But Drizzt wasn't convinced. He didn't dare hope for such a thing - it
left him too vulnerable to feelings that he had fought hard to hide. He
preferred to keep his suspicions and his guard as close to him as the dark
cowl of his cloak. He cocked a curious ear as the two soldiers backed away
to hold a private conversation.
"I care not of his name," he heard the Nightkeeper whisper at Jierdan.
"No drow elf shall pass my gate!"
"You err," Jierdan retorted. "These are the heroes of Ten-Towns. The
halfling is truly First Citizen of Bryn Shander, the drow a ranger with a
deadly, but undeniably honorable, reputation, and the dwarf - note the
foaming mug standard on his shield - is Bruenor Battlehammer, leader of his
clan in the dale."
"And what of the giant barbarian?" asked the Nightkeeper, using a
sarcastic tone in an attempt to sound unimpressed, though he was obviously
a bit nervous. "What rogue might he be?"
Jierdan shrugged. "His great size, his youth, and a measure of control
beyond his years. It seems unlikely to me that he should be here, but he
might be the young king of the tribes that the tale-tellers have spoken of.
We should not turn these travelers away; the consequences may be grave."
"What could Luskan possibly fear from the puny settlements in Icewind
Dale?" the Nightkeeper balked.
"There are other trading ports," Jierdan retorted. "Not every battle is
fought with a sword. The loss of Ten-Towns' scrimshaw would not be viewed
favorably by our merchants, nor by the trading ships that put in each
season."
The Nightkeeper scrutinized the four strangers again. He didn't trust
them at all, despite his companion's grand claims, and he didn't want them
in his city. But he knew, too, that if his suspicions were wrong and he did
something to jeopardize the scrimshaw trade, his own future would be bleak.
The soldiers of Luskan answered to the merchants, who were not quick to
forgive errors that thinned their purses.
The Nightkeeper threw up his hands in defeat. "Go in, then," he told
the companions. "Keep to the wall and make your way down to the docks. The
last lane holds the Cutlass, and you'll be warm enough there!"
Drizzt studied the proud strides of his friends as they marched through
the door, and he guessed that they had also overheard pieces of the
conversation. Bruenor confirmed his suspicions when they had moved away
from the guard towers, down the road along the wall.
"Here, elf," the dwarf snorted, nudging Drizzt and being obviously
pleased. "So the word's gone beyond the dale and we're heared of even this
far south. What have ye to say o' that?"
Drizzt shrugged again and Bruenor chuckled, assuming that his friend
was merely embarrassed by the fame. Regis and Wulfgar, too, shared in
Bruenor's mirth, the big man giving the drow a good-hearted slap on the
back as he slipped to the lead of the troupe.
But Drizzt's discomfort stemmed from more than embarrassment. He had
noted the grin on Jierdan's face as they had passed, a smile that went
beyond admiration. And while he had no doubts that some tales of the battle
with Akar Kessell's goblin army had reached the City of Sails, it struck
Drizzt odd that a simple soldier knew so much about him and his friends,
while the gatekeeper, solely responsible for determining who passed into
the city, knew nothing.
Luskan's streets were tightly packed with two- and three-story
buildings, a reflection of the desperation of the people there to huddle
within the safety of the city's high wall, away from the ever-present
dangers of the savage northland. An occasional tower, a guard post,
perhaps, or a prominent citizen's or guild's way to show superiority,
sprouted from the roofline. A wary city, Luskan survived, even flourished,
in the dangerous frontier by holding fast to an attitude of alertness that
often slipped over the line into paranoia. It was a city of shadows, and
the four visitors this night keenly felt the curious and dangerous stares
peeking out from every darkened hole as they made their way.
The docks harbored the roughest section of the city, where thieves,
outlaws, and beggars abounded in their narrow alleys and shadowed crannies.
A perpetual ground fog wafted in from the sea, blurring the already dim
avenues into even more mysterious pathways.
