The Last Threshold (Neverwinter #4)(43)

The rider, Tiago Baenre, bristled and glanced to his companions, left and right, an older weapons master Jarlaxle knew as Jearth Baenre, and a younger Xorlarrin wizard. Jarlaxle actually knew the Baenre, of course, and by name, for this was a name often spoken of late, in no small part because of the shield Tiago wore and the sword he carried on his hip, both wondrous new creations of old magic. Jarlaxle tried hard not to gawk when looking at that round shield now, for it appeared to be a truly remarkable item. It was nearly translucent, as if made of ice, and with diamond sparkles within. Despite his feigned indifference, Jarlaxle couldn’t help but look more closely, for within that glassteel were lines, connecting in a definite pattern. For all intents and purposes, it looked as if a brilliantly symmetrical spider web had been trapped within the ice.

Magnificent, Jarlaxle thought but did not say. It hardly mattered, though. His expression had revealed his feelings, he realized, when he tore his gaze away and looked at Tiago to find the young warrior brimming with pride.

“You have curious taste in companions,” Tiago said, noting Athrogate.

“Aye, but I can handle the smell,” the dwarf quipped.

Tiago’s eyes flared with anger. Jarlaxle wanted to silence his friend. He also wanted to laugh out loud. Neither seemed possible at that moment.

“I am Tiago Baenre,” the young warrior proclaimed. “Grandnephew of Matron Mother Quenthel and Grandson of Weapons Master Dantrag.”

“I knew him well,” Jarlaxle replied.

“You understand why we requested this meeting with Kimmuriel,” said the spellspinner, and the mere fact that he had dared to speak without being bade so by Tiago Baenre tipped Jarlaxle off to his identity. This was young Ravel Xorlarrin then, the mage credited with leading the expedition to Gauntlgrym.

The spellspinner whom Jarlaxle’s brother Gromph had coerced into “discovering” Gauntlgrym with information Gromph had garnered from the skull gem Jarlaxle had given him.

“We have many enterprises on the surface now, and this new … settlement is a likely way station between those enterprises and Menzoberranzan,” Jarlaxle replied. “Bregan D’aerthe would have reached out to you in any case.”

“Would have?” Tiago asked slyly. “Or already have?”

“Well, I am here now,” Jarlaxle replied, not understanding the cryptic reference.

“What about the trio from Bregan D’aerthe who were here previously? Just a few tendays ago, when first we ventured to Gauntlgrym?”

Jarlaxle held up his hands as if he had no idea what they might be talking about, and in truth, he did not. “I was asked to come and greet you, and so here I am.”

“There were three here earlier who claimed to be of Bregan D’aerthe, including one darthiir who named herself your mistress,” Ravel said, using the drow word for surface elves.

“Truly?” Jarlaxle tapped a finger to his lips. “Was she lovely?”

“Darthiir!” Tiago scolded. “That is disgusting.”

Jarlaxle laughed aloud. “Not the word I would use, but for a parochial sort who has rarely traveled outside of Menzoberranzan, such might be the belief.”

“Spare me your condescension,” said Tiago.

“Condescension?” Jarlaxle echoed with feigned innocence. “More relief than condescension. With so many of my kin sharing your expressed viewpoint regarding any who are not drow, there are more delicacies for me to enjoy.”

“She was with a drow, and a human, a small and gray-skinned man,” Ravel interjected, trying to keep the discussion on track.

“A human who came to Menzoberranzan beside you long ago, so claimed Berellip Xorlarrin,” Jearth put in.

Jarlaxle tried to hide his surprise, but unsuccessfully, he feared, and even if he had managed to do so, Athrogate gasped beside him.

“So you do know this human,” Tiago remarked.

“If it is who you say, he should be long dead,” said Jarlaxle. “Did you garner his name, any of their names?” he asked, though he thought he already knew the answer. But how Artemis Entreri, if it was indeed the assassin, came to be with Drizzt and Dahlia once more was quite beyond his understanding.

“Masoj Oblodra,” Tiago replied.

“Oblodra?”

“The drow,” the young Baenre clarified. “Kin to Kimmuriel, I expect. That was the name he used, at least.”

The way he said it revealed as much as the words themselves, Jarlaxle knew. Masoj, after all, had been the mage from whom Drizzt had taken Guenhwyvar many decades before, though Masoj was surely no Oblodran. He knew now, beyond any doubt that these fools had run up against Drizzt without even realizing it.

Tiago’s dead grandfather, dead by Drizzt’s hand, surely was somewhere in the Demonweb Pits, groaning in frustration!

“We did not care enough to ask the names of the other two,” Tiago added.

“Were they or were they not of Bregan D’aerthe?” Ravel asked pointedly.

“Who can say?” Jarlaxle bluffed, and he used a bit of magic from his eyepatch to carry some weight behind the words. “We have many independent agents moving along the Sword Coast. It is possible that one or another—”

“You would know if it was your consort, as was claimed, would you not?” Tiago asked, the sharp edge of his voice showing that he believed Jarlaxle to be cornered.