Intersection
As was normal, S'kaerik could not find Jarlaxle anywhere once she really wanted to find him, and polite enquiries directed to the guards at the entrance of the Bregan D'aerthe branch only produced even more polite assurances that they had no idea where their leader was. Two weeks of now-habitual meandering between Nalfein's library, Company Headquarters, and her room had shown no sign of him either, and it had been most unlike Jarlaxle of late to not 'drop in' on her every few days or so just to irritate her. This was an extremely unwelcome state of affairs, considering she had really wanted to ask Jarlaxle whether he had known why the journal was incomplete.
Nalfein hadn't known where the mercenary was either, and had in fact gifted her with a very old, vague look of bemusement, as if wondering why she was in such a hurry to look for Jarlaxle. After all, the look seemed to say, he would turn up eventually in time. Wryly, S'kaerik wondered if Jarlaxle would turn up, ever, or something, at least in her lifetime. It was all very well for someone who was essentially immortal to use the phrase 'in time', but she had a limited span of life. At first she was worried, and then irritated at herself for being worried – she couldn't think of much that could hurt Jarlaxle, let alone kill him – then irritated at herself for being irritated, then irritated at the mercenary for making her irritated at herself, and now it was just mildly confusing.
She probably needed more sleep – what with paperwork generated from dealings with Sshamath, residual issues from Menzoberranzan, Nalfein's books, and negotiations with the Surface University libraries about Nalfein, she had been sleeping less than she normally did. At least the parts of the journal that were with her were done, accelerated with Nalfein's help…
S'kaerik yawned, curled up in the chair in Nalfein's reading room, wishing that he had not offered a few days ago to pad it with more cushions. As it was, the words were fading out of focus…
Nalfein watched mildly as S'kaerik fell asleep, the book sliding over her lap, and he philosophically picked it up with his mind and put it in the pile on the floor. With some afterthought, he moved the cat slightly such that her head was more comfortably propped against the cushions, then returned to his writing. There was some problem in the composition of the Mental Immunity spell from a grimoire he had purchased, through Bregan D'aerthe, from a Surfacer, but he was quite sure now, after five decades, that he was nearing the root of the problem.
Perhaps the intonation of the twenty-third syllable had to be raised a pitch…
Carefully, he compared the spell to a near-parallel in another grimoire, pen dancing methodically over parchment. Nalfein liked the feel and sound of parchment, and therefore had refused to use its more modern equivalent – paper – even in ordinary note-taking. Machinery was fast-becoming a staple in the mage-city, and he would never have believed it when he first set foot in the area. As it was, Bregan D'aerthe was still supplying him with parchment, so he did not need to find specialists. Perhaps he should consider finding a way to get indoor piped heated water, and he certainly would need to fit in electric lights, but other than that, to Nalfein, machinery and technology were something that happened to other people. Parchment was still cheap in Sshamath, anyway – spells could only be transcribed onto a special type of parchment…
Mind considering several different levels of thought all at once, the old mage still noticed Jarlaxle's entrance into his personal plane, and considered waking S'kaerik up. Then again, it might be better to see what his old 'friend' wanted first.
Eventually, the mercenary wandered his way through the pertinent part of the Library. His first action was to glance at S'kaerik, as if to make sure she was asleep, and then grin irrepressibly at Nalfein. Nalfein sighed inwardly. Relative to the number of years both of them had lived, Jarlaxle was not that much younger than he was, but the mercenary always seemed to contain the mischievous, wiry energy that Nalfein would, in other cases, associated with youth.
"What?" Nalfein asked irritably, though softly, so as not to disturb S'kaerik. He had just managed to grasp something of the spell when Jarlaxle had entered. As it was, he now had to restrain his thoughts to try and realign himself to normal conversation. Jarlaxle got very twitchy whenever Nalfein forgot and just spoke as he liked. Then, strange, inconvenient things would start happening to supplies that the mage received from Bregan D'aerthe, and it did not require anyone of Nalfein's intellect to be able to link cause and effect.
"Greetings, Nalfein," Jarlaxle bowed.
Nalfein sighed. "Tell me what you want, and then go away. I am amidst some fairly important experimentation."
"I was wondering if you were going to give her the rest of the journal."
"When you gave those pages into my keeping, you said to do with them as I saw fit."
"You did not answer the question."
"That is because I have not decided," Nalfein shrugged. "Those pages may deal with important issues of Bregan D'aerthe, but they also concern my flight to Sshamath. Were they to become public knowledge, my current position could become compromised."
Jarlaxle nodded. "But you mentioned the lack of pages to her."
Nalfein grimaced. "I cannot imagine why," he admitted. "There was a sudden impulse I could not restrain. It is hard to explain – as though one wanted to prove something to her."
"Ah? That is very interesting," Jarlaxle said thoughtfully.
Nalfein glanced at the sleeping Weyr-cat, and did not notice his mouth crook up into a slight smile as she muttered something in her dreams and twitched her ears forward, fingers curling gently at the edge of one of the cushions, grey fur smoky in the magelight. There was something comforting about her presence, and he occasionally considered if this was the feline part of her – perhaps there was some reason why cats were so popular with mages… or perhaps it was something else that stayed on the edge of his thoughts like a niggling problem and would not go away.
