COMPETING SELF-INTERESTS
WITH THE SUN HIGH IN THE SKY, DORWYLLAN WATCHED THE LONG procession winding down the road below his perch on the side of a steep hill. Ramshackle carts pulled by haggard donkeys and painfully thin horses and cows bobbed by on uneven, wobbly wheels.
More women than men drove those carts, and more elderly folk than young—except for the very young. Children raced around from cart to cart, wagon to wagon, playing fanciful games of great imagined adventures. Looking at the sullen faces of the drivers, Dorwyllan understood that their parents desperately hoped that any such adventures remained imagined.
They answered the call of good farmer Stuyles, and several of his agents were among the caravan ranks. Winter was letting go finally, the roads clearing, and Stuyles had sent wagons north to the farmlands outside of Luskan, spreading the word for the folk to join in the tenday-long journey to Port Llast, to a new home.
And indeed, Port Llast was thriving, compared to the previous autumn. With the help of Drizzt and his friends, and the reinforcements from the band of highwaymen, the citizens had reclaimed the city all the way to the sea, and a new wall was nearly complete, one battered more by the high tide than by any sahuagin activity. The catapults along the cliff faces had been repaired and were well-manned … or well half-ogred, as the case might be. And best of all, a dozen boats were now seaworthy once more, and a plentiful harvest was to be found within the harbor, within the protection offered by the grenadiers on the wall.
Just a couple of months before, Dorwyllan had explained to Drizzt that he had remained in the dying town of Port Llast merely out of loyalty to the stubborn and stoic townsfolk, and his answer had clearly shown his sincere belief that the town was in her last days. But now the recollection of that answer, of those doubts, almost embarrassed the elf.
And here before him came new citizens, and the bustle of children playing would once again fill the lanes of Port Llast, and truly that was a sound Dorwyllan had never expected would return to the battle-scarred, bloodstained city.
“If they get there,” the elf reminded himself, and scolded himself as he turned his attention back to the winding road north of the procession. They had many days before them, but none would be more dangerous than these first steps, Dorwyllan feared. He put his hand over his eyes and squinted to the north, imagining the uneven skyline of Luskan. The high captains of that city had abandoned these people, it was true, but Dorwyllan doubted that those same high captains would tolerate reciprocal treatment.
The elf let the procession get beyond his position, rolling down to the south, then took up his bow and moved out to the north, scouting the road.
Before the sun had fallen halfway to the horizon, he had his bow out and leveled at a group of four riders, Luskar garrison, trotting their horses easily to the south.
Dorwyllan chewed his lip, unsure. Did they know of the quiet exodus? If so, had they sent word back to the north?
He put up his bow when another group of riders approached, galloping down from the north. They met and exchanged some words, and the elf understood when the combined group, now ten strong, moved off swiftly to the south.
Dorwyllan shadowed them, running along the high ground, a straighter path than the winding road.
When the sun dipped below the western horizon, the winter’s twilight settled deep, and several campfires appeared far to the south. Dorwyllan doubted that the riders on the road below could see those, as they, too, paused and lit torches of their own.
Dorwyllan put his horn to his lips and blew a long and mournful note.
A few heartbeats later, that call was answered from the south.
The elf looked to the road, where the Luskar patrol milled around, some pointing up in his general direction. He wasn’t overly worried, though, for these seafaring deck-swabbers would never find him in the forest night.
Nor did they care to try, apparently, and Dorwyllan took that as a hopeful sign that the pirate fools had no idea that the horn exchange had been a warning to the caravan of their approach, that one note had spoken of less than ten soldiers, and that the people of the caravan would be quite ready for their arrival.
“Ever has that one drawn much attention,” Gromph remarked with obvious amusement.
“He is not hard to find,” Kimmuriel replied.
“You have Jarlaxle continually seeking him out.”
Kimmuriel nodded, conceding the point. “But you speak with Jarlaxle nearly as often as I do.” The psionicist had almost referred to Jarlaxle as “your brother,” but had wisely redirected. “I have often wondered why the archmage doesn’t simply go find the renegade and be done with him, once and for all. Surely Drizzt Do’Urden would prove of little trouble to one of your magical prowess.”
“Surely.”
“Then why?”
“Why hasn’t Bregan D’aerthe?” Gromph replied. “Would not the grand trophy of Drizzt Do’Urden’s head elevate your standing, and your prices?”
“Jarlaxle,” Kimmuriel replied without hesitation. “He long ago determined that Drizzt was not our concern, and forbade any of us from seeking him out for the purposes of collecting a trophy.”
“And why do you suppose that is?”
“Personal friendship, likely,” Kimmuriel replied. “Ever has that been Jarlaxle’s prime weakness.”
“More than that,” Gromph remarked.
“Then why not you for this mission? You could find him and be rid of him.”
“To what end?”
“The trophy.”
“I am Archmage of Menzoberranzan, and have been so for longer than you have been alive. I have all the riches, all the power, all the luxuries, all the time, and all the freedom any male in Menzoberranzan could ever expect. What gain would the death of Drizzt afford me?”
“He has killed members of your family.”
“So have I.”
Kimmuriel was not a mirthful sort, of course, but he almost broke out in laughter at the manner in which Gromph responded, so matter-of-factly, so evenly, that such events seemed a foregone conclusion, which of course they were among the great Houses of Menzoberranzan.
“Are you fond of him?” the psionicist asked.
“I do not know him and do not wish to.”
“Then of his legacy?” Kimmuriel pressed. “I am quite certain that Jarlaxle admires this warrior from House Do’Urden for his escape from the clawing priestesses of Menzoberranzan.”
“Then Jarlaxle is a fool who should keep his feelings well-hidden,” Gromph replied—and warned, not so subtly pointing out to Kimmuriel that he was going down a dangerous road here. “Queen Lolth desires chaos, and so Drizzt serves Lolth’s purpose, if not Lolth herself.”
Kimmuriel found himself surprised that Gromph had so openly admitted that which had been whispered throughout the First House since the fall of Matron Mother Baenre to the axe of Drizzt’s dwarf friend a century and more ago. He understood then that he wasn’t going to get any further with Gromph along this line of probing, and he knew better than to keep pressing a drow as powerful as the Archmage of Menzoberranzan.
“Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre will not be so casual regarding Drizzt Do’Urden when her favored grand-nephew is returned to her on a slab,” Kimmuriel said instead, bringing the conversation back to where it had started: with Tiago’s revelations about, and his desire to hunt, Drizzt Do’Urden.
“Do not underestimate that one,” said Gromph.
“Neither,” Kimmuriel reminded. “But while I am unconvinced of the capabilities of Tiago Baenre’s announced entourage, these two Xorlarrin waifs Saribel and Ravel, I can assure you that Drizzt has surrounded himself with formidable allies.”
“Tiago is young and eager,” Gromph replied. “He will likely alter his course soon enough.”
“The trail is hot,” Kimmuriel said.
“Then make it cold,” Gromph replied, exactly the words the psionicist had wanted to hear.
Kimmuriel had quietly sought a large agreement with some Netherese lords, and Jarlaxle had already sent word back from Shade Enclave that these particular lords, led by one named Parise Ulfbinder, had inquired of Drizzt and were showing a rather curious interest in the rogue. Jarlaxle had offered no insight into the matter, and Kimmuriel couldn’t sort it out, either, particularly regarding whether or not they saw Drizzt Do’Urden as an enemy or an ally.
Caution and good sense told Kimmuriel that a confrontation now between Tiago and Drizzt might not be good for business, however it might end.
Now he had Gromph’s blessing to do what he thought best, insulating him and Bregan D’aerthe from the potential wrath of the First House.