“If they get there,” the elf reminded himself, and scolded himself as he turned his attention back to the winding road north of the procession. They had many days before them, but none would be more dangerous than these first steps, Dorwyllan feared. He put his hand over his eyes and squinted to the north, imagining the uneven skyline of Luskan. The high captains of that city had abandoned these people, it was true, but Dorwyllan doubted that those same high captains would tolerate reciprocal treatment.
The elf let the procession get beyond his position, rolling down to the south, then took up his bow and moved out to the north, scouting the road.
Before the sun had fallen halfway to the horizon, he had his bow out and leveled at a group of four riders, Luskar garrison, trotting their horses easily to the south.
Dorwyllan chewed his lip, unsure. Did they know of the quiet exodus? If so, had they sent word back to the north?
He put up his bow when another group of riders approached, galloping down from the north. They met and exchanged some words, and the elf understood when the combined group, now ten strong, moved off swiftly to the south.
Dorwyllan shadowed them, running along the high ground, a straighter path than the winding road.
When the sun dipped below the western horizon, the winter’s twilight settled deep, and several campfires appeared far to the south. Dorwyllan doubted that the riders on the road below could see those, as they, too, paused and lit torches of their own.
Dorwyllan put his horn to his lips and blew a long and mournful note.
A few heartbeats later, that call was answered from the south.
The elf looked to the road, where the Luskar patrol milled around, some pointing up in his general direction. He wasn’t overly worried, though, for these seafaring deck-swabbers would never find him in the forest night.
Nor did they care to try, apparently, and Dorwyllan took that as a hopeful sign that the pirate fools had no idea that the horn exchange had been a warning to the caravan of their approach, that one note had spoken of less than ten soldiers, and that the people of the caravan would be quite ready for their arrival.
“Ever has that one drawn much attention,” Gromph remarked with obvious amusement.
“He is not hard to find,” Kimmuriel replied.
“You have Jarlaxle continually seeking him out.”
Kimmuriel nodded, conceding the point. “But you speak with Jarlaxle nearly as often as I do.” The psionicist had almost referred to Jarlaxle as “your brother,” but had wisely redirected. “I have often wondered why the archmage doesn’t simply go find the renegade and be done with him, once and for all. Surely Drizzt Do’Urden would prove of little trouble to one of your magical prowess.”
“Surely.”
“Then why?”
“Why hasn’t Bregan D’aerthe?” Gromph replied. “Would not the grand trophy of Drizzt Do’Urden’s head elevate your standing, and your prices?”
“Jarlaxle,” Kimmuriel replied without hesitation. “He long ago determined that Drizzt was not our concern, and forbade any of us from seeking him out for the purposes of collecting a trophy.”
“And why do you suppose that is?”
“Personal friendship, likely,” Kimmuriel replied. “Ever has that been Jarlaxle’s prime weakness.”
“More than that,” Gromph remarked.
“Then why not you for this mission? You could find him and be rid of him.”
“To what end?”
“The trophy.”
“I am Archmage of Menzoberranzan, and have been so for longer than you have been alive. I have all the riches, all the power, all the luxuries, all the time, and all the freedom any male in Menzoberranzan could ever expect. What gain would the death of Drizzt afford me?”
“He has killed members of your family.”
“So have I.”
Kimmuriel was not a mirthful sort, of course, but he almost broke out in laughter at the manner in which Gromph responded, so matter-of-factly, so evenly, that such events seemed a foregone conclusion, which of course they were among the great Houses of Menzoberranzan.
“Are you fond of him?” the psionicist asked.
“I do not know him and do not wish to.”
“Then of his legacy?” Kimmuriel pressed. “I am quite certain that Jarlaxle admires this warrior from House Do’Urden for his escape from the clawing priestesses of Menzoberranzan.”
“Then Jarlaxle is a fool who should keep his feelings well-hidden,” Gromph replied—and warned, not so subtly pointing out to Kimmuriel that he was going down a dangerous road here. “Queen Lolth desires chaos, and so Drizzt serves Lolth’s purpose, if not Lolth herself.”
