Chapter 10: Vicissitude
As a drow elf who had graduated top of his class from Melee-Magthere, who had duelled the strongest warriors the society of Menzoberranzan had to offer, who was the sign, by his very existence, of Lloth's favour on his house, Drizzt Do'Urden was unused to anxiety. And yet, staring into the glowing red orbs of the proprietor of Menzoberranzan's most renowned and exclusive hall of entertainment, Drizzt felt a stab of trepidation through his chest. The eponymous proprietor stood tall for a dark elf, enough so that Drizzt, himself well-built for one of his kind, found himself needing to look up to meet the other male's gaze. However, while Drizzt was young, still within his first half-century of life, his counterpart appeared ancient even by the standards of the dark elves, deep wrinkles furrowing the leathery skin of his face. Rarely had Drizzt ever seen an elf so old, for while the drow were a long-lived race, it was a rare drow who lived out their natural life in the city of Menzoberranzan.
When the ancient elf finally spoke though, breaking the silence, his voice was clear and mellow, seemingly unafflicted by the age that had ravaged the remainder of his body.
"Young Drizzt," the mellifluous voice spoke calmly, "of House Do'Urden, or should I say, Houseless Drizzt?"
Drizzt flinched as a chill ran down his spine. He had been anticipating that the elderly plutocrat would be unaware of his status, recent as it was, but clearly the master of the establishment had impeccable sources, and it appeared that Drizzt's own person was of interest to those of power in Menzoberranzan, sufficiently so that not even a half-cycle of Narbondel had passed before the information had proliferated.
The elderly drow grinned, thin lips peeling back from his sharp white teeth. "We at Zegorath's take great interest in our clientele, young warrior. Especially those of our clientele who rent a private box for a year, with payment in advance." At the look of shock on Drizzt's face, the proprietor smiled again, a gruesome sight from an elf of such age. "Ah," he continued, without any attempt to disguise the rush of enjoyment at the Drizzt's recognition of the imbalance of power, "you were unaware that this is hardly the first time that enterprising young rogues have attempted to use Zegorath's as a base for their covert activities. Believe me, over the centuries, we have seen it all, no matter the attempts of our clients to disguise, bribe, or conceal. You know, your mother used to come here in centuries past, with Zaknafein, of course, and the original Baenre thirdboy, back when Vartha was Matron of Daermon N'a'shezbaernon. But I digress. What is it that Zegorath's can do for you, young warrior?"
Drizzt struggled to focus, mind reeling. Not only was his tenuous status already known, which would of course damage the standing he had been relying on in order to aid his negotiations, but apparently his entire system had been compromised for the past months, not to mention that this elderly drow had known his mother, back before she had taken on leadership of House Do'Urden. And the casual mention of an original Baenre thirdboy?
Drizzt forced himself to make eye contact, violet eyes meeting red, holding the pause for every moment he could extract. "So," he spoke slowly, willing the words out of a rapidly constricting throat, "you are aware of my precarious situation. And I'm sure you know that I cannot, as most males would do, join Bregan D'Aerthe, who are far too close with my former house." Here he paused, watching closely for any sign or slight reaction from his counterpart. He could, of course, easily have joined Jarlaxle's company, and indeed had received more or less a standing invitation from their enigmatic leader some days after his graduation from the Melee-Magthere, but this was the best excuse he could come up with at a moment's notice. Joining Bregan D'Aerthe would not have helped him to accomplish his true mission, to identify and expose the mystery enemy of House Do'Urden.
Sensing nothing in the elder drow's demeanour, Drizzt continued. "I am hopeful that you have contacts who could assist me in finding some gainful employment suitable for a warrior of no small talent." At this he paused again, waiting for a reply.
"Of course, I can assist you," the proprietor acknowledged, "but tell me, young warrior, what can you give me in return? Do you have gold? Gems? Secrets?"
Drizzt of course had all three, yet, having seen Berg'inyon's bouts, an alternative sprang unsolicited into his mind. "Perhaps I can provide payment in kind? Other than your special guest in the mask, I doubt this establishment has ever witnessed a warrior of my calibre. Let's say I perform three fights for you, without need of the fighter's fee, to first blood only. Will that be sufficient?"
The proprietor smiled again, baring his teeth. "I think that shall be quite adequate, young warrior. Quite adequate indeed."
Jarlaxle, leader of the Bregan D'Aerthe mercenary company, once thirdboy of House Baenre, First House of Menzoberranzan, was no stranger to visitors. Indeed, barely a day had passed over the past few centuries since he had left his mother's house to join the mercenary company in which he had not received visitors of some sort. The past few weeks had been especially busy, having finally concluded his business on the surface and returned to Menzoberranzan to find plentiful business had piled up in his absence. Unexpected visitors, on the other hand, were far less common. So Jarlaxle swept his plumed, broad-brimmed hat onto his bald pate, activated the dweomer on his boots and jewellery to make them clank and jingle as boisterously as possible, and strode from his private quarters into his receiving room.
"Valas!" he announced himself, employing his flamboyant facade, a carefully cultivated personality designed specifically in order to mislead the gullible. "I hear you have brought me a guest!"
