Relentless

by R. A. Salvatore

  “He was doing much more than that,” Jarlaxle answered, and he looked to Symvyn, who was shaking his head. “Tell him, or I will.”

  “It is nothing,” the clearly nervous gnome said.

  “It is everything to . . .” Jarlaxle looked to Belwar. “What did you call it? Dun Arandur?”

  “What are you saying?” Belwar asked in low and even tones, then to Symvyn, “What’s he saying?”

  Symvyn took a long, deep breath. “I don’t know how much I gave them,” he admitted. “Not much—I wouldn’t. They were going to kill me.”

  “And?”

  “I wouldn’t do it!”

  “He held out, and they were going to make him pay dearly for that, most assuredly,” Jarlaxle interjected. “They wanted him to betray you in more than stealing your ore.”

  “Ain’t that enough?” Belwar asked.

  “It wasn’t his choice,” Jarlaxle reiterated. “He was under magical domination, but when they asked for more . . .”

  “They wanted our guards and wards, our sentry posts,” Symvyn admitted. “When I couldn’t get them enough ore, they decided to come in and take it, and kill you all. But I said no.”

  “He did,” Jarlaxle added.

  “And they’d’ve killed me!” Symvyn pleaded.

  “No, they wouldn’t,” Jarlaxle surprised him and Belwar by saying. “They would have tortured you until you told them what they wanted.”

  “Then killed him,” Belwar reasoned, nodding. He put a hand on Symvyn’s shoulder comfortingly, his demeanor clearly softening here.

  “Probably not,” Jarlaxle said, surprising them both again.

  “Symvyn knows the secret to refining the arandur, correct?” Jarlaxle asked, then laughed when Burrow Warden Belwar’s expression became overtly suspicious.

  “It does not matter to me,” Jarlaxle said, holding his hands up defensively. “But it should matter to you. I suspect that Symvyn knows because they chose him, and they would need someone with that skill. I tell you now, Burrow Warden Belwar, your charges with whom you should be most diligent and careful in protecting are those who know the secret, because that is as valuable as the ore.”

  Belwar continued to eye the strange drow skeptically.

  “My duty here is done,” Jarlaxle announced. “I could not let this hold, for Symvyn’s sake, for your sake and that of all Dun Arandur, and, yes, for my own sake. My interests in strengthening my relationship with you here and with Blingdenstone are indeed partly selfish. That I admit openly.”

  “It’s not my place to start any relationship with a drow,” Belwar replied evenly.

  “Agreed!” Jarlaxle said. He smiled and bowed low then, sweeping off his great hat. He didn’t put the distracting chapeau back on as he stood, and pointed to his bald head as he added, “I will speak with King Schnicktick when the time is right. I thank you, most honorable Burrow Warden, and with your permission, I take my leave.”

  Belwar’s jaw drooped and he stared hard at Jarlaxle, the hint of recognition belying his stoic demeanor. “Why am I thinking that you’re leaving with or without my permission?”

  “I prefer to have it,” Jarlaxle replied.

  “Yeah,” Belwar conceded.

  Zaknafein approached the Do’Urden complex tentatively. More than once, he glanced to the northwest and the nearest major exit from the cavern of Menzoberranzan. More than once, he thought of just throwing his hands up in defeat and fleeing, running far, far from this place and never looking back.

  He let his gaze move farther west, out toward the Braeryn and the Oozing Myconid, wondering if he would ever see the place again.

  Jarlaxle had kicked him out of Bregan D’aerthe.

  The mercenary leader had told Zak to return to Matron Malice, had taken his refuge, and had even taken back the magical whip.

  Zak had wanted to argue, but he couldn’t. He had been waiting in the Oozing Myconid, impatiently, when Jarlaxle had returned from his business this day. Zak knew where he had gone, for where else could he have found the answers he needed? He had gone to see Matron Mother Baenre, and she had no doubt warned him to lose no further favor with the Spider Queen.

  Zaknafein Do’Urden had killed a handmaiden, and so his time with Bregan D’aerthe had come to an end.

  He wondered if his time, period, had come to an end.

