Boundless

by R. A. Salvatore

  Penelope nodded.

  “I will discern all of that,” Kimmuriel explained. “And I would take you, Wulfgar, with me, to guard over me.”

  “Of course,” said Penelope, clutching the blankets tight to her chest. She looked to her lover and promised, “We will stop them.”

  “Not you, lady,” Gromph told her. “Him. You go home to Longsaddle.”

  Penelope scoffed openly at that, staring at the man angrily. “Gromph does not—” she began to say.

  “Go to Catti-brie, lady,” he interrupted, “and keep her safe.”

  “She can well keep herself safe,” Penelope angrily replied, and would have gone further, except that Wulfgar put his hand on her shoulder to quiet her.

  “What do you know?” Wulfgar demanded.

  “This darkness is more than you comprehend,” Gromph explained, speaking more to Penelope than to Wulfgar. “A great evil is come, and it is aimed and with purpose, and that purpose is for chosen people. I think it is aimed at the man Catti-brie loves most, but I cannot be certain. If that is the case, then she, too, might be in great danger, and so I bid you to go to her.”

  “Catti-brie is more powerful than I,” Penelope replied. “If she cannot defend herself, then what am I to do?”

  “Put the eyes from the Ivy Mansion all about,” Gromph told her. “And if the darkness approaches, then send her away, far away, to the ends of Faerun, to another plane, even.”

  “What are you babbling about, wizard?” Wulfgar demanded. He moved forward, the blankets falling away, showing the muscles of his arms and chest tight with tension.

  Gromph ignored him. “Would you have Drizzt breath his last knowing that Catti-brie died before him? Knowing that their child was killed because of him?” he asked of Penelope.

  The tone of his voice surprised the woman, for it was filled with unexpected humanity.

  “Lady, go to Catti-brie and make sure that she is safe,” the archmage stated flatly.

  Penelope turned to Wulfgar, both wearing expressions of confusion and trepidation.

  “We must go,” Kimmuriel said to him. “We must learn the truth of this armada that sails against Luskan. The ships are readying.”

  Wulfgar nodded.

  “You’re going to die out there,” Penelope whispered.

  “This is my truth,” Wulfgar quietly replied. “I hate the signs. I love you because you ignore the signs, but this, this I cannot ignore. The sign of friendship is one I welcome and must not, cannot ignore.” He pulled her face up to look her in the eye. “Nor can you.”

  Chapter 10

  Clandestine

  With the strange young drow woman’s magical prowess, Regis, Athrogate, and Yvonnel covered the many miles to Waterdeep in only a few days, with Athrogate, still sorely wounded, riding the entire way on a conjured magical disk.

  Now the city—not the most populous of the Realms, but considered by most to be the greatest in Faerun—lay in sight, off in the distance to the southeast, with its great towers and palaces, and bridges, and giant statues.

  Regis took a deep breath, signifying the importance and danger of his chosen mission.

  “You are certain of this?” Yvonnel asked him.

  “The lords of Waterdeep have to know. I do wish you’d come in with me.”

  “My life is complicated enough already,” Yvonnel replied. “I am not even sure of what role I have played in all of this, or of what my role might be going forward. Having me there would more than complicate your message, my friend; it would give those who oppose you weapons to use against you with those who might otherwise be sympathetic to your pleas.”

  Regis nodded. They had already discussed this extensively. Still, he had witnessed the power of Yvonnel Baenre quite clearly—the woman had used a simple word of power to dissolve a major demon! And Athrogate—how could Regis look upon his battered dwarven friend and not recognize that without the amazing magical healing of Yvonnel, Athrogate would be long dead? Even now, for all her efforts, the mighty dwarf slept most of the day, with groans and not snores, and whenever he had to get off that disk, it took Regis’s shoulder to hold him upright.

  “You will heal him again this day?” he asked.

  “Every day, or he will die,” Yvonnel answered. “He was stung by the barbs of the lower planes. The poison is thick. Truly, I am surprised that he survived.”

