R. Salvatore - The Last Threshold

He meant it, Jarlaxle knew from looking at him. This one was brash, and brimming with confidence, and apparently very well armed and armored, even beyond what one might expect from a Baenre. Jarlaxle made a mental note to look more deeply into the growing reputation of this Tiago Baenre-and of Ravel Xorlarrin, he silently added when he noted the spellspinner coming his way.

From his recent visits to Menzoberranzan, Jarlaxle knew that those two were among the most prominent of the new generation of the city. Gromph had spoken highly of Tiago, and had hinted that Tiago would likely soon supplant Andzrel as weapons master of the First House. Through his eyepatch, Jarlaxle had detected quite a bit of magic on Tiago, and the overwhelming glow from that shield and sword went a long way toward confirming Gromph’s suspicions, for truly Andzrel would not be pleased to find Tiago wielding such wondrous items, and truly, Matron Mother Quenthel would not have allowed Gol’fanin to craft this paired sword and shield for Tiago if she meant to keep him behind Andzrel in the house hierarchy.

Of course, if Tiago went after Drizzt, as he had declared, whatever his arms and armaments, then Andzrel would likely have a long and quiet reign in his position as weapons master, with no living heir apparent.

Jarlaxle managed a slight smile at that notion, but only a slight one, for there was something unsettling about this young one-and his allies, Jarlaxle thought, when Ravel, equally confident and brash, joined them.

He was Jarlaxle, long-time leader of Bregan D’aerthe, feared and respected throughout Menzoberranzan for centuries. That respect was not so apparent in the expressions and words of these two. Was he becoming old and irrelevant?

Were these two rising? Was this their hour?

Would Drizzt be quick enough this time against the descendant of Dantrag?

“Ye thinkin’ o’ tellin’ me?” Athrogate asked, long after he and Jarlaxle had left Gauntlgrym. The two were upon their mounts, Jarlaxle on his hell horse and Athrogate astride his hell boar.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Ye been full o’ glum since ye came back from them drow.”

“They are not a pleasant group.”

“More than that,” Athrogate said. “Ye ain’t even telled me about the fired forges!”

Jarlaxle slowed his mount and considered his dwarf companion. “Truly it is a wondrous place and already creating extraordinary weapons.”

“For damned drow elfs!” Athrogate said. He spat upon the ground, drawing a wide-eyed expression from Jarlaxle. “Not yerself. Them other ones.”

“Indeed.”

“It’s Entreri, ain’t it?”

“Might be, given their description.”

“Nah, I’m meanin’ that it’s Entreri what’s got ye all glummed up. Ye ain’t thought much on him in a lot o’ years, but now it’s in yer face again.”

“I did what I had to do, for his sake as well as our own.”

“So ye keep tellin’ yerself, for fifty years now.”

“You disagree?”

“Nah, not me place in doing that. I weren’t there, but I’m knowin’ what ye was facin’, both from them Netheril dogs and from yer own kin and kind.” He nodded ahead to the side of the road, where a darker patch of shadow loomed, a familiar drow standing beside it. “And speakin’ o’ yer kin and kind …”

The two dismissed their magical mounts and walked over to join Kimmuriel. They didn’t have to deliver any report, of course, for Kimmuriel had been in on the trip to Gauntlgrym, telepathically linked with Jarlaxle throughout his meeting with the Xorlarrins and their entourage.

“Their progress has been considerable and laudable,” Kimmuriel started the conversation. “Matron Mother Quenthel was wise in allowing the Xorlarrins to make this journey. The bowels of Gauntlgrym will prove valuable and profitable to us all, I am sure.”

“It remains preliminary,” Jarlaxle replied. “Many know of the place now, so it is likely that the Xorlarrins will find trials yet to come.”

“Aye, not many dwarfs thinking to let the durned drow have Gauntlgrym for their own,” Athrogate put in, and both dark elves glanced at him, Jarlaxle’s amusement clear on his face, Kimmuriel’s not so much.

“There will be a lot of dead dwarves then,” Kimmuriel said dryly, and he turned back to Jarlaxle, visually dismissing the foolish dwarf. “This settlement will validate our surface concerns.”

“It will surely allow us greater access to the drow marketplace, since it is an easier journey by far than Menzoberranzan,” Jarlaxle agreed. “A pity that we have so abandoned the nearer points.”

“Luskan,” Kimmuriel said, and with clear annoyance, for he and Jarlaxle had argued quite vehemently over the disposition of the City of Sails. Jarlaxle had wanted Bregan D’aerthe to remain significant among the high captains who ruled the city, but Kimmuriel, his sights set elsewhere, had overruled him.

“Come now, my cerebral friend,” Jarlaxle said. “You see the value of Luskan now, more clearly. You can deny that truth, but not with any conviction. We need to go back there in force, and become again the quiet power behind the high captains. I would be happy to lead that effort.”

“Yes,” Kimmuriel agreed, and Jarlaxle tipped his hat, grinning until Kimmuriel added, “and no.”

“You presume much.” Jarlaxle didn’t hide his anger.

“Shall I remind you of the terms of our partnership?” Kimmuriel was quick to reply.

“Bregan D’aerthe is not yours alone.”

Kimmuriel bowed in deference to Jarlaxle, and that action muted much of Jarlaxle’s building anger. Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel shared the leadership of Bregan D’aerthe, but for the sake of the band, Kimmuriel could assume control whenever Jarlaxle’s other interests-notably, the many friends, including a fair number of iblith , or non-drow, he kept on the surface-conflicted with what, in Kimmuriel’s judgment, was best for the mercenary band. Ever logical and driven by the purest pragmatism, Kimmuriel would never use this agreement beyond its intended scope.

Kimmuriel had witnessed the exchange with Tiago and the others in the bowels of Gauntlgrym, and so he understood the true desire behind Jarlaxle’s gracious offer to lead Bregan D’aerthe back to the City of Sails, and so, indeed, Kimmuriel’s invoking of their agreement was entirely proper regarding the interests of Bregan D’aerthe. Jarlaxle had done well in selecting this brilliant lieutenant to serve in his stead.

Too well, perhaps.

“We have possibilities with a collection of Netherese lords in Shade Enclave,” Kimmuriel said. “They are quite interested in facilitating an underground trade network.”

“Shade Enclave?” Jarlaxle muttered. He had never been to the place, in what had been the desert of Anauroch before the Spellplague and the great upheavals that had so changed the land.

“You would be the perfect facilitator,” Kimmuriel said. “In your efforts against the primordial, you delivered a great blow to the minions of Thay, as these lords are aware. They will be pleased to meet you and begin the negotiations.”

“What of Luskan?”

“I will deal with Luskan.”

“You should speak with the Baenres.”

“I already have.”

They will lose their prized young weapons master , Jarlaxle’s fingers flashed.

I will see to it , came Kimmuriel’s cryptic response.

Jarlaxle did well to hide his frustration with this drow who always seemed one step ahead of everyone else-at least he thought he had hidden it until he realized that he hadn’t enacted the psychic shields afforded by his eyepatch and Kimmuriel was probably fully reading his mind.

“Shade Enclave, then,” Jarlaxle said.