  He looked to the northwest, the exit. The gate was closed to him, emotionally if not mentally, he realized to his great despair. It was too late. His only refuge had been the moments with Bregan D’aerthe, and now Zaknafein knew—correctly—that years would pass before he even had a chance to speak with Jarlaxle once more. If he lived that long.

  He looked to the northwest, the exit, one last time, the weight of finality bowing his shoulders.

  Then Zaknafein strengthened and thought of his son, not yet wholly ruined.

  Running was not an option.

  He went into House Do’Urden, determined only to protect his son from the misery of the Lolthian drow.

  “His temper runs too hot for any who wear the robes of the Spider Queen,” Dab’nay Tr’arach said to Jarlaxle when she found him sitting alone at a table in the tavern. “He can’t control himself. It drives him to pure rage.”

  “He hasn’t killed you yet.”

  “I haven’t threatened him, or tried to enter his mind with magical domination,” she answered.

  “You prefer other wiles, I know,” Jarlaxle quipped.

  Dab’nay laughed. “Zaknafein is a good man. Too good for this life we have made in Menzoberranzan.”

  Jarlaxle looked up at her, his face suddenly impassive. “Who?”

  “Za . . .” she started to repeat before she caught on to Jarlaxle’s true meaning here.

  Zaknafein was gone, was no more of Bregan D’aerthe, and therefore was no more of Jarlaxle’s concern. Dab’nay studied the inscrutable rogue for a long while then, trying to find some hint of what she knew to be true: Jarlaxle was hurting. Zaknafein was as close as he had ever known to being his friend.

  “For all of your posturing, my friend,” she dared to whisper, bending low. “For all of your achievements and cunning and amazing organization, you remain a prisoner here like all the rest of us. I feel your pain profoundly.”

  Dab’nay kissed Jarlaxle on the cheek and moved away, glancing back once or twice at the stone-faced mercenary.

  He wouldn’t give her any indication of agreement, wouldn’t show anyone this personal pain—of course not! For in Lolthian drow society, emotional attachment was weakness, and weakness led to disaster and demise.

  But Dab’nay had been with the mercenary band for a long time now, though she was more removed now than in years past, spending more time in the Oozing Myconid with another of her fallen house’s survivors, Harbondair, even helping him to run the establishment, and using her divine powers to ferret out poison—at least that aimed at those Jarlaxle did not wish dead. She hadn’t been involved in the day-to-day excursions and web-weaving of Bregan D’aerthe proper for years, nor had she even heard the name of Zaknafein in months and months until he had arrived to again adventure beside Jarlaxle.

  She winced as she considered that, for when she had heard, a part of her hoped that he would be spending more time in the tavern, more time around her. She missed him, missed his touch.

  She focused on Jarlaxle’s impassive expression and gave a knowing little smile.

  He missed Zak more than she. She had missed the weapon master—had felt a thrill when he had come back into the fold of Bregan D’aerthe after so many months away. But it was nothing compared to what Jarlaxle felt for him. In every way but physical, his relationship with Zaknafein was more intimate than hers had ever been. He had done as he had been instructed to do, with no room for interpretation.

  And it was wounding him profoundly.

  Chapter 19

  Wandering Wyrm

  The Year of the Wandering Wyrm, Dalereckoning 1317, had been a fine one for Jarlaxle and his band, and no
w these early months of 1318 were promising more of the same or even better. Bregan D’aerthe was now fully integrated not only into House Baenre’s designs, but also among many of the other matrons who sat on the Ruling Council. Even though his business dealings with the svirfneblin of Blingdenstone had not worked out as he had anticipated—King Schnicktick would not sell arandur to him for any reasonable price—House Hunzrin had not recovered from the events those years before, and that blow was more than worth its weight in the ore. Priestess Du’Quelve had not been anointed as a high priestess, and probably never would, and Jarlaxle was glad of that, because she was an adventurous one, who wanted still to turn her eyes outside Menzoberranzan.

  Even if there was no such place as Enclave Arach, the entire construct a ruse by a pair of mischievous yochlol.