  “If ye’re thinkin’ me dead, then make yer bet. I’ll be takin’ yer coin, ’cause I ain’t dead yet,” Athrogate said, his voice weak and shaky, but his tone defiant. Usually there was a laugh to accompany the black-bearded dwarf’s silly rhymes, but not this time, Regis noted. Not at all. The dwarf was deadly serious and had told Regis that he wasn’t dying until he had found revenge for his beloved Ambergris.

  Regis heard it in Athrogate’s voice now and realized that he certainly wouldn’t be betting against this tough old dwarf!

  “How will you know which of the Waterdhavian lords to trust?” Yvonnel asked, taking him back to the matter at hand. “And which of them might betray you to Lord Neverember or these other conspirators?”

  “We have spies in place in Waterdeep,” Regis replied. “I know where to find them, one in particular. I’ve no doubt that he has already sorted friend from enemy.”

  “Artemis Entreri?”

  Regis nodded.

  “Your friend?”

  Regis chuckled. “I don’t think I’d ever call him that, but in this matter, I can trust him. At least, I hope I can.”

  “And if not?”

  Regis shrugged. “A fine Companion of the Hall would I be if I wouldn’t even have the courage to try.”

  Yvonnel looked at him curiously, obviously not getting the reference.

  “Here’s to hoping that someday we’ll be sitting by my hearth in Bleeding Vines rebuilt, and I can tell you all the stories, lady. All of them.”

  “Ye tell her about me Ambergris, Amber Gristle O’Maul,” Athrogate said from the floating disk.

  “You’ll tell her those tales,” Regis replied.

  “Aye,” the dwarf said unconvincingly. He heaved a sigh. “And if I can’t, yerself’ll tell ’em, eh, Rumblebelly?”

  Regis couldn’t help but smile at the nickname, his own nickname and the one he had given to his pony, a nickname Bruenor had given to him years and years before on the banks of Maer Dualdon in Icewind Dale.

  “I will,” he promised, then said to Yvonnel, “Keep him alive. Make him well.” He slid from his mount and handed the reins to the drow woman. “And keep him well, too. He’s been a fine companion.”

  The striking Yvonnel—whose eyes were now purple to match those of Drizzt, Regis noted—offered a nod.

  “And where will you go?” Regis asked.

  Yvonnel looked to Athrogate. “We’ll find our way. Eventually back to Drizzt, I hope. But we may be doing some good out here.”

  “Thornhold!” Athrogate said, coughing some blood as he did.

  Yvonnel patted her hand in the air to calm him. She had warned him not to become too agitated, and not to speak loudly or harshly for a while. She turned back to Regis and shrugged deferentially, making him think that they would indeed revisit the old and battered keep where Amber had died, where Athrogate had been so wickedly wounded.

  The halfling nodded his farewell, took a deep and steadying breath, then turned to the southwest and the distant waiting city. He thought of his friends, caught in a hole beneath the mountain. He thought of Donnola and Drizzt and Bruenor and Wulfgar and Catti-brie. He remembered why he had agreed with the proposition of Iruladoon, the magical afterlife forest where he, Bruenor, Catti-brie, and Wulfgar had been given the opportunity of rebirth. On that occasion, when the choice was laid bare, Regis hadn’t hesitated, and had been glad for the ability to live his life once more, primarily because he vowed that this time would be different, particularly in his relationship with his beloved friends. This time, he wouldn’t be the tagalong. This time, he had vowed, determined, and trained all
of his second life to ensure he wouldn’t be the one the others had to look out for. No, this time, Regis would more than earn his place among the Companions of the Hall.

  Now that meant he had to go into a nest of powerful vipers, the Margasters and their allies. Demonic villains, literally.

  “They need me,” he whispered under his breath, and he straightened his belt and took his first bold step toward Waterdeep.

  Dahlia moved carefully about the grand hall, batting her eyes at the gentlemen and offering polite but somewhat icy nods to the ladies at the ball. From her years in Thay, the graceful elven woman had this act perfected, and so she blended in seamlessly with these lords and ladies, all of whom she considered rather dull and contemptible. Had any of them truly earned their place in these exclusive circles?