Kimmuriel found himself surprised that Gromph had so openly admitted that which had been whispered throughout the First House since the fall of Matron Mother Baenre to the axe of Drizzt’s dwarf friend a century and more ago. He understood then that he wasn’t going to get any further with Gromph along this line of probing, and he knew better than to keep pressing a drow as powerful as the Archmage of Menzoberranzan.
“Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre will not be so casual regarding Drizzt Do’Urden when her favored grand-nephew is returned to her on a slab,” Kimmuriel said instead, bringing the conversation back to where it had started: with Tiago’s revelations about, and his desire to hunt, Drizzt Do’Urden.
“Do not underestimate that one,” said Gromph.
“Neither,” Kimmuriel reminded. “But while I am unconvinced of the capabilities of Tiago Baenre’s announced entourage, these two Xorlarrin waifs Saribel and Ravel, I can assure you that Drizzt has surrounded himself with formidable allies.”
“Tiago is young and eager,” Gromph replied. “He will likely alter his course soon enough.”
“The trail is hot,” Kimmuriel said.
“Then make it cold,” Gromph replied, exactly the words the psionicist had wanted to hear.
Kimmuriel had quietly sought a large agreement with some Netherese lords, and Jarlaxle had already sent word back from Shade Enclave that these particular lords, led by one named Parise Ulfbinder, had inquired of Drizzt and were showing a rather curious interest in the rogue. Jarlaxle had offered no insight into the matter, and Kimmuriel couldn’t sort it out, either, particularly regarding whether or not they saw Drizzt Do’Urden as an enemy or an ally.
Caution and good sense told Kimmuriel that a confrontation now between Tiago and Drizzt might not be good for business, however it might end.
Now he had Gromph’s blessing to do what he thought best, insulating him and Bregan D’aerthe from the potential wrath of the First House.
“Bah, but we didn’t kill the dogs, and that’s got to matter for something,” Ambergris said when the wagons unloaded their cargoes, refugees, and ten prisoners back in Port Llast a few days later.
Drizzt and the others, including the leaders of Port Llast and Farmer Stuyles, looked on with trepidation.
“We cannot let them go,” Dorwyllan remarked. “They will run right to the high captains with news of our renewal.”
“Nay, but we won’t!” one of the captured Luskar insisted.
“Nor can we keep them against their will,” said Drizzt. “They have done nothing against us.”
“They attacked the caravan, or meant to,” Ambergris reminded him. “We’d’ve been justified by law in killin’ them out on the road, and not an honest magister’d argue!”
Drizzt had to nod at that, but he calmly put in, “But you didn’t, and that is a good thing,” to try to squelch some of the more impassioned shouts bubbling up around him.
“Still could,” Ambergris replied, but with a smile, a growl at the prisoners who stood together near a wagon, and a wink back at Drizzt.
He shook his head to cut her short. She wasn’t helping.
“Luskan knows anyway,” Artemis Entreri put in, and his contribution surprised those who knew him well. “Just let the fools go, or put them on a boat and float them out to feed the sea dev
ils. It matters not at all.”
Whispers arguing both points rose up from the growing crowd.
“Keep them,” Drizzt spoke over those, demanding the attention of all. “Keep them safe and keep them well. These are not our enemies. Artemis and I will go to Luskan.”
“And I,” Dahlia remarked.
“You two alone, then, and leave me out of it,” a surprised and annoyed Entreri muttered.
“Not so,” Drizzt corrected him. “You and I have business there anyway.”
That surprised Entreri, and he returned a suspicious look.
Drizzt put a hand to his right hip, the same location where Artemis Entreri used to wear his jeweled dagger, and nodded.
“Lead on,” said the assassin.
“I have anticipated this day,” Drizzt said to Dorwyllan and a few others near to him. “I have contacts in Luskan. Artemis Entreri is correct. They know something is happening here in the south, though perhaps remain ignorant that it is Port Llast and not just Neverwinter that is growing strong once more. They understand that those farmers departed the fields around Luskan in an exodus to the south and they will learn the truth soon enough. You might well see Luskar sails outside your harbor any day now.”