  Du’Quelve had protested, and was no doubt still protesting, that she had acted on behest of a pair of handmaidens. That’s what had kept her from complete ruin. Except it was clear that she had not known. Or, if she did, didn’t quite understand the full extent of their purpose, seeing how it could lead only to disaster.

  In any case, Du’Quelve had been humbled, and Jarlaxle doubted she would ever recover. And more importantly to him, House Hunzrin had been put back in their place, fully so.

  Yes, things were well with Bregan D’aerthe, and Jarlaxle was now plotting a time of quiet for the group, building the secret extra-Menzoberranzan networks he could use to fully exploit the (relative) goodwill being offered him and his band.

  It helped that the city, too, was fairly quiet, at least as far as the continual backroom whispers typically went. It made sense: the most unruly drow house of any real consequence at this time was Do’Urden, and with her prized son at the academy, even anxious Malice wouldn’t be so quick to start trouble.

  Of course, with that insatiable priestess, anything was possible.

  That thought brought a smile to Jarlaxle’s face as he entered the Oozing Myconid that night. The place was bustling, so Jarlaxle went straight for the bar and was met with looks from Dab’nay and Harbondair—he couldn’t quite make out their expressions.

  As one, they motioned to him with their chins, and when he followed their lead, the smile left Jarlaxle’s face, replaced by a slack-jawed look of shock, something not very common with this one.

  For there, across the tavern, sat Zaknafein.

  Jarlaxle composed himself and looked back to Dab’nay, holding up two fingers. When she nodded, the rogue turned back to his old friend, composed himself once again, and walked over.

  “Well, well, the weapon master returns,” Jarlaxle greeted him.

  Zak didn’t look up, staring off the other way. “I hope one of the two you ordered was for me,” he said.

  “It is if you’ll allow me to join you.”

  “The irony of your words,” replied the man who had been kicked out of Bregan D’aerthe.

  Jarlaxle took a seat. “So many years,” he said. “How long has it been, my friend? Half a decade?”

  “More. I’ve been busy.”

  “Training your progeny, no doubt. They are already whispering of his excellence at the academy.”

  “He could defeat half the masters there,” Zaknafein said matter-of-factly.

  “I’ve seen you fight. I don’t doubt it.”

  Dab’nay came over then and set the mugs down in front of the two. She patted Zak on the shoulder as she walked away, not saying a thing, and it was pretty obvious to Jarlaxle that she and Zak had already exchanged words.

  “What brings you here?”

  “Am I not welcome?” Zak asked.

  “More than welcome, of course. You drink free for as long as I own the place.”

  Finally, Zak turned to look at Jarlaxle directly. “I am good enough to sit at your table, yet not enough to serve in your band, then.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “So, I’m redeemed?” came the response—and how Jarlaxle had missed that sarcasm! Few Lolthian drow would dare, since satire could be purposely misconstrued as heretical words. After generations of living in such anxiety, few drow in Menzoberranzan could even comprehend or play that word game now. Fewer still could play it well, and only Zaknafein had ever challenged Jarlaxle’s supremacy in the art of true ironic needling.

  “I am sitting with you here in a tavern everyone knows—but no one admits—that I own,” Jarlaxle replied. “That is a start, yes?”

  Zak lifted his mug in toast to that thought.

  “I could use a distraction,” the weapon master admitted.

  “Would you settle for information?”

  “Then the answer is no.”

  “You destroyed a handmaiden,” Jarlaxle bluntly replied. “You knew who it was when you finished the killing.”

  “Or I would have been killed by the handmaiden.”

  “If that was its judgment, then . . .” Jarlaxle let his voice trail off there.

  “You shrug,” Zak chortled. “Would Jarlaxle have surrendered to the whims of a yochlol demon? Had it been you in that corridor, the handmaiden would have been obliterated. What then, Jarlaxle? Would you have relinquished control of Bregan D’aerthe and accepted whatever may come your way?”

  “My charm is more considerable than you remember, I see,” said the rogue, and he painted on a rakish smile. “I would have convinced the handmaiden otherwise.”

  “Stop it!” Zak demanded.

  Jarlaxle held up his hands, a silent apology for his making light of the damning situation. It was Zak, after all, and not Jarlaxle, who was paying for the issue in the tunnels.

