Archmage (17 page)

“You mean to reclaim Gauntlgrym for the dwarves,” he said.

“Aye, and know that we’re meanin’ to fight any who think to stand afore that end,” said Bruenor.

Neverember bristled but let it go. “And re-fire the forges.”

“Already runnin’,” said Bruenor. “And better that they’re runnin’ for dwarf smiths.”

Neverember nodded and wore an expression that looked as if he was beginning to see things in a different light—no doubt, in a profitable light for Neverwinter, or more important, for himself. Bruenor recognized that clearly, for he had paid close attention to all the whispers along the road regarding the new Lord Protector of Neverwinter. Bruenor had not met the man in his short time in the city previously. But even then the whispers had been quite consistent in tagging the man with some of the mind’s deadly sins, and all were on display already in this short meeting: pride, wrath, and now, it seemed pretty clear to the dwarf, avarice.

“We come to introduce ye to yer new neighbors, Lord Neverember,” said Bruenor. “Don’t ye doubt that.”

“Those lands in the Crags are under my control,” he countered.

“Not anymore,” said Bruenor.

Those seated around Lord Protector Neverember sucked in their breath as one, and the man sputtered as he searched to put his anger into words, but Bruenor wasn’t about to let it go.

“Gauntlgrym’s dwarf land,” he declared, standing again. “If ye’re meaning to fight us, ye best do it now, afore we get into the mines. Ye got the belly for that?”

Neverember stared at him incredulously, sputtering still, his lack of options laid bare. There was no way the Neverwinter garrison could be turned loose on the powerful army Bruenor and Emerus had brought to their doorstep. Five thousand battle-hardened dwarf veterans outfitted with the strongest armor and weapons of the finest materials mined in Mithral Hall and Citadel Felbarr and lovingly crafted by the artisans of Citadel Adbar would prove formidable against the very best armies of the Realms, particularly in the open field, where the dwarves’ discipline and tight defensive formations could frustrate even heavy cavalry.

Certainly the garrison of Neverwinter wasn’t about to leave the protection of the city walls to challenge them, Lord Neverember’s bluster notwithstanding.

Exposed now, the Lord Protector of Neverwinter settled back in his chair and stroked his silver beard, managing a smile that was supposed to appear wry, but in reality seemed rather pathetic to Bruenor.

“You have come as a courtesy, you say, but you offer threats?” came the predictable response—the answer of a man trying not to be embarrassed.

“No threats to any who’re not trying to stop us from gettin’ back our home,” said Bruenor. “Are ye sayin’ ye like the drow and goblins on yer doorstep more than a kingdom o’ dwarfs? If that’s what ye’re sayin’ then say it straight up.”

“I said no such thing.”

“Gauntlgrym’s Delzoun.”

“The land above it is under my protection,” Lord Neverember said. “Even if you are successful in reclaiming the Underdark of this place you claim to be Gauntlgrym, your kingdom will extend no farther than your front door.”

Bruenor chuckled, understanding now. The greedy Waterdhavian lord was angling for a tithe. The dwarves would need trade, obviously, and Neverember wanted his cut.

“Talk for another day,” Bruenor said, and he offered Neverember a grin and a nod to show that he understood well what was going on. “First we’ve got a war to fight and win, and don’t ye doubt that we’ll be doing just that.”

Before Lord Neverember could even respond, Bruenor motioned left and right to his entourage, and they rose and stepped away from the table. The crafty old dwarf, who appeared so young, wanted to make it clear that he and his people were not under the suffrage of Lord Protector Neverember or anyone else, and so he wasn’t about to wait for a dismissal from the lord, or even a respectful conclusion to the formal meeting.

He was daring Neverember to take action, perhaps even to detain him and his small entourage.

Because he knew the man would do no such thing, particularly not with King Emerus and Drizzt—who remained quite popular in Neverwinter these days—in that entourage.

They were out of the city soon after, without hindrance, and General Sabine, riding a fabulous warhorse with metal barding, and Citizen Jelvus Grinch on a smaller riding horse even accompanied them back to the main dwarven encampment, chatting amicably all the way.

“Lord Neverember is in a difficult position here,” General Sabine told them. “This long-lost complex you call Gauntlgrym . . .”

“Is Gauntlgrym,” Bruenor interrupted. “Been there meself more than once. No doubt.”

General Sabine bowed to concede the point.

