The Last Threshold

Chapter 7

"You don’t like what you see?” the drow said to his dwarf companion.

The sturdy dwarf, his black beard wrapped into two dung-tipped braids down the front of his muscled chest, his powerful morningstars strapped diagonally across his back with their adamantine heads bouncing at the ends of their chains around his shoulders, had to take a deep breath and stroke his hairy face. He couldn’t quite find his voice. Athrogate didn’t hate the dark elves the way most Delzoun dwarves would-his closest friend in the world was one, after all, and standing right beside him. And indeed, Athrogate was now a formal member of Bregan D’aerthe, a mercenary band from the dark elf city of Menzoberranzan-the clerics of that almost exclusively drow organization had nursed him back to health after his near-fatal fall in Gauntlgrym.

Still, the dwarf couldn’t quite find his voice to respond, given the sights around him. The battle-hardened dwarf had been close to death before in his long, long life, but never in the manner he had found in this dark place, and never against an enemy so completely overpowering. He had fallen over the rim of the primordial pit, plummeting for the fiery maw of the preternatural and unstoppable beast. Good luck alone had landed him on a ledge, and his companion, Jarlaxle, had saved him, pushing him to the back of a cubby and summoning water elementals to ward off the biting flames of the primordial. Even still, Athrogate had nearly died and had known pain beyond anything he had ever imagined, his burned skin slipping off his bones.

And more than anything else, brave and mighty Athrogate had felt … insignificant and helpless. These were not emotions that sat well with the proud dwarf.

Now they were in Gauntlgrym again, descending a great spiral stairway to the lower levels of the complex, a stairway that had recently been repaired, and by craftsmen with a different and more delicate style than the original dwarven work.

They knew what they would find in the ancient complex, for they had been sent here-Jarlaxle had been sent here-by Kimmuriel Oblodra, the acting head of Bregan D’aerthe, executing an order from a much more powerful entity, the matron mother of Menzoberranzan’s ruling House.

“Well?” Jarlaxle prodded as they continued down, crossing from the newer drow work to the remnants of the original dwarven stair. “Speak honestly. I’ll take no offense, I promise.”

Athrogate was almost always blunt, and particularly so concerning issues of dwarven importance, and certainly the disposition of Gauntlgrym fit that description. But the dwarf could only grunt and shake his hairy head as images of his fall to the ledge and memories of profound agony filled his thoughts.

And now his emotions were even more roiled. He didn’t like these developments. Not at all. The aura and aroma of this drow settlement seemed an absolute desecration of Gauntlgrym. It didn’t confound him on a logical level. It made perfect sense, after all. Why wouldn’t the drow, or some other race, come back to this place and try to rebuild it?

And better the drow than goblins, he tried to tell himself.

But in his gut, the notion of a drow city growing amidst the ruins of the most ancient dwarven homeland seemed like a tragic loss, or a great theft, for and from his people-even though his people had long-ago rejected him and the dark elves had taken him in.

Jarlaxle patted him on the shoulder, and when he looked up, the drow winked at him with his one eye that wasn’t covered by that strange magical eyepatch, signaling that he truly understood the turmoil swirling within Athrogate.

“You would do well to keep your doubts well-hidden,” Jarlaxle quietly advised as they moved lower on the stair, low enough now to see that a group of drow astride subterranean lizards awaited them on the floor below. “House Xorlarrin is here, whether you or I or anyone else likes it or not, and if they perceive your distaste as a threat, they will deal with it in their particularly efficient and permanent fashion.”

“Bah, but ain’t that what I got Bregan D’aerthe backing me for?” Athrogate replied.

“Do you see the one astride the largest lizard, with the glowing shield on his arm?” Jarlaxle asked, motioning his chin toward the floor. Following that movement, Athrogate easily discerned the indicated drow.

“He is a Baenre,” Jarlaxle explained. “A very well-loved and important Baenre.”

“The First House?”

“If House Baenre objects to your attitude, Bregan D’aerthe cannot help you. In truth, we would deliver you to Matron Mother Quenthel as quickly as possible to avoid any complicity in your idiocy.”

