A/N: Misteriously enough, there's nothing to say in this a/n. So I'm just going to shut up, and let you read. If you enjoy it, please, review at the end!


II

o

There was one thing that Kimmuriel had that Jarlaxle had never possessed. One thing that allowed Bregan D'aerthe's leader to walk unimpeded when important business awaited, one thing that left him ample way to traverse effortlessly the bustling streets of Menzoberranzan.

It was anonymity.

Where the bald rogue was as easily distinguishable as Narbondel and as memorable as Matron Baenre's temper, Kimmuriel could easily enjoy a freedom that the older male had never known.

The Oblodra son did look noble, and did look dangerous, and did look powerful, but to notice any of these things, one had to look upon him first. And the psion had perfected the art of being non-descript – under his simple piwafwi, he hid his fine silken shirts, and the cape's deep cowl kept his long and well combed tresses in the dark. He didn't even glow with powerful magic trinkets as a walking torch, as his predecessor had, because he had his sharp mind to rely on.

No, Kimmuriel Oblodra could truly mix with the Menzoberranyr as if he was just another one of them, listening to their words and their thoughts alike as he glided along, unnoticed.

And of course, the drow psion pondered bitterly, even such an advantage had to come and bite him in the ass.

"I believe you are waiting for me," he said, when the other made no point of speaking up.

"Dontcha try ta be funny with me, elf," the 'other', a short and stout gray dwarf, answered in a deeply accented Undercommon. "If that be all, ya shoulda be goin' yer own path now."

Kimmuriel sighed deeply. If only he didn't need that information, he thought.

"And yet you are waiting for me," he said, leaning against the rocky wall and casting his mind wide, making sure that nobody was paying them any attention.

"Huh?" the dwarf asked, intelligently.

The passer-byes were too embedded in their own thoughts. Bregan D'aerthe's own mercenaries were positioned, all close and ready and totally invisible among the masses that made up Menzoberranzan's marketplace. The drow and the dwarf stood at such an unlikely place to carry out shady, secret deals that their secret was perfectly safe, and so Kimmuriel shifted and allowed the other a glimpse of the heavy purse that contained the agreed-upon payment.

The psion didn't need his powers to be able to see the dwarf thinking. The hairless face went from angry to puzzled… then spent a considerable amount of time in 'puzzled'… and finally realization made an appearance, and the expression went back to angry.

"Elf, we hadda agreement. I be to meet jus' with the leader," the dwarf said.

"Of course. I am the leader," Kimmuriel kindly enlightened his interlocutor.

"No, ye ain't," an interlocutor who, like most of his race, refused to be enlightened. "The leader be bald and got jus' one eye. He be taller than ye. Dresses better, too. More leader-ishly," the helpful individual elaborated, and Kimmuriel felt the growing need to squish the useless brains of the lesser creature.

But the truth of the matter was that he needed a contact in the dwarven city, and it'd be troublesome to find a new one, so he forced his cool demeanor to overcome his needs.

"He of whom you speak was the former leader, and he appointed me as his successor. As the new leader," he explained slowly, as if talking to a hypnotized test subject.

The dwarf threw him a suspicious look.

"I never seen you befo'."

Yes, you've, Kimmuriel thought, and he had to clench his jaws to prevent himself from hissing it aloud. Every damn time you met with Jarlaxle, I was there. That's where lieutenants are. But of course, your porcine eyes would fail to notice anything beyond your deformed nose.

"I have certainly seen you, and I am the one who represents the organization that has kept your coffers full. That's all you need to see or understand," he finally said, his tone becoming slightly more clipped as his patience wore thin. "Now, I am a busy drow so if we must conduct business, we should do it before the news I require of you become stale."

Still, the gray dwarf refused to show the appropriate amount of fear, or of common sense, and instead of proceeding with the operation he decided to keep asking.

"Why I ain't be informed o' the change?"

Kimmuriel's fine nose caught a wisp of burned leather, heavy with sweat. Pungent, acrid, dwarven sweat, the drow thought in disgust.

Then the psion realized that it was because of his own outrage that the smell was bothering him to begin with. His mind was saturated and wishing for his contact's demise, and inadvertently he had exited the particles of the duergar's armor padding… And how easy would it be to allow it to flare up, and to watch as the creature was trapped with the fire inside his plate!

