Don't go to Sleep
by Iliana Maura
Note: Yea-haw! This chapter starts off with two of the missing scenes I told you about: Jarlaxle's meeting with Firble, and Jarlaxle's second visit to Skullport. Enjoy! As a warning, there's some minor sexuality-it's nothing, really, just heavy kissing.
Chapter Six : Chathal
Councilor Firble waited at the appointed spot, his mind chasing itself in circles. What could Jarlaxle want that could cause him to initiate a meeting? Always before it had been the svirfneblin who made contact, never the drow. Cold sweat beaded on the gnome's bald head, and he mentally catalogued the small army of warriors and priests behind him, trying to keep up his confidence.
The silence of the wild Underdark was shattered by the sharp click of hard shoes on stone. Firble straightened and faced the other entrance to the small cavern, waiting for Jarlaxle to appear. Sure enough, the drow mercenary entered moments later, wearing his customary plumed hat and multicolored cape. Today his eyepatch was over his right eye, but if that meant anything, Firble did not know what it was.
Upon sighting the svirfnebli, a brilliant smile lit up Jarlaxle's face, and he bowed low, sweeping off his hat to accentuate the motion. Upon straightening and returning his hat to its former position, he once more beamed at the gnome.
"Ah, my dear Firble! It is always a pleasure to see you."
Firble could not hold back a scowl. Of course the mercenary would say that; whenever they saw each other, the drow walked away with a much heavier purse-and the gnome left with a much lighter one.
His expression only prompted a cheerful laugh from Jarlaxle. Having no patience for the mercenary's antics, Firble pressed forward. "Why have you sent for me?"
Jarlaxle's smile did not waver. "Ah, my svirfnebli friend, ever are you straight to the point!"
Firble held his scowl. Once again, the mercenary laughed, but then, to the gnome's surprise, answered the question.
"I am seeking information," the drow explained, "about a certain shipment of precious stones."
Firble raised an eyebrow. "What has this to do with the svirfnebli?"
"It came from your city."
Still unsure of the unpredictable mercenary's goal, he asked, "And what has this to do with Jarlaxle?"
The mercenary laughed. "Many things have to do with Jarlaxle," he said mysteriously. Then, seeing that Firble was not going to relent, he added, "It involves certain events in Menzoberranzan, which I am looking into."
He may as well have not said anything at all, Firble though grumpily, but relented. "I'll need to know what the shipment was of, how large, and who it was to," he said.
In response, Jarlaxle produced a slip of paper and handed it to Firble, simultaneously producing a ball of faerie fire to hover over it. Peering at the crisp parchment in the sickly light, the gnome shook his head.
"This can't be," he said confidently. "We don't move amber in such large quantities-it's very valuable, you know.
For the first time, Firble saw Jarlaxle surprised. "Indeed!" the drow exclaimed. "What of the human, then? Have you ever shipped to her?"
Firble was nodding before Jarlaxle finished his question. "Of course. We did, in fact ship her a relatively large number of amber stones, just a few weeks ago-the number was hundred, I believe."
The drow's eyes were alight with intrigue, and there was a small smile play across his lips.
"You have been very helpful," he said to Firble. "As a situation like this has never arisen, we have not agreed on a payment from me to you." Before the drow could continue, Firble cut him off.
"No payment," he said. "Not in money, at least."
Jarlaxle chuckled, but unexpectedly, he agreed easily. "You have answered my questions freely, and with little suspicion," the drow said. "I suppose I can at least do the same for you."
Firble snorted, wondering if it was possible for any drow to be as honest as he had just been with Jarlaxle. The mercenary, seeming to divine his thoughts as usual, smiled.
"What news is there from Menzoberranzan?" Firble asked.
The gnome knew he had made a mistake the instant Jarlaxle's brows went up. "Why, Firble!" he exclaimed. "I never knew you were interested in mere gossip. Most amusing, by far, is Matron Zeerith Q'Xorlarrin's daughter stealing Quenthel Baenre's boy-toy-not a safe move, by anyone's standards-"
Firble cut Jarlaxle off by crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at the drow. Jarlaxle, apparently unable to contain himself, threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoing off the chamber walls.
When he had calmed somewhat, the mercenary said, "Really, Firble, you should be far more specific in your questioning."
"If you don't know what it is I mean," Firble huffed, "you are a greater fool than I thought."
Somehow, this seemed to sober the drow somewhat, and to Firble's shock, his next words were, "The settled ground before the earthquake."
Startled, the gnome rocked back on his heels. Always, Jarlaxle had surprised his with his perfect mastery of the svirfneblin tongue, and his understanding of their ways, but Firble could not have been more surprised if the drow had exclaimed, "Magga camara!".
Even more unsettling was how exactly those words matched his thoughts-and to hear them spoken by a drow, a deep gnome's worst enemy!
There was a small, almost comforting smile playing across the mercenary's lips as he shook his head. "No, Firble," he said softly, "there is no earthquake."
"What, then?" Firble, somewhat recovered, prompted him. "What keeps the drow city so quiet?"
"Turmoil," Jarlaxle replied simply.
Firble snorted. Menzoberranzan was always in turmoil.
Jarlaxle grinned. "Well, yes," he admitted, as though Firble had spoken his thoughts aloud. "But this turmoil is larger and more dangerous than usual than normal."
The deep gnome waited, wondering if his informant would expand. Jarlaxle himself seemed to be considering whether he would do so. But finally, with another smile, he shook his head. No, the gesture said, he would not reveal any more than he already had.
