Charon's Claw (Neverwinter #3)(5)

“Of course.” There was little indication of admiration in Gromph’s voice at that point. He did turn around, then, and studying the weapons master’s face, Gromph knew that Andzrel suspected that he had just been insulted. Suspected, but did not know, for that one, for all his cleverness—and he was conniving— could not appreciate the sublime calculations and patience, the simple absence of cadence that was line fishing.

“A typical pond might have ten different types of fish wriggling through its blackness,” Gromph said.

“And I would have speared them all.”

Gromph snorted at him and turned back to regard the skull gem. “You would cast your spear at whatever swam near enough to skewer. Line fishing is not so indiscriminate.” He stood up straighter and turned back to regard the weapons master, acting as if he was just realizing the curiousness of his own statement. “Even though you will see the fish you seek to impale, you will not be, in the true measure, as particular in your choice of meal as the line fisherman.”

“How can you claim such?” Andzrel asked. “Because the line fisherman will throw back any fish he deems unworthy, while I would already have slain my quarry before bringing it from the pond?”

“Because the line fisherman has already chosen the type of fish,” Gromph corrected, “in his selection of bait and placement, point and depth, of the line. Fish have preferences, and knowing those allows a wise angler to properly lay his trap.”

He turned back to the skull gem.

“Is it possible that Archmage Gromph grows more cryptic with the passing years?”

“One would hope!” Gromph replied with a glance over his shoulder, and again he saw that the nuance of his words was somewhat lost on the poor Andzrel. “Living among the folk of Menzoberranzan is often akin to line fishing, don’t you agree? Knowing the proper lures to attract and catch adversaries and allies alike.”

When he turned back to Andzrel this time, he held the skull gem in one hand, aloft before his eyes. The skull-shaped crystalline gem danced with reflections of the many candles burning in the room, and those sparkles, in turn, set Gromph’s eyes glowing.

Still the weapons master seemed as if he was in the dark regarding the archmage’s analogy, and that confirmed to Gromph that Tiago had not betrayed him.

For Andzrel did not know that Ravel Xorlarrin had looked into this very skull gem, in which the young spellspinner had gained the knowledge of the prize that he and House Xorlarrin now pursued. And Andzrel did not have any hint that Tiago had facilitated the spellspinner’s intrusion into Gromph’s private chambers at Sorcere, as a favor to the House Xorlarrin weapons master Jearth, who was one of Andzrel’s greatest rivals in the city’s warrior hierarchy.

“House Xorlarrin moves exactly as House Baenre would wish, and to a destination worth exploring,” Gromph explained clearly.

That seemed to rock Andzrel back on his heels a bit.

“Tiago is with them, by request of Matron Mother Quenthel,” Gromph continued, and Andzrel’s eyes popped open wide.

“Tiago! Why Tiago? He is my second, at my command!”

Gromph laughed at that. He had only mentioned Tiago in order to make Andzrel tremble with outrage, a sight Gromph very much enjoyed.

“If you instructed Tiago one way, and Matron Quenthel commanded him another, to whom should he offer his obedience?”

Andzrel’s face grew tight.

Of course it did, Gromph knew. Young Tiago was indeed Andzrel’s second, but that was an arrangement which few expected to hold for much longer. For Tiago had something Andzrel did not: a direct bloodline to Dantrag Baenre, the greatest weapons master in the memory of House Baenre. Tiago was Dantrag’s grandson, and thus the grandson of Yvonnel and the nephew of Gromph, Quenthel, and the rest of the noble clan. Andzrel, meanwhile, was the son of a cousin, noble still, but further removed.

To make matters worse, not a drow who had watched these two in battle thought that Andzrel could defeat Tiago in single combat—young Tiago, who was only growing stronger with the passing years.

The archmage spent a moment considering Andzrel, then recognized that he had planted the doubt and concern deeply enough—that Tiago was out with House Xorlarrin on this matter of apparent great importance would keep this one pacing his room for days.

Gromph, therefore, thought it the perfect time to change the subject.

“How well are you acquainted with Jarlaxle?”

“Of Bregan D’aerthe?” Andzrel stuttered. “I have heard of . . . not well.” He seemed at a loss with his own admission, so he quickly added, “I have met him on several occasions.”

“Jarlaxle always seems to set interesting events in motion,” said Gromph. “Perhaps this will be no different.”

“What are you saying?” the weapons master asked. “House Baenre facilitated this move by Xorlarrin?”

“Nothing of the sort. Matron Zeerith moves of her own accord.”

“But we played a role in guiding that accord?”

Gromph shrugged noncommittally.

“What do you know, Archmage?” Andzrel demanded.

Gromph replaced the skull gem on the shelf and moved back to sit down at his desk, all at a leisurely pace. When he had settled once more, he turned his attention back to his parchment and took up his quill.

“I am no commoner,” Andzrel shouted, and he stomped a heavy boot like the sharp crack of an exclamation point. “Do not treat me as such!”