Chapter 19 FALSE PRIDE
He is alive, the soldier signaled to Jarlaxle as he inspected the downed ranger.
The mercenary leader motioned for the soldier to turn the fallen Drizzt so that his head was out of the water. Jarlaxle looked across the still lake, understanding that the sound of battle had echoed clearly across its waters. The mercenary saw the distinctive, pale blue glow of driftdisks, flying disks of energy typically used to carry matron mothers across the city, floating out from the banks. They held House Baenre soldiers, Jarlaxle knew.
Leave him, the mercenary leader signaled to his soldier, and his equipment. Almost as an afterthought, Jarlaxle pulled his whistle out once more, put it to his lips, and faced Drizzt, then blew a high note. The whistle's dweomer showed him that the ranger wore magical armor, at least as fine as drow make, and Jarlaxle sighed when he saw the intensity of Twinkle's enchantment. He would have loved to add that scimitar to his armory, but it was well known in Menzoberranzan that Drizzt Do'Urden fought with two scimitars, and if one was missing, the mercenary would only be inviting trouble from Matron Baenre.
Drizzt carried little else that was enchanted, except for one item that caught and held the mercenary's attention. Its magic was strong indeed, shining in the hues common to charm enchantments, exactly the type of item that cagey Jar-laxle used to best effect.
His soldier, having shifted the unconscious ranger so that Drizzt's face was above the murky water, started toward Jarlaxle, but the mercenary leader stopped him. Take the pendant, Jarlaxle's fingers instructed.
The soldier turned about and seemed to notice the approaching driftdisks for the first time. 'Baenre?' he asked quietly as he turned back to his leader.
They will find their quarry, Jarlaxle signaled confidently. And Matron Baenre will know who delivered Drizzt Do'Urden to her.
Entreri wasn't about to ask what drow female he was killing this time. He was working in concert with Bregan D'aerthe, and this drow, like the one in the mushroom house, had interfered, and was a witness.
A timely glance showed him something that gave him pause, though, showed him a familiar jeweled dagger hanging on this draw's belt.
Entreri studied the female closely, kept his sword tip at her neck, drawing small droplets of blood. He shifted the weapon deftly, and a subtle ridge showed along the female's smooth skin.
'Why are you here?' Entreri asked breathlessly, honestly surprised. He knew that this one had not come to Menzoberranzan beside Drizzt—Councilor Firble of Blingdenstone certainly would have mentioned her. Jarlaxle certainly would have known about her!
Yet, here she was, surprisingly resourceful.
Entreri shifted his sword again from her neck, then delicately tipped it up under the crease beneath her chin and used it to remove the magical mask.
Catti-brie fought hard to sublimate her mounting terror. This was too much like the first time she had been in Artemis Entreri's clutches; the assassin evoked an almost irrational horror in her, a deep fear that no other monster, neither a dragon nor a fiend of Tarterus, could bring.
Here he was again, amazingly alive, with his sword to her vulnerable throat.
'An unexpected bonus,' Entreri mused. He chuckled evilly, as though he was trying to sort out the best way to make his prisoner profitable.
Catti-brie thought of leaping over the ledge—if she had been near a cliff a thousand feet in the air, she would have considered it! She felt the hairs on the back of her neck tingle, felt sweat beading on her brow.
'No,' she uttered, and Entreri's features twisted with confusion.
'No?' he echoed, not understanding that her remark had been aimed inward.
Catti-brie steeled her gaze at him. 'So ye've survived,' she remarked matter-of-factly. 'To go and live among those who're most akin to ye.'
She saw by the assassin's slight grimace that Entreri did not like that description. He confirmed that fact by punching her with his sword hilt, raising a welt on the woman's cheek and bringing a trickle of blood from her nose.
Catti-brie fell back, but straightened immediately, and stared at the assassin with unblinking eyes. She would not give Entreri the satisfaction of terror, not this time.
'I should kill you,' Entreri whispered. 'Slowly.'
Catti-brie laughed at him. 'Then do,' she replied. 'Ye've no hold over me, not since I've seen the proof that Drizzt is yer better.'
Entreri, in sudden rage, almost ran her through. 'Was,' he corrected, then he looked wickedly to the ledge.
'I've seen ye both fall more than once,' Catti-brie asserted with as much conviction as she could muster in that dark moment. 'I'll not call either of ye dead until I've felt the cold body!'
'Drizzt is alive,' came a whisper from behind, spoken in perfect surface Common, as Jarlaxle and two Bregan D'aerthe soldiers moved to join the assassin. One of them stopped to finish off the squirming drow with the wounded side.
His rage taking control, Entreri instinctively swung again at Catti-brie, but this time the woman lifted a stiffened hand and turned her wrist, subtly diverting the blow.
Then Jarlaxle was between them, eyeing Catti-brie with more than a passing interest. 'By the luck of a Lloth-blessed spider,' the mercenary leader remarked, and he lifted a hand to stroke Catti-brie's bruised cheek.
'Baenre approaches,' the soldier behind the mercenary leader reminded, using the Drow tongue.
'Indeed,' Jarlaxle replied absently, again in the surface language. He seemed wholly absorbed by this exotic woman standing before him. 'We must be on our way.'
Catti-brie straightened, as though she expected the killing blow to fall. Jarlaxle reached up instead and removed the circlet from her head, in effect, blinding her. She offered no resistance as Taulmaril and her quiver were taken from her, and knew that it was Entreri's rough grasp that snapped the jeweled dagger from her belt sheath.
A strong but surprisingly gentle hand hooked her upper arm and led her away—away from the fallen Drizzt.
Caught again, Drizzt thought, and this time he knew that the reception would not be as pleasant as his stay in Blingdenstone. He had walked into the spider's web, had delivered the prized catch to the dinner table.
He was shackled to a wall, standing on his tiptoes to keep from hanging by his sore wrists. He did not remember coming to this place, did not know how long he had hung here, in the dark and dirty room, but both his wrists ached and showed hot welts to his infravision, as though most of the skin had been worn away. Drizzt's left shoulder also hurt, and he felt an uncomfortable stretch along his upper chest and armpit, where Entreri's sword had hit him.
He realized, though, that one of the priestesses must have cleaned the gash and healed him, for the wound had been worse when he had gone off the ledge. That supposition did little to bolster Drizzt's spirits, though, for drow sacrifices were usually in the very best of health before they were given to the Spider Queen.
But, through it all, the pain and the helplessness, the ranger fought hard to find some measure of comfort. In his heart Drizzt had known all along that it would end this way, that he would be taken and killed so that his friends in Mithril Hall might live in peace. Drizzt had long ago accepted death, and had resigned himself to that probability when he had last ventured from Mithril Hall. But why, then, was he so uncomfortable?
The unremarkable room was just a cave with shackles built into the stone along three walls and a cage hanging from the ceiling. Drizzt's survey of the place was cut short as the iron-bound door creaked open and two uniformed drow female soldiers rushed in, going to rigid attention at either side of the portal.
Drizzt firmed his jaw and set his gaze, determined to face his death with dignity.
An illithid walked through the door.
Drizzt's mouth dropped open, but he quickly regained his composure. A mind flayer? He balked, but when he took the moment to consider the creature, he came to realize that he must be in House Baenre's dungeon. That was not a comforting thought, for either him or his friends.
Two drow priestesses, one small and vicious-looking, her face angular and her mouth tight in a perpetual