Unable to restrain his curiosity, Firble asked, "and what does this have to do with shipments of amber?"
The drow smiled, seeming pleased with Firble's deductive skills. "I don't know," admitted mysteriously. "That's what I'm trying to find out."
This time it was Jarlaxle who, scantily dressed as usual, swaggered through the door of the Fighting Book. There was no brawl going this time, though that seemed to be simply because one had just finished: a multitude of men, not all of them human, lay scattered about on floorboards and shattered tables. Barmaids, unconcerned by their prone forms, weaved among the carnage, cleaning up.
Medavin, leaned against the bar, with her elbows propped on its gleaming surface, seemed unaware of the wreckage behind her. She did look up from her beer, though, when Jarlaxle entered, and a suggestive grin bloomed on her face.
"Sugar," she hailed him when he had drawn closer. "I'm so glad to see you again. I was afraid I would spend the rest of my life longing after you, because I would never be able to find someone who could match your skill between the sheets."
Jarlaxle smiled, accepting her compliment easily, but not really caring. He had more important matters to discuss. Without hesitating, he walked directly to her and wrapped his arms tightly around her waist. She wasted no time in twining hers around his neck, and their mouths engaged in a hungry kiss, tongues sparring eagerly.
Murmuring meaningless compliments in Drow, knowing Medavin could not understand them, he began drawing her to the door. From behind the bar the bartender grunted, and Medavin paused long enough to toss him a coin for her drink.
Once outside, Jarlaxle swept the human into a tiny alley, no more than four feet wide, beside the tavern, and pressed her against the wall, covering her with kisses. While she purred happily, he worked his way down her throat, occasionally biting the skin gently. When he reached the neckline of her low-cut blouse, he rested his lips there for a moment while sweeping his hands across her breasts, waist, and hips. Without changing his rhythm, he seized her wrists and pinned them above her head with one hand, while producing a dagger with another.
Startled and out of breath, the human stared at him in disbelief. "What are you doing?" she demanded, all sensuality gone from her voice. "Are you mad?"
Several flippant replies came to him. "Not at all," he replied easily. "But obviously you are, for lying to a drow."
He said the words casually, with only the slightest hint of threat in them, yet their affect on the woman was drastic and immediate. What little breath she had regained left her body, and her face paled. Frightened, her eyes darted towards the entrance of the alley.
Jarlaxle answered her silent thought aloud. "Good idea," he said, dropping a globe of darkness across the opening, obscuring vision in and out, and shutting them into near darkness. The drow allowed his eyes to slip into infravision, but the human, lacking that skill, was left blind.
In the darkness, Jarlaxle leaned close, putting his mouth against her ear, and laying the dagger flat against her neck. "Now," he whispered. "Where did you get the other hundred gems?"
Medavin's breath came in quick, frightened gasps. "Gems?" she panted. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do," Jarlaxle said softly. "Think very carefully."
Though she was trembling with fear, the woman pressed against the drow, trying to distract him with her body. Ignoring her, he repeated his question.
There was a long moment of silence, in which Medavin made no sound, save her ragged breathing. Deciding she needed more persuasion, Jarlaxle tilted the blade of the dagger slightly, so she could feel its edge. This was all she needed.
"I'll tell you!" she exclaimed. "By the gods, just put the knife away!"
Jarlaxle drew back the knife slightly and waited for her to tell her promised tale. She spent a futile moment tugging at her wrist, trying to free herself, but realizing it was not going to happen, she leaned against the wall slightly, trying to make herself comfortable. Finding Jarlaxle's face by his single red-glowing eye, she began to talk.
"That shipment from Blingdenstone, came in, right?" she gasped. "A hundred stones. Just a few days later, this elf shows up, says he'll pay me to take a hundred other stones, amber like the ones from Blingdenstone, only flawed. He paid me extra to say they'd all come from Blingdenstone when I sold them."
"Flawed?" Jarlaxle echoed.
Medavin nodded. "Flawed. They all had spiders in the middle, trapped in the amber, like. I thought they'd sell nicely in Menzoberranzan-you drow like spiders, right?"
Jarlaxle chuckled. "Indeed. Tell me more about this elf."
The human swallowed hard. "There's nothing to tell," she said, frightened. "He was a gold elf, but he didn't let me get a good look at him-he was very mysterious."
"Was there anything distinctive about him," Jarlaxle pressed. "Something that might make him stand out in a crowd."
Medavin closed her eyes, though in the dark there was no way she could see anyway. "He was very intense," she said slowly. "I'm sorry, sir-" here Jarlaxle had to suppress a jump at being addressed so- "but I can't think of anything else. He was just very intense, almost fanatical."
She opened her eyes and sought out the only thing she could see, which was his uncovered eye. Her face was taught with fear, frightened that he would ask for more information than she had to give. Confident she was utterly blind, Jarlaxle allowed a rare frown to cross his face. He was sure she had nothing else to tell him-but what she had told him was precious little.
With a sigh, he dismissed the globe of darkness, and dim light filtered back into the alley. A tiny gasp of relief escaped Medavin's lips, and Jarlaxle could not help but chuckle at that. Sliding the dagger back into his enchanted bracer, Jarlaxle released the human. Quickly regaining her dignity, she straightened her clothes and stared the drow defiantly in the face. It was strange, Jarlaxle thought: now that she did not try to make herself attractive, he found her even more appealing. The irony brought a smile to his lips.
Deciding it was time to end the meeting, he swept his outrageous hat from his head and dipped into a low bow. "My thanks," he offered, and with a click of his heels on the cobbles, he turned and disappeared.