Such was the lane the four friends found themselves turning down, the
last lane before the piers themselves, a particularly decrepit run called
Half-Moon Street. Regis, Drizzt, and Bruenor knew immediately that they had
entered a collecting ground for vagabonds and ruffians, and each put a hand
to his weapon. Wulfgar walked openly and without fear, although he, too,
sensed the threatening atmosphere. Not understanding that the area was
atypically foul, he was determined to approach his first experience with
civilization with an open mind.
"There's the place," said Bruenor, indicating a small group, probably
thieves, congregating before the doorway of a tavern. The weatherbeaten
sign above the door named the place the Cutlass.
Regis swallowed hard, a frightening mixture of emotions welling within
him. In his early days as a thief in Calimport, he had frequented many
places like this, but his familiarity with the environment only added to
his apprehension. The forbidden allure of business done in the shadows of a
dangerous tavern, he knew, could be as deadly as the hidden knives of the
rogues at every table. "You truly want to go in there?" he asked his
friends squeamishly.
"No arguing from ye!" Bruenor snapped back. "Ye knew the road ahead
when ye joined us in the dale. Don't ye be whining now!"
"You are well guarded," Drizzt put in to comfort
Regis.
Overly proud in his inexperience, Wulfgar pressed the statement even
further. "What cause would they have to do us harm? Surely we have done no
wrong," he demanded. Then he proclaimed loudly to challenge the shadows,
"Fear not, little friend. My hammer shall sweep aside any who stand against
us!"
"The pride o' youth," Bruenor grumbled as he, Regis, and Drizzt
exchanged incredulous looks.
The atmosphere inside the Cutlass was in accord with the decay and
rabble that marked the place outside. The tavern portion of the building
was a single open room, with a long bar defensively positioned in the
corner of the rear wall, directly across from the door. A staircase rose up
from the side of the bar to the structure's second level, a staircase more
often used by painted, overperfumed women and their latest companions than
by guests of the inn. Indeed, merchant sailors who put into Luskan usually
came ashore only for brief periods of excitement and entertainment,
returning to the safety of their vessels if they could manage it before the
inevitable drunken sleep left them vulnerable.
More than anything else, though, the tavern at the Cutlass was a room
of the senses, with myriad sounds and sights and smells. The aroma of
alcohol, from strong ale and cheap wine to rarer and more powerful
beverages, permeated every corner. A haze of smoke from exotic pipe-weeds,
like the mist outside, blurred the harsh reality of the images into softer,
dreamlike sensations.
Drizzt led the way to an empty table tucked beside the door, while
Bruenor approached the bar to make arrangements for their stay. Wulfgar
started after the dwarf, but Drizzt stopped him. "To the table," he
explained. "You are too excited for such business; Bruenor can take care of
it."
Wulfgar started to protest, but was cut short.
"Come on," Regis offered. "Sit with Drizzt and me. No one will bother a
tough old dwarf, but a tiny halfling and a skinny elf might look like good
sport to the brutes in here. We need your size and strength to deter such
unwanted attention."
Wulfgar's chin firmed up at the compliment and he strode boldly toward
the table. Regis shot Drizzt a knowing wink and turned to follow.
"Many lessons you will learn on this journey, young friend," Drizzt
mumbled to Wulfgar, too softly for the barbarian to hear. "So far from your
home."
Bruenor came back from the bar bearing four flagons of mead and
grumbling under his breath. "We're to get our business finished soon," he
said to Drizzt, "and get back on the road. The cost of a room in this
orc-hole is open thievery!"
"The rooms were not meant to be taken for a whole night," Regis
snickered.
But Bruenor's scowl remained. "Drink up," he told the drow. "Rat Alley
is but a short walk, by the tellin's of the barmaid, and it might be that
we can make contact yet this night."
Drizzt nodded and sipped the mead, not really wanting any of it, but
hoping that a shared drink might relax the dwarf. The drow, too, was
anxious to be gone from Luskan, fearful that his own identity - he kept his
cowl pulled even tighter in the tavern's flickering torchlight might bring
them more trouble. He worried further for Wulfgar, young and proud, and out
of his element. The barbarians of Icewind Dale, though merciless in battle,
were undeniably honorable, basing their society's structure entirely on
strict and unbending codes. Drizzt feared that Wulfgar would fall easy prey
to the false images and treachery of the city. On the road in the wild
lands Wulfgar's hammer would keep him safe enough, but here he was likely
to find himself in deceptive situations involving disguised blades, where
his mighty weapon and battle-prowess offered little help.
