Those were the things Deudermont believed, and he recited them in his mind as he stared at the brilliant reflections on the waters he loved so dearly. He had lived his life, had shaped his own code of conduct, through his faith in the dictums of a good and brave leader, and they had served him well as he in turn had served so well the people of Luskan, Waterdeep, and Baldur’s Gate.
Robillard knew the Hosttower and the ways of the Arcane Brotherhood, and so Deudermont would indeed defer to him on the specifics of their present enemy.
But Captain Deudermont would not shy from the duty he saw before him, not with the opportunity of having eager Lord Brambleberry and his considerable resources sailing beside him.
He had to believe that he was right.
CHAPTER 8
SMOTHERED BY A SECURITY BLANKET
P erhaps I’m just getting older and harder to impress,” Regis said to Drizzt as they walked across a wide fields of grass. “She’s not so great a city, not near the beauty of Mithral Hall—and surely not Silverymoon—but I’m glad they let you in through the gates, at least. Folk are stubborn, but it gives me hope that they can learn.”
“I was no more impressed by Mirabar than you were,” Drizzt replied, tossing a sidelong glance at his halfling friend. “I had long heard of her wonders, but I agree they’re lacking beside Mithral Hall. Or maybe it’s just that I like the folk who live in Mithral Hall better.”
“It’s a warmer place,” Regis decided. “From the king on down. But still, you must be glad of your acceptance in Mirabar.”
Drizzt shrugged as though it didn’t matter, and of course, it didn’t. Not to him, anyway; he could not deny his hope that Marchion Elastul would truly make peace with Mithral Hall and his lost dwarves. That development could only bode well for the North, particularly with an orc kingdom settled on Mithral Hall’s northern border.
“I’m more glad that Bruenor found the courage to go to Obould’s aid for a cause of common good,” the drow remarked. “We’ve seen a great change in the world.”
“Or a temporary reprieve.”
Again Drizzt shrugged, but the gesture was accompanied by a look of helpless resignation. “Every day Obould holds the peace is a day of greater security than we could have expected. When his hordes rushed down from the mountains, I believed we would know nothing but war for years on end. When they surrounded Mithral Hall, I feared we would be driven from the place forever more. Even in the first months of stalemate, I, like everyone else, expected that it would surely descend into war and misery.”
“I still expect it.”
Drizzt’s smile showed that he didn’t necessarily disagree. “We stay vigilant for good reason. But every passing day makes that future just a bit less certain. And that’s a good thing.”
“Or is every passing day nothing more than another day Obould prepares to finish his conquest?” Regis asked.
Drizzt draped his arm over the halfling’s shoulders.
“Am I too cynical for fearing such?” Regis asked.
“If you are, then so am I, and so is Bruenor—and Alustriel, who has spies working all through the Kingdom of Many-Arrows. Our experience with the orcs is long and bitter, full of treachery and war. To think that all we’ve known to be true is not necessarily an absolute is unsettling and almost incomprehensible, and so to walk the road of acceptance and peace often takes more courage than the way of the warrior.”
“It always is more complicated than it seems, isn’t it?” Regis asked with a wry grin. “Like you, for example.”
“Or like a halfling friend of mine who fishes with one foot and flees with the other, fights with a mace in his right hand and pickpockets an unsuspecting fool with his left, and all the while manages to keep his belly full.”
“I have a reputation to uphold,” Regis answered, and handed Drizzt back the purse he’d just lifted from the drow’s belt.
“Very good,” Drizzt congratulated. “You almost had it off my belt before I felt your hand.” As he took the purse, he handed Regis back the unicorn-headed mace he’d deftly slid from the halfling’s belt as the rogue was lifting his purse.
Regis shrugged innocently. “If we steal one-for-one, I will end up with the more valuable items of magic.”
Drizzt looked across the halfling and out to the north, leading Regis’s gaze to a huge black panther moving their way. Drizzt had summoned Guenhwyvar from her Astral home that afternoon and let her go to run a perimeter around them. He hadn’t brought the panther forth much of late, not needing her in the halls of King Bruenor and not wanting to spark some tragic incident with any of the orcs in Obould’s kingdom, who might react to such a sight as Guenhwyvar with a volley of spears and arrows.
“It’s good to be on the road again,” Regis declared as Guenhwyvar loped up beside him, opposite Drizzt. He ruffled the fur on the back of the great cat’s neck and Guenhwyvar tilted her head and her eyes narrowed to contented slits of approval.
“And you are complicated, as I said,” Drizzt remarked, viewing this rarely seen side of his comfort-loving friend.
“I believe I was the one to say that,” Regis corrected. “You just applied it to me. And it’s not that I’m a complicated sort. It’s just that I ever keep my enemies confused.”
“And your friends.”
“I use you for practice,” said the halfling, and as he gave a rather vigorous rub of Guenhwyvar’s neck, the panther let out a low growl of approval that resonated across the dales and widened the eyes of every deer within range.
The fields of tall grass and wild flowers gave way to cultivated land as the sun neared the horizon before them. In the waning twilight, with farmhouses and barns dotting both sides, the path had become a road. The companions spotted a familiar hill in the distance, one sporting the zigzagging silhouette of a house magnificent and curious, with many towers tall and thin, and many more short and squat. Lights burned in every window.
“Ah, but what mysteries might the Harpells have in store for us this visit?” Drizzt asked.
“Mysteries for themselves as well, no doubt,” said Regis. “If they haven’t all killed each other by accident by now.”
As lighthearted as the quip was meant to be, it held an undeniable ring of truth for them both. They’d known the eccentric family of wizards for many years, and never had visited, or been visited by, any of the clan, particularly one Harkle Harpell, without witnessing some strange occurrence. But the Harpells were good friends of Mithral Hall. They had come to the call of Bruenor when the drow of Menzoberranzan assaulted his kingdom, and had fought valiantly among the dwarven ranks. Their magic lacked predictability, to be sure, but there was no shortage of power behind it.
“We should go straight to the Ivy Mansion,” Drizzt said as darkness closed in on the small town of Longsaddle. Even as he finished speaking, almost in response, it seemed, a shout of anger erupted in the stillness, followed by an answering bellow and a cry of pain. Without hesitation, the drow and halfling turned and headed that way, Guenhwyvar trotting beside them. Drizzt’s hands stayed near his sheathed scimitars, but he didn’t draw them.
Another shout, words too distant to be decipherable, followed by a cheer, followed by a cacophony of shouted protests…
Drizzt sprinted out ahead of Regis. He scrambled down a long embankment, picking a careful route over fallen branches and between the tightly-packed trees. He broke out of the copse and skidded to a stop, surprised.