Then the drow made his swaggering entrance, his high black boots kicking loudly on the stone. His gaze darted about quickly to ensure that Firble was the only svirfneblin in the chamber―their usual deal―then strode up to the deep gnome councilor and dropped into a low bow.
“Greetings, little friend with the big purse,” the drow said with a laugh. His command of the svirfneblin language and dialect, with the perfect inflections and pauses of a deep gnome who had lived a century in Blingdenstone, always amazed Firble.
“You could exercise some caution,” Firble retorted, again glancing around anxiously.
“Bah,” the drow snorted, clicking the hard heels of his boots together. “You have an army of deep gnome fighters and wizards behind you, and I… well, let us just agree that I am well protected as well.”
“That fact I do not doubt, Jarlaxle.” Firble replied. “Still, I would prefer that our business remain as private and as secretive as possible.”
“All of the business of Bregan D’aerthe is private, my dear Firble.” Jarlaxle answered, and again he bowed low, sweeping his wide-brimmed hat in a long and graceful arc.
“Enough of that.” said Firble. “Let us be done with our business, so that I may return to my home.”
“Then ask.” said Jarlaxle.
“There has been an increase in drow activity near Blingdenstone,” explained the deep gnome.
“Has there?” Jarlaxle asked, appearing surprised. The drow’s smirk revealed his true emotions, though. This would be an easy profit for Jarlaxle, for the very same matron mother in Menzoberranzan who had recently employed him was undoubtedly connected with the Blingdenstone’s distress. Jarlaxle liked coincidences that made the profits come easy.
Firble knew the ploy of feigned surprise all too well. “There has.” he said firmly.
“And you wish to know why?” Jarlaxle reasoned, still holding a facade of ignorance.
“It would seem prudent, from our vantage point.” huffed the councilor, tired of Jarlaxle’s unending game. Firble knew without any doubts that Jarlaxle was aware of the drow activity near Blingdenstone, and of the purpose behind it. Jarlaxle was a rogue without house, normally an unhealthy position in the world of the dark elves. Yet this resourceful mercenary survived―even thrived―in his renegade position. Through it all, Jarlaxle’s greatest advantage was knowledge―knowledge of every stirring within Menzoberranzan and the regions surrounding the city.
“How long will you require?” Firble asked. “My king wishes to complete this business as swiftly as possible.”
“Have you my payment?” the drow asked, holding out a hand.
“Payment when you bring me the information.” Firble protested. “That has always been our agreement.”
“So it has.” agreed Jarlaxle. “This time, though, I need no time to gather your information. If you have my gems, we can be done with our business right now.”
Firble pulled the pouch of gems from his belt and tossed them to the drow. “Fifty agates, finely cut.” he said with a growl, never pleased by the price. He had hoped to avoid using Jarlaxle this time; like any deep gnome, Firble did not easily part with such sums.
Jarlaxle quickly glanced into the pouch, then dropped it into a deep pocket. “Rest easy, little deep gnome,” he began, “for the powers who rule Menzoberranzan plan no actions against your city. A single drow house has an interest in the region, nothing more.”
“Why?” Firble asked after a long moment of silence had passed. The svirfneblin hated having to ask, knowing the inevitable consequence. Jarlaxle held out his hand. The more finely cut agates passed over.
“The house searches for one of its own.” Jarlaxle explained. “A renegade whose actions have put his family out of the favor of the Spider Queen.”
Again a few interminable moments of silence passed. Firble could guess easily enough the identity of this hunted drow, but King Schnicktick would roar until the ceiling fell in if he didn’t make certain. He pulled ten more gemstones from his belt pouch. “Name the house.” he said.
“Daermon N’a’shezbaernon.” replied Jarlaxle, casually dropping the gems into his deep pocket. Firble crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. The unscrupulous drow had caught him once again.
“Not the ancestral name!” the councilor growled, grudgingly pulling out another ten gems.
“Really, Firble.” Jarlaxle teased. “You must learn to be more specific in your questioning. Such errors do cost you so much!”
“Name the house in terms that I might understand.” Firble instructed. “And name the hunted renegade. No more will I pay you this day, Jarlaxle.”
Jarlaxle held his hand up and smiled to silence the deep gnome. “Agreed.” he laughed, more than satisfied with his take. “House Do’Urden, Eighth House of Menzoberranzan searches for its secondboy.” The mercenary noted a hint of recognition in Firble’s expression. Might this little meeting provide Jarlaxle with information that he could turn into further profit at the coffers of Matron Malice?
“Drizzt is his name.” the drow continued, carefully studying the svirfneblin’s reaction. Slyly, he added, “Information of his whereabouts would bring a high profit in Menzoberranzan.”
Firble stared at the brash drow for a long time. Had he given away too much when the renegade’s identity had been revealed? If Jarlaxle had guessed that Drizzt was in the deep gnome city, the implications could be grim. Now Firble was in a predicament. Should he admit his mistake and try to correct it? But how much would it cost Firble to buy Jarlaxle’s promise of silence? And no matter how great the payment, could Firble really trust the unscrupulous mercenary?
“Our business is at its end.” Firble announced, deciding to trust that Jarlaxle had not guessed enough to bargain with House Do’Urden. The councilor turned on his heel and started out of the chamber.
Jarlaxle secretly applauded Firble’s decision. He had always believed the svirfneblin councilor a worthy bargaining adversary and was not now disappointed. Firble had revealed little information, too little to take to Matron Malice, and if the deep gnome had more to give, his decision to abruptly end the meeting was a wise one. In spite of their racial differences, Jarlaxle had to admit that he actually liked Firble. “Little gnome,” he called out after the departing figure. “I offer you a warning.”
Firble spun back, his hand defensively covering his closed gem pouch.
“Free of charge,” Jarlaxle said with a laugh and a shake of his bald head. But then the mercenary’s visage turned suddenly serious, even grim. “If you know of Drizzt Do’Urden,” Jarlaxle continued, “keep him far away. Lloth herself has charged Matron Malice Do’Urden with Drizzt’s death, and Malice will do whatever she must to accomplish the task. And even if Malice fails, others will take up the hunt, knowing that the Do’Urden’s death will bring great pleasure to the Spider Queen. He is doomed, Firble, and so doomed will be any foolish enough to stand beside him.”
“An unnecessary warning.” Firble replied, trying to keep his expression calm. “For none in Blingdenstone know or care anything for this renegade dark elf. Nor, I assure you, do any in Blingdenstone hold any desire to find the favor of the dark elves’ Spider Queen deity!”
Jarlaxle smiled knowingly at the svirfneblin’s bluff. “Of course.” he replied, and he swept off his grand hat, dropping into yet another bow.
Firble paused a moment to consider the words and the bow, wondering again if he should try to buy the mercenary’s silence.
Before he came to any decision, though, Jarlaxle was gone, clomping his hard boots loudly with every departing step. Poor Firble was left to wonder.
He needn’t have. Jarlaxle did indeed like little Firble, the mercenary admitted to himself as he departed, and he would not divulge his suspicions of Drizzt’s whereabouts to Matron Malice.
Unless, of course, the offer was simply too tempting. Firble just stood and watched the empty chamber for many minutes, wondering and worrying.