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?”