The Last Threshold (Neverwinter #4)(57)

Dorwyllan shadowed them, running along the high ground, a straighter path than the winding road.

When the sun dipped below the western horizon, the winter’s twilight settled deep, and several campfires appeared far to the south. Dorwyllan doubted that the riders on the road below could see those, as they, too, paused and lit torches of their own.

Dorwyllan put his horn to his lips and blew a long and mournful note.

A few heartbeats later, that call was answered from the south.

The elf looked to the road, where the Luskar patrol milled around, some pointing up in his general direction. He wasn’t overly worried, though, for these seafaring deck-swabbers would never find him in the forest night.

Nor did they care to try, apparently, and Dorwyllan took that as a hopeful sign that the pirate fools had no idea that the horn exchange had been a warning to the caravan of their approach, that one note had spoken of less than ten soldiers, and that the people of the caravan would be quite ready for their arrival.





“Ever has that one drawn much attention,” Gromph remarked with obvious amusement.

“He is not hard to find,” Kimmuriel replied.

“You have Jarlaxle continually seeking him out.”

Kimmuriel nodded, conceding the point. “But you speak with Jarlaxle nearly as often as I do.” The psionicist had almost referred to Jarlaxle as “your brother,” but had wisely redirected. “I have often wondered why the archmage doesn’t simply go find the renegade and be done with him, once and for all. Surely Drizzt Do’Urden would prove of little trouble to one of your magical prowess.”

“Surely.”

“Then why?”

“Why hasn’t Bregan D’aerthe?” Gromph replied. “Would not the grand trophy of Drizzt Do’Urden’s head elevate your standing, and your prices?”

“Jarlaxle,” Kimmuriel replied without hesitation. “He long ago determined that Drizzt was not our concern, and forbade any of us from seeking him out for the purposes of collecting a trophy.”

“And why do you suppose that is?”

“Personal friendship, likely,” Kimmuriel replied. “Ever has that been Jarlaxle’s prime weakness.”

“More than that,” Gromph remarked.

“Then why not you for this mission? You could find him and be rid of him.”

“To what end?”

“The trophy.”

“I am Archmage of Menzoberranzan, and have been so for longer than you have been alive. I have all the riches, all the power, all the luxuries, all the time, and all the freedom any male in Menzoberranzan could ever expect. What gain would the death of Drizzt afford me?”

“He has killed members of your family.”

“So have I.”

Kimmuriel was not a mirthful sort, of course, but he almost broke out in laughter at the manner in which Gromph responded, so matter-of-factly, so evenly, that such events seemed a foregone conclusion, which of course they were among the great Houses of Menzoberranzan.

“Are you fond of him?” the psionicist asked.

“I do not know him and do not wish to.”

“Then of his legacy?” Kimmuriel pressed. “I am quite certain that Jarlaxle admires this warrior from House Do’Urden for his escape from the clawing priestesses of Menzoberranzan.”

“Then Jarlaxle is a fool who should keep his feelings well-hidden,” Gromph replied—and warned, not so subtly pointing out to Kimmuriel that he was going down a dangerous road here. “Queen Lolth desires chaos, and so Drizzt serves Lolth’s purpose, if not Lolth herself.”

Kimmuriel found himself surprised that Gromph had so openly admitted that which had been whispered throughout the First House since the fall of Matron Mother Baenre to the axe of Drizzt’s dwarf friend a century and more ago. He understood then that he wasn’t going to get any further with Gromph along this line of probing, and he knew better than to keep pressing a drow as powerful as the Archmage of Menzoberranzan.

“Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre will not be so casual regarding Drizzt Do’Urden when her favored grand-nephew is returned to her on a slab,” Kimmuriel said instead, bringing the conversation back to where it had started: with Tiago’s revelations about, and his desire to hunt, Drizzt Do’Urden.

“Do not underestimate that one,” said Gromph.

“Neither,” Kimmuriel reminded. “But while I am unconvinced of the capabilities of Tiago Baenre’s announced entourage, these two Xorlarrin waifs Saribel and Ravel, I can assure you that Drizzt has surrounded himself with formidable allies.”

“Tiago is young and eager,” Gromph replied. “He will likely alter his course soon enough.”

“The trail is hot,” Kimmuriel said.

“Then make it cold,” Gromph replied, exactly the words the psionicist had wanted to hear.

Kimmuriel had quietly sought a large agreement with some Netherese lords, and Jarlaxle had already sent word back from Shade Enclave that these particular lords, led by one named Parise Ulfbinder, had inquired of Drizzt and were showing a rather curious interest in the rogue. Jarlaxle had offered no insight into the matter, and Kimmuriel couldn’t sort it out, either, particularly regarding whether or not they saw Drizzt Do’Urden as an enemy or an ally.

Caution and good sense told Kimmuriel that a confrontation now between Tiago and Drizzt might not be good for business, however it might end.