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  He was still wondering that very thing the next morning, when Le'lorinel found him in his little spice garden on the small balcony halfway up his gray stone tower.

  “You are versed in teleportation,” the elf explained. “It will be an expensive spell for me to purchase, I presume, since you do not approve of my destination, but I am willing to work another two tendays, from before dawn to after dusk, in exchange for a magical journey to Luskan, on the Sword Coast.”

  Mahskevic didn't even look up from his spice plants, though he did stop his weeding long enough to consider the offer. “I do not approve, indeed,” he said quietly. “Once again I beseech you to abandon this folly.”

  “And once again I tell you that it is none of your affair,” the elf retorted. “Help me if you will. If not, I suspect I will easily enough find a wizard in Silverymoon who is willing to sell a simple teleport.”

  Mahskevic stood straight, even put his hand on the back of his hip for support and arched his back, stretching out the kinks. Then he turned, deliberately, and put an imposing glare over the confident elf.

  “Will you indeed?” the wizard asked, his glare going to the elf s hand, to the onyx ring he had sold to Le'lorinel and into which he had placed the desired magical spells.

  Le'lorinel had little trouble in following his gaze to discern the item that held his attention.

  “And you will have enough coin, I expect,” the wizard remarked. “For I have changed my mind concerning the ring I created and will buy it back.”

  Le'lorinel smiled. “There is not enough gold in all the world.”

  “Give it over,” Mahskevic said, holding out his hand. “I will return your payment.”

  Le'lorinel turned around and walked off the balcony, moving right to the stairs and heading down.

  An angry Mahskevic caught up just outside the tower.

  “This is foolishness!” he declared, rushing around and blocking the smaller elf s progress. “You are consumed by a vengeance that goes beyond all reason and beyond all morality!”

  “Morality?” Le'lorinel echoed incredulously. “Because I see a drow elf for what he truly is? Because I know the truth of Drizzt Do'Urden and will not suffer his glowing reputation? You are wise in many things, old wizard, and I am better for having tutored under you these years, but of this quest I have undertaken, you know nothing.”

  “I know you are likely to get yourself killed.”

  Le'lorinel shrugged, not disagreeing. “And if I abandon this, then I am already dead.”

  Mahskevic gave a shout and shook his head vigorously. “Insanity!” he cried. “This is naught but insanity. And I'll not have it!”

  “And you can not stop it,” said Le'lorinel, and the elf started around the old man, but Mahskevic was quick to shift, again blocking the way.

  “Do not underestimate—” Mahskevic started to say, but he stopped short, the tip of a dagger suddenly pressing against his throat.

  “Take your own advice,” Le'lorinel threatened. “What spells have you prepared this day? Battle spells? Not likely, I know, and even if you have a couple in your present repertoire, do you believe you will ever get the chance to cast them? Think hard, wizard. A few seconds is a long time.”

  “Le'lorinel,” Mahskevic said as calmly as he could muster.

  “It is only because of our friendship that I will put my weapons aside,” the elf said quietly, and Mahskevic breathed more easily as the dagger went away. “I had hoped you would help me on my way, but I knew that as the time drew near, your efforts to aid me would diminish. And so I forgive you your abandonment, but be warned, I will not tolerate interference from anybody. Too long have I waited, have I prepared, and now the day is upon me. Wish me well, for our years together, if for nothing else.”

  Mahskevic considered it for a while, then grimly nodded. “I do wish you well,” he said. “I pray you will find a greater truth in your heart than this and a greater road to travel than one of blind hatred.”

  Le'lorinel just walked away.

  “He is beyond reason,” came a familiar voice behind Mahskevic a few moments later, with the wizard watching the empty road where Le'lorinel had already gone out of sight. Mahskevic turned to see Tunevec standing there, quite at ease.

  “I had hoped to dissuade him, as well,” Tunevec explained. “I believed the three of us could have carved out quite an existence here.”.

  “The two of us, then?” Mahskevic asked, and Tunevec nodded, for he and the wizard had already spoken of his apprenticeship.

