Maestro

CHAPTER 14

I am so pleased that you extended the invitation to include the wizards of Longsaddle,” Penelope Harpell said to Catti-brie. The two worked in an open tent near the reconstruction of the trunk of the Hosttower of the Arcane. Dwarves bustled all around, bringing in chunks of the fallen tower, cataloguing them and bringing them to another huge tent where the puzzle was being placed back together. Fortunately, thus far at least, it seemed as if the parts nearer the place of destruction were the lower pieces of the tower.

“Your input here, as in Gauntlgrym, has helped so much and given me strength,” Catti-brie replied. She paused then and looked out at the hustle off to the side, where some dwarves were arguing, hands on hips, with Lady Avelyere. Yes, Catti-brie thought, Penelope’s presence did lend her strength, as did the person of Lady Avelyere. Despite their unorthodox, unbalanced relationship, Catti-brie couldn’t deny her affection for the sorcerer.

Avelyere looked truly flustered as the dwarves bounced and waved and pointed all around her. She glanced at Catti-brie and Penelope, who was now also watching, and gave a helpless sigh and shrug.

The two women shared a laugh at that.

“Her work has been tremendous,” Penelope remarked, turning back to the maps of the North, Luskan to Neverwinter, they had spread upon the table. They had drawn the location of Gauntlgrym on one copy, and Catti-brie had traced in lines to represent the tendrils of the Hosttower that carried the water and the elemental power to the primordial pit.

“Your insight seems plausible,” Penelope admitted, nodding. Catti-brie had raised the possibility that they could detect those underground tendrils by following the lines of forest between the two locations. “Particularly the willows! Is there anything in all the world that chases water more determinedly than a willow?”

“As determinedly as a dragon chases gold,” Catti-brie replied.

“Or a dwarf chases ale,” Penelope added with a smile.

“Or Penelope chases men,” Catti-brie remarked, stealing the mirth, for a moment at least, as Penelope looked up at her curiously.

“I mean no offense.”

“You have found a unique manner of proving that.”

“Am I wrong about you and Wulfgar?”

“Does it bother you?” Penelope asked.

“No,” Catti-brie replied. “Truly, no. I apologize. Let us pretend that I never made the remark. Like an elf chases stars, I should have said.”

“Why?”

Catti-brie looked at her closely.

“Why, then?” Penelope reiterated. “I do believe that you meant no offense, and so I take none, but your words were no slip of the tongue. They came from somewhere, yes?”

“Curiosity,” Catti-brie admitted.

“You already know of the tryst between me and Wulfgar.”

“And he wasn’t the first.”

“The first?” Penelope laughed. “Oh, by the gods no!”

“Even though you are married.”

“Oh,” Penelope said, catching on. “Yes, well, my marriage is a different arrangement than you have perhaps encountered before. There is nothing deceptive about my … adventures, however I choose to find and enjoy them.”

“And Dowell?” Catti-brie asked, referring to her husband, a most gracious man and friend to Catti-brie in the years she had spent at the Ivy Mansion.

“His life is exciting, too, I assure you.”

“Then what about love?”

Catti-brie appreciated the sincerity in the sympathetic, but surely not superior look Penelope offered.

“I choose to separate the adventure of new relationships and the deep and abiding love I share with Dowell,” the Harpell explained. “I will live once. My healthy years of adulthood will span perhaps fifty, perhaps longer if I am careful, or if an enemy does not kill me, or if I can find some magic to extend my time.”

“There is such magic. Would you use it?”

“Of course!”

“Many would not,” Catti-brie said, and it was certainly true enough. Potions of longevity and the like were not nearly as commonplace as Penelope’s attitude would indicate, nor were spells of resurrection.

“Many expect a better existence beyond this life we know.”

“There is,” Catti-brie replied with some certainty.

“And I do not diminish or doubt your beliefs,” said Penelope. “For me, this is what I know, and I choose to enjoy it-in every way I can. I find joy in meeting new people, and in exploring more deeply with those I meet and come to like.”