Athrogate smiled widely at the threat for he knew that Jarlaxle would do no such thing. Kimmuriel would, of course, and so would the rest of the Bregan D’aerthe crew. But Jarlaxle wouldn’t, and indeed, Jarlaxle admitted as much implicitly when he returned the dwarf’s knowing smile.

“At last, Jarlaxle,” greeted the drow astride the great lizard. “It has been far too long since last I saw you.”

“Were I to know your name, I am sure I would return the compliment,” Jarlaxle replied with a gracious bow.

The rider, Tiago Baenre, bristled and glanced to his companions, left and right, an older weapons master Jarlaxle knew as Jearth Baenre, and a younger Xorlarrin wizard. Jarlaxle actually knew the Baenre, of course, and by name, for this was a name often spoken of late, in no small part because of the shield Tiago wore and the sword he carried on his hip, both wondrous new creations of old magic. Jarlaxle tried hard not to gawk when looking at that round shield now, for it appeared to be a truly remarkable item. It was nearly translucent, as if made of ice, and with diamond sparkles within. Despite his feigned indifference, Jarlaxle couldn’t help but look more closely, for within that glassteel were lines, connecting in a definite pattern. For all intents and purposes, it looked as if a brilliantly symmetrical spider web had been trapped within the ice.

Magnificent, Jarlaxle thought but did not say. It hardly mattered, though. His expression had revealed his feelings, he realized, when he tore his gaze away and looked at Tiago to find the young warrior brimming with pride.

“You have curious taste in companions,” Tiago said, noting Athrogate.

“Aye, but I can handle the smell,” the dwarf quipped.

Tiago’s eyes flared with anger. Jarlaxle wanted to silence his friend. He also wanted to laugh out loud. Neither seemed possible at that moment.

“I am Tiago Baenre,” the young warrior proclaimed. “Grandnephew of Matron Mother Quenthel and Grandson of Weapons Master Dantrag.”

“I knew him well,” Jarlaxle replied.

“You understand why we requested this meeting with Kimmuriel,” said the spellspinner, and the mere fact that he had dared to speak without being bade so by Tiago Baenre tipped Jarlaxle off to his identity. This was young Ravel Xorlarrin then, the mage credited with leading the expedition to Gauntlgrym.

The spellspinner whom Jarlaxle’s brother Gromph had coerced into “discovering” Gauntlgrym with information Gromph had garnered from the skull gem Jarlaxle had given him.

“We have many enterprises on the surface now, and this new … settlement is a likely way station between those enterprises and Menzoberranzan,” Jarlaxle replied. “Bregan D’aerthe would have reached out to you in any case.”

“Would have?” Tiago asked slyly. “Or already have?”

“Well, I am here now,” Jarlaxle replied, not understanding the cryptic reference.

“What about the trio from Bregan D’aerthe who were here previously? Just a few tendays ago, when first we ventured to Gauntlgrym?”

Jarlaxle held up his hands as if he had no idea what they might be talking about, and in truth, he did not. “I was asked to come and greet you, and so here I am.”

“There were three here earlier who claimed to be of Bregan D’aerthe, including one darthiir who named herself your mistress,” Ravel said, using the drow word for surface elves.

“Truly?” Jarlaxle tapped a finger to his lips. “Was she lovely?”

“Darthiir!” Tiago scolded. “That is disgusting.”

Jarlaxle laughed aloud. “Not the word I would use, but for a parochial sort who has rarely traveled outside of Menzoberranzan, such might be the belief.”

“Spare me your condescension,” said Tiago.

“Condescension?” Jarlaxle echoed with feigned innocence. “More relief than condescension. With so many of my kin sharing your expressed viewpoint regarding any who are not drow, there are more delicacies for me to enjoy.”

“She was with a drow, and a human, a small and gray-skinned man,” Ravel interjected, trying to keep the discussion on track.

“A human who came to Menzoberranzan beside you long ago, so claimed Berellip Xorlarrin,” Jearth put in.

Jarlaxle tried to hide his surprise, but unsuccessfully, he feared, and even if he had managed to do so, Athrogate gasped beside him.

“So you do know this human,” Tiago remarked.