  “Le'lorinel is not the first elf I have heard grumble about this Drizzt Do'Urden,” Tunevec explained as the pair walked back to the tower. “On those occasions when the rogue drow visited Alustriel in Silverymoon, there were more than a few citizens openly offering complaints, the light-skinned elves foremost among them. The enmity between the elves, light and dark, can not be overstated.”

  Mahskevic gave one longing glance back over his shoulder at the road Le'lorinel had walked. “Indeed,” he said, his heart heavy.

  With a profound sigh, the old wizard let go of his friend, of a large part of the last few years of his life.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  On a rocky road many hundreds of miles away, Sheila Kree stood before a quartet of her crewmen.

  One of her most trusted compatriots, Gayselle Wayfarer, her deck commander for boarding parties, sat astride a small but strong chestnut mare. Though not nearly as thin or possessed of classic beauty as Bellany the Sorceress or the tall and willowy Jule Pepper, Gayselle was far from unattractive. Even though she kept her blond hair cropped short, there was a thickness and a luster to it that nicely complimented the softness of her blue eyes and her light complexion, a creaminess to her skin that remained despite the many days aboard ship. Gayselle, a short woman with the muscular stature to match her mount, was, perhaps, the most skilled with weapons of anyone aboard Bloody Keel, with the exception of Sheila Kree herself. She favored a short sword and dagger. The latter she could throw as precisely as anyone who'd ever served with Sheila Kree.

  “Bellany wouldn't agree with this,” Gayselle said.

  “If the task is completed, Bellany will be glad for it,” Sheila Kree replied.

  She looked around somewhat sourly at Gayselle's chosen companions, a trio of brutal half-ogres. These three would be running, not riding, for no horse would suffer one of them on its

  back. It hardly seemed as if it would slow Gayselle down on her journey to Luskan's docks, where a small rowboat would be waiting for them, for their ogre heritage gave them a long, swift stride and inhuman endurance.

  “You have the potions?” the pirate captain asked.

  Gayselle lifted one fold of her brown traveling cloak, revealing several small vials. “My companions will look human enough to walk through the gates of Luskan and off the docks of Water-deep,” the rider assured her captain.

  “If Sea Sprite is in. .”

  “We go nowhere near Deudermont's house,” Gayselle completed.

  Sheila Kree started another remark but stopped and nodded, reminding herself that this was Gayselle, intelligent and dependable, the second of her crew after Bellany to wear the brand. Gayselle understood not only the desired course for this, but any alternate routes should the immediate plan not be possible. She would get the job done, and Captain Deudermont and the other fools of Sea Sprite would understand that their hounding of Sheila Kree might not be a wise course to continue.

  Part 2 TRACKING

  It has often struck me how reckless human beings tend to be.

  In comparison to the other goodly reasoning beings, I mean, for comparisons of humans to dark elves and goblins and other creatures of selfish and vicious ends make no sense. Menzoberranzan is no safe place, to be sure, and most dark elves die long before the natural expiration of their corporeal bodies, but that, I believe, is more a matter of ambition and religious zeal, and also a measure of hubris. Every dark elf, in his ultimate confidence, rarely envisio
ns the possibility of his own death, and when he does, he often deludes himself into thinking that any death in the chaotic service of Lolth can only bring him eternal glory and paradise beside the Spider Queen.

  The same can be said of the goblinkin, creatures who, for whatever misguided reasons, often rush headlong to their deaths.

  Many races, humans included, often use the reasoning of godly service to justify dangerous actions, even warfare, and there is a good deal of truth to the belief that dying in the cause of a greater good must be an ennobling thing.

  But aside from the fanaticism and the various cultures of warfare, I find that humans are often the most reckless of the goodly reasoning beings. I have witnessed many wealthy humans venturing to Ten-Towns for holiday, to sail on the cold and deadly waters of Maer Dualdon, or to climb rugged Kelvin's Cairn, a dangerous prospect. They risk everything for the sake of minor accomplishment.

