Bruenor stared at him, still puzzled.
“Your hesitance frightens me,” the dark elf said.
“No,” Bruenor answered. “But might be that he’s come close. Why’re ye caring?”
“Curiosity.”
The dwarf didn’t buy that, of course. “Been other things, too,” Bruenor said. “Drizzt ain’t one for the towns anymore. When we’re settling for the winter, in Port Llast, or in Neverwinter afore she fell, or even with a barbarian tribe, he’s not one to stay about—uncomfortable in the company. Maybe now he’d be happy in Neverwinter.”
“Because there’s always someone, or something, to fight in the ruins,” Jarlaxle said.
“Aye.”
“He relishes battle.”
“Never shied from it. So speak it out, elf. What’s on yer mind about this?”
“I told you: curiosity,” Jarlaxle replied, and he looked at the apartment door once again.
“Then go ask him yerself, and ye might be gettin’ better answers,” the dwarf offered.
Jarlaxle shook his head. “I have other business to attend to this night,” he said.
The drow mercenary turned, shook his head, and skipped back down the stairs.
Bruenor moved to the railing and watched him go, though the crafty Jarlaxle was quickly out of sight. The dwarf found himself thinking about that conversation for a long while, though, and not so much about why Jarlaxle might have inquired in such a way about Drizzt, but the implications of the dark elf’s legitimate concerns.
He could hardly remember the old Drizzt anymore, Bruenor realized, the drow who took battle with a shrug of inevitability and a smile on his face, both in confidence and in the knowledge that he was acting in accord with his heart. He had seen the change in Drizzt. His smile had become something more … wicked, less an expression of the acceptance of the necessity of a fight but more a look of pure enjoyment.
And only then did Bruenor realize how many years had passed since he had seen the old Drizzt.
When he entered the subterranean chamber that had once belonged to Arklem Greeth and Valindra, Jarlaxle was not surprised to learn that he was not alone.
Dahlia sat comfortably in a chair, eyeing him.
“You did well with the ring,” the drow said with a bow.
“Its nature was revealed to me the moment I put it on.”
“Still, be not so humble. Few could use the projected image to such effectiveness. Your minions did not even suspect that it was not really you at the door.”
“And you?”
“Had I not known of the ring, I would never have suspected,” he replied, holding out his hand.
Dahlia looked at him, at his hand, but didn’t move.
“I would like my ring,” Jarlaxle said.
“It is empty of its spell now.”
“And can be recharged.”
“That is my hope,” Dahlia replied, still making no move to return the item.
Jarlaxle retracted his hand. “I had confidence that you would use the ring. Your distaste for Sylora Salm remains strong, I see.”
“No stronger than hers for me.”
“She is jealous of your elf’s youth. She will be old and ugly while you remain beautiful.”
Dahlia waved that thought away as if it didn’t matter, indicating to Jarlaxle that her feud with Sylora was rooted in far deeper things than physical appearance.
“You have decided to abandon her cause all together, then,” Jarlaxle reasoned.
“I did not say that.”
“You don’t wear Szass Tam’s brooch.”
Dahlia looked down at her blouse, where the brooch had usually been set.
“You may be able to lie your way out of your actions at the Cutlass,” Jarlaxle said, “but I doubt this breach of etiquette will be accepted. Szass Tam takes such things seriously. In any case, you’ll never convince Sylora to excuse your limited role in the fight at the Cutlass.”
The elf woman stared hard at him.
“So you have crossed through a one-way door,” Jarlaxle finished. “There is no turning back for you now, Dahlia. You have abandoned Sylora Salm. You have abandoned Szass Tam. You have abandoned Thay.”
“I can only hope all three of them think me dead.”
Jarlaxle spent a few moments looking Dahlia over, trying to get a read of her intentions. But she was a hard one to decipher. Overlaying her obvious charms was a layer of coldness, a perpetual guard against stray emotions. It occurred to him that she would make a good drow.
“And now where, Lady Dahlia?”
Dahlia looked at him, her eyes dark and serious. “Who is your drow friend?”
“I have many.”
“The one in the bar,” Dahlia clarified. “I watched the fight. Briefly. He is a true two-handed fighter, even by drow standards.”
“Athrogate would take offense at your singling out of the drow.”
“The dwarf is a different matter. What he lacks in ability he covers with brute force. There is little grace to his dance, and while he is no doubt dangerous, that drow is far more skilled with his blades than Athrogate is with his morningstars.”
“Truly,” Jarlaxle agreed. “He could have been among the greatest of weapons masters Menzoberranzan ever knew, as was his father.”
“Who is he?”
Jarlaxle looked away, imagining he could see Drizzt in the distance at that very moment. “He is the one who escaped,” he said.
“From?”