  Birthright and nothing more, she was certain for most at least, and to Dahlia there was little worse than station without merit. But she knew how to play this game, and how to use her charms to garner whatever information she might need. Information was power, and Dahlia liked power, particularly now with word from Jarlaxle of the brewing trouble. Entreri had tasked her with sorting out where the lords and ladies might stand on Lord Neverember and King Bruenor.

  Dahlia hoped to gain a lot more information than that, particularly when noting how many young men here, and more than a few young women, kept looking her way hungrily.

  She painted on a pretty and demure smile when a young lord and lady approached her, the man holding an extra glass of fine Feywine.

  “I’m not sure I’ve had the pleasure,” he said, and he introduced himself and his friend—pointedly calling the lady his friend, and not wife or companion. Dahlia was pretty sure what he wanted.

  “Dahlia Syn’dalay of the Shakebrook Syn’dalay,” she replied, honestly, for she was certain that none here would know of that distant, tiny elven clan. She said it with the practiced haughtiness of a finely bred elf, which she was, or would have been, had she not been kidnapped by the horrid Netherese at the tender age of twelve.

  Certainly, in her sleeveless and backless crimson gown, she looked the part of one who would be invited to such a ball as this. She was tall for an elf, nearly six feet, with black hair that she dyed with streaks of cardinal red. For most of her life, she had kept her head mostly shaven, with a single braid running down the back and over her shoulder, that she could chew on it when she was concerned or confused, but now she had let the hair grow quite long on the right side, and had grown it out, too, on the left, though she kept that much shorter, so as not to cover her left ear, which was nearly fully lined with small diamonds.

  Those diamonds meant a lot to her, and not for reasons monetary.

  Displaying those diamonds meant a lot to her, and not for reasons of vanity.

  She wasn’t wearing any studs in her right ear these days and hadn’t since she had come to understand the truth of her relationship with Artemis Entreri. Indeed, the thought of adding a stud for him had not, other than initially, crossed her mind.

  For those studs meant something, signifying lovers she meant to kill, so that she could transfer them to her left ear, with their diamond match, to show off how many lovers she had already killed. She had once worn as many as five at one time in that right ear, but now there could be only one, and for a man she had no intention of ever harming, a man who understood her because his youthful experiences had been so awfully similar to her own.

  Artemis Entreri had overcome those demons, finally, and was helping Dahlia do the same. So she hoped.

  “Well, milady Syn’dalay, truly I am so very pleased to meet you,” the man said, and at that moment, Dahlia realized that she should have been more attentive so that she might actually remember the names of her conversation partners.

  “Yes, well, that is the whole point of such gatherings, is it not?” she purred back, leaning forward as she took the offered drink from him. She watched his eyes as she did and decided to find a way to get his name, because she knew that he would do much to make her happy. Yes, it would be very important to this young lord to make Dahlia Syn’dalay like him.

  His companion knew it, too; Dahlia could tell by her not-quite-hidden scowl as she watched his eyes following Dahlia’s bow, a scowl she extended to Dahlia, knowing very well that the elven woman’s forward bend was neither unconscious nor unintentional.

  For the first time that night, Dahlia was enjoying herself—not because she had any intention of even kissing this pompous fool, but because she did so enjoy the play of confounding, frustrating, and angering these powdered and perfumed empty souls.

  So, she set about the task immediately, or started to, when out of the side of her eye she noted the entrance of another quite striking figure.

  He was almost exactly half her height, though his grand blue beret made him seem a bit taller. While he appeared to be in fine physical health, there wasn’t much girth to him, but somehow, the halfling seemed much larger than that, with his perfectly trimmed mustache, curling upward just beyond his ample lips, and a hint of a beard running down the center of his chin. He wore the fashionable beret and a cape to match, thick and luxurious, along with a fine leather vest over his red shirt, a bandolier of hand-crossbow quarrels crossing from his left shoulder to his right hip. A brilliant rapier sat on his left hip, and a three-tined dagger showed fantastic craftsmanship, with the outer two swordbreakers shaped as cobras about to strike. His black boots with silver buckles were so shiny that Dahlia fancied she might comb her hair in her reflection in them.