  I admire their determination and trust in themselves.

  I suspect that this willingness to risk is in part due to the short expected life span of the humans. A human of four decades risking his life could lose a score of years, perhaps two, perhaps three in extraordinary circumstances, but an elf of four decades would be risking several centuries of life! There is, then, an immediacy and urgency in being human that elves, light or dark, and dwarves will never understand.

  And with that immediacy comes a zest for life beyond anything an elf or a dwarf might know. I see it, every day, in Catti-brie's fair face—this love of life, this urgency, this need to fill the hours and the days with experience and joy. In a strange paradox, I saw that urgency only increase when we thought that Wulfgar had died, and in speaking to Catti-brie about this, I came to know that such eagerness to experience, even at great personal risk, is often experienced by humans who have lost a loved one, as if the reminder of their own impending mortality serves to enhance the need to squeeze as much living as possible into the days and years remaining.

  What a wonderful way to view the world, and sad, it seems, that it takes a loss to correct the often mundane path.

  What course for me, then, who might know seven centuries of life, even eight, perhaps? Am I to take the easy trail of contemplation and sedentary existence, so common to the elves of Toril? Am I to dance beneath the stars every night, and spend the days in reverie, turning inward to better see the world about me? Both worthy pursuits, indeed, and dancing under the nighttime sky is a joy I would never forsake. But there must be more for me, I know. There must be the pursuit of adventure and experience. I take my cue from Catti-brie and the other humans on this, and remind myself of the fuller road with every beautiful sunrise.

  The fewer the lost hours, the fuller the life, and a life of a few decades can surely, in some measures, be longer than a life of several centuries. How else to explain the accomplishments of a warrior such as Artemis Entreri, who could outfight many drow veterans ten times his age? How else to explain the truth that the most accomplished wizards in the world are not elves but humans, who spend decades, not centuries, pondering the complexities of the magical Weave?

  I have been blessed indeed in coming to the surface, in finding a companion such as Catti-brie. For this, I believe, is the mission of my existence, not just the purpose, but the point of life itself. What opportunities might I find if I can combine the life span of my heritage with the intensity of humanity? And what joys might I miss if I follow the more patient and sedate road, the winding road dotted with signposts reminding me that I have too much to lose, the road that avoids mountain and valley alike, traversing the plain, sacrificing the heights for fear of the depths?

  Often elves forsake intimate relationships with humans, denying love, because they know, logically, that it can not be, in the frame of elven time, a long-lasting partnership.

  Alas, a philosophy doomed to mediocrity.

  We need to be reminded sometimes that a sunrise lasts but a few minutes.

  But its beauty can burn in our hearts eternally.

  – Drizzt Do'Urden

  Chapter 7 UNSEEMLY COMPANY

  The guard blanched ridiculously, seeming as if he would simply fall over dead, when he noted the sylvan features and ebony skin of the visitor to Luskan's gate this rainy morning. He stuttered and stumbled, clenched his polearm so tightly in both hands that his knuckles turned as white as his face, and at last he managed to stammer out, “Halt!”

  We're not moving,” Catti-brie replied, looking at the man curiously. “Just standing here, watching yerself sweating.”

  The man gave what could have been either a growl or a whimper, then, as if finding his heart, called out for support and boldly stepped in front of the pair, presenting his polearm defensively. “Halt!” he said again, though neither of them had started moving.

  “He figured out ye were a drow,” Catti-brie said dryly.

  “He does not recognize that even a high elf's skin might darken under the sun,” Drizzt replied with a profound sigh. “The curse of fine summer weather.”

  The guard stared at him, perplexed by the foolish words. What do you want?” he demanded. “Why are you here?”

  To enter Luskan,” said Catti-brie. “Can't ye be guessing that much yerself?”

  Enough of your ridicule!” cried the guard, and he thrust the polearm threateningly in Catti-brie's direction.

  A black hand snapped out before the sentry could even register the movement, catching his weapon just below its metal head.