“If it is who you say, he should be long dead,” said Jarlaxle. “Did you garner his name, any of their names?” he asked, though he thought he already knew the answer. But how Artemis Entreri, if it was indeed the assassin, came to be with Drizzt and Dahlia once more was quite beyond his understanding.

“Masoj Oblodra,” Tiago replied.

“Oblodra?”

“The drow,” the young Baenre clarified. “Kin to Kimmuriel, I expect. That was the name he used, at least.”

The way he said it revealed as much as the words themselves, Jarlaxle knew. Masoj, after all, had been the mage from whom Drizzt had taken Guenhwyvar many decades before, though Masoj was surely no Oblodran. He knew now, beyond any doubt that these fools had run up against Drizzt without even realizing it.

Tiago’s dead grandfather, dead by Drizzt’s hand, surely was somewhere in the Demonweb Pits, groaning in frustration!

“We did not care enough to ask the names of the other two,” Tiago added.

“Were they or were they not of Bregan D’aerthe?” Ravel asked pointedly.

“Who can say?” Jarlaxle bluffed, and he used a bit of magic from his eyepatch to carry some weight behind the words. “We have many independent agents moving along the Sword Coast. It is possible that one or another-”

“You would know if it was your consort, as was claimed, would you not?” Tiago asked, the sharp edge of his voice showing that he believed Jarlaxle to be cornered.

“One of how many dozen?” the sly mercenary shot right back. “As I told you, the fact that so many of my brethren are too foolish to appreciate physical beauty widens my garden of lovelies. Indeed, there are many in this area who could make that claim!”

Athrogate snorted.

“Where are these three of whom you speak?” Jarlaxle asked.

“Long gone,” said Jearth, “as are the Netherese they battled.”

“Then it is a discussion for another day,” Jarlaxle decided. “My time is short, and if these three are of no consequence-”

“They killed a Xorlarrin noble,” Tiago interrupted.

Jarlaxle nodded and spent a moment digesting the implications. “Then I will inform Kimmuriel and we will put all efforts into determining who they are and if there is any actual connection to our humble organization.” He bowed again, and in the movement, cast a private glance at Athrogate to warn the dwarf that their business here had just grown very serious.

“Are we to discuss our preliminary business arrangements here, among this small group?” Jarlaxle asked.

“It would be premature to formalize anything,” said the spellspinner. “But let us show you our efforts, and perhaps there are services and items Bregan D’aerthe can supply to us that will foster those later arrangements. Materials, for example, and formulas.” He looked right at Athrogate as he finished, “We have the Forge.”

“Lead on,” Jarlaxle bade, and he and Athrogate stepped forward.

“Not him,” Tiago insisted, pointing to the dwarf.

“He works for me.”

“Not him.” There was no room for debate in Tiago’s tone, and Jarlaxle was surprised that the brash young warrior was so openly challenging him. Given that, it wasn’t an argument Jarlaxle thought prudent to have, and besides, he knew that he could facilitate his own escape if necessary, but wouldn’t likely be able to help Athrogate get safely away. He turned to the dwarf and whispered, “Up above,” and Athrogate nodded his agreement and understanding. At the top of the ladder, Jarlaxle had enacted an enchantment from his wide-brimmed, hugely-plumed hat to create an extra-dimensional room as a safe haven.

Jarlaxle summoned his nightmare and rode off with the three lizard-riders, and Athrogate was fast indeed up the long stairwell to the safety of that secret room. Athrogate never shied from a fight, but these were, after all, dark elves.

“That is an amazing shield,” Jarlaxle remarked some time later, when he and Tiago were in the forge room, looking down the line of craftsmen working the glowing ovens. His eye roamed to the spider hilt of the sword at his hip as he added, “Recently forged?”

Tiago laughed. “It was the second item created by the re-fired great forge of this complex.”

“The sword being the first,” Jarlaxle stated.

Tiago drew the blade and held it up for Jarlaxle to see. It was crafted of the same glassteel substance as the shield, and similarly flecked with sparkling diamonds, with its black spider web quillan and spider-shaped handle.

