And Drizzt was certain the thief was Jarlaxle, or someone working for him. Jarlaxle, above all others, knew of Bruenor’s passion for Gauntlgrym, and whoever had raided the camp had come specifically for those maps, had waited until the exact moment when they were most vulnerable.
But why? Why would Jarlaxle reach out to them in such a manner?
Drizzt considered the mountains towering over them to the north, and expected that they would make Luskan the next day, probably before the midday meal.
They camped that night by the side of the road, their rest undisturbed until very early in the morning, when the ground began to tremble and shake.
“The way is blocked,” a voice said from the side, and Dahlia spun, surprised indeed.
“Jarlaxle,” she mouthed, though she couldn’t really see the drow in the shadows of an alley.
“Your scouts tell you truthfully. The way to Gauntlgrym is no more, from crumbling Luskan at least.”
Dahlia moved slowly, trying to gain a view of the dark elf. It was indeed Jarlaxle’s voice-melodic and harmonious, as would be expected of an elf, particularly a cultured dark elf-but the truth of it was that Dahlia only guessed it was he. She hadn’t heard Jarlaxle’s voice in a decade, and even then…
“I know you,” the voice said. “I know your heart. I trust you will find a proper use for this when the opportunity presents itself.”
“What do you mean?” the elf asked, and when no reply came forth, even after she asked again, Dahlia rushed down the alley to the spot where she estimated the drow had been standing.
On an empty, overturned cask she found a cloth, and on the cloth, a small box, and in the small box, a glass ring.
She closed the box and wrapped it in the cloth before stuffing it into a pouch, and all the while, she glanced up and down the alley, surveyed the roofline, searching for some clue, any clue.
“Jarlaxle?” she whispered again, but it occurred to Dahlia then just how ridiculous her hopes truly were, just how much she had allowed herself to fantasize about something so very unlikely.
She rushed out of the alley and down the garbage-strewn street toward the inn and her room, thinking then that her encounter had more likely been with an agent of Sylora.
For the Thayan sorceress would ever test her, and never trust her, and woe to Dahlia if ever Sylora found her loyalty to be less than absolute.
No matter how many times they approached Luskan from that direction, Drizzt and Bruenor always paused on the same hill south of the city’s southern gate to take in the view of the harbor. Though other ports like Waterdeep and Calimport had far larger docks, longer wharves, and always had more ships in port, nowhere was there to be found such a diversity of sailing vessels as in the so-called City of Sails. They might have been the dregs of the Sword Coast-pirates, smugglers, and only the most daring merchants-ruffians who outfitted their vessels ad-hoc, with sails of stitched clothing and maybe a catapult that had been designed for a castle’s tower strapped onto the aft deck for good measure.
Coastrunners bobbed against the shallower docks, with rows of oars standing skyward. Single-mast schooners and square-sailed caravels dominated the second tier of docks, with many more open-moored farther out, and a trio of three-mast vessels, large and wide, were moored near the outermost docks.
The City of Sails indeed-though Drizzt couldn’t help but note that though those ships were in port, there were fewer in all than he remembered.
“Our friend better be here,” Bruenor grumbled, stealing the moment. “And better have me maps. Every one, and don’t ye think I’ll not know if even one’s missin’!”
“We’ll know soon enough,” Drizzt promised.
“We’ll know now,” Bruenor growled in reply.
“Jarlaxle, tomorrow,” Drizzt promised, and started down the road toward the city. “The hour is late. Let us find an inn for the night and shake off the dirt of the road.”
Bruenor started to argue, but stopped short and shot Drizzt a glance and a grin. “The Cutlass?” the dwarf said, almost reverently, for what a grand history those two, particularly Drizzt, had with that establishment.
It was in the Cutlass where Drizzt and Wulfgar had first met Captain Deudermont of Sea Sprite, one of the most legendary vessels ever to sail out of Luskan. The Cutlass was where a broken Wulfgar had gone when, returned from the Abyss, he found himself mired in the mud of self-pity and strong drink. Delly Curtie, for a while Wulfgar’s wife-and thus, Bruenor’s daughter-in-law-had been a barmaid there, working for the jovial and well-informed…
“Arumn Gardpeck,” Bruenor said, recalling the tavernkeeper’s name.
“A good man with a fine tavern,” Drizzt agreed. “Aye, when the wealthy came to Luskan in the years before the pirates took hold, they stayed in the far fancier inns higher on the hills, but they would have found better lodging in Arumn Gardpeck’s beds.”
“Not to doubt,” said Bruenor. “And who was that skinny one, with the rat face? The one what stole me boy’s hammer?”
Drizzt could easily picture that miscreant sitting on a stool at Arumn’s bar. He was always there, always talking, and he had an unusual name, Drizzt remembered, a silly one.
But the drow couldn’t quite recall it, so he just shook his head.
“Arumn’s kin still got the place, or so I hear,” Bruenor recalled. “What was that girl’s name, then? Shibanni?”
Drizzt nodded. “Shivanni Gardpeck. Claims to be Arumn’s great-great-great grandniece, I believe.”
“Think it’s true?”
Drizzt shrugged. All that mattered to him was that the Cutlass remained. Shivanni may or may not have been Arumn Gardpeck’s descendent, but if she wasn’t, she had to have come from a similar bloodline, and if she was, then fat Arumn would be glad to know it, and to know her.
The pair crossed through the open gate, many eyes turning their way. There were only a scant few guards manning the walls and none visible on the towers. They might have been soldiers of one or another of the High Captains who ruled Luskan, but looked more like thugs serving themselves first-a ragtag band of knaves bound by no uniform, no code, and no notion of the common good of Luskan.
The city gates were always open. If Luskan began discriminating about who they let in, they would probably find the city deserted in short order. Even the scurvy dogs who wandered in through the gates paled under the glow of angelic halos compared to the rats who crawled off the ships that put into port there.
“ ’Ere now, a dwarf an’ a drow,” one man said to the pair as they passed under the gate.
“Be ye more impressed by yer eyes, or by yer sharp mind that sorted such a sight?” Bruenor shot back.
“Not a usual pairing, is all,” the man said with a chuckle.
“Give him that much, Bruenor,” Drizzt said so only the dwarf could hear.
“And what is the news in Luskan, good sir?” Drizzt asked the man.
“Same news as any day,” the guard replied, and he seemed in good spirits. He stood and stretched, his back making cracking sounds with the effort, and took a step toward the pair. “Too many bodies cloggin’ the waterways, and too many rats blocking the streets.”
“And pray tell, what captain do you serve?” asked the drow.
The man looked wounded, and put his hand over his heart. “Why, dark skin,” he replied, “I’m livin’ to serve the City o’ Sails, and nothin’ more!”
Bruenor shot Drizzt a sour look, but the drow, far better versed in the ways of the chaotic and wild town, smiled and nodded, for he had expected no other answer.
“And where’re ye off to?” the guard asked. “Might I be directin’ ye? Ye lookin’ for a boat er an inn in particular?”
“No,” Bruenor said flatly, aiming it, obviously, at both questions.
But to the dwarf’s wide-eyed surprise, Drizzt answered, “Passing through. For tonight, good lodging. For tomorrow, perhaps the road north.” He saluted and started away, then said to Bruenor, and not quietly, “Come, Shivanni awaits.”