Dinin could barely believe himself as Jarlaxle entered the room. The mercenary leader was one of the most well-known and powerful males in all of Menzoberranzan, and one did not get to be so powerful in the city of the drow through foolishness nor indiscretion. Yet here was Jarlaxle acting as though he were a surface elf, not one of the cunning drow. For a moment, Dinin thought of spinning a tale, of some errand he might be running for Matron Malice. But he knew that Jarlaxle was far closer with Malice, his oft-times employer, than Dinin himself. And so, uncharacteristically, he spoke the truth. "Jarlaxle, my thanks for your hospitality. I am here in search of employment, of a sort."
"Employment?" Jarlaxle rejoined. "I was under the impression it was Do'Urden's thirdboy who was exiled and in need of employment, not the secondboy."
"Indeed it is, and yet one must always take care for one's own future. Seeing as how my mother has treated her precious thirdboy," Dinin spat the word as if it were a curse, "it appears prudent for me to look to my own future, both within and without House Do'Urden."
At this, Jarlaxle's brows rose just slightly. Once he, Zaknafein, and Malice had been close, perhaps closer than any three drow had been in the history of the city, but all that had changed when Malice finally achieved her ambition to replace Matron Vartha. For a couple of weeks Jarlaxle had harboured secret ambitions of becoming the Patron of House Do'Urden, had waited daily for Malice's invitation to take a place at her side, but while Zaknafein had been appointed Weapons Master immediately, Jarlaxle's invitation had never come. By the time Malice gave birth to her firstborn, Jarlaxle had given up waiting, but his ambitions had grown beyond thirdboy of the First House. It had been challenging to convince steely Matron Baenre that his talents would be better used as her secret informant within one of the many bands of rogue males that had populated the city at the time, when Bregan D'Aerthe had been less prominent than they were now, but he had managed it, and within decades had been the leader of the mercenary group. A few decades later, and with some illicit assistance from the First House, Bregan D'Aerthe were the undisputed premier mercenary group in Menzoberranzan, and Jarlaxle could consider himself the most powerful drow male on Toril.
The years and the successes had softened Jarlaxle's secret resentment towards Malice, and in addition, Do'Urden was the home of Jarlaxle's best friend, Zaknafein. But beyond even this, Jarlaxle had one further secret that negatively predisposed the mercenary captain against Do'Urden's secondboy. In the ruthless culture and rigid hierarchy of the drow, the secondboy would always be incentivised to bring about the downfall of the elderboy, by whatever means necessary.
Jarlaxle put all these thoughts to one side as he spoke again, barely missing a beat. "What kind of employment can Bregan D'Aerthe offer you, Master of Melee-Magthere? Surely no role in this organisation can match the prestige of an instructor's role at Menzoberranzan's Academy?"
Dinin met the rogue's single uncovered eye unflinchingly. "To clarify, the employment I speak of is not with Bregan D'Aerthe. However, I understand you can broker deals with the Noble Houses of Menzoberranzan. I'm sure there are many who would be willing to incentivize Bregan D'Aerthe to broker a trade for information about House Do'Urden, the price of which would be admission as a noble to the House in question, along with retention of my status as an instructor in the Academy."
"An interesting request. Valas, please show my guest to appropriate quarters and summon Veraz. I shall need some assurances that the secondboy speaks the truth, as shall any clients that may desire his information." At Jarlaxle's words the unassuming rogue bowed low, hands on the hilts of his sheathed kukri, then signalled the Do'Urden secondboy to precede him from Jarlaxle's tent. As the two males withdrew, Jarlaxle planted himself on the couch, a grin as wide as the brim of his hat spreading across his face. While he was far rich enough to buy any material goods he wanted, all Jarlaxle truly desired was a good bit of intrigue, something even money couldn't buy.
Within the Do'Urden compound Zaknafein paced the width of the War Room incessantly, interrupting the repetitive clicking of his bootheels on the stone only with the interspersion of foul curses, mostly self-directed. His son was out in the treacherous city of the drow, surrounded by enemies on all sides, and the only thing Zaknafein had any power to do was send his smallest, feeblest warrior to assist him. And of course, Zaknafein had sent said warrior as far and as fast as he could from Menzoberranzan in order to protect him from Matron Malice's wrath, having not been availed of her subtle plan ahead of time.
Finally his pacing was interrupted by a knock on the door. Zaknafein took a deep breath, composing himself, and slid open the door to reveal the cunning face of Ghazryn, the diminutive drow warrior who had returned with Drizzt from the debacle at the rothe farm. The shorter drow bowed deeply, likely concerned for his life.
"I need you to find Drizzt immediately," Zaknafein spoke, not giving even a moment for greetings. "Matron Malice has barred me from assisting him directly, but I am still commander of all the warriors of this house. You know him, you know his style, his hideouts. I want you watching him, and I want you watching whoever else is watching him. Take note of all of them, and send me reports daily. And if anyone threatens him, end them. Am I understood?"
The smaller drow gulped and nodded, bowing again before retreating. The moment the door closed, Zaknafein collapsed into a chair, exhaling forcefully. But barely did a single restful moment pass for the Weapons Master when the door was forcefully thrown open, then slammed shut again the moment a slender female body had slipped inside.
"Set the privacy wards, Zaknafein," Vierna commanded, settling herself into another of the room's seats. Sensing his daughter's distress, the male moved quickly, setting the wards that would prevent all but the most powerful of scrying. Retaking his seat, he waited patiently for the high priestess to speak.
Moments passed, and Vierna opened her mouth, then shut it again, hesitating. More moments passed, then finally she spoke. "Zaknafein, we have a problem." The elder drow waited patiently for her to explain.
"I'm pregnant. Drizzt is the father."