Gauntlgrym (Neverwinter #1)(75)

“The reawakening of the beast could prove costly to Bregan D’aerthe,” Jarlaxle admitted. “And as such, I would pay well to keep the primordial in its hole.”

Gromph looked up, and Jarlaxle felt as if his older brother was looking right through him—a sensation Jarlaxle Baenre hadn’t often felt in his long life.

“You’re angry,” the archmage said. “You wish to repay the Thayan for making you one of her lackeys. You speak of profit, Jarlaxle, but your desires serve your pride.”

“You’re a better mage than philosopher, Brother.”

“I told you how to entrap the primordial, years ago.”

“The bowls, yes,” Jarlaxle replied. “And the lever. But I am no wizard.”

“Nor are you a Delzoun dwarf,” Gromph said with a chuckle. “Yet there are few in the world more adept with magical implements than you. These bowls should pose little challenge to one of your skill.”

Jarlaxle stared at him doubtfully, and it took the wizard some time to catch on.

“Ah,” Gromph said at long last. “You have no desire to return to Gauntlgrym, yourself.”

Jarlaxle half-shrugged, but otherwise didn’t respond.

“Doesn’t Bregan D’aerthe have a few soldiers to spare?”

Jarlaxle continued to stare at his brother.

“I see,” said Gromph. “So you do not wish to risk your own assets in this endeavor. As I said, it is a matter of pride, not expense.”

Jarlaxle could only smile. Gromph, among all drow, was not one Jarlaxle thought it wise to try to deceive. “Both, perhaps,” he admitted.

“Good, now that we’ve taken care of that bit of nonsense, what do you wish of me? Surely you do not believe I will go to this Gauntlgrym place and do battle on your behalf against a primordial.” His smirk reinforced his remark. “Do you expect I’ve managed to survive these centuries because I’m foolish enough to allow any amount of gold to tempt me into battle against such a creature?”

“You indicated that the creature need not be faced directly.”

“You would need a primordial of water to do it for you, or a god, if you could find one available.”

Jarlaxle bowed, conceding the point. “I wish only to put the primordial back in its hole—back to sleep, if you will, as it was before that Thayan witch and her vampire lackey coerced Athrogate into releasing it.”

“As it was before? You do realize, I hope, that even before your smelly little companion pulled the lever and freed the water elementals, thus freeing the primordial, the magic was waning. The fall of the Hosttower of the Arcane cannot be undone by any magic known in this day.”

“I understand,” Jarlaxle replied. “But I would accept even that weakened prison if it would delay the beast’s release long enough to bleed the rest of what I can from Luskan.”

“Really? Or long enough to spite the Thayan witch by denying her her Dread Ring.”

“We’ll call that an added benefit.”

Gromph laughed—not a wicked chuckle, but an actual burst of laughter, and that was something rarely heard in Menzoberranzan.

“I told you how to do it,” the archmage said. “Ten bowls, no less, and their slaves re-gathered. When that is done, seal them with the lever.”

“I don’t know where to place them,” Jarlaxle admitted.

“But you have them?”

“I do.”

“I’m not going with you, nor do I have the minions to spare to accompany you on your journey. I value them more than you value the fodder of your mercenary army. By Lolth, have that wretched psionic creature of yours carry this out. He walks through stone as easily as you move through water.”

“Kimmuriel is unavailable,” Jarlaxle explained.

Gromph looked at him curiously, and soon enough a grin widened on the archmage’s face. “You haven’t told them, have you?” he asked. “None of them.”

“Bregan D’aerthe is rarely in Luskan anymore,” Jarlaxle replied. “With the coming of the Spellplague, there are so many other—”

“None of them!” Gromph roared, seeming quite pleased with himself, and he snickered all the more.

Jarlaxle could only sigh and take it, for the wise old mage had of course guessed the truth of it. Jarlaxle had not told Kimmuriel or any of his lieutenants of Bregan D’aerthe, had told no one other than Gromph himself, what had transpired in Gauntlgrym.

“Ah, your pride, Jarlaxle,” the archmage scolded, and he kept laughing but then stopped abruptly and added, “But I’m still not going to Gauntlgrym, nor do I have any soldiers to lend to you.”

Jarlaxle didn’t respond, but didn’t turn to leave, even though Gromph lowered his eyes to the glass and parchment and resumed his work. Only after many heartbeats did the archmage look up again. “What is it?”

Jarlaxle reached into a pouch and produced the skull gem.

“You brought that idiot back here?” asked an annoyed Gromph, who recognized the phylactery of Arklem Greeth. Gromph had interviewed the insane lich at great lengths over the course of many months back when Jarlaxle had first come to him to try to garner information about the freed primordial and the diminishing magic of the Hosttower.

“The primordial awakens,” Jarlaxle said, and he seemed back in control then, back on balance after Gromph’s biting observations. “I’ll not have it. Speak to Greeth again, I pray you—and yes, I will pay you, too. I would know the best way to find Gauntlgrym again, and of how to proceed once I do.”