That baggage did not change the sincere admiration that Drizzt held for the woman, though, nor did it make him emotionally push aside that admiration for any fears that it would lead him down a more dangerous and unwanted road. Catti-brie had initiated their present plan the day after Sea Sprite, the pirate-hunting ship of their friend Captain Deudermont, had appeared in Waterdeep harbor. They wanted to go aboard and sail with Deudermont, and likely, had they walked to the plank where the ship was moored, the Captain would have welcomed them aboard with a wide smile and opened arms. But Catti-brie, ever in search of adventure and hardly afraid of a risk, had convinced Drizzt to up the stakes. She had led the way into the tavern, had gone in alone, actually, night after night. She had formulated the plan, confirmed the lay-out, and had dragged Drizzt every step of the way to this point.
“Go and get some rest,” Drizzt bade her. He drew forth his two thin-bladed scimitars, one proffered from the lair of a vanquished white dragon and possessed of mighty magic, the other, also powerfully enchanted, the gift of a arch-wizard. He placed them together and wrapped them in cloth, then tied off the bundle and slung it over his shoulder.
“Three hours after sunset?” Catti-brie asked.
Drizzt nodded, then paused, and thinking ahead, he drew out from his belt pouch a small onyx figurine shaped in the likeness of a black panther. He offered Catti-brie a smile and a wink, and tossed the enchanted statuette to her.
Catti-brie felt the magnificent workmanship of the idol, then tucked it away and answered Drizzt’s smile with a nod, accepting the great responsibility he had just placed upon her, the great faith he had just put in her.
A moment later, the drow shooed her away, then, with a glance up and down the empty alley, he sorted out a path to the lone second-floor window on this side of the building and began to climb. He went in, confirmed the lay-out as Catti-brie had described it, even the line of windows, one building to the other, and nodded. The window in this building, too, was partially covered by boards, but Drizzt decided against removing any, for fear of tipping off the intended victims.
He came back out a short while later, without his baggage.
The black skinned elf walked into the common room of the tavern with all the swagger he could muster. He knew that every eye would turn upon him. He knew that every hand would go to a sword or dagger, that every muscle would tighten in hatred and fear. That was the reputation of his race-well-earned, he agreed, and so he accepted the initial fear and hatred he inevitably inspired as a simple fact of his life. He knew, too, that his own reputation might precede him in this particular section of this particular city, and so he wasn’t traveling openly, but hid his most telling feature, his lavender eyes. He had his thick and long white hair combed in front of his face, covering his left eye, and over his right eye he wore a black patch of fine netting that afforded him a darkened, but acceptable, view of his surroundings.
He wore dirty and somewhat ragged clothing, loose fitting and with an old blanket set about his shoulders as a cloak. His belt was a simple sash of cheap material, and tucked into it was a long and unremarkable dagger. He didn’t want to get into a fight, so poorly armed and armored, and thus he assumed the confident swagger, playing upon every fear and prejudice that surface-dwellers rightly held for the race of drow.
He moved right up to the bar and noted the scowl of the tavernkeeper.
“Fear not,” he said, distorting the words as if the language was unfamiliar to him. “I ask of you no drink, buffoon. I come to speak to Thurgood of Baldur’s Gate, and have no business with you.”
The tavernkeeper scowled more fiercely.
“You will be dead before you realize that you’ve insulted me,” Drizzt promised.
That seemed to back the man off somewhat. Across the bar from him, and just down from Drizzt, a young woman, a serving wench, whispered to the tavernkeeper, “Don’t ye be a fool,” then turned to Drizzt.
“Thurgood’s there,” she said, indicating a table in the back corner of the common room. “The big one with the beard.”
Drizzt had known that all along, of course, since Catti-brie had been thorough in her investigation.
“Ye should bring him a drink, ye know,” the woman went on. “He’s wanting a drink with every introduction to those wanting to sail with him.”
Drizzt stared at the man, then turned to consider the tavernkeeper, who seemed as defiant and unmoving as ever. “Mayhaps I’ll bring him the head of the owner, that he can claim all the drink as his own.”
The man bristled, as did several of the folk seated at the bar, ruffians all, but Drizzt knew how to properly play a bluff, and he just calmly walked away, cutting a straight line for Thurgood’s table.
The gazes of all four men seated at that table, as well as all of those standing nearby, were upon the drow through every stride, and Drizzt surveyed them all carefully, watching for the flicker of movement that might show an attack. He wished he had his scimitars with him, instead of a simple long knife. He had no doubt that every man in the tavern knew well how to put a weapon to quick and deadly use.
Catti-brie wasn’t covering his moves this time.
He walked right up between the two closest seated men, to the table’s edge.
“Seek I one Thurgood of Baldur’s Gate,” he said, twisting his mouth as if the common language of Waterdeep was uncomfortable and unnatural to him.
Across the table from him, the barrel-chested man crossed his arms over his chest and brought one hand up to stroke his thick and wild black beard.
“Thurgood you are?”
“Who’s askin’?”
“Masoj of Menzoberranzan,” Drizzt lied, taking the name of a former associate, the one from whom he had taken the magical statuette that allowed him to summon the great panther Guenhwyvar to his side.
“Never heard o’ no Masoj,” Thurgood answered. “Never heard o’ no Menzoberranzan.”
“Of no consequence is that,” Drizzt answered. “You seek crew. I am crew.”
The big man cocked an eyebrow and turned slyly to his companions, all of whom began to chuckle. “Been on many boats, have ye?”
“Demon ships, sailing the planes of existence,” Drizzt answered without the slightest hesitation.
“Not sure it’s the same thing,” Thurgood replied, and Drizzt noted a slight tremor in his voice, one he was trying hard to hide, obviously, and one that betrayed his intrigue.
“Same thing,” said Drizzt.
Thurgood motioned to the man on his left, who reached down, untied his belt and tossed it, a rope, to Drizzt. Before Thurgood even started to offer instructions, Drizzt’s hands worked in a blur, tying off three different kinds of knots in rapid succession before tossing the rope back to the man. Fortunately for Drizzt, both of his voyages with Deudermont had not been idle ones as a mere passenger. Anyone sailing with Sea Sprite and her crew was expected to pull his weight, in work and in battle, and with his drow nimbleness, Drizzt had proven especially adept at tying off lines.
Thurgood nodded as he looked at the rope, but again worked hard to keep his face straight. His gaze went from the rope, to Drizzt’s eyepatch, to Drizzt’s sash belt and the knife fastened there.
“Ye know how to use that thing?”
“I am drow,” Drizzt replied, and the man beside Thurgood scoffed. “Drow who do not fight well, die poorly.”
“So I been told,” said Thurgood, and he elbowed the doubting man.
“I will not die poorly,” Drizzt said, and as he did, he turned his head to fix the doubting man with an imposing stare, though of course, the drow’s eyes were covered. Still, the thug did wilt a bit under the forward-leaning and imposing posture that accompanied that hidden gaze.
“You seek crew. I am crew,” Drizzt repeated, turning square to Thurgood.