R.A. Salvatore - Maestro

He brought out a tiny stringed instrument with an even smaller bow, and he tossed it into the air.

And there it hung, and it began to play.

“Much better!” Jarlaxle said when the music drowned out the noise of ripping and tearing flesh out in the corridor, and Drizzt could only shake his head helplessly and laugh.

“Now, to the point,” Jarlaxle went on. “You understand why the dwarves so easily won?”

“The hundreds of dead might not agree with that description of the victory.”

“True enough,” Jarlaxle conceded. “Nor do I mean to minimize your own struggles, particularly with the great demons you defeated in the main chamber of the lower level. Truly that was a fight to remember. I don’t know that I have ever seen you fight better, and I have witnessed many of your battles over the years.”

“I fought with grand allies,” said Drizzt. “And that is why the dwarves won.”

“Indeed, and they would have prevailed in any case.”

“But not as easily?”

“Must I remind you of the power of a drow noble House? Surely you remember, and this was House Xorlarrin, my friend, thick with deadly wizards more than ready to send a thousand of Bruenor’s kin to the grave in short order.”

“But they did not,” said Drizzt, catching on, “because of …”

Jarlaxle smiled.

“I have known Matron Mother Zeerith most of her life,” the mercenary explained. “She is a most reasonable creature. I know that’s hard for you to believe, but I ask that you trust me on this observation.”

“You convinced her to depart, and to surrender,” Drizzt replied. He knew much of this already, from the surrender of Matron Mother Zeerith in the primordial chamber, when she had returned the Harpell prisoners and Stokely Silverstream in exchange for her own exit into the Underdark.

“Have you seen any signs of them?” Jarlaxle asked. “Of any drow?”

Drizzt shook his head.

“Why not, do you suppose? The tunnels are thick with demons-surely a matron mother of a drow House and her high priestesses could convince more than a few to go and cause havoc among the dwarves as they settle into their new home.”

“How do I know they have not?” Drizzt replied. “Demons are all around, perhaps at Matron Mother Zeerith’s behest.”

“They have not,” Jarlaxle assured him. “House Xorlarrin is far removed from this place and will honor the terms of their surrender. And yes, my friend, because of my efforts.”

“Then I lift my flagon in honor of Jarlaxle,” Drizzt said, and he did just that.

“At great expense,” Jarlaxle added.

“No doubt.”

“And now I wish something from you.”

“You did this as a requisite for a favor?” Drizzt asked. “Then truly you wound me.”

“Why did you think I did it?”

“Out of respect and friendship, I dared to hope. Was I wrong?”

Jarlaxle laughed, and now it was his turn to salute Drizzt.

“Then I ask you as a friend, and because it is the right thing to do,” Jarlaxle said after a big gulp of ale and a large bite of delicious turkey. “I need you to come with me.”

“Where?”

“Home.”

“I am home,” Drizzt said, mostly because he simply had to deny what Jarlaxle seemed to be hinting at.

“Matron Mother Baenre has reconstituted House Do’Urden.”

“They are no kin to me, no blood, and no family.”

“Of course not,” Jarlaxle agreed. “They are mostly Xorlarrins now, and my own soldiers.”

“She did it to sully my name, I expect, given the liberal use of the House name in the War of the Silver Marches. I can think of nothing more pathetic, and I hardly care.”

“Nor should you! You are far removed from that House and that city. But,” Jarlaxle said, leaning forward and prodding Drizzt with the half-eaten turkey leg to emphasize his point, “you should care about the new Matron Mother of House Do’Urden. She is someone well known to you, and someone desperately in need of your help.”

Drizzt stared at his counterpart blankly, his thoughts dancing about the decades as he tried to recall the fate of all those priestesses he had known in Menzoberranzan. The only one he could think of who would remotely satisfy Jarlaxle’s claims was his sister Vierna. But Vierna was dead, long dead, Drizzt knew all too well. He had killed her with his own blade.

“Dahlia,” Jarlaxle said, and Drizzt found it hard to breathe.

“Yes, it is true,” Jarlaxle assured the incredulous ranger.

“Dahlia is no drow!”

“She is darthiir -a surface elf, and indeed, that is the name Matron Mother Baenre has given to her. Matron Mother Darthiir Do’Urden.”

Drizzt shook his head in disbelief, stumbling over words he could not find.

“She is no more than a puppet, of course,” Jarlaxle explained. “Baenre uses her to insult the other matron mothers. Indeed, Dahlia sits on the Ruling Council, her mind too broken for her to serve as anything more than an echo for whatever Matron Mother Baenre declares. She will not survive long, of course-already, several of the other matron mothers have tried to murder her. They will succeed eventually, or Baenre will grow tired of her and will destroy her.”

“This cannot be.”

“I have no reason to lie to you,” Jarlaxle said. “Dahlia is a pitiful and broken thing, but her soul is still in her corporeal form, trapped in a web of ultimate confusion wrought upon her by Matron Mother Baenre’s pet illithid. Kimmuriel has looked inside her thoughts, and yes, I insist again, she is still in there. She understands her plight, and she is quite terrified, every moment of every day.”

“And you want me to go back to Menzoberranzan beside you to rescue her?” Drizzt asked with intonations of utter disbelief dripping from every syllable.

“I have a plan.”

“Make a better one.”

“Tiago Baenre is the weapons master of House Do’Urden,” Jarlaxle said.

The mere mention of his name brought a sneer to Drizzt’s lips, and brought another thought to him. “What of Doum’wielle?”

“Cast out by Gromph. She is alive, I believe. I have agents searching for her. I do expect that rescuing that one will be more difficult than the hunt for Dahlia. Not physically, of course, but if Dahlia is a confused soul with a battered mind, then Doum’wielle is a truly broken and fallen sort. There is not enough water washing against the Sword Coast to clean the blood from Doum’wielle’s young hands.”

Drizzt dropped a wing bone to his plate, propped his elbow on the table and put his head in his hands, staring at Jarlaxle all the while.

“Tiago will come for you again, of course,” Jarlaxle said. “His obsession is complete and undaunted. And he will bring many friends, truly powerful friends.”

“So you want me to go to him instead?”

“The look on his face alone will be worth the journey, I expect.”

“Forgive me for not agreeing with that assessment.”

“Dahlia will not survive long,” Jarlaxle said flatly. “Already, she is wearing out her usefulness to Matron Mother Baenre. Her death will be most unpleasant, if they even allow her to escape into the peace of death.”

“You have many resources at your fingertips,” Drizzt reminded him. “Why do you need me?”

“There are many reasons, but they are my own,” Jarlaxle replied. “All you need to know is that I do need you, and that we can do this. Dahlia can be free and the threat of Tiago removed. Then my psionicist friend can repair her broken mind. So I ask you as my friend to stand beside me-and yes, I offer in exchange my own work in helping your friend King Bruenor regain this place and my continuing efforts to make sure he holds it-from the drow and from the primordial. And that is no small thing.”