frustrated wizard's bluster and be done with Gromph and out of this reeking place.
'What do you know?' Gromph demanded, suddenly very anxious once more.
'No more than you,' Jarlaxle replied. 'Lloth is likely angry at Drizzt's escape, and at the damage to the chapel. You above all can appreciate the importance of that chapel.' Jarlaxle's sly tone sent Gromph's nostrils flaring once more. The mercenary knew he had hit a sore spot, a weakness in the archmage's armored robes. Gromph had created the pinnacle of the Baenre chapel, a gigantic, shimmering illusion hovering over the central altar. It continually shifted form, going from a beautiful drow female to a huge spider and back again. It was no secret in Menzoberranzan that Gromph was not the most devout of Lloth's followers, no secret that the creation of the magnificent illusion had spared him his mother's unmerciful wrath.
'But there are too many things happening for Lloth to be the sole cause,' Jarlaxle went on after savoring the minor victory for a moment. 'And too many of them adversely affect Lloth's own base of power.»
'A rival deity?' Gromph asked, revealing more intrigue than he intended. 'Or an underground revolt?' The wizard sat back suddenly, thinking he had hit upon something, thinking that any underground revolt would certainly fall into the domain of a certain rogue mercenary leader.
But Jarlaxle was in no way cornered, for if either of Gromph's suspicions had any basis, Jarlaxle did not know of it.
'Something,' was all the mercenary replied. 'Something perhaps very dangerous to us all. For more than a score of years, one house or another has, for some reason, overestimated the worth of capturing the renegade Do'Urden, and their very zeal has elevated his stature and multiplied the troubles he has caused.»
'So you believe all of this is tied to Drizzt's escape,' Gromph reasoned.
'I believe many matron mothers will believe that,' Jarlaxle was quick to reply. 'And, thus, Drizzt's escape will indeed play a role in what is to come. But I have not said, and do not believe, that what you sense is amiss is the result of the renegade's flight from House Baenre.»
Gromph closed his eyes and let the logic settle. Jarlaxle was right, of course. Menzoberranzan was a place so wound up in its own intrigue that truth mattered less than suspicion, that suspicion often became a self-fulfilling prophecy, and thus, often created truth.
'I may wish to speak with you again, mercenary,' the archmage said quietly, and Jarlaxle noticed a door near where he had entered the extradimensional pocket. Beside it the zombie still burned, now just a crumpled, blackened ball of almost bare bone.
Jarlaxle started for the door.
'Alas,' Gromph said dramatically, and Jarlaxle paused. 'M'tarl did not survive.»
'A pity for M'tarl,' Jarlaxle added, not wanting Gromph to think that the loss would in any way wound Bregan D'aerthe.
Jarlaxle went out the door, down the cord, and slipped away silently into the shadows of the city, trying to digest all that had occurred. Rarely had he spoken to Gromph, and even more rarely had Gromph requested, in his own convoluted way, the audience. That fact was significant, Jarlaxle realized. Something very strange was happening here, a slight tingle in the air. Jarlaxle, a lover of chaos (mostly because, within the swirl of chaos, he always seemed to come out ahead), was intrigued. What was even more intriguing was that Gromph, despite his fears and all that he had to lose, was also intrigued!
The archmage's mention of a possible second deity proved that, showed his entire hand. For Gromph was an old wretch, despite the fact that he had come as far in life as any male drow in Menzoberranzan could hope to climb.
No, not despite that fact, Jarlaxle silently corrected himself. Because of that fact. Gromph was bitter, and had been so for centuries, because, in his lofty view of his own worth, he saw even the position of archmage as pointless, as a limit imposed by an accident of gender.
The greatest weakness in Menzoberranzan was not the rivalry of the various houses, Jarlaxle knew, but the strict matriarchal system imposed by Lloth's followers. Half the drow population was subjugated merely because they had been born male.
That was a weakness.
And subjugation inevitably bred bitterness, even—especially! — in one who had gone as far as Gromph. Because from his lofty perch, the archmage could clearly see how much farther he might possibly go if he had been born with a different set of genitals.
Gromph had indicated he might wish to speak with Jarlaxle again; Jarlaxle had a feeling he and the bitter mage would indeed
meet, perhaps quite often. He spent the next twenty steps of his walk back across Menzoberranzan wondering what information Gromph might extract from poor M'tarl, for of course the lieutenant was not dead— though he might soon wish he were.
Jarlaxle laughed at his own foolishness. He had spoken truly to Gromph, of course, and so M'tarl couldn't reveal anything incriminating. The mercenary sighed. He wasn't used to speaking truthfully, wasn't used to walking where there were no webs.
Chapter 5 CATTI-BRIE'S CHAMPION
Drizzt called Guenhwyvar to his side when the companions came down to the lower trails. The panther sat quietly, expecting what was to come.
'Ye should bring the cat in,' Catti-brie suggested, understanding Drizzt's intent. The barbarians, though they had come far from their tundra homes and their secluded ways, remained somewhat distrustful of magic, and the sight of the panther always unnerved more than a few of Berkthgar's people, and didn't sit so well with Berkthgar himself.
'It is enough for them that I will enter their settlement,' Drizzt replied.
Catti-brie had to nod in agreement. The sight of Drizzt, of a dark elf, one of a race noted for magic and evil, was perhaps even more unnerving to the Northmen than the panther. 'Still, it'd teach Berkthgar good if ye had the cat sit on him for a while,' she remarked.
Drizzt chuckled as he conjured an image of Guenhwyvar stretching comfortably on the back of the large, wriggling man. 'The folk of Settlestone will grow accustomed to the panther as
they did to my own presence,' the drow replied. 'Think of how many years it took Bruenor to become comfortable around Guenhwyvar.»
The panther gave a low growl, as if she understood their every word.
'It wasn't the years,' Catti-brie returned. 'It was the number of times Guen pulled me stubborn father's backside out of a hot fire!'
When Guenhwyvar growled again, both Drizzt and Catti-brie had a good laugh at surly Bruenor's expense. The mirth subsided as Drizzt took out the figurine and bade Guenhwyvar farewell, promising to call the panther back as soon as he and Catti-brie were on the trails once more, heading back to Mithril Hall.
The formidable panther, growling low, walked in circles about the figurine. Gradually those growls diminished as Guenhwyvar faded into gray mist, then into nothing at all.
Drizzt scooped up the figurine and looked to the plumes of smoke rising from nearby Settlestone. 'Are you ready?' he asked his companion.
'He'll be a stubborn one,' Catti-brie admitted.
'We just have to get Berkthgar to understand the depth of Bruenor's distress,' Drizzt offered, starting off again for the town.
'We just have to get Berkthgar to imagine Bruenor's axe sweeping in for the bridge of his nose,' Catti-brie muttered. 'Right between the eyes.»
Settlestone was a rocky, windswept cluster of stone houses set in a vale and protected on three sides by the climbing, broken sides of the towering mountains known as the Spine of the World. The rock structures, resembling houses of cards against the backdrop of the gigantic mountains, had been built by the dwarves of Mithril Hall, by Bruenor's ancestors, hundreds of years before, when the place had been called Dwarvendarrow. It had been used as a trading post by Bruenor's people and was the only place for merchants to peek at the wonders that came from