“Gol’fanin’s work,” Jarlaxle said, and that recognition obviously startled the young Baenre warrior.

“An old friend,” Jarlaxle explained. “Is he around?”

“He is, but resting, I expect. I will pass along your well-wishes.”

Tiago was hedging, Jarlaxle knew, afraid that if he brought the two together, Jarlaxle would gain some upper hand over him in his relationship with that most important blacksmith.

“House Xorlarrin will go to war with Bregan D’aerthe, then?” Jarlaxle asked bluntly, and Tiago’s eyes popped open wide. “If it is found that these three were associated with Kimmuriel’s band, I mean. Since they killed a noble-or is that merely suspicion?”

That last part was no minor quibble. Drow killing drow was an acceptable practice in Menzoberranzan, as long as no definitive evidence revealed the killer.

“Brack’thal Xorlarrin,” Tiago explained.

Jarlaxle knew the mage. “Interesting. I had thought him driven mad by the Spellplague.”

“Son of Zeerith and elderboy of the House,” Tiago said.

“And you have definitive proof of this crime?”

“Does it matter? This is not Menzoberranzan, and in this place, the Xorlarrins are free to make the rules. You would do well to learn the truth of these three and deliver them to us posthaste.”

A wry grin spread across Jarlaxle’s face, an amused look that he was all too willing to share with Tiago.

“You truly believe that?” he asked.

Tiago remained stone-faced.

“Your great-aunt Quenthel would be as amused as I am by your thinly veiled threat, no doubt.”

“As amused as she would be to learn that Jarlaxle of Bregan D’aerthe associates with the heretic Drizzt Do’Urden, who fought against her family in the battle that killed her beloved matron mother? The heretic Drizzt Do’Urden who killed her brother, my grandfather Dantrag, the greatest weapons master Menzoberranzan has ever known?”

Jarlaxle almost pointed out that, if such was the case, then Drizzt should not have prevailed in that duel with Dantrag, but he wisely held silent.

“You make bold claims, young Master Baenre,” he said.

“The three claimed to be of Bregan D’aerthe.”

“That only means that they were clever, not that they were telling the truth,” Jarlaxle replied. “But wait, are you saying that among the trio was the rogue Do’Urden?”

Tiago stared at him hard, and Jarlaxle recognized that this one was no fool.

“Interesting,” Jarlaxle added, feigning surprise. “The rogue Do’Urden is still alive?”

“And of Bregan D’aerthe,” Tiago said dryly.

“A clever lie.”

“So you say, and so you would have to say. The human with the drow once accompanied you to Menzoberranzan,” Tiago argued.

“Long before you were born, if it even is the same human.”

“Berellip Xorlarrin attested to it. Would you doubt a priestess of the Spider Queen?”

That, too, brought some laughter from Jarlaxle. When in his life had he not doubted those priestesses?

“That would make him a very, very old human,” Jarlaxle said. “And I assure you, I have not seen this man of whom you speak in half a century or more. Nor is he a member of Bregan D’aerthe. Nor is Drizzt Do’Urden a member-if that is your suspicion regarding the drow’s true identity-nor has he ever been. Nor would he ever desire to be, as you would understand if you knew anything at all about the heart of Drizzt Do’Urden.”

Tiago eyed him with clear suspicion. “I will ask such of Drizzt Do’Urden himself,” Tiago remarked, “right before I kill him.”

He meant it, Jarlaxle knew from looking at him. This one was brash, and brimming with confidence, and apparently very well armed and armored, even beyond what one might expect from a Baenre. Jarlaxle made a mental note to look more deeply into the growing reputation of this Tiago Baenre-and of Ravel Xorlarrin, he silently added when he noted the spellspinner coming his way.

From his recent visits to Menzoberranzan, Jarlaxle knew that those two were among the most prominent of the new generation of the city. Gromph had spoken highly of Tiago, and had hinted that Tiago would likely soon supplant Andzrel as weapons master of the First House. Through his eyepatch, Jarlaxle had detected quite a bit of magic on Tiago, and the overwhelming glow from that shield and sword went a long way toward confirming Gromph’s suspicions, for truly Andzrel would not be pleased to find Tiago wielding such wondrous items, and truly, Matron Mother Quenthel would not have allowed Gol’fanin to craft this paired sword and shield for Tiago if she meant to keep him behind Andzrel in the house hierarchy.