“They’ll not cross the wall into the city as enemies,” Dorwyllan decreed.
“Not at first, with a ship or two. But if it comes to blows.…” Drizzt left that thought hanging in the open. All in attendance understood that mighty Luskan could crush Port Llast with little effort if the City of Sails so desired.
“I will go and serve as emissary.”
“And if that fails?” asked Dovos Dothwintyl, the city’s current lord, but one who had been all but invisible through the reclamation efforts.
“Then perhaps we all go to Neverwinter, and seek the suffrage of Jelvus Grinch, who I am confident will welcome us warmly.”
Some of the group began to grumble about that—hadn’t they held on to their town through all these years, after all?
Dorwyllan calmed them. “It had to come to a climax,” he said in a matter-of-fact, yet soothing voice. “Our stalemate with the sea devils was a slow death. Our victory over them grants us Port Llast returned or full retreat. If Drizzt is not successful in Luskan, we shall appeal to Neverwinter and Waterdeep for protection against Luskan.”
“Let’s hope that won’t be necessary,” Drizzt said, and he nodded and started away, motioning for Entreri to follow. In truth, Drizzt didn’t think it would come to blows. He had made inroads into the ascendant Ship Kurth, after all.
Dahlia moved off with Drizzt and Entreri, but the drow blocked her. “We have two mounts, and must ride with all speed to beat any armada Luskan might launch at Port Llast. And I need you here.”
“I will ride with you, hardly slowing mighty Andahar,” she argued.
But Drizzt shook his head and would not be swayed. “I would have all of Luskan agreeing to leave us in peace, including Ship Rethnor,” he said bluntly, emphasizing those last three words to remind Dahlia that she had more than a little history, and not all of it favorable, with the powers of Luskan.
Dahlia narrowed her eyes, her face a mask of contempt and a warning to Drizzt that this, and his other inattentiveness of late, was not strengthening their relationship.
Surprisingly to Drizzt, that didn’t bother him profoundly. Indeed, hardly at all.
No matter how hard he tried, Beniago couldn’t look quite as uncomfortable as grizzled old Advisor Klutarch, shifting from foot to foot. They were, after all, in a cellar in Luskan surrounded by a handful of drow mercenaries.
“Thus we return,” Kimmuriel said. “We have renewed interest in the area, to the benefit of Ship Kurth and the others.”
“And ye’ve met with the others, then?” Klutarch asked.
“Need I?” Kimmuriel replied.
Klutarch looked surprised, but Beniago, of course, knew the truth of it.
“Well, they’re—” Klutarch started.
“Irrelevant,” Beniago finished for him. “Our good friend Kimmuriel here has just informed us that Bregan D’aerthe’s return to Luskan will signal the ascent of Ship Kurth above the others. The other high captains will agree, or their successors will.”
It took a moment for Klutarch to digest that, judging by his expression, but when he caught on to the implications behind the confident statement, his face brightened, albeit briefly.
Briefly, for clearly implied in Beniago’s words loomed a similar threat against House Kurth.
“We should go to High Captain Kurth,” Klutarch said.
“You go,” Kimmuriel answered, and he turned to stare at Beniago, who cleared his throat and waved Klutarch away.
“There is more, then?” Beniago asked when he was alone with the dark elves.
“You grow comfortable in your light skin, I see,” Kimmuriel replied.
With a chuckle, Beniago reached up and pulled off his earring, dispelling the illusion, and he stood before Kimmuriel in his true drow form.
“Kurth will agree,” Kimmuriel stated more than asked.
“He is stubborn and headstrong, but ultimately pragmatic,” Beniago answered anyway.
“If he doesn’t, are you ready to assume the mantle of high captain?”
Beniago wasn’t thrilled at that prospect, but said, “As you command, of course.”
“Let us hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Then there is more,” Beniago reasoned
“Your cousin, Tiago Baenre, has settled in with the Xorlarrins in the ruins of Gauntlgrym,” Kimmuriel explained. “Their expedition appears to be going along splendidly.”
