“Only because I allow it to,” the drow answered.
“Because of vanity?”
Drizzt shrugged and laughed. “Indeed.”
Soon after, they went into the Cutlass, a rather unremarkable tavern serving the docks of Luskan, particularly the returning or visiting merchant crews. So close to the harbor, it was not hard to understand the moniker given to Luskan: the City of Sails. Many tall ships were tied beside her long wharves, and many more sat at anchor out in the deeper waters—so many, it seemed to Drizzt, that the whole of the city could just up and sail away.
“I have never had the wanderlust for ocean voyages,” Regis said, and when Drizzt tore his eyes from the spectacle of the harbor, he found the halfling staring up at him knowingly.
Drizzt merely smiled in reply and led his friend into the tavern.
More than one mug lifted to toast the pair, particularly Drizzt, who had a long history there. Still, most of the many patrons of the bustling place gave no more than a casual glance at the unusual pair, for few in the Cutlass were not considered unusual elsewhere.
“Drizzt Do’Urden, in the black flesh,” the portly proprietor said as the drow came up to the bar. “What brings you back to Luskan after these long years?” He extended a hand, which Drizzt grasped and shook warmly.
“Well met, Arumn Gardpeck,” he replied. “Perhaps I have returned merely to see if you continued to ply your trade—I take comfort that some things ever remain the same.”
“What else would an old fool like me do?” Arumn replied. “Have you sailed in with Deudermont, then?”
“Deudermont? Is Sea Sprite in port?”
“Aye, and with a trio of ships of a Waterdhavian lord beside her,” Arumn replied.
“And spoiling for a fight,” said one of the patrons, a thin and weasely little man leaning heavily on the bar, as if needing its support.
“You remember Josi Puddles,” Arumn said as Drizzt turned to regard the speaker.
“Yes,” Drizzt politely replied, though he wasn’t so sure he did remember. To Josi, he added, “If Captain Deudermont is indeed seeking a battle, then why has he come ashore?”
“Not a fight with pirates this time,” Josi replied, despite Arumn shaking his head for the man to shut up, and nodding his chin in the direction of various patrons who seemed to be listening a bit too intently. “Deudermont is looking for a bigger prize!” Josi ended with a laugh, until he finally noticed Arumn’s scowl, whereupon he shrugged innocently.
“There’s talk of a fight coming in Luskan,” Arumn explained quietly, leaning in close so that only Drizzt and Regis—and Josi, who similarly leaned in—could hear. “Deudermont sailed in with an army, and there’s talk that he’s come here with purpose.”
“His army’s not one for fighting on the open seas,” Josi said more loudly, drawing a hush from Arumn.
The two quieted as Drizzt and Regis exchanged glances, neither knowing what to make of the news.
“We’re going north, straightaway,” Regis reminded Drizzt, and though the drow nodded, albeit half-heartedly, the halfling suddenly wasn’t so sure of his claim.
“Deudermont will be glad to see you,” Arumn said. “Thrilled, I’d bet.”
“And if he sees you, you will stay and fight beside him,” Regis said with obvious resignation. “I’d bet.”
Drizzt chuckled but held quiet.
He and Regis left the Cutlass early the next morning, supposedly for Icewind Dale, but on a route that took them down by Luskan’s docks, where Sea Sprite sat in her customary, honorary berth.
Drizzt met with Captain Deudermont and the brash young Lord Brambleberry before noon.
And the two companions from Mithral Hall didn’t leave the City of Sails that day.
PART 2
MORAL GROUNDING
I put Regis at ease as we walked out of Longsaddle. I kept my demeanor calm and assuring, my stride solid and my posture forward-leaning. Yet inside, my stomach churned and my heart surely ached. What I saw in the once-peaceful village shook me profoundly. I had known the Harpells for years, or thought so, and I was pained to see that they were walking a path that could well lead them to a level of authoritarian brutishness that would have made the magistrates at Luskan’s wretched Prisoner’s Carnival proud.
I cannot pretend to judge the immediacy and criticality of their situation, but I can certainly lament the potential outcome I so clearly recognized.
I wonder, then, where is the line between utilitarian necessity and morality? Where does one cross that line, and more importantly, when, if ever, is the greater good not served by the smaller victories of, or concessions to, basic standards of morality?
This world in which I walk often makes such distinctions based on racial lines. Given my dark elf heritage, I certainly know and understand that. Moral boundaries are comfortably relaxed in the concept of “the other.” Cut down an orc or a drow with impunity, indeed, but not so a dwarf, a human, an elf?
What will such moral surety do in light of King Obould should he consider his unexpected course? What did such moral surety do in light of myself? Is Obould, am I, an anomaly, the exception to a hard and fast rule, or a glimpse of wider potential?
I know not.
Words and blades, I kept in check in Longsaddle. This was not my fight, since I had not the time, the standing, or the power to see it through to any logical conclusion. Nor could I and Regis have done much to alter the events at hand. For all their foolishness, the Harpells are a family of powerful magic-users. They didn’t ask the permission or the opinion from a dark elf and halfling walking a road far from home.
Is it pragmatism, therefore, to justify my lack of action, and my subsequent assurances to Regis, who was so openly troubled by what we had witnessed?
I can lie to him—or at least, conceal my true unease—but I cannot do so to myself. What I saw in Longsaddle wounded me profoundly; it broke my heart as much as it shocked my sensibilities.
It also reminded me that I am one small person in a very large world. I hold in reserve my hope and faith in the general weal of the family Harpell. This is a good and generous family, grounded in morality if not in common sense. I cannot consider myself so wrong in trusting in them. But still…
Almost in answer to that emotional turmoil, I now find a situation not so different waiting for me in Luskan, but one from a distinctly opposing perspective. If Captain Deudermont and this young Waterdhavian lord are to be believed, then the authorities in Luskan have gone over to a dangerous place. Deudermont intends to lead something not quite a revolution, since the Hosttower of the Arcane is not the recognized leadership of the city.
Is Luskan now what Longsaddle will become as the Harpells consolidate their power with clever polymorphs and caged bunnies? Are the Harpells susceptible to the same temptations and hunger for greater power that has apparently infected the hierarchy of the Hosttower? Is this a case of better natures prevailing? My fear is that in any ruling council where the only check against persecuting power is the better nature of the ruling principles is doomed to eventual, disastrous failure. And so I ride with Deudermont as he begins his correction of that abuse.
Here, too, I find myself conflicted. It is not a lament for Longsaddle that drives me on in Luskan; I accept the call because of the man who calls. But my words to Regis were more than empty comforts. The Harpells were behaving with brutality, it seemed, but I hold no doubt that the absence of suffocating justice would precipitate a level of wild and uncontrollable violence between the feuding clerics.