It didn’t happen like that, of course; deep gnomes were neither rash nor cruel creatures. One of the group did turn from the others and walk over to face Drizzt squarely. He asked, in halting but unmistakably drow language, “By the stones, dark elf, why have you come?”
Drizzt did not know how to answer that simple question. How could he even begin to explain his years of loneliness in the Underdark? Or the decision to forsake his evil people and live in accordance with his principles?
“Friend,” he replied simply, and then he shifted uncomfortably, thinking his response absurd and inadequate.
The svirfneblin, though, apparently thought otherwise. He scratched his hairless chin and considered the answer deeply. “You… you came in to us from Menzoberranzan?” he asked, his hawklike nose crinkling as he uttered each word.
“I did,” Drizzt replied, gaining confidence.
The deep gnome tilted his head, waiting for Drizzt to extrapolate.
“I left Menzoberranzan many years ago,” Drizzt tried to explain. His eyes stared away into the past as he remembered the life he had deserted. “It was never my home.”
“Ah, but you lie, dark elf!” the svirfneblin shrieked, holding up the emblem of House Do’Urden and missing the private connotations of Drizzt’s words.
“I lived for many years in the city of the drow,” he replied quickly. “I am Drizzt Do’Urden, once the secondboy of House Do’Urden.” He looked at the emblem the svirfneblin held, stamped with the insignia of his family, and tried to explain. “Daermon N’a’shezbaernon.”
The deep gnome turned to his comrades, who began talking all at once. One of them nodded excitedly, apparently recognizing the drow house’s ancient name, which surprised Drizzt.
The deep gnome who had been questioning Drizzt tapped his fingers over his wrinkled lips, making annoying little smacking sounds while he contemplating the interrogation’s direction. “By all of our information, House Do’Urden survives,” he remarked casually, noting Drizzt’s reactions. When Drizzt did not immediately respond, the deep gnome snapped at him accusingly, “You are no rogue!”
How could the svirfnebli know that? Drizzt wondered. “I am a rogue by choice…” he started to explain.
“Ah, dark elf,” the deep gnome replied, again calmly. “You are here by choice, that much I can believe. But a rogue? By the stones, dark elf―” the deep gnome’s face contorted suddenly and fearfully―”you are a spy!” Then, suddenly, the deep gnome once again calmed and relaxed into a comfortable posture.
Drizzt eyed him carefully. Was this svirfneblin adept at such abrupt attitude changes, designed to keep a prisoner off guard? Or was such unpredictability the norm for this race? Drizzt struggled with it for a moment, trying to remember his one previous encounter with deep gnomes. But then his questioner reached into an impossibly deep pocket in his thick robes and produced a familiar figurine.
“Tell me, now tell me true, dark elf, and spare yourself much torment. What is this?” the deep gnome asked quietly.
Drizzt felt his muscles twitching again. The hunter wanted to call to Guenhwyvar, to bring the panther in so that it could tear these wrinkled old svirfnebli apart. One of them might hold the keys to Drizzt’s chains―then he would be free…
Drizzt shook the thoughts from his head and drove the hunter out of his mind. He knew the desperation of his situation and had known it from the moment he had decided to come to Blingdenstone. If the svirfnebli truly believed him a spy, they surely would execute him. Even if they were not certain of his intent, could they dare to keep him alive?
“It was folly to come here.” Drizzt whispered under his breath, realizing the dilemma he had placed upon himself and upon the deep gnomes. The hunter tried to get back into his thoughts. A single word, and the panther would appear.
“No!” Drizzt cried for the second time that day, dismissing that darker side of himself. The deep gnomes jumped back, fearing that the drow was casting a spell. A dart nicked into Drizzt’s chest, releasing a puff of gas on impact.
Drizzt swooned as the gas filled his nostrils. He heard the svirfnebli shuffling about him, discussing his fate in their foreign tongue. He saw the form of one, only a shadow, close in on him and grasp at his fingers, searching his hands for possible magical components.
When Drizzt’s thoughts and vision had at last cleared, all was as it had been. The onyx figurine came up before his eyes. “What is this?” the same deep gnome asked him again, this time a bit more insistently.
“A companion,” Drizzt whispered. “My only friend.” Drizzt thought hard about his next actions for a long moment. He really couldn’t blame the svirfnebli if they killed him, and Guenhwyvar should be more than a statuette adorning some unknowing deep gnome’s mantle.
“Its name is Guenhwyvar,” Drizzt explained to the deep gnome. “Call to the panther and it will come, an ally and friend. Keep it safe, for it is very precious and very powerful.”
The svirfneblin looked to the figurine and then back to Drizzt, curiously and cautiously. He handed the figurine to one of his companions and sent him out of the room with it, not trusting the drow. If the drow had spoken truly, and the deep gnome did not doubt that he had, Drizzt had just given away the secret to a very valuable magical item. Even more startling, if Drizzt had spoken truly, he might have relinquished his single chance of escape. This svirfneblin had lived for nearly two centuries and was as knowledgeable in the ways of the dark elves as any of his people. When a drow elf acted unpredictably, as this one surely had, it troubled the svirfneblin deeply. Dark elves were cruel and evil by well-earned reputation, and when an individual drow fit that usual pattern, he could be dealt with efficiently and without remorse. But what might the deep gnomes do with a drow who showed a measure of unexpected morals?
The svirfnebli went back to their private conversation, ignoring Drizzt altogether. Then they left, with the exception of the one who could speak the dark elf tongue.
“What will you do?” Drizzt dared to ask.
“Judgment is reserved for the king alone.” the deep gnome replied soberly. “He will rule on your fate in several days perhaps, based on the observations of his advising council, the group you have met.” The deep gnome bowed low, then looked Drizzt in the eye as he rose and said bluntly, “I suspect, dark elf, that you will be executed.”
Drizzt nodded, resigned to the logic that would call for his death.
“But I believe you are different, dark elf.” the deep gnome went on. “I suspect, as well, that I will recommend leniency, or at least mercy, in the execution.” With a quick shrug of his heavyset shoulders, tae svirfneblin turned about and headed for the door.
The tone of the deep gnome’s words struck a familiar chord in Drizzt. Another svirfneblin had spoken to Drizzt in a similar manner, with strikingly similar words, many years before.
“Wait.” Drizzt called. The svirfneblin paused and turned, and Drizzt fumbled with his thoughts, trying to remember the name of the deep gnome he had saved on that past occasion.
“What is it?” the svirfneblin asked, growing impatient.
“A deep gnome.” Drizzt sputtered. “From your city, I believe. Yes, he had to be.”
“You know one of my people, dark elf?” the svirfneblin prompted, stepping back to the stone chair. “Name him!”
“I do not know.” Drizzt replied. “I was a member of a hunting party, years ago, a decade perhaps. We battled a group of svirfnebli that had come into our region.” He flinched at the deep gnome’s frown but continued on, knowing that the single svirfneblin survivor of that encounter might be his only hope. “Only one deep gnome survived, I think, and returned to Blingdenstone.”
“What was this survivor’s name?” the svirfneblin demanded angrily, his arms crossed tightly over his chest and his heavy boot tapping on the stone floor.