“With the men, you mean.”

Penelope shrugged and grinned, letting Catti-brie know that perhaps that didn’t matter quite as much as she supposed.

“For carnal pleasures,” Catti-brie clarified.

Penelope shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“As with Wulfgar.”

“They are called pleasures for a reason, my friend.”

Catti-brie started to respond, but Penelope cut her short with an upraised hand. “Perhaps now I should be taking offense?” she asked. “Or is your obvious frustration with me now an honest inquisition or, as it seems, a judgment?”

“No,” Catti-brie stammered, at a loss. She had lived into her forties in her previous life, and now again for more than two decades. She had faced mighty enemies-dragons and demons, even-and had fought as a proxy for Mielikki in a great struggle with the goddess Lolth. She had passed through death. She had been afforded the insights of divine beings.

How could this uneasiness that had come over her be placing in her into such a spot of judgment and emotional distress?

“I do not try to judge,” she explained after taking a deep breath to center herself. “I am simply trying to unders …”

She paused as movement to the side caught her attention and drew her eye to Archmage Gromph, who was crossing by Lady Avelyere and the dwarves. She couldn’t help but note the haughty dark elf, seeming so far above their petty quibbling. Or at least, her initial reaction began that way, though it soon shifted to her insight that yes, indeed, Gromph did appear so far above that pettiness, seeming so much above those other mere mortals.

Seeming to her almost godlike.

Many heartbeats passed by unnoticed to Catti-brie. Gromph turned and flashed her a smile and his amber eyes would not let her go.

“He is attractive, isn’t he?” Penelope asked, the woman’s voice jarring her from her near-trance. “And powerful.” There was no denying the admiration in Penelope’s tone, and for a moment, it occurred to Catti-brie that Penelope might wish to lie with Gromph. And for a moment, Catti-brie wanted to slap her.

“So amazingly proficient with the Art,” Penelope continued. “It is hard not to be taken with him.”

It took a few moments for that last remark to truly sink in, but when it did, it shook Catti-brie and she snapped her head around to view Penelope.

Penelope wasn’t looking at Gromph, as she had expected, but at Catti-brie, and with a knowing grin.

“He was the Archmage of Menzoberranzan,” Catti-brie blurted, “serving Lolth and the vile matron mothers.”

“Yes, dangerous,” Penelope said, never blinking, and Catti-brie got the distinct feeling that the woman was mocking her.

Despite that, Catti-brie found herself staring at Gromph once more, and in her thoughts, she imagined herself amorously entwined with the archmage. She tried to shake that vision away, but it held on stubbornly, and when she managed to turn her eyes outward, there was Gromph, smiling at her from afar.

“It is hard not to be taken with him,” Penelope Harpell said again.

“I am not!” Catti-brie protested, never turning around. “He is evil. Who knows how many innocents have fallen to his evocations?”

“Are you telling me, or yourself?” Penelope asked.

Now Catti-brie did spin back again on Penelope, though in no small part because Gromph turned away and walked farther from her, his eyes going to something else. She stared hard at the Harpell woman, trying to find some stinging retort. She wanted to lash out, but as she realized that truth, she turned it inward.

Penelope’s words had struck her because she was having a hard time denying them.

“There is nothing wrong with wondering,” the woman told her.

“Or with acting out on that wonder, if I were like you,” Catti-brie replied, and she wanted to retract the words as soon as she uttered them.

Penelope shrugged-if she took offense, she didn’t show it. “If that is your way,” she answered. With a smile and a wink, Penelope shifted her gaze past Catti-brie and over to the distant Gromph. “I would spend a long tenday with him,” she said, “as long as we had enough food.”

Catti-brie felt herself blushing.

“Life is an adventure,” Penelope said. “A beautiful adventure.”

