The Last Threshold (Neverwinter #4)(46)

“It remains preliminary,” Jarlaxle replied. “Many know of the place now, so it is likely that the Xorlarrins will find trials yet to come.”

“Aye, not many dwarfs thinking to let the durned drow have Gauntlgrym for their own,” Athrogate put in, and both dark elves glanced at him, Jarlaxle’s amusement clear on his face, Kimmuriel’s not so much.

“There will be a lot of dead dwarves then,” Kimmuriel said dryly, and he turned back to Jarlaxle, visually dismissing the foolish dwarf. “This settlement will validate our surface concerns.”

“It will surely allow us greater access to the drow marketplace, since it is an easier journey by far than Menzoberranzan,” Jarlaxle agreed. “A pity that we have so abandoned the nearer points.”

“Luskan,” Kimmuriel said, and with clear annoyance, for he and Jarlaxle had argued quite vehemently over the disposition of the City of Sails. Jarlaxle had wanted Bregan D’aerthe to remain significant among the high captains who ruled the city, but Kimmuriel, his sights set elsewhere, had overruled him.

“Come now, my cerebral friend,” Jarlaxle said. “You see the value of Luskan now, more clearly. You can deny that truth, but not with any conviction. We need to go back there in force, and become again the quiet power behind the high captains. I would be happy to lead that effort.”

“Yes,” Kimmuriel agreed, and Jarlaxle tipped his hat, grinning until Kimmuriel added, “and no.”

“You presume much.” Jarlaxle didn’t hide his anger.

“Shall I remind you of the terms of our partnership?” Kimmuriel was quick to reply.

“Bregan D’aerthe is not yours alone.”

Kimmuriel bowed in deference to Jarlaxle, and that action muted much of Jarlaxle’s building anger. Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel shared the leadership of Bregan D’aerthe, but for the sake of the band, Kimmuriel could assume control whenever Jarlaxle’s other interests—notably, the many friends, including a fair number of iblith, or non-drow, he kept on the surface—conflicted with what, in Kimmuriel’s judgment, was best for the mercenary band. Ever logical and driven by the purest pragmatism, Kimmuriel would never use this agreement beyond its intended scope.

Kimmuriel had witnessed the exchange with Tiago and the others in the bowels of Gauntlgrym, and so he understood the true desire behind Jarlaxle’s gracious offer to lead Bregan D’aerthe back to the City of Sails, and so, indeed, Kimmuriel’s invoking of their agreement was entirely proper regarding the interests of Bregan D’aerthe. Jarlaxle had done well in selecting this brilliant lieutenant to serve in his stead.

Too well, perhaps.

“We have possibilities with a collection of Netherese lords in Shade Enclave,” Kimmuriel said. “They are quite interested in facilitating an underground trade network.”

“Shade Enclave?” Jarlaxle muttered. He had never been to the place, in what had been the desert of Anauroch before the Spellplague and the great upheavals that had so changed the land.

“You would be the perfect facilitator,” Kimmuriel said. “In your efforts against the primordial, you delivered a great blow to the minions of Thay, as these lords are aware. They will be pleased to meet you and begin the negotiations.”

“What of Luskan?”

“I will deal with Luskan.”

“You should speak with the Baenres.”

“I already have.”

They will lose their prized young weapons master, Jarlaxle’s fingers flashed.

I will see to it, came Kimmuriel’s cryptic response.

Jarlaxle did well to hide his frustration with this drow who always seemed one step ahead of everyone else—at least he thought he had hidden it until he realized that he hadn’t enacted the psychic shields afforded by his eyepatch and Kimmuriel was probably fully reading his mind.

“Shade Enclave, then,” Jarlaxle said.

Kimmuriel stepped into the shadows and was gone.

“Where’s this place?” Athrogate asked. “Me bum’s already starting to hurt.”

“Oh, it will hurt from riding,” Jarlaxle replied, still staring at the now-diminishing shadows. “A thousand miles to the east.”

“Right in the empire, then.”

“The heart of the Empire of Netheril,” Jarlaxle explained.

They summoned their mounts, nightmare and hell boar, and started away.

They rode easily, as usual, at a steady and consistent pace, trotting more than galloping though neither of their summoned mounts would tire.

“Ye think it really was him?” Athrogate asked as the sun lowered in the sky behind them.

“Who?”

“Ah, but don’t ye play clever with me,” the dwarf demanded. “I’m knowin’ ye too well for that.”

“Then it might be time for me to kill you.”

“Too well for that joke to be anything more than a joke, too,” said the dwarf. “So do ye think it really was Artemis Entreri?”

“I don’t know,” Jarlaxle admitted. “He should be long dead, but even in those last years, it seemed to me that he wasn’t aging as a normal human might. He certainly wasn’t losing his edge in battle, at least.”

“Shade stuff?” Athrogate asked. “Ye think his dagger sucked a bit o’ long life into him when he sticked a shade?”