svirfhebli warriors stood ready to rush to his aid, including several shamans with enchanted stones that could summon elemental giants from the plane of earth. Firble understood the drow of Menzoberranzan, forty-five miles to the east of Blingdenstone, better than any of his kin, though, and even his armed escort's presence did not allow him to relax. The gnome councilor knew well that if the dark elves had set this up as an ambush, then all the gnomes and all the magic of Blingdenstone might not be enough.
A familiar clicking sounded from the tunnel directly across the small chamber and, a moment later, in swept Jarlaxle, the extraordinary drow mercenary, his wide-brimmed hat festooned with a giant diatryma feather, his vest cut high to reveal rolling lines of muscles across his abdomen. He strode before the gnome, glanced about a couple of times to take in the whole scene, then dipped into a low bow, brushing his hat across the floor with an outstretched hand.
'My greetings!' Jarlaxle said heartily as he came back upright, crooking his arm above him so that the hat tucked against his elbow. A snap of the arm sent the hat into a short spin, to land perfectly atop the swaggering mercenary's shaved head.
'High soar your spirits this day,' Firble remarked.
'And why not?' the drow asked. 'If s another glorious day in the Underdark! A day to be enjoyed.'
Firble did not seem convinced, but he was amazed, as always, by the conniving draw's command of the Svirfneblin language. Jarlaxle spoke the tongue as easily and fluidly as any of Blingdenstone's deep gnome inhabitants, though the mercenary used the sentence structure more common to the draw language and not the inverted form favored by many of the gnomes.
'Many svirfneblin mining parties have been assaulted,' Firble said, his tone verging on that of an accusation. 'Svirfneblin parties working west of Blingdenstone.'
Jarlaxle smiled coyly and held his hands out wide. 'Ched Nasad?' he asked innocently, implicating the next nearest drow city.
'Menzoberranzan!' Firble asserted. Ched Nasad was many weeks away. 'One dark elf wore the emblem of a Menzoberranzan house.'
'Rogue parties,' Jarlaxle reasoned. 'Young fighters out for pleasure.'
Firble's thin lips almost disappeared with his ensuing scowl. Both he and Jarlaxle knew better than to think that the raiding drow were simple young rowdies. The attacks had been coordinated and executed perfectly, and many svirfnebli had been slain.
'What am I to say?' Jarlaxle asked innocently. 'I am but a pawn to the events about me.'
Firble snorted.
'I thank you for your confidence in my position,' the mercenary said without missing a beat. 'But, really, dear Firble, we have been over this before. The events are quite out of my hands this time.'
'What events?' Firble demanded. He and Jarlaxle had met twice before over the last two months, discussing this very issue, for the drow activity near the svirfneblin city had increased dramatically. At each meeting Jarlaxle had slyly eluded to some great events, but never had he come out and actually told Firble anything.
'Have we come to banter this same issue?' the mercenary asked wearily. 'Really, dear Firble, I grow tired of your—'
'A drow we have captured,' Firble interrupted, crossing his short but burly arms over his chest, as though that news should cany some weight.
Jarlaxle's expression turned incredulous and he held his hands out wide again, as if to ask, 'So?'
'We believe this drow is a native of Menzoberranzan,' Firble went on.
'A female?' Jarlaxle asked, thinking that the gnome, apparently viewing his information as vital, must be referring to a high priestess. The mercenary hadn't heard of any missing high priestesses (except, of course, Jerlys Horlbar, and she wasn't really missing).
'A male,' Firble replied, and again the mercenary's expression turned dubious.
'Then execute him,' the pragmatic Jarlaxle reasoned.
Firble tightened his arms across his chest and began tap-tapping his foot impatiently on the stone.
'Really, Firble, do you believe that a male drow prisoner gives your city some bargaining power?' the mercenary asked. 'Do you expect me to run back to Menzoberranzan, pleading for this one male? Do you expect that the ruling matron mothers will demand that all activity in this area be ceased for his sake?'
'Then you admit sanctioned activity in this area!' the svirfneblin retorted, pointing a stubby finger Jarlaxle's way and thinking he had caught the mercenary in a lie.
'I speak merely hypothetically,' Jarlaxle corrected. 'I was granting you your presumption so that I might correctly mirror your intentions.'
'My intentions you do not know, Jarlaxle,' Firble assured. It was clear to Jarlaxle, though, that the gnome was growing agitated by the mercenary's cool demeanor. It was always that way with Jarlaxle. Firble met with the drow only when the situation was critical to Blingdenstone, and often his meetings cost him dearly in precious gems or other treasures.
'Name your price, then,' the gnome went on.
'My price?'
'Imperiled is my city,' Firble said sharply. 'And Jarlaxle knows why!'
The mercenary did not respond. He merely smiled and leaned back from the gnome.
'Jarlaxle knows, too, the name of this drow we have taken,' Firble went on, in turn trying to be sly. For the first time, the mercenary revealed, albeit briefly, his intrigue.
Firble really hadn't wanted to take the conversation this far. It was not his intent to reveal the 'prisoner's' identity. Drizzt Do'Urden was, after all, a friend of Belwar Dissen-gulp, the Most Honored Burrow Warden. Drizzt had never proven himself an enemy of Blingdenstone, had even aided the svirfnebli a score of years before, when he first had passed through the city. And by all accounts, the rogue drow had helped svirfnebli again on his return, out in the tunnels against his drow kin.
Still, Firble's first loyalty was to his own people and his city, and if giving Drizzt's name to Jarlaxle might aid the gnomes in their current predicament, might reveal the imposing events that Jarlaxle kept hinting at, then, to Firble, it would be worth the price.
Jarlaxle paused for a long while, trying to figure out where he should take this suddenly meaningful conversation. He figured that the drow was some rogue male, perhaps a former member of Bregan D'aerthe presumed lost in the outer runnels. Or maybe the gnomes had bagged a noble from one of the higher-ranking houses, a fine prize indeed. Jarlaxle's ruby eyes gleamed at the thought of the profits such a noble might bring to Bregan D'aerthe.
'Has he a name?' the mercenary asked.
'A name that is known to you, and to us,' Firble replied, feeling positively superior (a rare occurrence in his dealings with the crafty mercenary).
His cryptic answer, though, had given more information than intended to Jarlaxle. Few drow were known by name to the gnomes of Blingdenstone, and Jarlaxle could check on the whereabouts of most of those few quite easily. The mercenary's eyes widened suddenly, but he quickly regained his composure, his mind reeling down the path of a new possibility.
'Tell me of the events,' Firble demanded. 'Why are Menzoberranzan drow near Blingdenstone? Tell me, and to you I shall give the name!'
'Give the name if you choose,' Jarlaxle scoffed. 'The events? I have already told you to look to Ched Nasad, or to playful young males, students, perhaps, out of the Academy.'
Firble hopped up and down, fists clenched in front of him as though he meant to jump over and punch the unpredictable mercenary. All feelings that he had gained the upper hand washed away in the blink of a drow eye.
'Dear Firble,' Jarlaxle cooed. 'Really, we should not be meeting unless we have more important matters to discuss. And, really, you and your escort should not be so far from home, not in these dark times.'
The little svirfneblin let out an unintentional groan of frustration at the mercenary's continued hints that something dire was going on, that the increased drow activity was linked to some greater design.
But Jarlaxle, standing with one arm across his belly, his elbow in his hand and his other hand propping his chin, remained impassive, seeming positively amused by it all. Firble would get no pertinent information this day, he realized, so he gave a curt bow and spun about, kicking stones every step of the way out of the chamber.