Gromph watched the two women retreat from the open tent, the Harpell wizard moving to join Lady Avelyere, and Catti-brie heading for the bridge to Closeguard Isle. She’d cross, almost certainly, and then on to the mainland, to replace her maps and search for others in the repository Bregan D’aerthe had set up to hold the scrolls and tomes found in Illusk and elsewhere.

Gromph’s stare followed the intriguing woman across that first bridge, and all the way past the tower of High Captain Kurth, who, coincidentally, was even then approaching Gromph from the other direction.

“Well met, Archmage,” Beniago said, still in his respectful bow when Gromph turned to regard him.

“You look ridiculous,” Gromph replied, shaking his head in open disgust at the Baenre drow’s human facade, with that flaming red hair.

“It is a useful tool, nothing more.”

“You are a Baenre,” Gromph scolded. “At what point does the embarrassment of your disguise outweigh the small utility it provides?”

“When Jarlaxle tells me so, I expect.”

The reminder of Beniago’s true allegiance drew a slight grimace from Gromph, but the point was well made.

“What use is it at this point, in any case?” Gromph asked. “Most of the city knows the truth of House Kurth, and knows that the drow are in control. There is nothing they can do about it, and likely nothing they would want to do about it. We are as much their armor as their potential enemies.”

Beniago shrugged, somewhat dismissively. “Perhaps the deception is to deter eyes outside the City of Sails. Waterdhavian lords, drow matron mothers …”

“Tiago knew the truth of you, as did the Xorlarrins,” Gromph said. “And so, too, Matron Mother Baenre. Who, then, are you deceiving, other than yourself?”

“You would have to ask Jarlaxle,” said Beniago.

“Your loyalty is commendable, I suppose.”

“It was earned, many times over, and all in Bregan D’aerthe would agree, Archmage. Jarlaxle need not rule with threats, but merely by asking. All in Bregan D’aerthe would fight for him and die for him.”

Gromph looked very carefully at the drow in human disguise, recognizing that there was a message there beyond the words, a not-so-subtle warning, perhaps.

“She is beautiful, is she not?” Beniago asked unexpectedly, gesturing with his chin in the direction of Closeguard Isle. “For a human woman, I mean.”

Gromph glanced back, then back at Beniago, his expression caught halfway between confusion and an incredulous grin.

“The wife of Drizzt,” Beniago clarified, his reference to the rogue Do’Urden making much more than the woman’s identity clear in Gromph’s mind.

“And Jarlaxle would not take kindly were I to bed her, is that your point?” Gromph asked bluntly.

Beniago put on an innocent aspect, even held up his hands as if at a loss.

But Gromph knew better, and he laughed aloud then, amused that he was being threatened by such a creature as this pitiful red-haired human imposter standing in front of him.

“Jarlaxle will take as I demand, whatever I may give to him,” Gromph replied, too calmly. “Ah, yes, the wife of Drizzt. I hadn’t thought of pretty Catti-brie in those terms before-but bedding an iblith? Absurd! That is the stuff of Jarlaxle, whose tastes allow for …” He paused and laughed again, gesturing to indicate Beniago, and more pointedly Beniago’s disguise, as he finished with a derisive snort, “This.”

“There is much to Jarlaxle’s world that you do not understand,” Beniago warned. “And since this is now your world as well, perhaps you should.”

“And perhaps you would be wise to beware your indiscipline.”

Beniago bowed again. “I only wish to inform, Archmage.”

“Yes, of course,” said Gromph, and he looked back to Closeguard Isle and beyond, and began stroking his chin and making small humming sounds, as if considering something.

“Catti-brie,” he said. “Pretty Catti-brie.” He turned back to Beniago, his face now bright. “I had not thought of her in those terms, High Captain. But now perhaps I shall. Perhaps it will be worth my time to bed her, just to witness Jarlaxle’s reaction.”

“And Drizzt’s?” Beniago managed to say, and his wince gave Gromph great pleasure, confirming that he had put the fool on his heels.