  “There is no need of any of this,” Drizzt remarked, striding next to the trapped weapon to better secure his hold. “I, we, are no strangers to Luskan, nor, can I assure you, have we ever been less than welcomed.”

  “Well, Drizzt Do'Urden, bless my eyes!” came a call behind the startled sentry, a cry from one of a pair of soldiers rushing up to answer the man's cry. “And Catti-brie, looking less like a dwarf than e'er before!”

  “Oh, put your weapon away, you fool, before this pair puts it away for you, in a holder you'd not expect and not much enjoy!” said the other of the newcomers. “Have you not heard of this duo before? Why, they sailed with Sea Sprite for years and brought more pirates in for trial than we've soldiers to guard them!”

  The first sentry swallowed hard and, as soon as Drizzt let go of the polearm, hastily retracted it and skittered out of the way. “Your pardon,” he said with an awkward bow. “I did not know. . the sight of a. .” He stopped there, obviously mortified.

  “And how might you know?” Drizzt generously returned. “We have not been here in more than a year.”

  “I have only served for three months,” the relieved sentry answered.

  “And a pity to have to bury one so quickly,” one of the soldiers behind him remarked with a hearty laugh. “Threatening Drizzt and Catti-brie! O, but that will get you in the ground right quick and make yer wife a weeping widow!”

  Drizzt and Catti-brie accepted the compliments with a slight grin and a nod, trying to get past it. For the dark elf, compliments sat as uncomfortably as insults, and one of the natural side-products of hunting with Deudermont was a bit of notoriety in the port towns along the northern Sword Coast.

  “So what blesses Luskan with your presence?” one of the more knowledgeable soldiers asked. His demeanor made both Drizzt and Catti-brie think they should know the man.

  “Looking for an old friend,” Drizzt answered. “We have reason to believe he might be in Luskan.”

  “Many folks in Luskan,” the other seasoned soldier answered.

  “A barbarian,” Catti-brie explained. “A foot and more taller than me, with blond hair. If you saw him, you'd not likely forget him.”

  The closest of the soldiers nodded, but then a cloud crossed his face and he turned about to regard his companion.

  “What's his name?” the other asked. “Wulfgar?”

  Drizzt's excitement at hearing the confirmation was shallowed by the expressions worn by both soldiers, grave looks that made him think immediately that something t
errible had befallen his friend.

  “You have seen him,” the drow stated, holding his arm out to calm Catti-brie, who had likewise noted the guards' concern.

  “You'd best come with me, Master Drizzt,” the older of the soldiers remarked.

  “Is he in trouble?” Drizzt asked.

  “Is he dead?” Catti-brie asked, stating the truth of what was on Drizzt's mind.

  “Was in trouble, and I'd not be surprised one bit if he's now dead,” the soldier answered. “Come along and I'll lead you to someone who can offer more answers.”

  They followed the soldier along Luskan's winding avenues, moving toward the center of the city, and, finally, into one of the largest buildings in all the city, which housed both the jail and most of the city officials. The soldier, apparently a man of some importance, led the way without challenge from any of the many guards posted at nearly every corridor, up a couple of flights of stairs and into an area where every door marked the office of a magistrate.

  He stopped in front of one that identified the office of Magistrate Bardoun, then, with a concerned look back at the pair, knocked loudly.

  “Enter,” came a commanding reply.

  Two black-robed men were in the room, on opposite sides of a huge desk cluttered with papers. The closest, standing, looked every bit the part of one of Luskan's notorious justice-bringers, with hawkish features and narrow eyes all but hidden beneath long gray eyebrows. The man sitting behind the desk, Bardoun, obviously, was much younger than his counterpart, no more than thirty, certainly, with thick brown hair and matching eyes and a clean-shaven, boyish face.

  “Begging your pardon, Magistrate,” the soldier asked, his voice showing a nervous edge, “but I have here two heroes, Drizzt Do'Urden and Catti-brie, daughter of dwarf King Bruenor Battlehammer himself, come back to Luskan in search of an old friend.”