Intersection: [Construction from the Journal of S'kaerik, Dancer of the Eclipse]

            "Must you drop by so often?"

            "Is that a complaint, Lady Cat?" Jarlaxle paused to give one of his elaborate bows.  First his wrist would sweep the wide-brimmed purple hat off, then one leg would glide slightly back, and the body arched tightly, to display the black dome of his head all in one gesture that looked almost choreographed.  S'kaerik chuckled and stood up to offer an equally graceful bow in return, though one that was much less complicated. 

            Jarlaxle took the opportunity in the process of replacing his hat on his head, as he always did, to study his surroundings.  Several of the newer inns (in terms of Menzoberranzan time – in real time it would be many centuries old) that had repairable amenities had been commandeered as a rudimentary base for the Company, and though this wasn't one of the better rooms, Jarlaxle admired the workmanship of his kin. 

Removing the dust on the walls here revealed the gleam of polished stone, and part of a mural depicting everyday life in the Old City had been revealed.  The stone bed was still sturdy and a mattress had been placed on it, though the new pillows and blankets were in a nest-like arrangement on the cleaned ground that still sported its mosaic.  Carefully placed on a pillow was the book he had found, and next to it, an ungainly large black device squatted – ah yes, a typewriter. 

            Snakes of wire slithered away from behind it into a large, marginally portable generator in the corner that hummed as if alive.  A table, a wardrobe, and two chairs completed the room – the brilliant tapestries he vaguely remembered that had existed in this inn had long fallen apart into gray dust. 

            Eventually his attention returned to S'kaerik – a young mackerel-striped gray female Weyr-Cat.  Weyr-Cats were a strain of were-tigers stuck between the two states of human-like and feline that somehow gained intelligence that nearly matched an elf's level.  Combined with their comparatively long lives, a good birth rate, energy and feline curiosity, they'd gained what could be popularly called civilization in a short time, almost rivaling the prolific humans.  S'kaerik was an accurate representation of her species – holding a high rank in an educational institution, an explorer, scholar, and when needed to be, a warrior.  All the pioneers needed this last – although some of the more dangerous beasts in the Underdark were endangered, there were still enough vicious ones for one to need skill in firearms or other such weaponry.  Cats had the advantage of having one just… at hand, to make a pun – their claws were exceedingly sharp, and long enough to do serious damage.

            Due to the fur that covered a lot of their bodies save from the shoulders up, Weyr-Cats never did wear a lot of clothes.  S'kaerik, no exception, wore something known as a tank-top that emphasized a Weyr-Cat's otherwise small bust, white, and very short… shorts, khaki, exposing the toned muscles in the arms and legs, digits that ended with retractable claws.

            S'kaerik's long, sleek tail twitched, which could mean anything from amusement to annoyance, he'd found, but her oval human-like face smiled indulgently, not showing the pointed canines, and the triangular cat ears swiveled slightly.  "Maybe."  

            "You are beginning to speak like Ilythiiri, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle bantered, refusing the chair S'kaerik pushed forward.  As he'd expected, S'kaerik immediately indicated that he sit on the 'nest' instead, which he did so unhurriedly.  Now he could see what she had been doing – discreetly, of course.

            "Mrr.  And whose fault can that be, I wonder?" S'kaerik asked archly, and then looked around the room.  "I'm afraid I have no refreshments that I can… "

            "No matter, I have already eaten," Jarlaxle said dismissively.  The paper in the typewriter – and the stack next to it – looked like S'kaerik had finally gotten down to translating the book.  Not that he hadn't read it before he passed it to her, but he was idly curious as to her interpretation of it.  

            S'kaerik sat down and raised an eyebrow at him.  "Why did you come this time?"

            "To enjoy your company, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle grinned. 

            "Ah?"

            "To bask in the light of your aura of enlightenment."

            S'kaerik snorted.  "There's nothing you really can't find out for yourself, Jarlaxle."

            "Really?"

            That had the effect he'd intended – S'kaerik's tail twitched, and she apologized.  "Forgive me for being so cranky," she said, rather sheepishly, "I haven't had much sleep, and you know how us cats are when deprived of our naps.  I've been busy with the book you entrusted to me."

            Ah, his cue.  "I was meaning to check into your progress in the translation," he said as casually as he could, making it appear as an offhand gesture of courtesy. 

            "I'm not surprised," S'kaerik smiled.  "One of the characters in it is definitely you."

            "You believe so, Lady Cat? Why then, it must be so!"