“Who?” Gromph said with a snicker, and walked away.

“I was teasing you, and I should not have,” Penelope Harpell said to Catti-brie later that night, the two alone sitting on the edge of the bed in Catti-brie’s tent, with Penelope brushing Catti-brie’s thick auburn hair. “Your emotions were honest, and in sharing them, you trusted me with something beyond such childish-”

“I gave you reason,” Catti-brie interrupted. “I should not have judged you. I simply do not understand.”

“Perhaps you place a higher value on such acts than I,” said Penelope.

Catti-brie grabbed the brush so she wouldn’t get scratched by it as she turned to stare earnestly at the woman. “You diminish yourself?” she asked.

“Oh, no,” Penelope clarified. “It is not a contest. I place no value on placing such a value, if you get my meaning.”

“So you mock me my morals?”

“Of course not!”

“You claim that I place great value upon it, and then dismiss that value as useless.”

“I do not!” Penelope declared in no uncertain terms. “It is your way, and I respect that.”

“How can you, if to you the act of lovemaking is so trite?”

“I never said that.”

“It is surely implied!”

Penelope sat back and nodded, staring openly at Catti-brie all the while as if she was honestly trying to understand, or perhaps to explain herself better. “Is it the act itself on which you place the value?”

“I value it.”

“If you were not with Drizzt, would you be celibate?”

Catti-brie started to respond, but cut herself short and sat back, her expression perplexed. Penelope had caught her off guard.

“If I were not in love …” she said tentatively.

“But you could be in love with another?”

“I cannot imagine that.”

“Did you not once love Wulfgar?”

Catti-brie sucked in her breath-Penelope had hit a nerve. Once she had thought herself in love with Wulfgar indeed, and he was the only other man she had ever lain with in both her lives.

“I thought I was …” she started to say, but Penelope held up her hand to stop her from elaborating.

“Wulfgar was in love with you,” Penelope said. “Of that I have no doubt. Do you regret …?”

“Yes!” Catti-brie blurted, then “No!” followed by a helpless shrug.

“It is not the act itself for you, I think,” Penelope said. “Nor for many, I am sure. It is, rather, the honesty and the integrity. There is no deeper secret a person might hold than those moments, and so perhaps it should only be given, by man or by woman, in great trust.”

“And how many do you trust?” Catti-brie asked, rather sharply.

“If I place less value on the act of love than you do, it is not out of a lack of self-respect, my friend,” Penelope answered, trying hard, and mostly successfully, to keep her own budding anger out of the response. “Nay, value is the wrong word, I fear. I should not have brought that word into this conversation.”

She could see that she had Catti-brie’s attention then, the woman’s guard still up, obviously. But in Catti-brie’s eyes, Penelope saw curiosity-and Penelope got the feeling that this entire conversation was striking at Catti-brie’s sensibilities more than it should. Something, the Harpell woman thought, was not quite as it should be.

“Not value,” Penelope said. “Perhaps you tie the physical act more tightly to your ethical being than do I.”

“Spiritual being,” Catti-brie offered in correction, but Penelope would hear none of that.

“Not so,” she said. “No, I do not divorce the physical from the spiritual. There is a not-subtle difference between being adventurous and being wanton.”

“Or is the difference merely a matter of how you wish others to perceive you?”

Catti-brie hadn’t spoken the words sharply, but she might as well have followed her question with a slap across Penelope’s face, as far as Penelope was concerned.

“Are you trying to save me?” Penelope shot back. “I told you once that my attitude on this subject was in no way a reflection of my own self-worth. I need no saving.”

Catti-brie started to reply, but Penelope cut her short.

“And I’ll hear none,” she said. “We are friends, and I wish to keep it that way.”

Catti-brie looked away. Penelope noted moisture rimming the bottom of her large eyes.