  Yes, he was quite the dashing figure, his cloak flung back over his left shoulder to give a full view of that marvelous rapier and his vest undone just enough to hint at another weapon he carried beneath it: a hand crossbow of drow design.

  “Spider Parrafin,” Dahlia muttered, for she knew this newcomer. In fact, she knew him better as Regis, friend to her former lover, Drizzt, and his gang, the Companions of the Hall. “What are you doing here, you little troublemaker?” she muttered under her breath, but not quietly enough, apparently, for the man standing before her said, “Your pardon? Troublemaker? Why yes, I suppose—”

  “Shut up,” said the woman with him, and he did.

  “Oh, I am terribly sorry,” Dahlia said. “I did not mean . . . there are these voices that will not leave me alone. Well, one voice, low and grating, and telling me to do all kinds of awful things . . .”

  The man blanched, the woman gasped, and both fell back a step.

  “These are strange times,” said the woman, clearly trying to pull the man away.

  “Who are you visiting in Waterdeep, good Lady Syn’dalay?” the man asked, determined to continue his acquaintance with the elf.

  Dahlia suppressed her grin, thinking she had stumbled onto a fine and possibly beneficial tangent here. “Just some friends. I thought they would be at the ball, but alas, I see none. I am afraid that I know no one here, to my surprise.”

  “What friends?” both asked together.

  “Why do you ask?”

  The way they looked at each other told the perceptive Dahlia quite a bit. These two had heard rumors of some strange happenings, she realized, and she could well guess which house of Waterdeep they might now be thinking of as Dahlia’s hosts.

  “No reason at all,” the woman replied to her. “It’s just that perhaps we might know them and so could suggest some course of action for you to see about this . . . affliction.”

  “Oh, it’s no affliction!” Dahlia said dramatically. “And nothing new. I was kicked by a headstrong pony—but then, I repeat myself—when I—” She paused, recognizing that the man was about to speak.

  “Not the Margasters, then?” he asked, and again Dahlia did well to hide her grin, for that was exactly what she had wanted to hear.

  “Kicked when I was young,” she finished, “and these voices have followed me ever since. I do believe the little beastly thing kicked a spirit into my head!” She ended with a laugh, then paused and said, “Margasters?
” as if she had never before heard the name.

  The young lord and lady again looked to each other, the woman rolling her eyes, the man wearing a disappointed expression indeed.

  “Well, do enjoy the ball, with your voice . . . er, friend,” the woman said, moving away and tugging her companion with her, leaving Dahlia’s path open to Regis.

  Dahlia watched them a few moments longer, rolling her eyes rather crazily when the woman glanced back her way. She knew that she shouldn’t be standing out like this with her feigned troubles, but sometimes she just couldn’t resist.

  Finished playing, she moved toward Regis, who was at the cloakroom just inside the main hall, handing over his sword belt, bandolier, and finally, with apparent great remorse, his precious hand crossbow.

  He turned before she arrived, his face brightening when he recognized her, but Dahlia quickly lifted her hand to rub her eye, the Bregan D’aerthe signal to feign that they were not companions or known to each other.

  “A so pretty elf at a Waterdeep ball,” Regis said loudly at her approach, and he bowed gracefully. “I am not used to such unexpected pleasures.” He took her hand and kissed it, looking rather stupid in the process, she thought.

  “And what is your name, beautiful lady?”

  “Dahlia Syn’dalay,” she replied.

  “Spider—” he started to answer.

  “Parrafin,” she finished for him. “Yes, of course I know of you and the Grinning Ponies who protect the Trade Way. Who has not heard of the dashing halfling?”

  She tried not to laugh at Regis’s confused expression.

  “In truth, my heroic one, I came here hoping to meet you,” Dahlia said. “Perhaps we can go find a quiet place to discuss our evening’s plans? To see if they, perhaps, coincide, I mean.”

  The man collecting cloaks and weapons put on a knowing grin, even tossed a wink to Dahlia over the halfling’s head.

  Regis spun about to collect his weapons. “I have only just arrived,” he said, feigning some disappointment. “But how can I refuse one of your obvious charms?”