Don't go to Sleep

by Iliana Maura

Note: Because I am revising this all at once, and updating it in once lump, I'm unable to thank my reviewers once they've reviewed. So, I would like to thank you in advance. Especially, I'd like to thank those who have placed me on their update alerts, or favorite authors, or favorite stories. You are the ones I write for : )

Chapter One : "Lueth Mzild Phuul Ele"

"You have heard of the sickness?"

She had heard him coming. Of course, it was hard not to: Jarlaxle's boots could be either shockingly loud, or perfectly silent, whichever he wanted. As the mercenary approached Matron Baenre, his footsteps could be heard for yards in all direction, despite the noise of the slaves.

The outlandish drow positioned himself beside Baenre's floating driftdisk, and raised one cocky eyebrow to her ancient visage. "You are referring, of course, to the mysterious sickness that harms only drow, and has no cure?"

The withered matron turned her head and scowled at him. "You know what I am speaking of."

Thinking a laugh would push the notoriously foul-tempered female too far, Jarlaxle settled for a smirk. "Usstan xun," he chuckled, "lueth usstan inbal."

Baenre's scowl deepened, and Jarlaxle suppressed another grin. The withered matron should not be alive, he reflected, still staring cockily into her face. No one in Menzoberranzan could remember a time when she had not been Matron of the first House, when she had not dominated politics throughout the entire drow city. While most dark elves remained youthful until the end of their life, Matron Baenre showed no inclinations of dying, yet appeared to be on the brink of death.

Jarlaxle waited, but as Baenre seemed disinclined to further the conversation, he continued. "It is certainly what is on everyone's lips."

Again, the matron scowled, but this time Jarlaxle was sure it had little to do with him, for which he was thankful. He may be the leader of Bregan D'aerthe, the exclusively male mercenary band, and hold much power with that claim, but that didn't mean he would purposefully invoke the First Matron's ire-at least, not usually.

"The valzmuten call it 'orbb's elghinn'," Baenre spat, obviously disgusted at the thought of inferior creatures seeing weakness in their drow masters.

Jarlaxle adjusted his posture and allowed a slightly ironic expression onto his face. "It would appear to be an accurate description," he said with mock-mildness. "After all, it does only affect drow."

Baenre scowled; it was a common enough reaction to the outrageous mercenary. While most drow wore dark robes adorned with spider images or fine chainmail, and always a camouflaging piwafwi, Jarlaxle broke all the rules. In the place of mail or robes, he wore a high-cut vest, revealing his firm abdominal muscles, and tight trousers that encased his legs and disappeared into the tops of his high black boots. Covering one eye-though which eye was covered changed without reason-was an eyepatch, and perched on his bald head was a floppy, wide-brimmed hat plumed with a large diatryma feather.

"That's not the point," Matron Baenre snarled. "If this doesn't stop, there will not be enough drow left to control the slaves."

Jarlaxle had to agree; certainly some drow would prove to have some sort of resistance to orbb's elghinn, as Baenre had named it, but would that be enough? Would that be enough to keep the slaves under control, the tunnels patrolled, the city defended?

"Do you know what the symptoms are?" Baenre asked.

"Of course," the cocky mercenary replied. "Nothing happens in this city without my knowledge."

"That's why I use you," Baenre replied sharply. "Tell them to me."

"Surely you must know them yourself," Jarlaxle protested. "I am certainly not the only one knowledgeable of activities in the streets."

"This is not just in the streets. This is in my House; tell me."

In my house . . . so orbb's elghinn was within House Baenre. No doubt the matron wanted to keep track of its spread and progress. The price he could sell this bit of knowledge to other Houses for flitted through Jarlaxle's mind, but he did not dwell too long on any sums; the other Houses would be much too busy with their own problems to contemplate striking at the powerful First House.

"A high fever, at first," Jarlaxle began. "With dizziness, headaches, and a sore throat-like the common cold. From there it develops a rash, as well a cramps and pain. Toward the end, there is bleeding in the stomach."

There was a length of silence, broken only by the noise created by the slaves, as they worked to rebuild the House temple of Lloth. Only three weeks ago, the drow rogue Drizzt Do'Urdan had escaped from the House Baenre compound, with the aid of his human friend, Catti-brie Battlehammer, and his rival, the human assassin Artemis Entreri. On their way out of Menzoberranazan, they had destroyed the chapel, impaling it with a massive stalactite. Jarlaxle had played a part in the threesome's escape, and so, indirectly, a role in destroying the chapel.