“I do not judge you,” Penelope said softly. “As with whatever god we might choose, this is a personal choice, and if you’re not harming anyone, then there is no right or wrong …”

“No!” Catti-brie said, spinning back. “I cannot accept that. Not with Drizzt …” She sucked in her breath and turned away again.

“Not with Drizzt?” Penelope said, and a thought hit her hard then. “Not with Drizzt going off to rescue Dahlia?”

“She was his lover,” Catti-brie mumbled.

“After you had been dead for more than half a century!” Penelope retorted before she took a moment to consider her response. Was Catti-brie jealous? It made no sense to her. She had known Catti-brie as a sister those days in the Ivy Mansion-there was no basis for this, nor was it in any way in character for the strong, self-reliant, and purposeful woman.

“I do not need you to remind me of my history,” Catti-brie said, seeming totally flustered and out of sorts.

Penelope couldn’t begin to sort it out.

But then, Penelope was not in the mind of Catti-brie, where once more images of lovemaking with Gromph Baenre teased her and tempted her, and that in turn assaulted her every denial, and chewed at the edges of her understanding of the very essence of her relationship with Drizzt.

“You look troubled, my dear,” old Kipper Harpell said to Penelope when she returned to the main tent in the Harpell complex, which had been set up just over the bridge on Closeguard Isle.

The woman walked over and slumped into the chair next to her uncle, and Kipper moved a hand across to massage her shoulder.

“Something is not quite right, and I cannot yet distill it,” Penelope admitted. “Catti-brie is quite in distress, I fear.”

“About the Hosttower?” Kipper asked. “I believe the construction is going splendidly! We are far ahead of where I thought-”

“No,” Penelope said. “This is on a more personal level. Perhaps she fears for Drizzt.”

“He is going to Menzoberranzan, so say the whispers,” said Kipper. “I fear for Drizzt!”

Penelope looked over at him with all seriousness. “Or perhaps she fears because of the elf woman Drizzt is going to rescue.”

Kipper looked at her curiously for just a moment, before putting on a perfectly perplexed expression. “Drizzt?” he asked incredulously. “Is there a truer heart in all Faerun?”

“As I said, something is not quite right.” Now it was her turn to put an honest and sober look over Kipper. “And I fear it has more than a little to do with our host here in Luskan.”

“Jarlaxle? Beniago?”

“Our real host.”

“Oh, that one,” Kipper said, assuming the exasperated expression that he always wore when Gromph Baenre was in the room or in the conversation. “Well then, I fear that your concern is well placed.”

She awakened drenched in sweat, her breath coming is short gasps. She didn’t know whether to be terrified or wonderfully contented, and the wild disparity of the two offered no resolution.

And she saw them still, the pale yellow eyes, just a hint of pink around the amber iris, like a simmering demonic presence hidden beneath the startling beauty of the mighty dark elf.

Catti-brie tried to calm herself, whispered reassurances, and even placed a hand over her fast-beating heart.

A dream?

Was she alone?

Had she been alone?

She forced herself to take a deep breath. It was too dark in her tent on this moonless night-she couldn’t tell dreams from present reality.

She reached her hand out tentatively across the bed, fearful that she might find someone sleeping there. When that dark thought proved unfounded, she moved her hand out to the small night table, thinking to reach the small lamp.

Before she got her fingers to it, though, she found another item, one more comforting.

“Guenhwyvar, oh I need you,” she whispered, bringing the onyx figurine in close to her chest.

A few heartbeats later, she felt the panther climb up beside her, then flop down with her back against Catti-brie’s leg, as if reading the woman’s mind.

The bed groaned under the weight of the great cat, but Catti-brie didn’t care. Even if it broke, she would lie there on the fallen mattress, safe with Guen so close. She reached down to ruffle the panther’s fur, and the cat looked up to regard her. Even in the dim light, those feline eyes shined.

And Catti-brie took great comfort-for a moment.

Then the image in her mind changed, the panther’s eyes transforming into those pale yellow orbs that ruled Catti-brie’s fevered night.