“Gauntlgrym has been a thorn in Neverwinter’s side,” she explained. “Monsters come forth from the Underdark all the time. And it was from that region, from the very mountain that houses the ancient complex, that the volcano erupted in the first place, destroying the old city.”

Bruenor and Drizzt knew the truth of that all too well, and knew the source of the volcano to be the very same fire primordial that fired Gauntlgrym’s legendary Forge. Drizzt had watched the eruption from a hilltop not so far away.

“Did ye come out here to tell me how to think o’ Neverember then?” Bruenor asked. “I seen what I seen.”

“I hope you understand the upset your arrival has caused, and will cause, with the powers that be in the region,” General Sabine replied.

“Not just Lord Neverember,” Jelvus Grinch added. “I expect that many of the Waterdhavian lords will not be as welcoming as you hope.”

“But what would you do if you were still first citizen?” Drizzt asked, his tone revealing that he knew the answer.

“I’d be going into Gauntlgrym beside you to chase the dark elves and the rest away,” he answered after only a slight hesitation to glance at General Sabine. His words could be construed as a treasonous act under the court of fiery Neverember. Jelvus Grinch had no authority to speak against the Lord Protector of Neverwinter, and certainly not in the presence of Neverwinter’s captain of the guard, and yet he was.

That told Drizzt and the others a lot about Jelvus Grinch, but more importantly, it told Drizzt and Bruenor about the reliability and integrity of General Sabine. Jelvus Grinch would not have spoken so openly if he didn’t trust the woman, which in Drizzt and Bruenor’s eyes told them that they could trust her as well.

“With the dwarves claiming Gauntlgrym, Neverwinter will be far more secure,” Jelvus Grinch went on. “And more prosperous, I would assume, with a mighty trading partner so near. You will want our food and our cloth.”

“And our markets for your wares,” General Sabine added.

Bruenor nodded, but thought that the dwarves would have nothing to do with Neverwinter’s products, craftsmen, or markets if Neverember tried to slap a tariff on the dwarves for bringing their goods out through what the Lord Protector considered Neverwinter land.

As far as Bruenor was concerned—and he was sure that King Emerus and King Connerad felt the same way—in that situation, they’d either tunnel out a new exit farther to the north or to the east, or they’d just disregard any such demands of taxation.

And they’d cut Neverwinter out of any trading partnerships or military alliances.

Bruenor Battlehammer did not march to Gauntlgrym with such a force from the Silver Marches to bow down to the human lords of the Sword Coast.

“We need her alive,” the human said.

Jarlaxle sighed. “We did not go to all the trouble of finding the troubled young elf just to see her slaughtered.”

“You went to find Tiago at the command of Gromph,” the man pressed.

“We went to do both.” Jarlaxle turned to Kimmuriel. “A fortunate coincidence that they were together.”

Kimmuriel’s expression showed that he could not have cared less.

Jarlaxle sighed again, an audible lament to the extremes of his two companions, one who apparently couldn’t see past his own immediate desires, and the other, who was so removed from emotion that none of this seemed at all important to him. The mercenary grinned and let it go; this had ever been his role in Bregan D’aerthe, after all, balancing the immediate desires with the long-term implications.

Fortunately for him this time, Gromph’s—and by extension, Matron Mother Baenre’s—demands that Bregan D’aerthe locate and track Tiago also played into some more important developments and likelihoods that Jarlaxle had expected farther down the line.

Beniago and the human left then, leaving the co-leaders of Bregan D’aerthe alone in the room at the inn called One-Eyed Jax in Luskan.

“We don’t need her at all,” Kimmuriel pointed out. “Our excitable friend believes that since she, too, is
darthiir
, she will ultimately lead us where he desires to go.”

“He sees us as if we all look alike, my friend,” Jarlaxle replied. “Are we not guilty of the same prejudices against his kind? Or against Doum’wielle’s, for that matter?”

Kimmuriel stared at him for a few moments. “You are,” said the ultimately pragmatic psionicist, who spent more time with the otherworldly mind flayers than with his own kind, and when he considered the truth of Kimmuriel’s words, Jarlaxle realized that he really couldn’t disagree.

Still, Jarlaxle was less inclined toward xenophobia and prejudice than most others of his race, so he could take Kimmuriel’s point well without taking it personally.

“When do you meet with Gromph again for his next lesson?” Jarlaxle asked.

