The Last Threshold (Neverwinter #4)(110)

And even if I struck dead the old warlock and gained an escape from the castle, then what? How would I begin to facilitate my return to Faer?n, and what would be there for me, in any case?

None of my old friends, lost to the winds. Not Dahlia, or even Artemis Entreri. Not Guenhwyvar or Andahar.

To strike at Draygo Quick would be the ultimate act of defiance, and one made by a doomed drow.

I look at the bottles nestled in their diagonal cubbies in the wine rack now and in them I see that the promise of deadly daggers is well within my reach. Draygo Quick comes to me alone now, without guard, and even if he had his finest soldiers beside him, I have been trained to strike faster than they could possibly block. Perhaps the old warlock has magical wards enacted about him to defeat such an attack, perhaps not, but in striking so, I would be making a cry of freedom and a denial against this warlock who took so much from me, who imprisoned Guenhwyvar and cost me my companions when we came for her.

But I can only shake my head as I stare at those potential daggers, for I will not so fashion the bottles. It is not fear of Draygo Quick that stays my hand. It is not the desperation of such an act, the near surety that even if successful, I would be surely bringing about my own demise, and likely in short order.

I won’t kill him, I know.

Because I don’t want to.

And that, I fear, might be the biggest epiphany of all.

—Drizzt Do’Urden





MIGHT AS WELL DRINK



BENIAGO’S EYES IN THE CITY WERE CONSIDERABLE, OF COURSE, BUT LUSKAN was a large place, with many thousands of citizens and hundreds, at least, of visitors, particularly this time of year when the weather favored the sailing ships and the merchant trade was in full swing.

The reports filtering back to him over the last few days had caused concern for the Bregan D’aerthe agent. Drizzt had not been located, but other drow had—several, in fact. So many, in fact, that Beniago had come to wonder if Tiago and his Xorlarrin friends hadn’t created some minor invasion, or if Bregan D’aerthe had started to operate more openly, and without informing him.

After eliminating that second possibility simply by asking Jarlaxle, Beniago had gone searching for answers.

The first he found, at least, had proved somewhat confusing, but somewhat comforting as well.

“They are not allied with Tiago,” he reported to Jarlaxle.

“The group at the inn?”

Beniago nodded.

“The Xorlarrins, then,” Jarlaxle reasoned, for they already knew that there were a couple of males among the group, and of the arcane persuasion, it seemed.

But Beniago shook his head. “These are not Xorlarrins, nor from Menzoberranzan at all.”

“Then why are they here?”

“I walk in the guise of a human,” Beniago replied. “Would you have me go and ask them? And after I do, would you bury me properly back in Menzoberranzan?”

“Sarcasm,” Jarlaxle replied with a chuckle. “At last I have come to understand why I supported your ascent.”

“Our next move?”

“I will deal with these unknown dark elves presently,” Jarlaxle said. “I have word that Tiago is not in Gauntlgrym, nor are his ever-present companions, Ravel and Saribel Xorlarrin.”

“You have spies in Gauntlgrym now? I am impressed.” Beniago dipped a sarcastic bow.

“They are out hunting,” Jarlaxle explained.

“On the surface hunting Drizzt, then.”

“It would seem.”

Beniago bowed again, more seriously now, understanding his role.

“Tiago carries his new sword and shield, no doubt,” Jarlaxle said. “And is undisguised, I believe.”

“He is too vain to wrap such magnificent items, particularly since they sing of his station,” Beniago agreed.

“So find him.”

Beniago nodded and left to do just that.





“Aye, but she’s a tough life out there on the waves,” the crusty old dwarf, Deamus McWindingbrook, explained. He grabbed his belly as he finished and let fly a great belch.

Ambergris giggled. “I been aboard, ye dope,” she replied. “I seen the water, and naught but the water, through the whole o’ me turn and to the curve o’ the horizon.”

“Not many of our kin and kind who’d take to that sight,” remarked a third dwarf at the table, younger than the crusty old graybeard, but looking much like him both in weathering and because he was the other’s son—Stuvie by name. He wore a blue cap, flopped over to one side, while his father wore a similar stocking cap of red. The younger’s beard was yellow, as the older dwarf’s had been not so long ago, before the salt and the sun and the years had turned it.

“Sailed to Baldur’s Gate,” Ambergris explained. She almost added in the rest of the itinerary, but wisely cut herself short, for she didn’t want to give too many clues as to her previous visit to the city. She wasn’t even using her name, appropriating instead the name of her cousin, Windy O’Maul.

Cavus Dun might be looking for her, after all, or worse, Draygo Quick.

And so it was that a journey out on the open seas seemed a fine idea to the dwarf at that time.

“Bah, Baldur’s Gate’s an easy sail,” scoffed the younger of the McWindingbrooks.