            "You don't need to act surprised, Jarlaxle.  Unless many dark elves in Menzoberranzan dress like you do and found mercenary companies."

            "And if there are?"

            "It'd be hard to believe," S'kaerik said firmly.  She paused.  "Or maybe not.  Are you serious?"

            "Am I?" he asked playfully.

            S'kaerik raised an eyebrow.  The claws on her hands slid out, black, sharp arcs. 

            Jarlaxle chuckled.  Time to back off a little.  "There were twenty thousand of us."

            "Of course, you realize that doesn't answer the question," S'kaerik commented dryly.  "And you won't even tell me where you got this book.  How am I supposed to give it up to exhibition when you don't?"

            "You keep it?" he suggested.

            "No, I can't."

            "Of course you can, Lady Cat.  No one knows you have the book except myself, and I certainly have no reason to spread it around."

            S'kaerik sighed patiently, as though lecturing a child.  Jarlaxle found her moral lectures highly amusing, being someone with very few moral scruples, and so he let her scold him.  The tone of her voice always changed to a purring drawl that put more rhythmic emphasis on certain syllables, somewhat like a strange musical instrument.  "Jarlaxle, anything in this city belongs to the Company and should be up for public exhibition, especially if it has as much vested public interest as I think this book has the potential for." She hesitated.  "Oh dear.  What else did you take?"

            "Nothing much," he said, with exactly the type of indifference that would upset her. 

            "Jarlaxle…"

            "From the Bregan D'aerthe headquarters.  Surely you do not begrudge me my own property?" Jarlaxle didn't mention that all the items of true value he had taken… weren't from Bregan D'aerthe – but of course, she didn't need to know that, nor did she need to know that of his 'entourage' of soldiers, quite a few were expert thieves who knew how to remove something ancient from a dust-filled room without disturbing anything else… and also covering their tracks in the process.   Combing that with a few chemical experts and a few mages, and even the scent of their passage could be erased.

            In phrasing it this way, Jarlaxle deliberately put S'kaerik on track.  She laughed.  "I'm sorry.  Bregan D'aerthe property is of course yours.  Is it one of the reasons you agreed to come to Menzoberranzan?"

            "Certainly." Jarlaxle smiled enigmatically.  "The book was from my archives."

            "Oh.  Do you really mind if it is put on display?"

            "Considering just about everyone it mentions is dead except myself… no." Jarlaxle decided.  This would also make S'kaerik think she was further in his debt, since she would think that it had cost much in terms of 'emotional value' for him to allow her to put it on exhibition.  Pulling puppet strings is sometimes not as fun as making them.  "About the translation… ?"

            "Oh yes, we keep getting distracted," S'kaerik patted the stack of paper.  "It's going slow.  I have to stop every so often to look up words, only to realize they were abbreviations.  And sometimes the writing turns abruptly into old duergar, which I can't read.  I'd have to ask some of the older duergar here if they can remember."

            "There is no need for that," Jarlaxle said, appearing to be generous, though in this way if there was any material he decided later that needed to be suppressed – well, if he translated it he could always change it a little.  "I can translate it for you."

            "How many Old languages do you remember?" S'kaerik asked, blinking.

            "Dark elf… Common, Elvish, dwarven, duergar… Svirfneblin, goblin, Undercommon… quite a few," Jarlaxle said, ticking them off on his fingers. 

            "That's very impressive."

            "The advantages of being long-lived, my dear," Jarlaxle grinned.

            "I would think so.  You're probably the oldest dark elf in the world.  I must have your secret," S'kaerik chuckled, a throaty, light rumble.

            "Just take care not to die from all the little incidents that seem to plague dark elves – mortal enemies, righteous heroes, magical traps, hordes of ravening dwarves, that sort of thing."

            "And do you know how to make wrinkles go away, and a body grow fuller too?" S'kaerik asked theatrically, her eyes opening wide.  "Do share your infinite wisdom with us, great master.  I yearn for the veil of ignorance to be lifted from my eyes."

            "Are you teasing me, Lady Cat?"

            "Of course not, great master."

            "I have never had much luck understanding you females.  Even when you look perfect you creatures will still complain about your appearance.  If it's an elf, she will invariably think she is too flat, or her legs too short; a human, her chest too full, or her rump too small or such; a dwarf, the beard not soft enough… heavens, even the few female dragons that I have known have similar complaints, mainly to do with their scales and wings.  I wonder if all female creatures have this mental disorder."