Wulfgar downed his flagon in a single gulp, wiped his lips with zeal,
and stood. "Let us be going," he said to Bruenor. "Who is it that we seek?"
"Sit yerself back down and shut yer mouth, boy," Bruenor scolded,
glancing around to see if any unwanted attention had fallen upon them.
"This night's work is for me and the drow. No place for a too-big fighter
like yerself! Ye stay here with Rumblebelly an' keep yer mouth shut and yer
back to the wall!"
Wulfgar slumped back in humiliation, but Drizzt was glad that Bruenor
seemed to have come to similar conclusions about the young warrior. Once
again, Regis saved a measure of Wulfgar's pride.
"You are not leaving with them!" he snapped at the barbarian. "I have
no desire to go, but I would not dare to remain here alone. Let Drizzt and
Bruenor have their fun in some cold, smelly alley. We'll stay here and
enjoy a well-deserved evening of high entertainment!"
Drizzt slapped Regis's knee under the table in thanks and rose to
leave. Bruenor quaffed his flagon and leaped from his chair.
"Let's be going, then," he said to the drow. And then to Wulfgar, "Keep
care of the halfling, and beware the women! They're mean as starved rats,
and the only thing they aim to bite at is your purse!"
Bruenor and Drizzt turned at the first empty alleyway beyond the
Cutlass, the dwarf standing nervous guard at its entrance while Drizzt
moved down a few steps into the darkness. Convinced that he was safely
alone, Drizzt removed from his pouch a small onyx statuette, meticulously
carved into the likeness of a hunting cat, and placed it on the ground
before him.
"Guenhwyvar," he called softly. "Come, my shadow."
His beckon reached out across the planes, to the astral home of the
entity of the panther. The great cat stirred from its sleep. Many months
had passed since its master had called, and the cat was anxious to serve.
Guenhwyvar leaped out across the fabric of the planes, following a
flicker of light that could only be the calling of the drow. Then the cat
was in the alley with Drizzt, alert at once in the unfamiliar surroundings.
"We walk. into a dangerous web, I fear," Drizzt explained. "I need eyes
where my own cannot go."
Without delay and without a sound, Guenhwyvar sprang to a pile of
rubble, to a broken porch landing, and up to the rooftops. Satisfied, and
feeling much more secure now, Drizzt slipped back to the street. where
Bruenor waited.
"Well, where's that blasted cat?" Bruenor asked, a hint of relief in
his voice that Guenhwyvar was actually not with the drow. Most dwarves are
suspicious of magic, other than the magical enchantments placed upon
weapons, and Bruenor had no love for the panther.
"Where we need him most," was the drow's answer.
He started off down Half-Moon Street. "Fear not, mighty Bruenor,
Guenhwyvar's eyes are upon us, even if ours cannot return their protective
gaze!"
The dwarf glanced all around nervously, beads of sweat visible at the
base of his horned helm. He had known Drizzt for several years, but had
never gotten comfortable around the magical cat.
Drizzt hid his smile under his cowl.
Each lane, filled with piles of rubble and refuse, appeared the same,
as they made their way along the docks. Bruenor eyed each shadowed niche
with alert suspicion. His eyes were not as keen in the night as those of
the drow, and if he had seen into the darkness as clearly as Drizzt, he
might have clutched his axe handle even more tightly.
But the dwarf and drow weren't overly concerned. They were far from
typical of the drunkards that usually stumbled into these parts at night,
and not easy prey for thieves. The many notches on Bruenor's axe and the
sway of the two scimitars on the drow's belt would serve as ample deterrent
to most ruffians.
In the maze of streets and alleyways, it took them a long while to find
Rat Alley. Just off the piers, it ran parallel to the sea, seemingly