But.

But first things first, and profit came way before petty punishment. Besides, if he burned his contact in the middle of the market, he'd attract attention and one of his favorite places to exchange information would be busted.

So deep, calm breathing it was. Don't lose it yet, Kimmuriel, he encouraged himself.

"Do you question the drow?" he asked when he had regained a measure of control, his voice dangerously even.

The dwarf thought the question over.

To Kimmuriel's dismay, he dared to answer in the affirmative.

"Well," he said, resolutely, "me an' me mates give ye yer information, so we got ta have the right ta be informed. Right, lads?" and he addressed the other two gray dwarves that acted as escorts and that stood nearby.

The former Oblodra narrowed his eyes.

And now, he had the gall to attempt to intimidate him? Kimmuriel couldn't be too sure, because such ridiculousness didn't warrant his attention, but he thought that it was the case.

He made a discreet gesture with his hand, and his own lieutenant stepped out of the shadows. If the pathetic little runt wanted a show of strength, then the psion would give him a show of strength.

A demonstration of intelligence would be wasted on the duergar anyway, he mused.

Luckily, Kimmuriel's lieutenant wasn't as inconspicuous as Kimmuriel himself and immediately drew the attention of all three dwarves. Their small round eyes fixated on the wicked double sword that the warrior had casually swung over one shoulder, and it was painfully obvious to their battle-oriented minds that they wouldn't stand a chance against the drow.

"The lesser races have no rights, and you should consider yourself lucky that we deign to hear your 'information'," and the tone used by the psion made very clear that he could, and would, have all their small rocky heads chopped and turned into furniture embellishments.

Finally, the dwarf seemed to understand just who he was dealing with, and, his grayish skin slightly paler, he started to spill what he had been asked to report.

o O o

Kimmuriel watched the three duergar go, satisfied to know that the adamantite supply to his city had lessened because the mineral was becoming rarer in the dwarven mines, and not because some kind of offensive was in the makings.

But it upset him the nerve those filthy dwarves had shown.

Too many things upset him lately, and as he walked through the marked back to the band's hidden den, he wondered if such a thing was healthy. If Ray-Guy were still around he'd ask him, but as things stood Bregan D'aerthe was short on clerics.

And he wasn't dead nor dying yet, so he was not going to ask a priestess.

The psion caught sight of a herbalist vendor, though, and decided that, just in case, he should get something for the stress and lack of sleep. And for the near-constant headaches. And for his rapidly developing stomach ulcer.

It couldn't hurt.

"A good day to you," he said to the salesperson, putting the meeting behind to adopt the people's person role that the leader of Bregan D'aerthe needed to fill.

"Good day, Master," the other, an old drow who had been selling potions and herbal remedies for centuries, answered. "How can I help you?"

"I would need a soft energizing draught. It must also be relaxing, but it is mandatory that it doesn't affect one's mind functions or lucidity."

If the merchant thought that the request was weird or contradictory, he was too experienced to show it. After a heartbeat's worth of deliberation, he produced a fairly good sized vial and offered it to his customer.

"I believe this shall satisfy your needs, young Master."

"Excellent. Thank you for your services."

Kimmuriel pocketed the flask and made to continue his walk, but the merchant stopped him.

"Excuse me, young Master? That's 250 gold."

The psion blinked. He didn't even think of being infuriated, he was so surprised. Bregan D'aerthe was powerful, its actions usually meant profit for the city and thus for the merchants, and it was the one and only non-Lolth created organization in the city, which earned them quite a good amount of sympathies. The mercenary band simply didn't pay for such small services. Never. If anything, the amount was added to a tab, and requested when it became too huge – though if it ever became too huge, the tab records used to disappear rather mysteriously…

"Pardon?" finally, Kimmuriel could ask. "Do you charge Bregan D'aerthe's leader for a single potion?"

And it was the merchant's turn to be so surprised that he couldn't think of apologizing.

"… Bregan D'aerthe's leader? But…"

Kimmuriel sighed, and did his best to ignore the chuckle that escaped his lieutenant.

Perhaps he should spike his hair. Dye it red, or green. Green would compliment his eyes better.

Definitely, though, he had to change his wardrobe.