            "Well, I find it surprising how it's only males who can ever be satisfied with how they look, sometimes." S'kaerik returned.

            "Is that not more efficient?"

            "Maybe all of you are just too lazy to seek true improvement." S'kaerik winked.

            "Feh.  So what is your complaint, Lady Cat? Of course, if it is too personal… "

            "You'd still want to know anyway," S'kaerik yawned, quickly covering her mouth.  "Sorry.  Lack of sleep.  My 'complaint'? Eyes.  I think green would look better than yellow. It's a long list.  Wishing I was born with black fur instead of in patches of gray, and all that.  Did you meet any dark elven females with 'complaints'?"

            "The priestesses of Lloth would never think of confiding in a mere rogue male, Lady Cat.  As to the others… they mainly have the same complaints as a surfacer elf would have."

            "'Surfacer'.  That word always sounds like a spit."

            "Perhaps it was meant to," Jarlaxle shrugged.  "Only the dark elves continue to use it."

            "Well, I hope the legendary attitude of your kin to us 'surfacers' have improved," S'kaerik commented dryly, "The next dark elven city due to have a Rail is Sshamath."

            "Sshamath? But that is the mage city… " Jarlaxle had already heard this news some time ago, nearly immediately after it was announced, but feigning surprise now prompted S'kaerik to explain.

            "The Underdark mages have a different attitude to technology than the surface ones, it seems," S'kaerik smiled.  "Sshamath actually offered to pay for the construction.  They are also highly curious when trade would start.  Trade in magic and firearms, to be precise."

            "Well, that has not changed – their wish for more magical items, to be precise," Jarlaxle acknowledged.  "The mage city is one of the most… adaptable of the ancient cities that are left."

            "Would you know why?"

            "It is patently obvious.  They turned atheist sometime after the Time of Troubles.  With many of the gods against them, what could they do, other than open up non-drow alliances and come up with ways to defend themselves?"

            "Very interesting," S'kaerik's tail twitched, this time in excitement.  "Perhaps when Menzoberranzan is properly running I will visit Sshamath."

            "You would be extremely popular in the University there – having a position in a Surface University.  I'd offer you a room in Bregan D'aerthe's base there.  It would probably be the only way you can escape the questions of insistent half-blind mages."

            "Mrr.  And how do I escape your questions, pray tell?"

            Jarlaxle laughed.  "Why, behind a wall of answers, of course."

            "Perhaps I'd just not tell them I have a position.  Then they won't pester me."

            "Ah, if Sshamath has gone far enough to make a monetary offer to your Company, that would mean they have thoroughly researched the Company and all its prominent employees that have any likelihood of being sent just so that they will be prepared for anyone your Company may decide to send as part of the team.  That would mean they already know about you, Lady Cat."

            "Sometimes your species frightens me."

            "Only sometimes? We must try harder then.  You surfacers are beginning to catch up, what with your metal horses and lightning poles, yes?"

            "You know perfectly well what those things are truly called, Jarlaxle," S'kaerik pointed out good-humoredly, not rising to the bait.  "Bregan D'aerthe probably owns a lot of technology."

            "Oh?"

            "The revolver at your hip has as silencer-amp – yes, I can see it through the shape of the holster.  That's not particularly common yet.  Where did your people go, anyway? Back to your headquarters?"

            "One of them," Jarlaxle admitted.  "We chose one close to this area."

            "So you can come over more often to pester me, yes?"

            "That was one of the reasons," Jarlaxle said, unperturbed. 

            "Which reminds me.  Did Zaknafein ever actually speak to you about his mother?"

            "And what does that have to do with anything?"

            "The book, of course."

            "You're still convinced Zaknafein wrote it?" Jarlaxle carefully inserted enough disbelief in his tone to make it sound genuine. 

            Unfortunately, S'kaerik wasn't fooled – the corner of her mouth quirked up, which meant she was going to humor him.  It was almost patronizing, in a sense.  "Okay, so perhaps it was not Zaknafein.  Would you happen to know about the author of this book?"

            "There are several books in our archives.  I cannot possibly remember them all," Jarlaxle said ingenuously.  It was an attitude that didn't go with his general personality, so S'kaerik chuckled.

            Before she could ask some more questions – some material in the archives was still sensitive information, though the truly important ones had been removed or destroyed when Bregan D'aerthe withdrew from the city of their birth, Jarlaxle decided to end the conversation.  "It is almost time for lunch.  Would you like to accompany me to my headquarters?"

