'I know only what Jarlaxle tells me,' Entreri replied, and he dropped the facade and stared hard at Triel. If she wished a contest of wills, then the assassin, who had survived and thrived on the most dangerous streets of Faerun's surface, would not back down.
Triel matched the unblinking stare for a long while and became convinced that she would garner little of use from this skilled adversary. 'Be gone from here,' she said to Jarlaxle, still using the surface tongue.
Jarlaxle rushed past the Baenre daughter and scooped up Entreri in his wake. 'Quickly,' the mercenary remarked. 'We should be long out of Sorcere before Triel tries that drawer!' With that, they were through the spidery door, which fast reverted to a plain wall behind them, blocking Triel's inevitable curses.
But the Baenre daughter was not as mad as she was intrigued. She recognized three courses coming together here, her own and her mother's, and now, apparently, Jarlaxle's. The mercenary was up to something, she knew, something that obviously included Artemis Entreri.
When they were safely away from Tier Breche and the Academy, Jarlaxle translated all that had transpired to Entreri.
'You did not tell her of Drizzt's impending arrival,' the assassin remarked. He had thought that important bit of information to be the gist of Jarlaxle's brief conversation with Triel, but the mercenary said nothing about it now.
'Triel has her own ways of discerning information,' Jarlaxle replied. 'I do not wish to make her work easier— not without a clear and agreed upon profit!'
Entreri smiled, then bit his lower lip, digesting the mercenary's words. There was always so much going on in this infernal city, the assassin mused. It was no wonder that Jar-laxle enjoyed the place so! Entreri almost wished that he was a drow, that he could carve out a place such as Jarlaxle had done, playing on the edge of disaster. Almost.
'When did Matron Baenre instruct you to return the mask?' the assassin asked. He and Jarlaxle had been out of Mertzoberranzan for some time, had gone into the outer caverns to meet with a svirfneblin informant. They had returned only a short time before their trip to Sorcere, and Jarlaxle, as far as Entreri knew, hadn't gone anywhere near House Baenre.
'Some time ago,' Jarlaxle replied.
'To bring it to the Academy?' Entreri pressed. It seemed out of place to him. And why had Jarlaxle taken him along? He had never been invited to that high place before, had even been refused on one occasion, when he had asked to accompany Jarlaxle to Melee-Magthere, the school of fighters. The mercenary had explained that taking a colnbluth, a non-drow, there would be risky, but now, for some reason, Jarlaxle had thought it appropriate to take Entreri to Sorcere, by far the more dangerous school.
'She did not specify where the mask was to be returned,' Jarlaxle admitted.
Entreri did not respond, though he realized the truth of that answer. The spider mask was a prized possession of the Baenre clan, a potential weak spot in its hardened defenses. It belonged in the secured quarters of House Baenre and nowhere else.
'Foolish Triel,' Jarlaxle remarked offhandedly. 'The same word, asanque, would get her into that drawer. She should know that her brother was arrogant enough to believe that none would ever try to steal from him, and so he would not spend too much time with password tricks.'
The mercenary laughed, and Entreri followed suit, though he was more intrigued than amused. Jarlaxle rarely did or said anything without purpose, and the mercenary had told him all of this for a reason.
Chapter 16 MENZOBERRANZAN
The raft slid slowly across Donigarten, the small, dark lake on the eastern end of the great cavern that housed Menzoberranzan. Drizzt sat on the prow of the craft, looking west as the cavern opened wide before him, though, with his infravision, the image seemed strangely blurred. Drizzt initially attributed it to the lake's warm currents and gave it little thought. He was preoccupied, his mind looking as much in the past as in the present, reeling with stirring memories.
The rhythmic moaning of the orcan paddlers behind him allowed him to find a calmness, to flow his memories one at a time.
The drow ranger closed his eyes and willed the shift from heat-sensing infravision into the normal spectrum of light. He remembered the splendor of Menzoberranzan's stalagmite and stalactite structures, their intricate and crafted designs highlighted by glowing faerie fire of purple, blue, and red.
He wasn't prepared for what he found when he opened his eyes. The city was filled with light! Not just with faerie fires, but with sparkling dots of yellow and white, the light of torches and bright magical enchantments. For a very brief moment, Drizzt allowed himself to believe that the presence of light might be some remote indication of a changing of the dark elves' dark ways. He had always connected the perpetual gloom of the Underdark to the dark demeanor of drow, or, at least, had thought the darkness a fitting result of his kin's dark ways.
Why the lights? Drizzt was not arrogant enough to think that their presence might be somehow connected to the hunt for him. He did not think that he was that important to the drow, and had little more than the deep gnomes' supposition that things were awry. (He had no idea that plans were being laid for an all-out surface raid.) He wanted to question one of the other drow on the matter—the female, in particular, would likely have some information—but how could he broach the subject without giving away his identity as an outsider?
As if on cue, the female was at his side, sitting uncomfortably close.
'The days are long on the Isle of Rothe,' she said coyly, obvious attraction reflected in her red-glowing eyes.
'I will never get used to the light,' Drizzt replied, changing the subject and looking back toward the city. He kept his eyes operating in the normal spectrum and hoped that his leading statements might prompt some conversation on the matter. 'It stings my eyes.'
'Of course it does,' the female purred, moving closer, even putting a hand inside Drizzt's elbow. 'But you will get used to it in time.'
In time? In time for what? Drizzt wanted to ask, for he suspected from her tone that she was referring to some specific event. He had no idea of how to begin the question, though, and, as the female moved ever closer, he found that he had more pressing problems.
In drow culture, males were subservient, and to refuse the advances of a female could invite serious trouble. 'I am Khareesa,' she whispered in his ear. 'Tell me that you wish to be my slave.'
Drizzt jumped up suddenly and snapped his scimitars from their sheaths. He turned away from Khareesa, focused his attention on the lake to make sure that she understood he meant no threat against her.
'What is it?' the surprised female demanded.
'A movement in the water,' Drizzt lied. 'A subtle undercurrent, as though something large just passed under our craft.' Khareesa scowled but stood and peered into the gloomy lake. It was common knowledge in Menzoberranzan that dark things resided under the usually still waters of Donigarten. One of the games the slavers played was to make the goblins and ores swim from the isle to the shore, to see if any of them would be pulled down to terrible deaths.
A few moments passed quietly, the only sound the continual moaning chants of the ores lining the sides of the raft.
A third drow joined Drizzt and Khareesa on the prow, eyeing Drizzt's blue-flaring scimitar. You mark us for every enemy in the area, his hands flashed in the silent code.
Drizzt slid the scimitars away and let his eyes drift back into infravision. If our enemies are beneath the waters, then the motion of our craft marks us more than any light, his hands answered.
'There are no enemies,' Khareesa added, motioning for the third drow to go back to his station. When he left, she turned a lewd look upon Drizzt. 'A warrior?' she asked, carefully regarding the purple-eyed male. 'A patrol leader, perhaps?'
Drizzt nodded and it was no lie; he had indeed been a patrol leader.
'Good,' Khareesa remarked. 'I like males who are worth the trouble.' She looked up then, took note that they were fast approaching the Isle of Rothe. 'We will speak later, perhaps.' Then she turned and swept away, brushing
