“Yes,” said Regis, “and no. There is room here, and wealth. With the four of you by my side…”

Bruenor halted him with an upraised hand. “A fine offer,” he said, “but me home’s in the North.”

“We’ve armies waiting on our return,” added Catti-brie.

Regis realized the finality of Bruenor’s refusal, and he knew that Wulfgar would certainly follow Catti-brie—back to Tarterus if she so chose. So the halfling turned his sights on Drizzt, who had become an unreadable puzzle to them all in the last few days.

Drizzt sat back and considered the proposition, his hesitancy to deny the offer drawing concerned stares from Bruenor, Wulfgar, and, particularly, Catti-brie. Perhaps life in Calimport would not be so bad, and certainly the drow had the tools to thrive in the shadowy realm Regis planned to operate within. He looked Regis square in the eye.

“No,” he said. He turned at the audible sigh from Catti-brie across the table, and their eyes locked. “I have walked through too many shadows already,” he explained. “A noble quest stands before me, and a noble throne awaits its rightful king.”

Regis relaxed back in his chair and shrugged. He had expected as much. “If you are all so determined to go back to a war, then I would be a sorry friend if I did not aid your quest.”

The others eyed him curiously, never amazed at the surprises the little one could pull.

“To that end,” Regis continued, “one of my agents reported the arrival of an important person—from the tales Bruenor has told me of your journey south—in Calimport this morning.” He snapped his fingers, and a young attendant entered from a side curtain, leading Captain Deudermont.

The captain bowed low to Regis, and lower still to the dear friends he had made on the perilous journey from Waterdeep. “The wind was at our backs,” he explained, “and the Sea Sprite runs swifter than ever. We can depart on the morrow’s dawn; surely the gentle rock of a boat is a fine place to mend weary bones!”

“But the trade,” said Drizzt. “The market is here in Calimport. And the season. You did not plan to leave before spring!”

“I may not be able to get you all the way to Waterdeep,” said Deudermont. “The winds and ice will tell. But you surely will find yourself closer to your goal when you take to land once again.” He looked over at Regis, then back to Drizzt. “For my losses in trade, accommodations have been made.”

Regis tucked his thumbs into his jeweled belt. “I owed you that, at the least!”

“Bah!” snorted Bruenor, an adventurous gleam in his eye. “Ten times more, Rumblebelly, ten times more!”

Drizzt looked out of his room’s single window at the dark streets of Calimport. They seemed quieter this night, hushed in suspicion and intrigue, anticipating the power struggle that would inevitably follow the downfall of a guildmaster as powerful as Pasha Pook.

Drizzt knew that there were other eyes out there, looking back at him, at the guildhouse, waiting for word of the drow elf—waiting for a second chance to battle Drizzt Do’Urden.

The night passed lazily, and Drizzt, unmoving from his window, watched it drift into dawn. Again, Bruenor was the first to his room.

“Ye ready, elf?” the eager dwarf asked, closing the door behind him as he entered.

“Patience, good dwarf,” Drizzt replied. “We cannot leave until the tide is right, and Captain Deudermont assured me that we had the bulk of the morning to wait.”

Bruenor plopped down on the bed. “Better,” he said at length. “Gives me more time to speak with the little one.”

“You fear for Regis,” observed Drizzt.

“Ayuh,” Bruenor admitted. “The little one’s done well by me.” He pointed to the onyx statuette on the dressing table. “And by yerself. Rumblebelly said it himself: There’s wealth to be taken here. Pook’s gone, and it’s to be grab-as-grab-can. And that Entreri’s about—that’s not to me likin’. And more of them ratmen, not to doubt, looking to pay the little one back for their pain. And that wizard! Rumblebelly says he’s got him by the gemstones, if ye get me meaning, but it seems off to me that a wizard’s caught by such a charm.”

“To me, as well,” Drizzt agreed.

“I don’t like him, and I don’t trust him!” Bruenor declared. “Rumblebelly’s got him standing right by his side.”

“Perhaps you and I should pay LaValle a visit this morning,” Drizzt offered, “that we might judge where he stands.”

Bruenor’s knocking technique shifted subtly when they arrived at the wizard’s door, from the gentle tapping he had laid on Drizzt’s door, to a battering-ram crescendo of heavy slugs. LaValle jumped from his bed and rushed to see what was the matter, and who was beating upon his brand new door.

“Morning, wizard,” Bruenor grumbled, pushing into the room as soon as the door cracked open.

“So I guessed,” muttered LaValle, looking to the hearth and beside it to the pile of kindling that was once his old door.

“Greetings, good dwarf,” he said as politely as he could muster. “And Master Do’Urden,” he added quickly when he noticed Drizzt slipping in behind. “Were you not to be gone by this late hour?”

“We have time,” said Drizzt.

“And we’re not for leaving till we’ve seen to the safety of Rumblebelly,” Bruenor explained.

“Rumblebelly?” echoed LaValle.

“The halfling!” roared Bruenor. “Yer master.”

“Ah, yes, Master Regis,” said LaValle wistfully, his hands going together over his chest and his eyes taking on a distant, glossy look.

Drizzt shut the door and glared, suspicious, at him.

LaValle’s faraway trance faded back to normal when he considered the unblinking drow. He scratched his chin, looking for somewhere to run. He couldn’t fool the drow, he realized. The dwarf, perhaps, the halfling, certainly, but not this one. Those lavender eyes burned holes right through his facade. “You do not believe that your little friend has cast his enchantment over me,” he said.

“Wizards avoid wizards’ traps,” Drizzt replied.

“Fair enough,” said LaValle, slipping into a chair.

“Bah! Then ye’re a liar, too!” growled Bruenor, his hand going to the axe on his belt. Drizzt stopped him.

“If you doubt the enchantment,” said LaValle, “do not doubt my loyalty. I am a practical man who has served many masters in my long life. Pook was the greatest of these, but Pook is gone. LaValle lives on to serve again.”

“Or mighten be that he sees a chance to make the top,” Bruenor remarked, expecting an, angry response from LaValle.

Instead, the wizard laughed heartily. “I have my craft,” he said. “It is all that I care for. I live in comfort and am free to go as I please. I need not the challenges and dangers of a guildmaster.” He looked to Drizzt as the more reasonable of the two. “I will serve the halfling, and if Regis is thrown down, I will serve he that takes the halfling’s place.”

The logic satisfied Drizzt, and convinced him of the wizard’s loyalty beyond any enchantment the ruby could have induced. “Let us take our leave,” he said to Bruenor, and he started out the door.

Bruenor could trust Drizzt’s judgment, but he couldn’t resist one final threat. “Ye crossed me, wizard,” he growled from the doorway. “Ye nearen killed me girl. If me friend comes to a bad end, ye’ll pay with yer head.”

LaValle nodded but said nothing.

“Keep him well,” the dwarf finished with a wink, and he slammed the door with a bang.

“He hates my door,” the wizard lamented.

The troupe gathered inside the guildhouse’s main entrance an hour later, Drizzt, Bruenor, Wulfgar, and Catti-brie outfitted again in their adventuring gear, and Drizzt with the magical mask hanging loose around his neck.