Jarlaxle coughed politely, and Nalfein turned his stare back onto the mercenary, with some annoyance. "Yes?"
"There was another thing of importance of which I believed may interest you," Jarlaxle said, watching him intently, "S'kaerik may be sent back to the Surface in a few months, to give reports to the Universities."
Nalfein blinked. "A few months?" For some reason, a bubble of disappointment mingled with unease and something that ached but could not be identified welled up in his chest. "This is not confirmed?"
"No, but it is a high possibility."
"Does she know about it?"
"That is unlikely."
"Then how did you…"
"I have a share in the Company, and enough ears," Jarlaxle smiled. "Much of the news comes to me before it reaches employees like her."
"But… when would she come back?"
"A month, a year, ten, who can tell?" The mercenary shrugged with such insouciance that Nalfein, somewhat irrationally, felt like doing something destructive to that face, possibly involving acid spells, but since this was a normal impulse whenever he had dealings with Jarlaxle, he suppressed it easily. "But she has been interesting, has she not?"
Nalfein could identify the tip of the small storm of emotions that had burst out, and it was 'jealousy'. That unnerved him enough for him to agree and say, distractedly, "More than interesting."
His eyes wandered over to S'kaerik again, as if to reassure his mind that she was still, at the moment, present, and therefore he did not notice the brief, self-satisfied smile that wreathed Jarlaxle's face.
**
"I have to leave?" S'kaerik blinked. The red dwarf, whatever his name was – she had major difficulties with their names - who had brought the letter seemed surprised.
"Leave? Leave 'ere?" He considered this, and then a happy thought occurred to him. "Well, miss… them Dark Elven cities ain't too healthy. Ye could come to us dwarven ones instead! There'd be beer, an' lots of meat, not like this terrible thin expensive alcohol, the red thing…"
"Wine," S'kaerik supplied absently.
"Yeh, wine, an' all this gods-damned mushrooms wot smother the bits of meat." The dwarf sighed, entrenched in the culinary delights of reminiscence. "Even them duergar cities are the same."
"The letter specified I have to leave for the Surface," S'kaerik elaborated, giving the letter to the dwarf. He read it slowly, eyes beetling under his bushy brow, one fat finger moving slowly over the words, and lingering over the signature. S'kaerik was impressed. He hadn't needed help with any of the words. Non-cleric and scholar dwarves generally didn't bother much with reading and writing, except that of their own tongue.
"What fer?" He said at last, handing the letter back to her with care. "Ye're still needed 'ere, us at Menzo still need yer help."
S'kaerik had a feeling she knew why. The Company, despite its dwarven part, was rather afraid of her spending hours alone in a pocket plane under the control of a powerful Mage Lord. Not that she told them his real name, of course. If anything did happen to her, they would have had to explain it to the Universities – she was currently one of seven official representatives in the Underdark – the Weyr-Cats, the dwarves… Not to mention a death or injury due to a Dark Elf would put a damper on trade and travel considerations by surfacers.
"I can try to appeal," she said doubtfully. She didn't think so. The letter had intimated that the Universities were backing the Company fully in this matter. Return to the Surface… but for how long? The rest of her mortal life?
Admittedly, she did miss the sky and the feel of the wind, and the smell of fresh air flavoured by trees, but she knew with certainty that she would also miss the restrained, peripheral magic hidden in the walls of the Underdark, the allure of the darkness and its hidden treasures, and her friends. Besides, Nalfein's library was important! Perhaps she could argue on… that…
"I'd talk to the other dwarves," the dwarf said helpfully, sensing her distress. "Even if ye get sent back Up, ye'd be back soon enough. We, er, really 'preciate everythin' ye've done for us."
S'kaerik reflected dryly, as she watched the dwarf exit her room, that a modern dwarf's lifespan was also somewhat longer than hers, such that 'soon enough' was not as comforting as he had meant it to be.
**
Nalfein took the news quietly, returning to his writing immediately after reading the letter. Somewhat injured at this apparent indifference, S'kaerik retrieved the latest letter, that detailed her departure date and train, from his table herself.
When standing closer to him, however, her sharp eyes picked up a few promising signs – Nalfein was writing harder than usual, almost angrily, his breathing was too regular, as if he was controlling it with an effort, and his lip was slightly indented, as if he was biting it. Well, better that there were some signs of a reaction rather than nothing – she just hoped it wasn't sheer relief or something equally negative. A small part of S'kaerik wanted to know why Nalfein reacting to the news made her happier, but the larger part didn't care.
Back in her chair, she decided that, after a few pages into a book on the convoluted politics of the Mage City, the silence in the room was getting stifling. "Well, I can get you updated catalogues," she said, attempting cheerfulness, "And maybe bring back some books."
The quill paused, and then started moving again. When S'kaerik resigned herself to the silence, the Mage muttered, "That would be kind of you."
"It'd be a small repayment for allowing the perusal of your library," S'kaerik said, now feeling that the cheer in her voice was becoming brittle and breakable, like thin glass, and hoped the old mage would not notice.
