hustled along and was met by Jarlaxle, who seemed to come out of nowhere. They exchanged words Bruenor could not hear, and Jarlaxle gave the woman a fairly hefty purse, as he had promised in the Cutlass earlier.
When Shivanni broke away, heading off into the night, and Jarlaxle turned toward Bruenor, the dwarf noticed more than a bit of concern and puzzlement on the dark elf’s face.
Jarlaxle came up the stairs to find Bruenor waiting for him.
“Has our friend crossed the line?” asked the drow.
The question caught Bruenor off guard and he crinkled his nose as he stared back at Jarlaxle.
“Drizzt,” the drow clarified, though of course that wasn’t what confused Bruenor.
“What line are ye talking about?”
“He fights with more … fury than I recall,” Jarlaxle said.
“Aye, been that way for a long time now.”
“Since the loss of Catti-brie and Regis.”
“Are ye blamin’ him?
Jarlaxle shook his head, and looked to the apartment’s closed door. “But has he crossed over that line?” he asked again, turning back to Bruenor. “Has he started a fight he shouldn’t have started? Has he shown no mercy to one deserving? Has he allowed his rage instead of his conscience to control his blades?”
Bruenor stared at him, still puzzled.
“Your hesitance frightens me,” the dark elf said.
“No,” Bruenor answered. “But might be that he’s come close. Why’re ye caring?”
“Curiosity.”
The dwarf didn’t buy that, of course. “Been other things, too,” Bruenor said. “Drizzt ain’t one for the towns anymore. When we’re settling for the winter, in Port Llast, or in Neverwinter afore she fell, or even with a barbarian tribe, he’s not one to stay about—uncomfortable in the company. Maybe now he’d be happy in Neverwinter.”
“Because there’s always someone, or something, to fight in the ruins,” Jarlaxle said.
“Aye.”
“He relishes battle.”
“Never shied from it. So speak it out, elf. What’s on yer mind about this?”
“I told you: curiosity,” Jarlaxle replied, and he looked at the apartment door once again.
“Then go ask him yerself, and ye might be gettin’ better answers,” the dwarf offered.
Jarlaxle shook his head. “I have other business to attend to this night,” he said.
The drow mercenary turned, shook his head, and skipped back down the stairs.
Bruenor moved to the railing and watched him go, though the crafty Jarlaxle was quickly out of sight. The dwarf found himself thinking about that conversation for a long while, though, and not so much about why Jarlaxle might have inquired in such a way about Drizzt, but the implications of the dark elf’s legitimate concerns.
He could hardly remember the old Drizzt anymore, Bruenor realized, the drow who took battle with a shrug of inevitability and a smile on his face, both in confidence and in the knowledge that he was acting in accord with his heart. He had seen the change in Drizzt. His smile had become something more … wicked, less an expression of the acceptance of the necessity of a fight but more a look of pure enjoyment.
And only then did Bruenor realize how many years had passed since he had seen the old Drizzt.
When he entered the subterranean chamber that had once belonged to Arklem Greeth and Valindra, Jarlaxle was not surprised to learn that he was not alone.
Dahlia sat comfortably in a chair, eyeing him.
“You did well with the ring,” the drow said with a bow.
“Its nature was revealed to me the moment I put it on.”
“Still, be not so humble. Few could use the projected image to such effectiveness. Your minions did not even suspect that it was not really you at the door.”
“And you?”
“Had I not known of the ring, I would never have suspected,” he replied, holding out his hand.
Dahlia looked at him, at his hand, but didn’t move.
“I would like my ring,” Jarlaxle said.
“It is empty of its spell now.”
“And can be recharged.”
“That is my hope,” Dahlia replied, still making no move to return the item.
Jarlaxle retracted his hand. “I had confidence that you would use the ring. Your distaste for Sylora Salm remains strong, I see.”
“No stronger than hers for me.”
“She is jealous of your elf’s youth. She will be old and ugly while you remain beautiful.”
Dahlia waved that thought away as if it didn’t matter, indicating to Jarlaxle that her feud with Sylora was rooted in far deeper things than physical appearance.
“You have decided to abandon her cause all together, then,” Jarlaxle reasoned.
“I did not say that.”
“You don’t wear Szass Tam’s brooch.”
Dahlia looked down at her blouse, where the brooch had usually been set.
“You may be able to lie your