“Thus, Bregan D’aerthe’s renewed interest in the region.”
“Of course, but there is a potential problem. Your cousin Tiago has taken an interest with a rogue from Menzoberranzan known to be wandering the region.”
Beniago sighed, understanding the implications all too well. “Drizzt Do’Urden will kill him, and Quenthel will go to war over it.”
“And war, in this case, is not good for business,” said Kimmuriel.
“What would you have me do?”
“Get Drizzt out of the way.”
Beniago looked at his leader with incredulity, and not a small amount of terror. Drizzt would prove formidable enough by himself, of course, as Beniago knew from personal experience, and even more so given the characters with whom he had surrounded himself, and even if Beniago—Beniago Baenre—could somehow find a way to dispatch the rogue, Jarlaxle had made it quite clear to all of them that such an event would trigger harsh retribution. No drow, particularly no drow of Bregan D’aerthe, cared to cross Jarlaxle.
“Not to kill him, you fool,” Kimmuriel remarked, and Beniago breathed a sigh of relief.
“Be clever,” Kimmuriel explained. “Find a way to keep Drizzt and Tiago apart, for the foreseeable future at least.”
“You could go to Tiago.”
“We have,” said Kimmuriel. “Jarlaxle himself spoke with him.”
“And he is as stubborn, prideful, and headstrong as ever,” Beniago presumed. Kimmuriel didn’t bother responding, so Beniago asked, “Where is Drizzt?”
“In Port Llast.”
That perked up Beniago, for Port Llast was becoming the focus of the discussion about Luskan over the last few days. The situation had just become more complicated, he feared, but when he got past that initial reaction, he saw as well a glimmer of hope.
He was a lieutenant of Bregan D’aerthe, he reminded himself, and though with many peers, he was outranked only by Kimmuriel, Jarlaxle, and the independent Valas Hune in the organization’s hierarchy. Luskan was his post, and Luskan was about to become very, very important to the organization once more.
This was Beniago’s chance to elevate himself above the many other lieutenants. He wasn’t about to let his miserable cousin Tiago, whose father had betrayed Beniago and had him driven from the Baenre ranks to the waiting arms of Bregan D’aerthe in the first place, spoil it.
“Make Kurth agree,” Beniago bade Kimmuriel. “I can better serve our interests from my current position. Instruct Kurth to grant me leeway in negotiating the disposition of Port Llast.”
“You’re already plotting your course,” Kimmuriel said, and Beniago bowed at the compliment from this most intelligent and pragmatic drow.
“Problem?” Artemis Entreri asked Drizzt that night, the pair already a third of the way to Luskan despite their late start.
Drizzt rolled the figurine of the black panther over in his hands. “I don’t know.”
“You haven’t been calling her lately.”
“I haven’t seen the need.”
Entreri tapped him on the shoulder and forced him to look up, straight into the assassin’s doubting expression. “We’ve been in a dozen fights since you felled the sea devil on the docks.”
“I was often behind the wall, using a bow,” Drizzt replied.
“And often not.”
Drizzt sighed and nodded, unable to escape the accusation.
“The cat looks haggard,” Entreri said before he could. “Her skin hangs low, as if with exhaustion.”
“You’ve noticed.”
Entreri shrugged. “Call her.”
Drizzt looked back at the figurine and thought it over for a short while, then softly called out for Guenhwyvar. A few moments later, the gray mist arose and formed into the panther, who stood right before the seated drow.
“She pants,” Entreri observed.
Drizzt put a hand out to stroke the cat, and to feel the slackness of her skin, as if her muscles beneath had grown old. He had seen her like this before, but usually after she had spent many hours by his side, battling trolls or the like.
“You see it?” he asked.
“Do such magical creatures age?”
Drizzt had no answer. “Ever before when Guenhwyvar has been so exhausted, a day in her Astral home would rejuvenate her. I fear that the fight with Herzgo Alegni, when she was lost to me, has harmed her.”
The Last Threshold: Neverwinter Saga, Book IV Page 18