“Was Morik the Rogue who plucked you from the waves,” Maimun said to him, walking over to join him.
“Tell him I won’t kill him, then,” Robillard replied. “Today.”
Maimun chuckled, though there remained profound sadness behind his laugh, at the unrelenting sarcasm of the dour wizard. “Do you thinkSea Sprite might be salvaged?” he asked
“Do I care?”
Maimun found himself at a loss to reply to the blunt answer, though he suspected it to be more an expression of anger and grief than anything else.
“Well, if you manage it, I can only hope that you and your crew will be too busy exacting revenge upon Luskan to chase the likes of me across the waves,” the young pirate remarked.
Robillard looked at him, finally, and managed a smirk. “Neither fight seems worth a pile of rotting fish,” he said, and he and Maimun looked at each other deeply then, sharing the moment of painful reality.
“I miss him, too,” Maimun said.
“I know you do, boy,” said Robillard.
Maimun put a hand on Robillard’s shoulder, then walked away, leaving the wizard to his grief. Robillard had guaranteed him safe passage forThrice Lucky through Waterdeep, and he trusted the wizard’s words.
What the young pirate didn’t trust at that moment were his own instincts. Deudermont’s fall had hit him profoundly, had made him think, for the first time in many years, that the world might be more complicated than his idealistic sensibilities had allowed.
“We could not have asked for a better outcome,” Kensidan insisted to the gathering at Ten Oaks. Baram and Taerl exchanged doubtful looks, but Kurth nodded his agreement with the Crow’s assessment.
The streets of Luskan were quiet again, for the first time since Deudermont and Lord Brambleberry had put into the docks. The high captains had retreated to their respective corners; only Suljack’s former domain remained in disarray.
“The city is ours” Kensidan said.
“Aye, and half of it’s dead, and many others have run off,” Baram replied.
“Unwanted and unnecessary fodder,” said Kensidan. “We who remain, control. None who don’t trade for us or fight for us or otherwise work for us belong here. This is no city for families and mundane issues. Nay, my comrades, Luskan is a free port now. A true free port. The only true free port in all the world.”
“Can we survive without the institutions of a real city?” Kurth asked. “What foes might come against us, I wonder?”
“Waterdeep? Mirabar?” Taerl asked.
Kensidan grinned. “They will not. I have already spoken to the dwarves and men of Mirabar who live in the Shield District. I explained to them the benefits of our new arrangement, where exotic goods shall pass through Luskan’s gates, in and out, without restriction, without question. They expressed confidence that Marchion Elastul would go along, as has his daughter, Arabeth. The other kingdoms of the Silver Marches will not pass over Mirabar to get to us.” He looked slyly to Kurth as he added, “They will accept the profits with feigned outrage, if any at all.”
Kurth offered an agreeing grin in return.
“And Waterdeep will muster no energy to attack us,” Kensidan assured them. “To what end would they? What would be their gain?”
“Revenge for Brambleberry and Deudermont,” said Baram.
“The rich lords, who will get richer by trading with us, will not wage war over that,” Kensidan replied. “It is over. Arklem Greeth and the Arcane Brotherhood have lost. Lord Brambleberry and Captain Deudermont have lost. Some would say that Luskan herself has lost, and by the old definition of the City of Sails, I could not disagree.
“But the new Luskan is ours, my friends, my comrades,” he went on, his ultimately calm demeanor, his absolute composure, lending power to his claims. “Outsiders will call us lawless because we care not for the minor matters of governance. Those who know us well will call us clever because we four will profit beyond anything we ever imagined possible.”
Kurth stood up, then, staring at Kensidan hard. But only for a moment, before his face cracked into a wide smile, and he lifted his glass of rum in toast, “To the City of Sails,” he said.
The other three joined in the toast.
Beneath the City of Sails, Valindra Shadowmantle sat unblinking, but hardly unthinking. She had felt it, the demise of Arklem Greeth, stabbing at her as profoundly as any dagger ever could. The two were linked, inexorably, in undeath, she as the unbreathing child of the master lich, and so his fall had stung her.
She at last turned her head to the side, the first movement she’d made in many days. There on a shelf, from within the depths of a hollowed skull, it sparkled—and with more than simple reflection of the enchanted light set in the corners of the decorated chamber.
Nay, that light came from inside the gem, the phylactery. That sparkle was the spark of life, of undeath existence, of Arklem Greeth.
With great effort, her skin and bones crackling at the first real movement in so many days, Valindra stood and walked stiff-legged over to the skull. She rolled it onto its side and reached in to retrieve the phylactery. Lifting it to her eyes, Valindra stared intently, as if trying to discern the tiny form of the lich.
But it appeared as just a gem with an inner sparkle, a magical light.
Valindra knew better. She knew that she held the spirit, the life energy, of Arklem Greeth in her hand.
To be resurrected into undeath, a lich once more, or to be destroyed, utterly and irrevocably?
Valindra Shadowmantle smiled and for just a brief moment, forgot her calamity and considered the possibilities.
He had promised her immortality, and more importantly, he had promised her power.
Perhaps that was all she had left.
She stared at the phylactery, the gemstone prison of her helpless master, feeling and basking in her power.
“It’s all there,” Jarlaxle insisted to Drizzt on the outskirts of Luskan as evening fell.
Drizzt eyed him for just a moment before slinging the pack over his shoulder.
“If I meant to keep anything, it would have been the cat, certainly,” Jarlaxle said, looking over, and leading Drizzt’s gaze to Guenhwyvar, who sat contentedly licking her paws. “Perhaps someday you’ll realize that I’m not your enemy.”
Regis, his face all bruised and bandaged from his fall, snorted at that.
“Well, I didn’t mean for you to roll off the roof!” Jarlaxle answered. “But of course, I had to put you to sleep, for your own sake.”
“You didn’t give me everything back,” Regis snarled at him.
Jarlaxle conceded the point with a shrug and a sigh. “Almost everything,” he replied. “Enough for you to forgive me my one indulgence—and rest assured that I have replaced it with gems more valuable than anything it would have garnered on the open market.”
Regis had no answer.
“Go home,” Jarlaxle bade them both. “Go home to King Bruenor and your beloved friends. There is nothing left for you to do here.”
“Luskan is dead,” Drizzt said.
“To your sensibilities, surely so,” Jarlaxle agreed. “Beyond resurrection.”
Drizzt stared at the City of Sails for a few moments longer, digesting all that had transpired. Then he turned, draped an arm over his halfling friend, and led Regis away, not looking back.
“We can still save Longsaddle, perhaps,” Regis offered, and Drizzt laughed and gave him an appreciative shake.
Jarlaxle watched them go until they were out of sight. Then he reached into his belt pouch to retrieve the one item he had taken from Regis: a small scrimshaw statue the halfling had sculpted into the likeness of Drizzt and Guenhwyvar.
Jarlaxle smiled warmly and tipped his great cap to the east, to Drizzt Do’Urden.