“In a tenday, in Sorcere,” the psionicist replied.

“We see where this is leading, and I don’t think the archmage will approve. Nor will he harbor the risk of knowing our plans without going straight to the wretched matron mother.”

“Archmage Gromph has more on his mind than something Bregan D’aerthe might do with a minor House in Menzoberranzan sometime in the future,” Kimmuriel insisted.

“He is not removed from this,” Jarlaxle reminded him. “He has been tasked with ensuring Tiago’s safe return to Menzoberranzan. That puts us side by side, but not with similar end goals.”

“He is more removed than you believe,” Kimmuriel said. “But I will take great care when I present this to the archmage.” He held up a large crystal, one attuned to the necklace Beniago had hung around Doum’wielle’s neck.

This item was a psionic creation more than an arcane one, scrying through the sheer power of the mind. If Doum’wielle had been so trained, she could use the gem hanging around her neck to look back the other way, but of course, she’d never recognize such a power. But Gromph, training under Kimmuriel and growing quite adept at the strange psionic powers, would be able to utilize the connection between the gems.

And the great Kimmuriel, holding the third gem, would be able to psionically walk beside Tiago and Doum’wielle as surely as if he were actually standing with them.

“Keep a close watch,” Jarlaxle bade him. “If Gromph moves on Tiago and Doum’wielle, we must be quick to act.” Jarlaxle considered that closed the business between he and Kimmuriel, and rose from his seat, but Kimmuriel’s next words stopped him before he took a step.

“For the sake of your human friend?”

Jarlaxle laughed under his breath at the sarcastic remark, so characteristic of the often too-clever Kimmuriel.

“For all our sakes, as the wider events unfold.”

“We find a good profit simply working under the commands of the matron mother,” Kimmuriel reminded him.

“Until Quenthel grows tired of us, or wishes to make a point against us.”

“Against her brother, you mean.”

Jarlaxle spun and glared at Kimmuriel. “You accuse me of using Bregan D’aerthe to further my own designs?”

Kimmuriel shrugged and returned Jarlaxle’s look with a disarming grin. “Is that not why we
have
Bregan D’aerthe?”

That stark admission caught Jarlaxle off guard. He had elevated Kimmuriel to co-leader of the band precisely to make sure that he, Jarlaxle, did not wrongly use the band in pursuit of goals that did not serve Bregan D’aerthe.

“In this instance, I do not disagree that your needs and those of Bregan D’aerthe are one and the same,” Kimmuriel explained. “When your sister imprisoned you as a guard of House Do’Urden—”

“Along with half of our foot soldiers,” Jarlaxle interjected, and Kimmuriel nodded.

“She also sublimated our Luskan operation to House Xorlarrin and their fledgling city,” Kimmuriel finished.

“We should remain a proxy group for House Baenre,” the psionicist went on, “but only partly that, and only so long as it serves us.”

“Keep a close watch, I beg,” Jarlaxle said again.

“Of course.”

As soon as Jarlaxle exited the room, Kimmuriel pulled forth that third crystal, the one with which he could monitor Doum’wielle and Tiago.

Unknown to Jarlaxle and to the archmage, with this gemstone Kimmuriel would be able to watch Gromph as well.

That breathtaking reality unnerved the psionicist as much as anything he had undertaken in the centuries of his life, for if Gromph Baenre ever got a hint that Kimmuriel was spying on him, his retribution would likely leave Kimmuriel tortured and begging for death next to K’yorl in the prisons of Errtu in the Abyss.

Yes, this was a dangerous game Kimmuriel was playing, and he had to admit to himself that spying on Gromph was as much a fulfillment of his personal desires to savor in the beauty of House Baenre’s downfall as Kimmuriel’s destroyed House was at long last avenged as it was any hope of practical gain.

The pieces were already in play, after all, and in a tenday, Kimmuriel would quietly insinuate more powerful words of the spell K’yorl had given him to facilitate Gromph’s unwitting actions, returning her to Menzoberranzan where she could wreak revenge upon House Baenre.

Kimmuriel didn’t have to monitor that—in fact, it was far more logical, and indeed much safer for him to remain as far removed from the coming chaos as he could. Still, despite all of that, despite his life’s efforts in remaining purely pragmatic, in being driven purely by reason and not by emotion . . .

Indeed, despite all of that, Kimmuriel Oblodra simply couldn’t help himself.