R. Salvatore - Night of the Hunter

“No,” she commanded. “I am curious.” She walked up to him, cupped his chin with her hand, and lifted his face up so he could look into her eyes. “I have great promises for you. Do not disappoint me,” she said.

Despite the torment, despite his very well-grounded terror, Beniago knew that he would not. Eagerly, he stood up before Quenthel.

Eagerly, despite the beating she had put upon him.

Hungrily, because this was how he had been trained, with punishment as prelude to seduction, with supplication as beggary for pleasure.

“And then you will tell me,” Quenthel said, pulling him close and biting his lip.

“Tell you?”

“Everything,” she said and she shoved him down atop his desk.

Jarlaxle figured that in all of Faerûn there were probably only a score of magic-users or priestesses powerful enough to get through the multitude of magical wards he had spent years enacting around his private quarters, and maybe half that number who could do so without him being aware of the intrusion.

Unfortunately for him, one of that select group was his brother, Gromph Baenre.

“Well met,” he greeted, sliding his chair around to regard the archmage. “To what do I owe this most unexpected pleasure?”

“My generous personality.”

Jarlaxle nodded.

“How fares Luskan?”

Jarlaxle shrugged. “It is a wretched place of wretched people, so not well, I presume. But I fare well here, profitably so.”

“Fortunately so, I would say.”

“The gems and baubles flow back to Xorlarrin, as agreed, and to the coffers of House Baenre, I would expect.”

“Fortunately so … for you.”

“Is there an issue? Do tell?”

“I am sure there is. I did not come here to see you, but merely as a guide for another who is about within the city.”

“Yet here you are … fortunately, no doubt, for me.”

“For another, who is at Ship Kurth,” Gromph added, and Jarlaxle had to work hard to keep the concern from his face.

“Come to study the Hosttower’s tendrils, then? To discern the important ties to the city now called Xorlarrin?”

“No, come to speak with Beniago Baenre.”

Jarlaxle sat back and tried very hard to look unimpressed. “It is not a name he has used-”

“In a century or more,” Gromph agreed. “But, alas, Baenre is a surname he cannot escape.”

“Do you plan to speak openly, or continue in riddles?” Jarlaxle asked, starting to rise.

“Sit down,” Gromph instructed, stopping him in mid-stand.

Jarlaxle stared at the old mage for a long while, measuring the possibilities. Had it come, at last, to a battle between them, he wondered?

There were many ways in which Jarlaxle could strike at Gromph in this room, traps he could strategically spring, including no small number of disenchantments that might strip much of his brother’s magical armor away.

But no, Jarlaxle realized, his best action would be a swift retreat, and that, too, could be done with a mere tug on his earring.

“The barmaid at the inn across the river is one of your lovelies?” Gromph asked, and seemed quite pleased with himself for having discerned that information, or even that there was an inn across the river with which Jarlaxle was associated.

“A plaything,” Jarlaxle replied nonchalantly.

“Pretty, for a human. Perhaps you will bring her along.”

“Are we going somewhere?”

“Oh yes, I expect we are.”

“More riddles?”

“It is not my place to tell you.”

Jarlaxle started to respond, but bit it back, seeing the seriousness in Gromph’s expression. That last claim hadn’t been some off-handed remark; the mage had chosen his words purposely and carefully.

But who could claim a place above Gromph?

“When might I expect more guests, then?” Jarlaxle asked. “Should I prepare for a visit? Some food brought down for a proper feast of greeting, perhaps?”

“Just sit, and for once, dear brother, do shut up,” the archmage replied.

There were times, as when he had first arrived here this day with Beniago, when Jarlaxle was glad that Kimmuriel was not around Luskan. And there were times when Jarlaxle truly missed Kimmuriel Oblodra and the drow’s psionic powers, telepathically relaying information to Jarlaxle from a different perspective and a deeper understanding, or with Kimmuriel preparing to discombobulate an aggressive wizard with a blast of mind-scrambling energy, or with Kimmuriel ready and prepared to instantly send a telepathic call to all of Bregan D’aerthe’s allies.

This was one of those times.

An exhausted and battered Beniago Baenre sat in his room, contemplating the dramatic changes. Luskan was his now, and he had just become directly responsible to House Baenre for any failures!

He wondered how Jarlaxle had survived all these years with such vile witches as the matrons flitting around the edges of his domain. Jarlaxle was a master of deception, perhaps the best Beniago had ever known at that intricate craft, but how to fool a matron, let alone the matron mother, given their abilities to magically detect lies?

“I need an eyepatch,” the high captain quietly lamented.

He tried to sort out Matron Mother Quenthel’s sudden interest in Luskan, in Bregan D’aerthe, even in Entreri’s band, and by extension, in Drizzt. Likely it had to do with Tiago, since Tiago had made no secret of his desire to hunt down the rogue and claim his head as a trophy.

“Yes,” Beniago mused. Jarlaxle had gone to great lengths to keep Drizzt hidden away from Tiago-but hadn’t that come on advice from Gromph? Beniago shook his head. It all made little sense to him, except that it was clear now that a power shift had occurred in Menzoberranzan, one that had put his aunt Quenthel in absolute control. Gromph would likely not be happy.

He gave a resigned sigh, for what choice did he have in the matter? He was responsible now, and in charge.

The caveat to that level of power struck him, though, in his contemplations of his cousin Tiago. Matron Mother Quenthel had made it quite clear that when and if Tiago ventured to Luskan, Beniago was to serve him without question.

He wasn’t overly fond of his cousin. Indeed, Beniago hated Tiago, and he knew the feeling to be mutual.

It was not a good day.

“Matron Mother,” Jarlaxle said reverently, leaping out of his chair and bowing low when Quenthel Baenre unexpectedly joined Gromph in Jarlaxle’s private quarters in underground Illusk.

“Such the diplomat,” Quenthel replied sarcastically.

“The surprised diplomat,” Jarlaxle said, daring to stand straight once more. “Rarely does a Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan venture from the city. Indeed, I am shocked that you are here, and more so that you have not brought an army with you.” He paused and looked at her curiously. “You have not, have you?”

Despite her grim aspect, Quenthel laughed.

“We leave at once,” she said.

“A pity!” Jarlaxle cried. “Do promise to return.”

“We,” Quenthel said again, and she accentuated the next word as she continued, “ three leave at once.”

Jarlaxle’s eyes widened; he even lifted his eyepatch to let Matron Mother Quenthel see his shocked expression more clearly. “It is a complicated place, Luskan. I have many duties to attend to and preparations-”

“Dear brother, shut up,” Matron Mother Quenthel ordered. “This pathetic city is no longer your concern. You are being recalled to Menzoberranzan.”

Jarlaxle started to respond, but for one of the few times in his life, found himself choking on the words. “Menzoberranzan?” the mercenary leader asked.

“I need soldiers. Bregan D’aerthe will suffice.”

“For?”