  “I will see what I can find out,” Jarlaxle promised. “Nothing would please me more than to unwind the events of that day, at least as far as your situation is concerned. So I will look to the Abyss. Perhaps time has healed this wound, or at least, has mitigated the angry fires.”

  “Or maybe your inquisition will fan those flames to new life,” Zak replied.

  “I will be clever.”

  Zak lifted his mug in toast again, a helpless and resigned movement. “To cleverness.”

  “And other information,” Jarlaxle said, leaning in. “I have eyes in Melee-Magthere. As I said, your son is doing well. His skills have already been noticed.”

  “He is doing well,” Zak replied, “which means that he is accepting their indoctrination. That’s how they do it. They dig a hole and coax you in, until all light is left far behind. Lie by lie, deed by deed, you dig your own soulless grave.”

  “You escaped it.”

  “Did I? I sit here, an unwilling pawn, but a pawn nonetheless.”

  “If I could give you a priestess to kill, I would,” Jarlaxle said.

  Zak snapped his gaze up at Jarlaxle, then laughed with the joking rogue despite himself. He lifted his mug yet again, this time with some enthusiasm, and more than a little gratitude. Clever Jarlaxle had joked exactly the right way in that moment to break through Zak’s dark clouds.

  “We will adventure together again,” Jarlaxle promised with as much conviction as he could manage. He didn’t really believe it, though, and could tell that Zak didn’t, either.

  Both of them had to at least pretend they believed it, though.

  Without that, they had nothing.

  “Is this all to slake your lust?” Dab’nay asked Zaknafein, as she lay in his arms one night many months later. Ever since Zak’s visit to the Oozing Myconid, he and Dab’nay had resumed their affair—even while Zak had seen Jarlaxle only once or twice and never with more than a passing word.

  “My matron is Malice Do’Urden,” he replied, stating the obvious.

  “Perhaps you grew bored with only one partner.”

  “For all of her many shortcomings, Matron Malice is hardly boring in matters carnal,” Zak replied. “Why would you think my trysts with her involve only one partner?”

  Dab’nay gave a helpless laugh. “Her reputation precedes her indeed.”

  “Her reputation isn’t half the truth o
f that one.”

  “But still,” Dab’nay said, growing serious. “Why are you here? What are we doing here?”

  “Perhaps I’m just trying to get back in the graces of Lolth so I can rejoin Bregan D’aerthe,” Zak replied. “And perhaps Dab’nay simply cannot resist me.”

  The woman was already rolling her eyes before Zak confirmed the joke with his second sentence.

  “I mean it,” she said. “We’re here, and yes, I want to be here and this is no complaint! But why? Why am I here? The risk to me is . . .” She paused, shaking her head.

  “Is what? Are you afraid that you will fall from the graces of the Spider Queen by sleeping with the man who defeated a handmaiden?”

  “Do not admit it,” Dab’nay scolded, pulling back from Zak’s embrace. “Do not ever admit it, to me or to anyone else.”

  Zak pulled his arm off her and rolled onto his back, staring up at the few glowworms Dab’nay kept in her bedroom. They wriggled and snaked across the ceiling, almost as if they were trying to form some letters, or words, or answers. Zak laughed at the mere thought of that, considering that the answer to the great dilemma of Lolth might be found in the simplest of life-forms.

  Perhaps simplicity was indeed the antidote to the tangled webs of that ultimate witch.

  “I don’t see it as a risk,” Dab’nay said quietly, evenly. She, too, rolled onto her back and offered a heavy sigh. “There is no favor to risk, although I am still confused as to why I am granted divine spells without the favor of Lolth.”

  “Maybe because you serve her.”

  Dab’nay rolled up onto her side quickly, scowling at him.

  “Would you even know if you were?” Zak asked. “Do any of us, truly? She is the Lady of Chaos—who more than Jarlaxle creates chaos among the children of Lolth?”

  Dab’nay’s scowl melted as she considered the words. “I find that possibility even worse somehow.”

  “Because it is a trap without an exit.”

  Another sigh escaped the woman. “You still haven’t answered my first question. Why are you here?”