Baenre didn't need to know that.

The matron nodded, staring stonily at the toiling slaves. "It's unnatural."

"Unnatural?" Jarlaxle repeated.

"Orbb's elghinn is not natural," Baenre snapped impatiently, as though it should be obvious. "There are no records of it ever occurring before, and it bears the marks of a magical disease."

Again, Jarlaxle had to agree; Gromph Baenre, Matron Baenre's oldest son and Archmage of the city, had said the same thing.

But again, Baenre didn't need to know that.

The female clenched her fists. "The matrons think that this is my fault; they think the failed high ritual has called down the wrath Lloth upon Menzoberranzan. Fools! They are all fools! I have communed with Lloth; this is not her doing."

That rocked Jarlaxle back on his heels. "Then why does she not grant the priestesses spells with which to heal the sick?" he dared to ask.

The withered matron shook her head. "I do not know; she will not tell me."

"It has not been so long," Jarlaxle reminded her. "Orbb's elghinn only appeared after the. . . disturbance." He felt it was not wise to mention the failed ritual in blunt terms; the first eight matrons of the city had been in attendance, expecting to see the death of the Do'Urdan rogue. Instead, they had seen Matron Baenre as a fool.

"It has not been so long," Baenre echoed, "and yet already nearly six hundred are dead."

Jarlaxle looked at the slaves laboring beneath the cruel whips of their masters, toiling for the glory of the Spider Queen and the drow. "And more are dying."

At first the light was nothing more than a blur, a bright haze pressing itself against his eyelids. Next he became aware of warmth, oh, blessed warmth! He could hear the crackling of a fire nearby, and thick woolen blankets were tucked up to his chin.

"I see ye're awake."

Ivellios slowly forced his eyes open and managed to focus them on his surroundings. He found himself lying on a four-poster bed, hung with heavy curtains to keep out drafts, though the drapes were partially pulled back now. The room was all stone, without windows, but the walls were covered with bright tapestries, and the floor scattered with cheerful carpets. The elf's feet pointed towards a blank wall; to his left was a wooden door, and to his right was the fireplace. Metal mesh curtains hung in front of it, to keep in sparks and regulate the light, but they were drawn back to let out as much heat as possible.

Standing beside his head was a human woman, no taller than he, with thick auburn hair tumbling across her shoulders. He was no judge of human age, but he guessed this one was still young; her brilliant blue eyes sparkled with a youth and vitality he had never seen in anyone other than an elf. Her clothes were plain and slightly travelworn, but well made; an adventurer, he guessed.

"Who are you?" he asked. Briefly, he considered getting up, but was simply too warm and tired; he settled for propping himself up on his pillows instead.

"Catti-brie," the woman answered. "An' yerself?"

He hesitated, but could see no need to lie. "Ivellios Amanodel."

There was a knock on the door.

The woman-Catti-brie-walked over and opened it. Inside came the oddest collection of people the elf had ever seen: a red-haired dwarf wearing a helm with one horn missing, a plump, curly-haired halfling, and-

-a dark elf.

His hair, pure white, flowed across his shoulders in thick locks, a sharp contrast with his ebony skin. Not dark skin, but black-deep, absolute midnight. He was slightly smaller than the gold elf, his features slightly more angular, his eyes slightly larger; those eyes were also purple, a color unusual in any race.

Ivellios's breath caught. Drizzt Do'Urdan, he told himself; the ranger. The one who forsake his people and their evil ways-the one you came to find. Stay calm. Don't panic.

Catti-brie was making introductions. "Bruenor Battlehammer, the king o' Mithral Hall and me father, Regis the halfling, a good friend, and Drizzt Do'Urdan, a ranger of Mielikki. This is Ivellios Amanodel."

Ivellios inclined his head, as he was unable to bow, and had the gesture returned to him, even by the drow. He had heard much about the foursome; together with one other, now dead, they had retaken Mithral Hall from a dark dragon and its duergar minions, and earned themselves the name of Companions of the Hall.

These thoughts raced through his stricken mind; he was unable to tear his eyes away from the drow. Noticing, the halfling-Regis-spoke to fill the silence.

