Exile (The Dark Elf Trilogy #2)(25)

Drizzt didn’t find the time to answer those questions, for a second later, the stone door banged open and a group of seven elderly-judging from the extraordinary number of wrinkles crossing their faces-svirfnebli entered and fanned out around the stone chair. Drizzt recognized the apparent importance of this group, for where the guards had worn leather jacks set with mithril rings, these deep gnomes wore robes of fine material. They bustled about, inspecting Drizzt closely and chattering in their undecipherable tongue.

One svirfneblin held up Drizzt’s house emblem, which had been taken from his neck purse, and uttered, “Menzoberranzan?”

Drizzt nodded as much as his iron collar would allow, eager to strike up some kind of communication with his captors. The deep gnomes had other intentions, however. They went back to their private-and now even more excited- conversation. It went on for many minutes, and Drizzt could tell by the inflections of their voices that a couple of the svirfnebli were less than thrilled at having a dark elf prisoner from the city of their closest and most-hated enemies. By the angry tone of their arguing, Drizzt almost expected one of them to turn at any moment and slice his throat.

It didn’t happen like that, of course; deep gnomes were neither rash nor cruel creatures. One of the group did turn from the others and walk over to face Drizzt squarely. He asked, in halting but unmistakably drow language, “By the stones, dark elf, why have you come?”

Drizzt did not know how to answer that simple question. How could he even begin to explain his years of loneliness in the Underdark? Or the decision to forsake his evil people and live in accordance with his principles?

“Friend,” he replied simply, and then he shifted uncomfortably, thinking his response absurd and inadequate.

The svirfneblin, though, apparently thought otherwise. He scratched his hairless chin and considered the answer deeply. “You ... you came in to us from Menzoberranzan?” he asked, his hawklike nose crinkling as he uttered each word.

“I did,” Drizzt replied, gaining confidence.

The deep gnome tilted his head, waiting for Drizzt to extrapolate.

“I left Menzoberranzan many years ago,” Drizzt tried to explain. His eyes stared away into the past as he remembered the life he had deserted. “It was never my home.”

“Ah, but you lie, dark elf!” the svirfneblin shrieked, holding up the emblem of House Do’Urden and missing the private connotations of Drizzt’s words.

“I lived for many years in the city of the drow,” he replied quickly. “I am Drizzt Do’Urden, once the secondboy of House Do’Urden,” He looked at the emblem the svirfneblin held, stamped with the insignia of his family, and tried to explain. “Daermon N’a’shezbaernon.”

The deep gnome turned to his comrades, who began talking all at once. One of them nodded excitedly, apparently recognizing the drow house’s ancient name, which surprised Drizzt.

The deep gnome who had been questioning Drizzt tapped his fingers over his wrinkled lips, making annoying little smacking sounds while he contemplating the interrogation’s direction. “By all of our information, House Do’Urden survives,” he remarked casually, noting Drizzt’s reactions. When Drizzt did not immediately respond, the deep gnome snapped at him accusingly, “You are no rogue!”

How could the svirfnebli know that? Drizzt wondered. “I am a rogue by choice.. ,” he started to explain.

“Ah, dark elf,” the deep gnome replied, again calmly. “You are here by choice, that much I can believe. But a rogue? By the stones, dark elf-“ the deep gnome’s face contorted suddenly and fearfully-“you are a spy!” Then, suddenly, the deep gnome once again calmed and relaxed into a comfortable posture.

Drizzt eyed him carefully. Was this svirfneblin adept at such abrupt attitude changes, designed to keep a prisoner off guard? Or was such unpredictability the norm for this race? Drizzt struggled with it for a moment, trying to remember his one previous encounter with deep gnomes. But then his questioner reached into an impossibly deep pocket in his thick robes and produced a familiar figurine.

“Tell me, now tell me true, dark elf, and spare yourself much torment. What is this?” the deep gnome asked quietly.

Drizzt felt his muscles twitching again. The hunter wanted to call to Guenhwyvar, to bring the panther in so that it could tear these wrinkled old svirfnebli apart. One of them might hold the keys to Drizzt’s chains-then he would be free...

Drizzt shook the thoughts from his head and drove the hunter out of his mind. He knew the desperation of his situation and had known it from the moment he had decided to come to Blingdenstone. If the svirfnebli truly believed him a spy, they surely would execute him. Even if they were not certain of his intent, could they dare to keep him alive?

“It was folly to come here,” Drizzt whispered under his breath, realizing the dilemma he had placed upon himself and upon the deep gnomes. The hunter tried to get back into his thoughts. A single word, and the panther would appear.

“No!” Drizzt cried for the second time that day, dismissing that darker side of himself. The deep gnomes jumped back, fearing that the drow was casting a spell. A dart nicked into Drizzt’s chest, releasing a puff of gas on impact.

Drizzt swooned as the gas filled his nostrils. He heard the svirfnebli shuffling about him, discussing his fate in their foreign tongue. He saw the form of one, only a shadow, close in on him and grasp at his fingers, searching his hands for possible magical components.