The Last Threshold (Neverwinter #4)(72)

“I do not think you can make such a claim.” Dahlia tried hard not to get angry.

“A vile place. Horrid in every regard.”

“And worse than anything I have known?”

Entreri paused for a moment and seemed to be considering the question deeply, but then he nodded. “Or at least as bad. And Drizzt grew up there, betrayed always by his family.

“As bad?” Dahlia said and she pointedly snorted. “Do you speak of my feelings for Drizzt? Jealousy? Admiration? Or of your own?”

“No, it really is love for you, I think,” Entreri said, dodging. “I don’t blame you. Drizzt survived. Drizzt has thrived, where you have not.”

“Where we have not,” Dahlia insisted.

Entreri had no answer.

They drank some more, and their talk turned to their current situation, but Dahlia would hear no further discussion regarding Drizzt, and indeed, when Entreri tried to bring up the subject of the drow, Dahlia fell over him, burying his words in a passionate, hungry kiss.

And though she had intended to feign exactly this to reach her more important goal, that goal was nowhere in Dahlia’s mind, and her hunger wasn’t faked.

She grabbed at his shirt and began unbuttoning it. He tried to protest, but half-heartedly, his objections no match for the feelings Dahlia stirred in him.





Down the hallway a bit, a door cracked open, and a shadowy face peeked into the corridor, watching Entreri’s rented room.

The sounds from within made clear what was happening behind that door, and it brought a scowl to the face of the watcher.

Effron Alegni resisted his initial urge to charge into that other room and unload a barrage of devastating magic on the couple. He reminded himself of Draygo Quick’s warning, then pointedly reminded himself that Draygo’s cautions had been regarding Drizzt, not these two.

So he could go in there and slay them in their distraction …

But he didn’t.

Effron closed the door, put his back to it, and took a deep and steadying breath.





The slanted rays of morning slipped in through the dirty window, and fell upon fair Dahlia as she slept.

Artemis Entreri watched her.

He considered his next moves. He hadn’t used the pronoun “us,” hadn’t included himself in the group that would sail out of Baldur’s Gate on Minnow Skipper by accident, for he intended to do exactly that. The boat was going on to Memnon, after all, though Drizzt, Dahlia, and the others didn’t know it, and the closer Entreri could get to Calimport, the better, so he figured.

But why?

What was in Calimport for him, after all? Dwahvel was long dead—he had no more friends there than anywhere else in this miserable world.

In truth, he had no friends at all.

He looked at Dahlia.

And he wondered.





THE DESPERATE CHILD



EFFRON WAS IN A FOUL MOOD AS HE MOVED TO BALDUR’S GATE’S DOCKS that next morning, in no small part because of his disgust with his mother and her bed-hopping. And with Artemis Entreri —Barrabus the Gray, no less—a man Effron had come to profoundly dislike in the time they had fought together under the command of Herzgo Alegni.

The man who had leaped in and foiled Effron’s best attempt to catch Dahlia, and had cost the young tiefling greatly in both coin and reputation by stifling Cavus Dun’s ambush.

He kept repeating Draygo Quick’s orders as a reminder of the clear boundaries the dangerous Netherese lord had enacted around him. But every recital came with a sneer.

He moved down to the docks and found his informants. As always, it seemed, they appeared to be busy, both swabbing with mops this day, and it didn’t take Effron long to recognize that they weren’t actually accomplishing anything, again, as always with these two.

The old gaffer nudged his partner when he noted Effron’s approach.

“When?” Effron asked, moving up, and having no intention of remaining out there in the open for any length of time. After these two had reported to him on the disposition of Drizzt and Dahlia, he had tasked them with a simple question, and so he wanted a simple answer.

But both men wore wide smiles, hinting at something more.

“A tenday before she’s out, we’re hearing,” said the younger man.

“Was supposed to be but three, but her Captain Cannavara delayed her,” added the older.

Effron nodded and tossed a small pouch to the man, but both the old gaffer and his partner kept grinning slyly.

“What more do you know?” Effron asked.

“Ah, but that’s worth gold to ye,” said the old gaffer. “More than the first ye give us.”

“Ah, then to you, it’s probably worth continuing to breathe,” Effron replied without the slightest hesitation, for he was in no mood for any nonsense from these two fools this day. He narrowed his eyes into a glare and with a low and even tone slowly repeated, “What more do you know?”

The gaffer started a wheezing laugh, but his partner swallowed hard and patted him to silence, staring at Effron all the while—staring and obviously understanding that there was nothing overstated in the dangerous young tiefling’s threat.

“They’re not back for Luskan,” the middle-aged swabby replied.

“Who? Minnow Skipper?” Effron asked.