"You've heard of Drizzt, haven't you?" the halfling's childlike voice sounded shrill in the elf's ear, but it snapped him out of his reverie. Regis continued. "He was the one who really defeated Akar Kessel at the Battle of Icewind Dale, and he-"

The drow raised a black hand to stem Regis's stream of talk just as Ivellios found his voice. "I've heard of him," he assured the Companions, averting his gaze from Drizzt's face, unable to bear the sight. "It's just I haven't seen a dark elf since-" he stopped abruptly, horrified at what he had almost revealed. He forced himself to meet the ranger's eyes. "I hope you're not offended."

"Not at all," the drow answered easily. "I suppose it's better than someone trying to run you through with a blade. But you say you've seen drow before; my people aren't common on the surface."

Ivellios held back a scowl. Drow almost never came to the surface except for a single reason. Couldn't the ranger figure it out for himself? Apparently not. "My tribe was attacked." The words sounded flat and emotionless in his own ears.

The drow flinched, and closed his eyes slowly, as though in great pain. "I'm sorry," he murmured, sounding sincere. "I didn't mean to bring up any painful memories."

"It was certainly lucky you found the door," Regis piped up, obviously changing the subject. "That snowstorm surprised everyone; it was certainly out of season."

The dwarf-Bruenor-snorted. "'Tis the season of the elves, tha's what I say," he grumbled. "Ye'd think the creatures'd have enough sense t' stay indoors durin' a storm, but no, they've got t' go a-wanderin' through th' snow!"

Seeing Ivellios's confused look, Catti-brie explained, "Another elf came here recently. His name's Arvylyn Quenvath; he's stayin' in Settlestone. Says he's waitin' fer his cousin t' come. Yer not him, are ye?"

Ivellios shook his head. "I've never heard of an Arvylyn Quenvath," he lied.

Bruenor snorted again. "Tha' means we're goin' t' have another fool elf traipsin' through th' region."

"Why were you up on the mountain in the first place?" the drow asked. He voice was nonchalant, but Ivellios was instantly on his guard. "If you were heading to Settlestone, you must have known you were off-course." Settlestone, an above-ground dwarven town, lay nestled at the base of Fourthspeak mountain and was inhabited by the Icewind Dale barbarians, who worked as trade negotiators for the dwarves; it was closest town.

"I wasn't trying to get to Settlestone," Ivellios explained, overcoming his revulsion of the drow enough to look him in the eyes while he spoke. "I was trying to come here. I came to warn you that there someone trying to kill you-a human male, with a magical disease."

Instantly, Catti-brie's blue eyes filled with worry. "Artemis Entreri?"

Ivellios watched the drow shake his head, but had no idea who the woman was talking about. "No," the drow said. "I don't think Entreri will be looking for me for a long time, and when-if-he does, I don't think it would be with magic."

"He used th' mask and gem th' las' time," Bruenor rumbled.

"Yes," the drow admitted. "But he didn't use them against me-only to get close enough to actually fight me; it's the battle he wants, not my death." He looked to Ivellios. "Are you sure? How do you know?"

"Very sure," the elf answered readily. "I was seeking the services of a wizard in Waterdeep, and I heard her talking to a man who was also seeking her talents. He wanted some sort of magical material made that would affect drow, and only drow, and kill them by making it look natural-like a sickness of some sort. The wizard asked him if he planned to go to the Underdark, but he said no, his quarry lay to the east. There could be no other drow but you."

"It's happened before," the drow said softly, his voice sad. For a moment, Ivellios thought-but no, he pushed the feelings aside. "Maybe I'll never. . ." his voice trailed off.

"This is yer home," Bruenor growled fiercely. "An' any who think ye don' belong kin argue with me axe!"

The drow smiled, a slightly strained expression, but seeming honest enough. "Thank you."

There was a moment of awkward silence. "We brought your pack," Regis said suddenly, changing the subject again. The halfling reached behind him and produced the travelworn satchel, and set it beside the elf's bed.

"Thank you," Ivellios replied, his pulse quickening. Pretending to be suddenly exhausted, he murmured weakly, "I don't wish to be rude, but I'm awfully tired."

"Of course," Catti-brie said, moving towards the door. "Ye should rest. Stumpet-she's one o' th' clerics-said ye had both hypothermia an' frostbite, an' ye're not quite rid o' either yet; ye'll likely be a while in recoverin'."

The four left, leaving Ivellios to rifle franticly through his pack. He didn't think the dwarves would have searched it, but what if it had shattered, or fallen out? What if the drow had searched his bag, and found it? The dark elf had seemed too casual when he'd asked Ivellios why the elf had come-was he suspicious?

It was fine. Ivellios let out a sigh of relief and allowed the pack to drop to the floor.