Don't go to Sleep

by Iliana Maura

Note: for some reason-I think it's because my muse wanted to slow me down by forcing me to look more things up-there are more Drow words in the revised version. So, I'm giving you the URL to my source a heck of a lot earlier than in the un-revised version. Here it is: http:www. ebonskull. org/ DrowDictionary. htm . A very wonderful site.

Chapter Two : Inthuul Jhinrae

Arvylyn Quenvath sipped his wine and struggled not to make a face. It probably wasn't bad by human standards, but then, in his opinion, human standards were much lower than those of an elf. He was sure that the mead was be good if you liked mead-which he didn't.

If fact there was little about Settlestone the gold elf liked. He only wanted to go back home, and be among his kin and elven things. The town itself was built by dwarven hands, and while Arvylyn could not deny how well the buildings had stood up to time and the elements, he found the buildings so bleak and bare they almost caused him to cry. Even worse, most of those in Settlestone were humans-the Icewind Dale barbarians brought by their now-dead leader, Wulfgar-and human merchants come to trade with the dwarves. There were a scattering of others, dwarves, halflings, and elves, but none except the barbarians lived there, only stayed while doing business. The single inn, the Inn of the Dwarven Hammer, where Arvylyn sat, did booming business.

Settlestone was a bit too far north for the gold elf's tastes as well. He huddled in the back corner closest to the fireplace with his cloak tight around him. Just a few days ago there had been a freak snowstorm on the mountain, which had touched Settlestone as well, covering the town with a light dusting of snow. Everyone was talking about it, the merchants complaining fiercely. It was the middle of spring, they said; there was no reason why there should be a blizzard. They muttered that if such things continued happening, they'd take their goods elsewhere. Arvylyn could not help but chuckle every time he heard such a statement. If it snowed all year round, the merchants would still come to Settlestone; Mithral Hall's goods were too valuable to lose.

A caravan, just arrived, moved slowly down the main road, past the Inn. Horses, wagons, hired guards and merchants ambled past, heading towards the other side of the town, where they would make camp; the leaders of the caravan might take rooms at the inn, but everyone else would be forced to sleep outside. Everyone would come to the inn to drink, though, so the innkeeper would make a great profit anyway.

Arvylyn did not like the looks of the guards. They were all mercenaries, he knew, and probably half of them had been banished from at least one city, most likely for murder. All of them had the suspicious, predatory look of a tough stray dog who knew you were going to kick it, but was going to steal from your trash anyway. Savages, Arvylyn thought. The men of Settlestone were called barbarians, but men like the caravan guards were little more than ill-tamed wolves.

One of them, a broad-shouldered man with lanky shoulder-length hair and a short, well-trimmed beard, glanced though the inn windows as he passed. He stopped for a second look, walking almost right up to the dirty, soot-stained glass. The other patrons in the common room did not notice, busy with their own pursuits, but Arvylyn saw.

And the man saw him.

The black-haired guard peered into the back corner where Arvylyn sat, as though trying to get a better look at the elf. His eyes looked black at a distance, and Arvylyn found himself unconsciously pulling deeper into the corner, until the walls stopped him from hiding any further. The man continued to stare until another guard, this one blonde, came up beside him. They spoke a few words, laughed at something, and then walked away. Arvylyn let loose the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding-and froze at the man turned back for one last look. The elf felt like a rabbit cornered by a pack of hounds.

After squinting once, the man turned and kept walking; he did not turn back again. Arvylyn pushed himself further into his corner and clutched his cloak tightly around him, finding he could not stop shaking, and not knowing why.

The headquarters of Venorik Orbb merchant band were in a small cavern leading off the main one that held Menzoberranzan proper. It was also hard to find, trapped, and well-guarded. It was very unlikely that one of Bregan D'aerthe's regular soldiers-even though they were well-trained-could find it.

Luckily for Jarlaxle, he was not one of his regular soldiers. It had taken him the entire day to find the place, and a good portion of the night dodging both traps and guards, and here he was, almost at Narbondel's olath-kyorl, and he wasn't even inside yet.

The mercenary glanced over his shoulder at the heat-glowing pillar in the center of Menzoberranzan that acted as a clock; it was far too late to do anything tonight. He peered around the outcrop of stone behind which he was hiding. He would have one of his soldiers deliver a certain Phystus Navid'an a message, and then the two of them would arrange a meeting.

In the morning.

Jarlaxle smothered a yawn and headed back to his own headquarters.

Arvylyn had just managed to still his shaking-after a little over half an hour and somewhere around ten glasses of wine-when he spotted the black-haired guard and his blonde friend through the window, approaching the Inn with a large group of other men from the caravan.

The elf started shaking all over again.

He pushed back his chair and stood up, stumbling from fear. Why had he come to this place? Was his cousin really that important? Why did the stupid brat have to get such and irrational idea into his head and make Arvylyn chase after him, anyway? The elf took a deep breath and forced the anger away. His cousin wasn't right in the mind, he had to remember that. And who would be, after seeing what he had seen? And anyway, Arvylyn had more pressing matters on hand.

The black-haired man walked into the inn, scanning the common room in the cool, composed way most fighters have, calmly taking the measure of the other men in the smoky room. Arvylyn moved hastily towards the stairs that led to the floor above, cursing both the fear and alcohol in his blood that made his feet clumsy. He strained his keen elven ears to hear if the man was saying anything.

"He was over in that corner," he heard the black-haired guard tell his friend. "I don't know where he is now."

"He's climbin' the stairs," the blonde man replied. Arvylyn froze at the bottom step, but the blonde guard went on. "Wait, don't-he don't wanna talk to no one now, you can tell that. Let him alone; most elves is intimated by humans, anyways."

Arvylyn drew in a quick gasp of air and continued up the stairs. "Intimidated," he heard the black-haired guard correct his friend, in an absent sort of way. The elf could feel the man's gaze boring into his back; he stumbled over the seventh step.

"Let him alone," the blonde repeated. "Fine sight that'd be: Dorian Tavares, the great fighter, chasing after some frightened elf. People'd think you was working for that Match Torren in Waterdeep."

"Yeah," the black-haired Dorian Tavares muttered, but Arvylyn did not linger in order to hear more; he disappeared up the stairs without hesitating.

She had to admit: he was really good. Any other drow, male or female, would not have been able to track the mercenary leader. Even she had been hard pressed, and she had a special tracking spell; it required a piece of the person you were tracking, which, under usual circumstances, would have meant it would not have worked on Jarlaxle-he wasn't one to leave bodily materials simply lying around.

But two decades ago, she had clipped Jarlaxle with her mace, and had not been able to clean it until much later-when she had saved every drop of it. She knew that someday, she would have her revenge.

Someday had come.

It was a challenge to restrain herself; she knew she did not have as much patience as most drow, and was amazed that she had restrained herself for twenty years, until everything was in place. It was a challenge not to aim a spell at him, a challenge not to blow him into a million different pieces, like the gates to her House when their rival had charged through.

He was so unaware, she thought angrily. So sure of himself. He could never imagine that someone had a drop of his blood, and was using it to follow him-the thought had probably never even crossed his mind. If she attacked him right now, she could catch him totally unprepared.

She sighed, and forced herself to think reasonably. As cocky as he was, she knew he was not totally unprepared. If she attacked him, he could possibly get away, and she would lose the element of surprise; she would not risk that.

She pushed herself away from the wall she had been leaning against, as Jarlaxle slipped into an alley, and followed him.

Jarlaxle ducked into an alley and began to take an elaborate, twisted route back to his headquarters: he was being followed.