He looked back at her directly. “From his heritage. His name is Drizzt Do’Urden, and he is welcomed in Waterdeep and Silverymoon alike …”
Dahlia stopped him with an upraised hand. “So that is the one they call Drizzt,” she said. “I suspected as much.”
“He has earned his reputation, I assure you.”
“And you are his friend?”
“More than he would admit, perhaps, or at least, more than he might understand.”
Dahlia looked at him curiously, and indeed, when he reflected on that look, Jarlaxle, too, found himself a bit surprised.
“Why?” Dahlia asked, a simple question rooted in deep and complex emotions.
“Because he is the one who escaped,” Jarlaxle answered.
Dahlia paused, nodding, then asked, “And his dwarf friend?”
“King Bruenor Battlehammer of Mithral Hall, though now he travels under an alias. He abdicated his throne to find that which we have already visited.”
“So you mean to use that to trick him to accompany you on your return to Gauntlgrym, for of course, you mean to return.”
“Yes … no, I mean, and yes to the end. I do not mean to trick them. I mean to tell them. I already have, in fact.”
“And they will run into the arms of an awakening primordial?”
“They are possessed of too much honor for their own sakes, I fear,” Jarlaxle said with a wry grin. That smile disappeared, though, replaced by a very serious expression as he added, “And you?”
“What of me?”
“You have betrayed Sylora Salm, Szass Tam, and Thay herself.”
“Your words, not mine.”
“You used the ring to run away. But the Dahlia I know relishes the thrill of the fight.”
“The Dahlia you know stays alive because she’s careful and smart.”
“But perhaps not so much where Sylora is concerned.”
“You fancy yourself as perceptive, I expect,” she replied.
“You accepted the ring, and you used it. You betrayed Sylora when it most counted. Perhaps the arrival of Dahlia—not the image of Dahlia, but the actual warrior—would have changed the outcome of the fight in the Cutlass. Yet you chose not to finish your mission.”
“What do you know of my mission?”
“That you were sent here to see if any would respond to the growing earthquakes,” Jarlaxle replied without hesitation. “To learn if I meant to return to Gauntlgrym.”
Dahlia grinned.
“Well, now you know,” the drow said. “I do, and I am not without allies.”
“Should I go tell Sylora as much?”
“I expect she will know soon enough, since some of your Ashmadai minions escaped the tavern.”
“You know of the Ashmadai?”
Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth.
“The tunnels have collapsed,” Dahlia said, changing the subject. “There is no way back to Gauntlgrym.”
“I know a way,” Jarlaxle said.
Dahlia’s blue eyes flashed for just a moment before she fully suppressed her intrigue.
“And I will lead you there,” the drow said, revealing to her that he had seen her slip.
“You presume much.”
“And yet I presume correctly. What gain is there for you to pretend otherwise? In the end, and soon, you will be walking beside me and my friends to the halls of Gauntlgrym.”
Dahlia came out of her chair in a hurry, standing strong and taking up her eight-foot staff.
“You already gave me your answer when you used the ring,” Jarlaxle said.
Dahlia put on a pensive expression, but she was nodding.
“Why?” Jarlaxle asked. “This is hardly the easiest course for you.”
“If the primordial is contained and cannot spew its calamity, Sylora’s Dread Ring will fail,” Dahlia replied. “She will not gain the upper hand in her battle with the Netherese.”
“You are fond of the Netherese?”
Dahlia’s eyes flashed again, with obvious, unbridled fury.
“I share your contempt for them,” Jarlaxle was quick to add. He eyed Dahlia carefully. “But your contempt for Sylora is no less profound.”
“Szass Tam will blame her for the failure of the Dread Ring.”
“You would like that.”
“It would be among the greatest pleasures of my life.”
“So that you could return to Szass Tam in a position of power?”
Again Dahlia’s eyes flashed, and Jarlaxle realized he’d missed the mark badly with that line of reasoning. It was true, then, he knew. In using the ring, the out, he had given her, Dahlia had seized the opportunity to free herself of not only Sylora, but the lich lord of Thay himself. Perhaps their wretched fascination with death had offended her sensibilities, or perhaps she’d just come to rightly conclude that those who followed Szass Tam were destined to perpetual subjugation, always to be followers, never leaders.
Those were possibilities Jarlaxle intended to explore.
“We should leave soon for Gauntlgrym,” he said. “Before word has reached Sylora. Before she can rally her minions against us.”
“And when she does, we will kill them,” Dahlia replied. “Perhaps this drow, Drizzt, will show me that his reputation is well-earned.”
Jarlaxle smiled at that, not a doubt in his mind.
“We should leave at once,” Jarlaxle told the trio when he returned to them soon after. “Some of those who would stop us have fled the city, spreading word far and wide of our intentions, no doubt.”
“We’re not knowin’ enough, by yer own words!” Bruenor argued. “Where to put the durned bowls?”