Of course, if Tiago went after Drizzt, as he had declared, whatever his arms and armaments, then Andzrel would likely have a long and quiet reign in his position as weapons master, with no living heir apparent.

Jarlaxle managed a slight smile at that notion, but only a slight one, for there was something unsettling about this young one-and his allies, Jarlaxle thought, when Ravel, equally confident and brash, joined them.

He was Jarlaxle, long-time leader of Bregan D’aerthe, feared and respected throughout Menzoberranzan for centuries. That respect was not so apparent in the expressions and words of these two. Was he becoming old and irrelevant?

Were these two rising? Was this their hour?

Would Drizzt be quick enough this time against the descendant of Dantrag?

“Ye thinkin’ o’ tellin’ me?” Athrogate asked, long after he and Jarlaxle had left Gauntlgrym. The two were upon their mounts, Jarlaxle on his hell horse and Athrogate astride his hell boar.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Ye been full o’ glum since ye came back from them drow.”

“They are not a pleasant group.”

“More than that,” Athrogate said. “Ye ain’t even telled me about the fired forges!”

Jarlaxle slowed his mount and considered his dwarf companion. “Truly it is a wondrous place and already creating extraordinary weapons.”

“For damned drow elfs!” Athrogate said. He spat upon the ground, drawing a wide-eyed expression from Jarlaxle. “Not yerself. Them other ones.”

“Indeed.”

“It’s Entreri, ain’t it?”

“Might be, given their description.”

“Nah, I’m meanin’ that it’s Entreri what’s got ye all glummed up. Ye ain’t thought much on him in a lot o’ years, but now it’s in yer face again.”

“I did what I had to do, for his sake as well as our own.”

“So ye keep tellin’ yerself, for fifty years now.”

“You disagree?”

“Nah, not me place in doing that. I weren’t there, but I’m knowin’ what ye was facin’, both from them Netheril dogs and from yer own kin and kind.” He nodded ahead to the side of the road, where a darker patch of shadow loomed, a familiar drow standing beside it. “And speakin’ o’ yer kin and kind …”

The two dismissed their magical mounts and walked over to join Kimmuriel. They didn’t have to deliver any report, of course, for Kimmuriel had been in on the trip to Gauntlgrym, telepathically linked with Jarlaxle throughout his meeting with the Xorlarrins and their entourage.

“Their progress has been considerable and laudable,” Kimmuriel started the conversation. “Matron Mother Quenthel was wise in allowing the Xorlarrins to make this journey. The bowels of Gauntlgrym will prove valuable and profitable to us all, I am sure.”

“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?”

“That was the reasoning,” Jarlaxle agreed, but then added, “Was.”

Athrogate looked up at him curiously. “So what’re ye thinkin’ now?”

Jarlaxle shrugged. “It could be the dagger, but with any of the life-stealing it performs and not that from a shade necessarily. Perhaps such a draw of an enemy’s life energy-any enemy-adds to one’s vitality and lifespan.”

Athrogate, who had been cursed with long life as part of a long-ago punishment, snorted at the horror.

“Or, more likely, Artemis Entreri is long dead, and no more than dust and bones,” Jarlaxle added.

“That Tiago fellow thought it was him.”

“Tiago Baenre isn’t old enough to know of Entreri’s visit to Menzoberranzan.”

“But ye said his sister-”

“Perhaps,” Jarlaxle interrupted, and that uncharacteristic interjection alone clued both of them in to how intriguing and unsettling this possibility was to the drow mercenary.

Jarlaxle gave a frustrated sigh and shook his head vigorously. “No matter,” he said, unconvincingly. “More likely, Drizzt and Dahlia have found a companion, whomever it might be, and Drizzt fed him that story to save them all when they were taken by the Xorlarrins.”

“Nah, that’s not Drizzt’s way,” Athrogate came back, and the response surprised Jarlaxle-until he looked down at his companion to witness Athrogate’s smile. The dwarf was prodding him, trying to draw him out.

