Amarandaris's voice faded. Dru had no doubt that the man's yearning was sincere, and futile. Men like him and Amarandaris couldn't hold onto artifacts like the Nether scroll. He took a deep breath and baited the trap he hoped would free his foster son.
"What would you say to a copy of the Nether scroll, Arcanus Fundare Tiersus?"
The Zhentarim chuckled. "If they could have been copied, they'd never have been lost in the first place and Netheril would rule the world still today."
Dru reached inside his shirt-a clean shirt-Amarandaris had waited for him to sluice the journey from his hide and change his clothes. The hour was, again, long past midnight. Dru dropped a wad of linen cloth on the table between himself and the Zhentarim.
Amarandaris held it up to the lamp and examined it from behind. His eyes widened-he could read the script on the three-fingers, lengthwise strip that Dru had cut from the middle of Tiep's shirt while he was alone in the charterhouse's bathing room. The copy was true and complete, but merely interesting. The magic was in the Nether scroll itself.
"I could have you killed."
"And lose the rest?" Dru scowled. He'd hoped they could avoid petty threats. "Don't take me for a fool. The box will burn and the linen within it. This is trade, not robbery."
The Zhentarim leaned back in his chair. "Name your price. I'm sure something can be arranged, if not here, then in Scornubel. My lord often visits Scornubel."
"I know," Dru said quietly.
Amarandaris sat forward. "Name it. What do you want, Dru?"
"A life. A life free from the Zhentarim. Call it a fresh start, a rebirth."
The Zhentarim hid his face behind steepled hands. By his manner, he'd made it clear he knew exactly what they were negotiating.
"That's nothing I can arrange here, but at Darkhold-? I'm sure I could get my lord's private ear. There is no guarantee, of course. The young man will be free to make the same mistake he made before."
"No guarantees," Dru agreed. "I'm not asking for a miracle, only a clean slate. The rest is up to him."
"I don't suppose you'd give me the rest of the cloth now?"
"You have a band, that ought to be enough, if you're any good at trade."
"I'm good enough," Amarandaris returned Dru's smile. "You should get those cuts on your nose looked at; they're going to scar. We've got a Banite priest-you met him earlier? He's good with battle wounds."
"Lots of practice, I expect. No, thank you, I want a life, nothing more, nothing less."
Another smile as Amarandaris stood up. "Consider it done. The Zhentarim will forget that we've ever known the boy, except as we've always known him-the youngest son of Bitter Ansoain." He held out his hand to seal the trade.
Dru hesitated then clasped the Zhentarim's hand. They exchanged the hollow good-wishes of men who do not expect to meet again. The sun was poking above the horizon as Dru walked down the stairs alone.
Another night without sleep.
He thought about Amarandaris's words before they had shaken hands. Her youngest son?