, and to one cloud in particular that she soon realized was much more than a cloud.

  Its bulging front took firmer shape: the curving wall of a huge tower.

  It seemed of like substance to the other clouds—perhaps it was—but it revealed more definite shape than its fellows as it drifted out of the bank: towering, running walls of gray, the rest of the giant floating castle.

  As if that wasn’t enough to transfix the gathering and all of those looking on from the mainland of Luskan as well, a sudden noise to the side startled most, including Catti-brie.

  Gasps of surprise turned to coos of appreciation of the image in front of them as a pair of copper-colored dragons flew up for the immense castle of clouds floating in the air. That giant structure settled into place just offshore, and the dragon sisters flew up over the wall and disappeared from view for few moments. They reappeared, coming back for the gathering, bearing between them a giant litter, a giant throne, with a huge, blue-skinned woman seated upon it. She held a bejeweled scepter across her bosom and a crown of glittering gold and rubies was set upon her head, pinning back her thick and flowing white mane.

  The dragons set her down in front of the gathering. The wizards held their ground, but many of the dwarves fell back into more defensible positions.

  The cloud giant rose and slowly advanced, Ilnezhara and Tazmikella becoming human women once more and flanking her advance. She moved directly up to Catti-brie and gave a respectful bow—one which, even if she had bent fully perpendicular at the waist would have still left her head high above the human. Though she was similarly proportioned, the giant queen stood thrice Catti-brie’s height, at least.

  “I am Caecilia,” she said in a loud voice, but with a quality that still gave it some delicacy. “My friends Ilnezhara and Tazmikella here thought that I might be of service to you, and in an endeavor that they knew I would find most wondrous.”

  “We welcome any who would aid in our most important quest,” Catti-brie said, trying to sound calm, but surely overwhelmed. She remembered then to reciprocate the bow, albeit she did so with far less grace than Caecilia had managed.

  “With your blessing then,” Caecilia replied. She turned back to the distant castle, lifted her hand, and shot forth a bolt of brilliant white light.

  “I will require a large tent and a large bed, of course,” she said. “I trust that you will see to my proper accommodations.”

  “Of course, Lady,” Catti-brie replied, and that last word left her mouth awkwardly. Was she to call this giant “Lady,” after all? What rules of etiquette might apply to a giantess?

  Up above the bay, the giant castle began to recede, floating back into the thick overcast to blend to practical invisibility. Many lifted faces continued to stare up that way, unsure if the massive structure was gone or simply hiding in the clouds.

  Only gradually did the dwarves and others go back to their work, with Caecilia going off with the dragon sisters to be brought up to date on the efforts. Catti-brie took a deep and steadying breath, reminding herself that these amazing sights and guests were all for the good. Her focus had to be on the Hosttower. If it could not be rebuilt, then Gauntlgrym would fall to utter ruin.

  She turned away from the cloud bank, shaking her head, steeling her resolve.

  And then she saw Gromph, sitting on his throne, staring at her, amused, or perhaps bemused.

  The fantasy of the archmage bent over her, kissing her, touching her, returned suddenly—so quickly, unexpectedly, and powerfully that Catti-brie staggered for a step and nearly stumbled.

  Gromph was smiling.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Great Pillar Cavern

  JARLAXLE EXAMINED ENTRERI, THEN NODDED APPROVINGLY AT the disguise. “If you slip into the common tongue of the surface, do not grow anxious,” he instructed both his companions. “You are of Bregan D’aerthe. As far as any we will see knows, it has been years since you have been down here in Araunilcaurak.”

  “What?” Entreri asked.

  “Araunilcaurak,” Drizzt answered before Jarlaxle could. “The Great Pillar Cavern that Houses Menzoberranzan.” Jarlaxle and Entreri continued talking, but Drizzt receded as soon as the words had left his mouth. That word, Araunilcaurak, echoed in his thoughts. It was a word he hadn’t heard since childhood.

  He thought back to the day he’d cast Menzoberranzan behind him, Guenhwyvar beside him, to venture into the wilds of the Underdark. It occurred to him at that moment, for the first time in more than a century, the first time since he’d ventured to the surface
, that perhaps his decision on that long-ago day had not been so wise. He could have remained in the city, could have lived as Zaknafein had lived. Perhaps his family would still be alive in that event, instead of this abomination that had been created of House Do’Urden for no better reason than to smear his name.

  Perhaps his father would not have been killed.

  And his poor sister, Vierna, too kind for the title of priestess of Lolth. Would she have been spared? Drizzt himself had killed her, after all.

  Even his friends on the World Above would have been better off, he realized to his horror. He had known this before, after the drow had come to Mithral Hall, after Wulfgar had fallen into the grasp of a yochlol. On that occasion, Drizzt had returned to Menzoberranzan, to surrender himself rather than place his friends in worse jeopardy.

  Catti-brie had come for him, and their subsequent escape—Artemis Entreri beside them—had shown Drizzt the error of his ways.

  But he now realized his love for Catti-brie, his gratitude to her, had blinded him to the truth of it all.

  “What is it?” he heard Jarlaxle ask, drawing him from his thoughts. He looked at his companion, and at Entreri, too, who was staring at him.

  “For all these years, I have thought myself brave,” Drizzt admitted. “Now I see that I am a coward, after all.”

  Jarlaxle and Entreri exchanged glances, curious and concerned, at that strange remark.

  “He’s not looking forward to walking into Menzoberranzan any more than I am,” Entreri decided.

  When Jarlaxle nodded and turned a sympathetic eye, Drizzt let it go. Let them believe what they needed to believe, but it was not as they had assumed. He was not afraid to enter the city of his birth. He was ashamed that he had deserted it in the first place.

  “So let us be done with it, and quickly,” Entreri remarked.

  Jarlaxle held up his hand, and fiddled with his pouch, producing a small gemstone ring. He tossed it back and reached in, bringing forth another ring. When this one, too, seemed wrong, he tossed it back and shoved his arm into the pouch up to his elbow—even though the pouch seemed far too small to hold even his hand.