“Drizzt ain’t one to weave a net o’ lies in advance,” Athrogate added. “That’s yer own way, not his.”

“Which is why I thrive while he merely survives,” Jarlaxle quipped. “I am sure that he and Dahlia will find a place soon enough. He always does.”

“Oh no ye don’t,” said Athrogate.

“I am sure that I do not know what you are talking about.”

“I’m talking about Entreri, and ye’re knowin’ it full well. That one’s ghost’s been following yerself for half-a-hunnerd years.”

Jarlaxle scoffed at that notion. “I have buried closer friends, and many lovers.”

“Aye, but how many needed buryin’ because o’ yer own actions?” Athrogate said.

There it was, spoken openly, and Jarlaxle suppressed his initial response to lash out at the dwarf. Athrogate was right, he knew. Jarlaxle had betrayed Entreri to the Netherese many years before, when the empire had come in force for the sword, Charon’s Claw. It wasn’t often in his long life that Jarlaxle had been trapped without recourse, but the Netherese had done it, and before physically surrounding the pair, the powerful lords of Netheril had appealed to greater powers in Jarlaxle’s own circle of potential allies, to Kimmuriel and Matron Mother Quenthel.

Indeed, the snares of Netheril had been complete.

And so their offer had been accepted.

Jarlaxle said no more for a long while, letting his thoughts slip back to Baldur’s Gate, the city where the final play had occurred. In exchange for his freedom, Jarlaxle had facilitated the takedown of Artemis Entreri, and indeed had even trapped the man in one of his extra-dimensional pockets for the Netherese. Both Entreri and Jarlaxle would have surely died otherwise, Jarlaxle told himself-then and now and a thousand times in between. And he had only chosen the route of betrayal because he had expected to quickly launch a rescue of Entreri, though likely one without retrieving the sword, of course, soon after his flight from Baldur’s Gate.

But that rescue attempt had never occurred, and indeed, many years passed before Jarlaxle had ever learned of the conspiracy working against him. Kimmuriel and the Baenres, for Jarlaxle’s own sake, had worked in concert to break down Jarlaxle’s magical defenses and thus allow the psionicist to invade Jarlaxle’s mind and alter the details of the Baldur’s Gate betrayal. As far as Jarlaxle could recall, just a few short hours after he had abandoned Entreri to the Netherese, that scenario had never happened, the actual events replaced by the suggestion of a betrayal by Entreri against Jarlaxle. Thus, by the time Jarlaxle had even sorted out the truth and remembered that Entreri had been taken as a prisoner of the Netherese, it was too late for Jarlaxle to do anything about it.

By that point, Matron Mother Quenthel had made it quite clear to the outraged Jarlaxle that he needed to forget the whole ordeal.

Pragmatism told him to honor her demands, for what would have been the gain of Jarlaxle attempting any such rescue, or even looking into the disposition of Artemis Entreri by that point, anyway? Even if Entreri had somehow managed to survive the initial capture and early imprisonment, he would have likely died of old age by then.

Unless …

“So now I find meself hopin’ that ye think o’ me as high as ye thought of Entreri,” Athrogate said, drawing him from his contemplations.

“What?” a surprised Jarlaxle said, looking again to his bearded companion.

“He’s still with ye,” Athrogate explained. “After all these tens o’ years. I’m thinkin’ that few others’d get more than a passing thought from Jarlaxle, even if ye came to think that one ye thought dead weren’t.”

“I am intrigued, is all.”

Athrogate’s roaring laughter mocked him.

Jarlaxle’s face grew tight and he looked straight ahead, urging his nightmare on at a slightly swifter pace.

“Aye, get done with our business so ye can find Drizzt and his companions, eh?”

Jarlaxle pulled up hard on the reins, halting his steed, and turned to glower at the dwarf. Athrogate had indeed struck a nerve with Jarlaxle. He knew there was little he could do to change the past, but for some reason, it was important for him to set the record straight with Artemis Entreri.

“Why do ye care, elf?” Athrogate asked him.

“I do not know,” came Jarlaxle’s honest response.