"You did not cause any inconvenience," Nalfein said, a definite tone of dismissal in his voice, intimating that he did not want further discussion.
"I'd miss you," S'kaerik ventured tentatively.
Nalfein raised his head, the errant lock of hair drifting over an eye, his expression unreadable as he seemed to appraise her, then he returned to his writing without a word.
S'kaerik sighed mentally, and returned to politics. As far as she could tell, generally it went in cycles – a Mage Lord would find a surprisingly inventive way to kill a rival, then allies intervened, before or after, then more allies – except on the opposite side – would move on, then both sides (or more) would be cheerfully trying to slaughter each other. Maybe all that magic did funny things to their heads. It was somewhat similar, if not on such a scale, with the magic-based organisations on the Surface itself.
That was an interesting, if dangerous parallel. Having power, or the anticipation of having it, made the same changes to races, elf, human, dwarf… sometimes it made things better, but quite a few times, wars happened, and bloodshed. The Humans and dwarves, in particular, had fought amongst themselves in war after war, and still never seemed to tire of it – shedding blood for what they said was morally right. And yet to label the Dark Elves as evil, because they recreated the chaos of war within each of their cities, unlike turning whole cities against each other. It was all very curious, but a very, very dangerous line of inquiry.
Eventually she got up to leave – she had become somewhat more familiar with the Library now, and did not require Jarlaxle's help to exit the area – not that he'd show up – and carefully put the book on the pile. Her 'Goodbye' to Nalfein did not seem to have registered, so she headed for the door, hurt again, not knowing why she even felt this upset at his apathy.
"S'kaerik?"
She realized with a start that this was the first time he'd ever said her name, at least in front of her. Slowly, she turned. "Yes?"
Nalfein was rubbing the space between his eyebrows slowly, as if trying to relax. "I…" He shook his head, as if weighing something against another, and then deflated slightly, apparently giving up. "The books. Take whatever you wish with you."
"Nalfein…"
"Return them whenever you like," Nalfein said softly, tilting his head such that his mane of hair hid his countenance.
"Thank you," S'kaerik stuttered. "Um. When would be convenient?"
"Whenever you wish," Nalfein said, and continued writing, a little stiffly, as if with effort. "If you require help you could…"
He stopped when S'kaerik, albeit with some wariness, encircled his neck loosely with her arms from behind and pushed her face into his hair. As she had suspected, it felt, and smelled, magnificent…
"Thank you," she repeated, in a murmur.
Nalfein turned slowly to look at her, so close that it seemed so natural that he would tilt his head up, like that, and she would move even closer, like that, and their lips would meet… like that…
"I hope I am not interrupting anything?" Jarlaxle asked from the doorway, urbanely.
S'kaerik pulled away from the kiss in embarrassment, flushing, and then she removed her arms from their positions as the mercenary glanced at them in apparent clinical curiosity. "Jarlaxle!"
"Greetings, Lady Cat," the mercenary said, tipping his hat, "And to you, Nalfein."
"Where have you been?" S'kaerik demanded, trying to squelch the strange anger that rose like a tide inside her, which seemed to have no cause – none that her mind really wanted to admit, anyway - then her fingers flew up to cover her mouth. "Sorry. I was just very worried that something had happened. To you. Um."
"I was just about to wish you a safe trip, Lady Cat, if my business prevents me from visiting you after this date," Jarlaxle said mildly, "I apologize for my absences – I have been very busy of late."
"Um. Right. Sorry…" S'kaerik took a few steps away from Nalfein, as if afraid something else would happen – she could feel his seething irritation. "Er. I have to go. Could you help me carry some of the volumes out, on the day I have to leave? If you have time? The um, top four from the pile, I'd take the rest myself. Nalfein very kindly agreed to lend them to me."
Nalfein glanced at the pile, and it disappeared. "I have put them in your rooms," he said flatly.
"Um. Thanks."
"We will not be keeping you then," Jarlaxle said, stepping into the doorway and bowing again.
With a helpless, backward glance at Nalfein, S'kaerik left the room with as much injured dignity as possible.
Jarlaxle waited until she was safely out of earshot, and then grinned at Nalfein, who had controlled his emotions carefully. The old mage's expression was now quite coldly polite. "What do you want, Jarlaxle?"
"Knowledge," the mercenary said with his usual melodramatic flair.
"Ask and leave."
"Firstly… why did you send the books to her now?"
"I need a few days to think," Nalfein growled. He touched his lips with his knuckles, absently. "Are you done yet, mercenary?"
"Other than to tell you that you have lost your wager, yes."
The mage glared at him.
"Well?" Jarlaxle prompted, raising an eyebrow.
Nalfein sighed, admitting defeat. "The other doors in this plane are open. Take a look if you wish. Do not steal anything."
"Your lack of trust in me is most deplorable," Jarlaxle said archly, objective accomplished. The main part of his scheming with Nalfein had been completed, though he considered extending it now for his amusement, without either involved parties being aware of it. After all, that was the best and most entertaining kind of machination.
With a spring in his step, Jarlaxle bowed to Nalfein, then left to explore the rest of the plane.