R. Salvatore - The Last Threshold

“The drow,” the young Baenre clarified. “Kin to Kimmuriel, I expect. That was the name he used, at least.”

The way he said it revealed as much as the words themselves, Jarlaxle knew. Masoj, after all, had been the mage from whom Drizzt had taken Guenhwyvar many decades before, though Masoj was surely no Oblodran. He knew now, beyond any doubt that these fools had run up against Drizzt without even realizing it.

Tiago’s dead grandfather, dead by Drizzt’s hand, surely was somewhere in the Demonweb Pits, groaning in frustration!

“We did not care enough to ask the names of the other two,” Tiago added.

“Were they or were they not of Bregan D’aerthe?” Ravel asked pointedly.

“Who can say?” Jarlaxle bluffed, and he used a bit of magic from his eyepatch to carry some weight behind the words. “We have many independent agents moving along the Sword Coast. It is possible that one or another-”

“You would know if it was your consort, as was claimed, would you not?” Tiago asked, the sharp edge of his voice showing that he believed Jarlaxle to be cornered.

“One of how many dozen?” the sly mercenary shot right back. “As I told you, the fact that so many of my brethren are too foolish to appreciate physical beauty widens my garden of lovelies. Indeed, there are many in this area who could make that claim!”

Athrogate snorted.

“Where are these three of whom you speak?” Jarlaxle asked.

“Long gone,” said Jearth, “as are the Netherese they battled.”

“Then it is a discussion for another day,” Jarlaxle decided. “My time is short, and if these three are of no consequence-”

“They killed a Xorlarrin noble,” Tiago interrupted.

Jarlaxle nodded and spent a moment digesting the implications. “Then I will inform Kimmuriel and we will put all efforts into determining who they are and if there is any actual connection to our humble organization.” He bowed again, and in the movement, cast a private glance at Athrogate to warn the dwarf that their business here had just grown very serious.

“Are we to discuss our preliminary business arrangements here, among this small group?” Jarlaxle asked.

“It would be premature to formalize anything,” said the spellspinner. “But let us show you our efforts, and perhaps there are services and items Bregan D’aerthe can supply to us that will foster those later arrangements. Materials, for example, and formulas.” He looked right at Athrogate as he finished, “We have the Forge.”

“Lead on,” Jarlaxle bade, and he and Athrogate stepped forward.

“Not him,” Tiago insisted, pointing to the dwarf.

“He works for me.”

“Not him.” There was no room for debate in Tiago’s tone, and Jarlaxle was surprised that the brash young warrior was so openly challenging him. Given that, it wasn’t an argument Jarlaxle thought prudent to have, and besides, he knew that he could facilitate his own escape if necessary, but wouldn’t likely be able to help Athrogate get safely away. He turned to the dwarf and whispered, “Up above,” and Athrogate nodded his agreement and understanding. At the top of the ladder, Jarlaxle had enacted an enchantment from his wide-brimmed, hugely-plumed hat to create an extra-dimensional room as a safe haven.

Jarlaxle summoned his nightmare and rode off with the three lizard-riders, and Athrogate was fast indeed up the long stairwell to the safety of that secret room. Athrogate never shied from a fight, but these were, after all, dark elves.

“That is an amazing shield,” Jarlaxle remarked some time later, when he and Tiago were in the forge room, looking down the line of craftsmen working the glowing ovens. His eye roamed to the spider hilt of the sword at his hip as he added, “Recently forged?”

Tiago laughed. “It was the second item created by the re-fired great forge of this complex.”

“The sword being the first,” Jarlaxle stated.

Tiago drew the blade and held it up for Jarlaxle to see. It was crafted of the same glassteel substance as the shield, and similarly flecked with sparkling diamonds, with its black spider web quillan and spider-shaped handle.

“Gol’fanin’s work,” Jarlaxle said, and that recognition obviously startled the young Baenre warrior.

“An old friend,” Jarlaxle explained. “Is he around?”

“He is, but resting, I expect. I will pass along your well-wishes.”

Tiago was hedging, Jarlaxle knew, afraid that if he brought the two together, Jarlaxle would gain some upper hand over him in his relationship with that most important blacksmith.

“House Xorlarrin will go to war with Bregan D’aerthe, then?” Jarlaxle asked bluntly, and Tiago’s eyes popped open wide. “If it is found that these three were associated with Kimmuriel’s band, I mean. Since they killed a noble-or is that merely suspicion?”

That last part was no minor quibble. Drow killing drow was an acceptable practice in Menzoberranzan, as long as no definitive evidence revealed the killer.

“Brack’thal Xorlarrin,” Tiago explained.

Jarlaxle knew the mage. “Interesting. I had thought him driven mad by the Spellplague.”

“Son of Zeerith and elderboy of the House,” Tiago said.

“And you have definitive proof of this crime?”

“Does it matter? This is not Menzoberranzan, and in this place, the Xorlarrins are free to make the rules. You would do well to learn the truth of these three and deliver them to us posthaste.”

A wry grin spread across Jarlaxle’s face, an amused look that he was all too willing to share with Tiago.

“You truly believe that?” he asked.

Tiago remained stone-faced.

“Your great-aunt Quenthel would be as amused as I am by your thinly veiled threat, no doubt.”

“As amused as she would be to learn that Jarlaxle of Bregan D’aerthe associates with the heretic Drizzt Do’Urden, who fought against her family in the battle that killed her beloved matron mother? The heretic Drizzt Do’Urden who killed her brother, my grandfather Dantrag, the greatest weapons master Menzoberranzan has ever known?”

Jarlaxle almost pointed out that, if such was the case, then Drizzt should not have prevailed in that duel with Dantrag, but he wisely held silent.

“You make bold claims, young Master Baenre,” he said.

“The three claimed to be of Bregan D’aerthe.”

“That only means that they were clever, not that they were telling the truth,” Jarlaxle replied. “But wait, are you saying that among the trio was the rogue Do’Urden?”

Tiago stared at him hard, and Jarlaxle recognized that this one was no fool.

“Interesting,” Jarlaxle added, feigning surprise. “The rogue Do’Urden is still alive?”

“And of Bregan D’aerthe,” Tiago said dryly.

“A clever lie.”

“So you say, and so you would have to say. The human with the drow once accompanied you to Menzoberranzan,” Tiago argued.

“Long before you were born, if it even is the same human.”

“Berellip Xorlarrin attested to it. Would you doubt a priestess of the Spider Queen?”

That, too, brought some laughter from Jarlaxle. When in his life had he not doubted those priestesses?

“That would make him a very, very old human,” Jarlaxle said. “And I assure you, I have not seen this man of whom you speak in half a century or more. Nor is he a member of Bregan D’aerthe. Nor is Drizzt Do’Urden a member-if that is your suspicion regarding the drow’s true identity-nor has he ever been. Nor would he ever desire to be, as you would understand if you knew anything at all about the heart of Drizzt Do’Urden.”

Tiago eyed him with clear suspicion. “I will ask such of Drizzt Do’Urden himself,” Tiago remarked, “right before I kill him.”