Gauntlgrym (Neverwinter #1)(83)

Devand argued no more and departed to get some rest, leaving Dahlia alone in her small room at the inn. She paced about, moving to the one dirty window, and peered out over the City of Sails.

“Where are you, Jarlaxle?” she whispered.





A DROW AND A DWARF


YE KNOWED IT WAS HIM ALL ALONG,” BRUENOR CONCLUDED WHEN IT became obvious that Drizzt intended to follow the thief’s trail all the way to the City of Sails.

“I knew it was a drow who raided our camp,” Drizzt said.

“I telled ye that.”

Drizzt nodded. “And I knew he wanted us to follow him. The trail he left was far too obvious.”

“He was in a hurry,” Bruenor argued, but Drizzt shook his head. “Got to be him, then,” the dwarf muttered, and when Drizzt didn’t reply, he added, “Wantin’ us to follow him, eh?” He glanced over at Drizzt, who nodded.

“He won’t be wantin’ that when I find the rat,” Bruenor declared, and shook his fist in the air.

Drizzt just smiled and turned his thoughts away as Bruenor launched into a typical tirade, promising all sorts of pain upon the thief for stealing his treasured maps.

And Drizzt was certain the thief was Jarlaxle, or someone working for him. Jarlaxle, above all others, knew of Bruenor’s passion for Gauntlgrym, and whoever had raided the camp had come specifically for those maps, had waited until the exact moment when they were most vulnerable.

But why? Why would Jarlaxle reach out to them in such a manner?

Drizzt considered the mountains towering over them to the north, and expected that they would make Luskan the next day, probably before the midday meal.

They camped that night by the side of the road, their rest undisturbed until very early in the morning, when the ground began to tremble and shake.



“The way is blocked,” a voice said from the side, and Dahlia spun, surprised indeed.

“Jarlaxle,” she mouthed, though she couldn’t really see the drow in the shadows of an alley.

“Your scouts tell you truthfully. The way to Gauntlgrym is no more, from crumbling Luskan at least.”

Dahlia moved slowly, trying to gain a view of the dark elf. It was indeed Jarlaxle’s voice—melodic and harmonious, as would be expected of an elf, particularly a cultured dark elf—but the truth of it was that Dahlia only guessed it was he. She hadn’t heard Jarlaxle’s voice in a decade, and even then.…

“I know you,” the voice said. “I know your heart. I trust you will find a proper use for this when the opportunity presents itself.”

“What do you mean?” the elf asked, and when no reply came forth, even after she asked again, Dahlia rushed down the alley to the spot where she estimated the drow had been standing.

On an empty, overturned cask she found a cloth, and on the cloth, a small box, and in the small box, a glass ring.

She closed the box and wrapped it in the cloth before stuffing it into a pouch, and all the while, she glanced up and down the alley, surveyed the roofline, searching for some clue, any clue.

“Jarlaxle?” she whispered again, but it occurred to Dahlia then just how ridiculous her hopes truly were, just how much she had allowed herself to fantasize about something so very unlikely.

She rushed out of the alley and down the garbage-strewn street toward the inn and her room, thinking then that her encounter had more likely been with an agent of Sylora.

For the Thayan sorceress would ever test her, and never trust her, and woe to Dahlia if ever Sylora found her loyalty to be less than absolute.



No matter how many times they approached Luskan from that direction, Drizzt and Bruenor always paused on the same hill south of the city’s southern gate to take in the view of the harbor. Though other ports like Waterdeep and Calimport had far larger docks, longer wharves, and always had more ships in port, nowhere was there to be found such a diversity of sailing vessels as in the so-called City of Sails. They might have been the dregs of the Sword Coast—pirates, smugglers, and only the most daring merchants—ruffians who outfitted their vessels ad-hoc, with sails of stitched clothing and maybe a catapult that had been designed for a castle’s tower strapped onto the aft deck for good measure.

Coastrunners bobbed against the shallower docks, with rows of oars standing skyward. Single-mast schooners and square-sailed caravels dominated the second tier of docks, with many more open-moored farther out, and a trio of three-mast vessels, large and wide, were moored near the outermost docks.

The City of Sails indeed—though Drizzt couldn’t help but note that though those ships were in port, there were fewer in all than he remembered.

“Our friend better be here,” Bruenor grumbled, stealing the moment. “And better have me maps. Every one, and don’t ye think I’ll not know if even one’s missin’!”

“We’ll know soon enough,” Drizzt promised.

“We’ll know now,” Bruenor growled in reply.

“Jarlaxle, tomorrow,” Drizzt promised, and started down the road toward the city. “The hour is late. Let us find an inn for the night and shake off the dirt of the road.”

Bruenor started to argue, but stopped short and shot Drizzt a glance and a grin. “The Cutlass?” the dwarf said, almost reverently, for what a grand history those two, particularly Drizzt, had with that establishment.