            "However did you manage to pry food away from the stores?" S'kaerik smiled.

            "Actually, since the hunting maps in the archives are still more or less acceptable, we manage very well." It was somewhat more of a matter of getting the mages to cast divination spells to check on the old stashes of materials such as weapons and information Bregan D'aerthe had left in caves outside the city, but in the process they had found several good spots for foraging.

            "Oh.  Well, if it's not too much trouble…"

**

            S'kaerik yawned as she got back to her room, and spent a few minutes sprawled on the nest, eyes closed.  Any exposure to Jarlaxle that lasted more than a few hours gave her a mild headache.  Perhaps it was her brain overheating with the effort of trying to catch up with him and all the word traps he enjoyed employing.  Still, he'd seemed to have released some information about Zaknafein after repeated proddings that would help in constructing the diction of the next part of the translation that she needed to do.

            The book was beginning to prove just as fascinating as her job here, which was to help in the restoration of places by helping to deduce what each building was used for, and translate the writings.  Which, admittedly, Jarlaxle could do as well – he often dropped in on people scoping out the area to give 'helpful' pointers – that is to say they took it down and asked her later.  The word of a dark elf as devious as Jarlaxle was not exactly to be trusted fully, however charming he could be.

            Unfortunately, in this particular case involving the book, she had no other person to turn to.  Just about everyone she could think of who could have known the author was dead, including Drizzt and his closest associates, after that famous incident with a female dragon and her eggs.  Being from a line whose ancestors used to be predators put a new light on that situation.  It wasn't the dragon's fault that expansion had made it necessary to dig coal mines and remove forested areas for construction, or its fault that the burgeoning population of the town dwellers – not just humans – had made it necessary to open up more areas for livestock, driving out the wildlife that dragons would eat.  Nor was it its fault that it was living in the cave near the town – it'd been there since before the relatively new town was built, after all… but heroes would be heroes.

            So far as the book seemed, Drizzt seemed nothing much like his father at all, unless you took into account the inevitable jading that the years painted onto a person.  Not that she expected him to, having read the memoirs and Drizzt's own description of his father, but having other proof seemed to make that fact so much more solid and harder to swallow.  She had no idea why.

            She could understand why Jarlaxle would like to suppress any hint that he was in the account, anyway.  It would help in understanding his character – and understanding was just one step towards being able to manipulate a person.  It was obvious that someone like Jarlaxle would not like that to happen.

            With a sigh, she went back to the book and the page she had left off.  It contained a confusing snarl of grammar – not the first one – that she was trying to untangle.  Not for the first time, she wondered what were the mercenary's true reasons for giving her the book.

**

            Jarlaxle practiced his throwing daggers on a board hung on the wall while he reviewed a map of Menzoberranzan.  Small red tokens marked out the area that the Company had already explored, blue tokens marked the areas that Bregan D'aerthe had yet to 'evacuate' properly.  Currently, the red was nearing some of the blues. 

            That wasn't much of a problem – at most he could go tell the Company that such areas were Bregan D'aerthe property, but he knew that proving that may be annoying, considering some areas seemed to be public property – inns and such.  Only bases would be safe, partly because they were somewhat inaccessible unless one was familiar with it. 

            No matter – the Company was interested in Donigarten, and Jarlaxle was sure that the monsters there still remained, or had multiplied without the supervision of the dark elves.  They would be preoccupied there for a while, giving him time to clean out the bits of the city that he wanted to.  Zaknafein would have…

            Jarlaxle reined in that thought sharply.  Since the last few centuries he had missed his friend's company, and quite frequently nowadays, he'd regretted not dragging Zaknafein out of his self-destructive stay in House Do'Urden.  Perhaps that was why he had given the book up for translation – the inevitable spread of words was, in a way, immortalizing his friend, spreading his presence. 

            The mercenary snorted.  What maudlin thoughts for someone who had lived for longer that he sometimes would have liked to.  Still, loneliness for such a person was not uncommon.  There was talk – not that it could be trusted on all counts - in the Surface worlds of wondrous devices in the making, and one of these was something called a Time Machine. 

            Perhaps…

            One thing he should have learned, Jarlaxle thought wryly, was to accept inevitability.  But it was an intriguing idea, though it seemed an impossible fantasy, traveling back in time! S'kaerik would be highly interested in that idea, if he knew her.  Historians were sometimes so obsessed in the past that they forget that the present and the future follow the same cycles and should at least be watched as well.

            In the darkness, Jarlaxle smiled.