When at last it crumbled in death, the second drow was once more between the Hunter and the newest kill, and Drizzt recognized him by his outrageous hat before he even turned about and dipped a polite bow.
“Well met again, my old friend,” Jarlaxle said, and he saluted with a sword Drizzt knew welclass="underline" Khazid’hea, the sword more commonly known as “Cutter.”
Curiously, though, another blade rested on Jarlaxle’s hip where he would normally sheathe Cutter.
“I have searched long for you,” Jarlaxle said. “Though not as long as I might have feared,” he added with a chuckle, kicking at the balgura Drizzt had killed. “You do leave a trail of easily followed crumbs.”
“As bait for the other demons,” Drizzt explained. “Let them find me and make my hunt easier.”
“There are some powerful foes down here,” Jarlaxle warned.
“I have not yet even brought Guenhwyvar to my side. I will save her until I find another marilith, perhaps.”
Bigger foes, Jarlaxle thought but did not say. He had been apprised of the events in full and believed that several of the demon lords had come into the Underdark, with hosts of major demons with them.
“You came to join in my hunt, then,” Drizzt said. “I am glad for the company.”
“You came to find any more survivors from Icewind Dale.”
Drizzt solemnly shook his head, certain that none would be found alive.
“So you stay to exact vengeance.”
“To clear the corridors for King Bruenor’s people,” Drizzt corrected, though the thoughts were not mutually exclusive, and both were true.
“I will join in your hunt, then, if you will have me,” said Jarlaxle. “But that is not why I have come, my friend.”
Drizzt looked at him curiously, not sure what to expect.
“I have tidings, many, both dark and hopeful, from the lower tunnels,” Jarlaxle explained. “Come, let us be gone from this fetid place. I will set us a fine dinner.”
“A dinner? Down here?”
“The growl you hear is no demon, but my belly, and I am sure I will die of starvation before I find my way back to Bruenor’s halls, even if my path is clear all the way. Come.”
Drizzt shook his head, reminding himself never to be surprised by Jarlaxle-and found himself, yet again, quite astonished. As Jarlaxle turned, Drizzt caught a better view of the sword that hung on his belt. It was a sword Drizzt knew welclass="underline" Charon’s Claw, the blade Drizzt had watched Artemis Entreri throw into the primordial pit.
“How?” he blurted, and Jarlaxle swung back, then followed Drizzt’s gaze down to the distinctive skeletal hilt and red blade of that most wicked weapon.
“Surely you know me better than to expect me to leave such a treasure as Charon’s Claw lying in the hot stones of a pit,” Jarlaxle innocently replied.
“You went down there to retrieve …”
“No,” Jarlaxle said casually, and he turned back and started away, “your wife did.”
Drizzt stood there stunned for a few moments. He scrambled and caught up to Jarlaxle around a bend in the corridor and into a side chamber, where the mercenary was already preparing his banquet. From a magical pouch came a table, cleverly folded so that it opened, again and again, to become a rectangular table as long as Drizzt was tall, and half that width. Chairs followed and a fine linen tablecloth as well, with plates and fine silver, large drinking goblets, and all from a pouch barely larger than the one Drizzt wore to hold the onyx figurine that summoned Guenhwyvar.
From some secret pocket inside his cloak, Jarlaxle produced a wand, and from it came a meal fit for Bruenor’s table on the highest holiday of the dwarven year.
“Sit,” Jarlaxle bade Drizzt. “And eat. We have much to talk about.”
A groan back in the corridor alerted them that they were not alone. Drizzt turned and reached for his blades, but Jarlaxle held his hand up to stop him then reached his other hand to the huge feather stuck into the band of his grand hat. He threw it down, summoning a gigantic flightless bird-a diatryma-with a huge beak that could break through a skull with ease and massive legs that would make fine drumsticks for the gods of the giants.
Off it went with a squawk that echoed about the stones. Barely had it turned the corner into the corridor when the first demon manes let out a great gasp, a burst of air flying from its suddenly torn lungs.
Jarlaxle motioned for Drizzt to sit, and took his own seat opposite, carefully laying Khazid’hea onto the table.
Drizzt did likewise with his bow, and put the onyx figurine of Guenhwyvar within easy reach as well.
Jarlaxle tore a leg from the beautifully browned turkey set on a silver platter, and hoisted his large mug, filled with fine ale, in toast. “To friends!” he said.
Drizzt lifted his own mug and nodded his agreement.
“You understand why the dwarves won so easily, do you not?” Jarlaxle asked. But then he paused, held up his hand to prevent a response, and shook his head, his expression one of disgust as he considered the tumult coming from the hallway. He reached for his belt pouch again, then reconsidered and went for a second pouch instead.
He brought out a tiny stringed instrument with an even smaller bow, and he tossed it into the air.
And there it hung, and it began to play.
“Much better!” Jarlaxle said when the music drowned out the noise of ripping and tearing flesh out in the corridor, and Drizzt could only shake his head helplessly and laugh.
“Now, to the point,” Jarlaxle went on. “You understand why the dwarves so easily won?”
“The hundreds of dead might not agree with that description of the victory.”
“True enough,” Jarlaxle conceded. “Nor do I mean to minimize your own struggles, particularly with the great demons you defeated in the main chamber of the lower level. Truly that was a fight to remember. I don’t know that I have ever seen you fight better, and I have witnessed many of your battles over the years.”
“I fought with grand allies,” said Drizzt. “And that is why the dwarves won.”
“Indeed, and they would have prevailed in any case.”
“But not as easily?”
“Must I remind you of the power of a drow noble House? Surely you remember, and this was House Xorlarrin, my friend, thick with deadly wizards more than ready to send a thousand of Bruenor’s kin to the grave in short order.”
“But they did not,” said Drizzt, catching on, “because of …”
Jarlaxle smiled.
“I have known Matron Mother Zeerith most of her life,” the mercenary explained. “She is a most reasonable creature. I know that’s hard for you to believe, but I ask that you trust me on this observation.”
“You convinced her to depart, and to surrender,” Drizzt replied. He knew much of this already, from the surrender of Matron Mother Zeerith in the primordial chamber, when she had returned the Harpell prisoners and Stokely Silverstream in exchange for her own exit into the Underdark.
“Have you seen any signs of them?” Jarlaxle asked. “Of any drow?”
Drizzt shook his head.
“Why not, do you suppose? The tunnels are thick with demons-surely a matron mother of a drow House and her high priestesses could convince more than a few to go and cause havoc among the dwarves as they settle into their new home.”
“How do I know they have not?” Drizzt replied. “Demons are all around, perhaps at Matron Mother Zeerith’s behest.”
“They have not,” Jarlaxle assured him. “House Xorlarrin is far removed from this place and will honor the terms of their surrender. And yes, my friend, because of my efforts.”
“Then I lift my flagon in honor of Jarlaxle,” Drizzt said, and he did just that.
“At great expense,” Jarlaxle added.
“No doubt.”
“And now I wish something from you.”
“You did this as a requisite for a favor?” Drizzt asked. “Then truly you wound me.”
“Why did you think I did it?”