Charon's Claw (Neverwinter #3)(10)

She seemed to understand that as she sat among this group, eagerly rolling her weapon, which she had lovingly named Skullbreaker, in her strong hands. The mace reached nearly four feet in length, its core polished hardwood, handle wrapped in black leather, its weighted end intermittently wrapped with thick rings of black metal. She could deftly wield it with one hand, or could take it up in both and bat the skull from a skeleton out of sight. She carried a small buckler, easily maneuverable so it wouldn’t hinder her frequent shifts from one hand to two on the weapon.

“Perhaps you would do well to remain silent,” Ratsis answered sternly. Ambergris took it with a shrug; had she supported his position here, no doubt Jermander would have turned on her with equal discipline.

“True enough,” the tiefling monk Parbid remarked. “Ambergris thinks herself special because she’s one of a thousand among us due to her heritage, and one of ten thousand when you add in her gender. One would think that by now she would have come to understand that her specialness is a matter of curiosity and nothing more.”

“Unfair, brother,” said the other monk, Afafrenfere. “She fights well and her healing prowess has helped us greatly.”

“Won’t be helpin’ yer devil-blooded partner anytime soon,” Ambergris muttered under her breath, but loud enough for all to hear.

“Perhaps she will be of use in interrogating any of her filthy kin we catch along our trails,” Parbid answered Afafrenfere.

“The dwarf ’s point is well taken,” Jermander interjected to get things back to the point. “The Shifter will demand three full shares, though her work will be no more grueling, and surely less dangerous, given her ability to escape anyone’s grasp, than our own.”

“We’ll offer her two shares, then,” Ratsis calmly replied, and Jermander nodded. “Are we all agreed?” Ratsis asked.

Ambergris stamped her foot, crossed her arms over her chest, and stubbornly shook her head, though of course, she did not have a full vote as she was not fully of the Shadovar. When Ratsis’s skeptical expression conveyed exactly that, the dwarf retreated a bit and began fiddling with the string of black pearls she wore around her neck, cursing under her breath.

The two monks stood resolutely and shook their heads with a unified “nay,” countering Ratsis and Jermander, who both voted “aye.”

All eyes turned to the back of the camp, where a broad-shouldered woman and a fat tiefling male sat on stones. The woman sharpened her sword. The tiefling man wrapped new strands of red leather around the handle of his great flail. With every twist of leather, the weapon jerked and the heavy spiked ball, the size of a large man’s head, bobbed at the end of its four-foot chain.

“Ye do what ye need doin’,” the tiefling, who was called simply Bol, replied.

“Two and a half to two, then,” Ambergris said with grin.

But the sword-woman quite unexpectedly chimed in with “Get the Shifter,” as soon as the dwarf had made the claim. All eyes fell on her. It was the first time any of them had heard her speak, and she had been with this hunting band for tendays. They didn’t even know her name, and to a one had referred to her as Horrible, or “Whore-o-Bol” as Ambergris had tagged it, a nickname that hadn’t seemed to bother her, and one that had merely amused the slobbering Bol.

Or maybe it had bothered her, Ratsis mused as he looked from the woman to the dwarf, to recognize some true animosity between them. And that animosity had likely elicited the response.

“Three to two and a half, then,” Jermander said, pulling Ratsis back into the conversation.

“Call it four, then!” Bol added. “If me Horrible’s wanting it, then so be it.”

“So what was to be a seventh-split will be a ninth,” Parbid grumbled.

“Shouldn’t you and your brother be out scouting for Dahlia and the drow, as we agreed?” Ratsis replied. “And if you happen upon them, do feel free to take them, and in that event, you two may split Effron’s gold evenly between you.”

Parbid and Afafrenfere exchanged looks, their expressions both doubtful and intrigued, as if they might just call Ratsis on his bluff.

Jermander, meanwhile, cast a less-than-enthusiastic gaze Ratsis’s way and held the look as the two monks trotted off.

“Let them try,” Ratsis explained. “Then we’ll be back to seventh shares, even considering the expensive services of the Shifter.”

Jermander snorted and didn’t seem overly bothered by that possibility.

Drizzt crouched a few steps away from the trunk of the large pine tree, beneath the bending thick branches that had served as his and Dahlia’s shelter for the night. He saw the coating of white between the pine needles, and he stood straighter, pulling apart a pair of the branches. The first snow had indeed fallen that night, coating the ground in glistening white under the rays of the morning sun.

With the light peeking into their natural bedroom, the drow glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping Dahlia. A single ray touched her check, but no war woad shimmered there. Dahlia had worn her softer look again that night, after a long and uncomfortable silence had trailed the couple throughout the day on the heels of their earlier argument. Her hair was back in the soft shoulder bob, her face clear and smooth.

It was the look Drizzt far preferred, and Dahlia knew that.

Dahlia knew that.