R. Salvatore - The Collected Stories, The Legend of Drizzt

He wore dirty and somewhat ragged clothing, loose fitting and with an old blanket set about his shoulders as a cloak. His belt was a simple sash of cheap material, and tucked into it was a long and unremarkable dagger. He didn’t want to get into a fight, so poorly armed and armored, and thus he assumed the confident swagger, playing upon every fear and prejudice that surface-dwellers rightly held for the race of drow.

He moved right up to the bar and noted the scowl of the tavernkeeper.

“Fear not,” he said, distorting the words as if the language was unfamiliar to him. “I ask of you no drink, buffoon. I come to speak to Thurgood of Baldur’s Gate, and have no business with you.”

The tavernkeeper scowled more fiercely.

“You will be dead before you realize that you’ve insulted me,” Drizzt promised.

That seemed to back the man off somewhat. Across the bar from him, and just down from Drizzt, a young woman, a serving wench, whispered to the tavernkeeper, “Don’t ye be a fool,” then turned to Drizzt.

“Thurgood’s there,” she said, indicating a table in the back corner of the common room. “The big one with the beard.”

Drizzt had known that all along, of course, since Catti-brie had been thorough in her investigation.

“Ye should bring him a drink, ye know,” the woman went on. “He’s wanting a drink with every introduction to those wanting to sail with him.”

Drizzt stared at the man, then turned to consider the tavernkeeper, who seemed as defiant and unmoving as ever. “Mayhaps I’ll bring him the head of the owner, that he can claim all the drink as his own.”

The man bristled, as did several of the folk seated at the bar, ruffians all, but Drizzt knew how to properly play a bluff, and he just calmly walked away, cutting a straight line for Thurgood’s table.

The gazes of all four men seated at that table, as well as all of those standing nearby, were upon the drow through every stride, and Drizzt surveyed them all carefully, watching for the flicker of movement that might show an attack. He wished he had his scimitars with him, instead of a simple long knife. He had no doubt that every man in the tavern knew well how to put a weapon to quick and deadly use.

Catti-brie wasn’t covering his moves this time.

He walked right up between the two closest seated men, to the table’s edge.

“Seek I one Thurgood of Baldur’s Gate,” he said, twisting his mouth as if the common language of Waterdeep was uncomfortable and unnatural to him.

Across the table from him, the barrel-chested man crossed his arms over his chest and brought one hand up to stroke his thick and wild black beard.

“Thurgood you are?”

“Who’s askin’?”

“Masoj of Menzoberranzan,” Drizzt lied, taking the name of a former associate, the one from whom he had taken the magical statuette that allowed him to summon the great panther Guenhwyvar to his side.

“Never heard o’ no Masoj,” Thurgood answered. “Never heard o’ no Menzoberranzan.”

“Of no consequence is that,” Drizzt answered. “You seek crew. I am crew.”

The big man cocked an eyebrow and turned slyly to his companions, all of whom began to chuckle. “Been on many boats, have ye?”

“Demon ships, sailing the planes of existence,” Drizzt answered without the slightest hesitation.

“Not sure it’s the same thing,” Thurgood replied, and Drizzt noted a slight tremor in his voice, one he was trying hard to hide, obviously, and one that betrayed his intrigue.

“Same thing,” said Drizzt.

Thurgood motioned to the man on his left, who reached down, untied his belt and tossed it, a rope, to Drizzt. Before Thurgood even started to offer instructions, Drizzt’s hands worked in a blur, tying off three different kinds of knots in rapid succession before tossing the rope back to the man. Fortunately for Drizzt, both of his voyages with Deudermont had not been idle ones as a mere passenger. Anyone sailing with Sea Sprite and her crew was expected to pull his weight, in work and in battle, and with his drow nimbleness, Drizzt had proven especially adept at tying off lines.

Thurgood nodded as he looked at the rope, but again worked hard to keep his face straight. His gaze went from the rope, to Drizzt’s eyepatch, to Drizzt’s sash belt and the knife fastened there.

“Ye know how to use that thing?”

“I am drow,” Drizzt replied, and the man beside Thurgood scoffed. “Drow who do not fight well, die poorly.”

“So I been told,” said Thurgood, and he elbowed the doubting man.

“I will not die poorly,” Drizzt said, and as he did, he turned his head to fix the doubting man with an imposing stare, though of course, the drow’s eyes were covered. Still, the thug did wilt a bit under the forward-leaning and imposing posture that accompanied that hidden gaze.

“You seek crew. I am crew,” Drizzt repeated, turning square to Thurgood.

“Masoj of Menzoberranzan?”

Drizzt nodded.

“Ye come back in two days,” Thurgood instructed. “Right here. We’ll talk then.”

Drizzt nodded again, turned to glower at the man beside the big man, then snapped right about and walked casually away. He thought to draw out his knife and twirl it about, then go hand to hand a few times in rapid succession before fast tucking it back into his belt.

He brushed the thought away, though. Sometimes the most intimidating threat was the one not made.

His knife had been taken and he was blindfolded, but Drizzt had expected as much, and he knew well enough the steps along these alleyways and where Thurgood’s men were taking him. It did occur to him many times that the group might well kill him, and in that possibility, he would be completely helpless, unless, of course, Catti-brie was watching from afar. He had to trust in that.

Because it had to be this way.

He heard the wide wooden door creak open and smelled the stagnant air of the little-used warehouse. Inside, the small group walked a maze of piled sacks and large boxes to the back corner of the building, where they started up a wooden half-staircase, half-ladder. Despite the blindfold, the nimble Drizzt had no trouble at all in navigating the maze and the climb, and as soon as he came up to the second story, a man roughly pulled off his blindfold.

The drow was quick to shake his head, flopping his hair back over one eye, his dark, see-through eyepatch still in place on the other.

The room was as he remembered it, with the raised wooden dais set in the center-back, a wooden seat built atop it. Thurgood sat in that throne, resting comfortably back and to the side, eyeing Drizzt with what seemed to be little real concern.

“Welcome, Masoj of Menzoberranzan,” he said as Drizzt was led to stand before him. The guards fell away then, moving to either side of the room, and Drizzt used that opportunity to take a good measure of all in attendance. He quick-counted seven, scallywags all, and none seeming overly impressive, other than perhaps Thurgood himself. Even that one didn’t concern Drizzt too much. Likely, he would prove the typical bully brawler, a straightforward attacker who would try to quickly overwhelm an opponent with brute force.

Drizzt had left many similar brawlers dead in his wake.

“You wish to join the crew,” Thurgood stated. “When will you be able to sail?”

“I have no ties and no responsibilities.”

“I could walk ye to the dock straightaways and ye’d be able to step aboard?”

Drizzt paused for a second, noting the change in dialect, Thurgood’s “you’s” becoming “ye’s.” Those around him seemed to take no note. Perhaps this one was more worldly than he was letting on? The drow filed that notion away, a quiet reminder to be ready for anything, and quickly pushed past the pause.