Far below the pair, very near the room where the bones of Urshula the dracolich lay, Kimmuriel Oblodra conferred with his drow lieutenants, laying out plans for the defense of the castle, for assaults from the walls and gates, and most important of all, for orderly and swift retreat back to that very chamber. Not far from the drow, a magical portal glowed a light blue. Through it came more drow warriors of Bregan D'aerthe, driving mobs of goblins, kobolds, and orcs bearing supplies, armaments, and furniture, fashioned mostly of sturdy Underdark mushrooms.

A continual line passed through the gate, and other drow went through in the other direction, back to the corresponding magical portal set in the maze of tunnels along the great Clawrift in Menzoberranzan, the complex that Bregan D'aerthe called home.

"The sooner we are gone, the better," one of Kimmuriel's lieutenants remarked, and though others nodded their accord, Kimmuriel flashed the drow a dangerous look.

"Do say," the psionicist prompted.

"This place is uneasy," the drow replied. "It teems with an energy that I do not recognize."

"And thus, an energy you fear?"

"The portcullis on the front gate… grows," another soldier added. "It was damaged by unwanted entry, and now it repairs itself of its own accord. This is no inert construction, but a magical, living creature."

"Is this place any different than the towers of the Crystal Shard?" said the first lieutenant.

"Is Jarlaxle, you mean," Kimmuriel remarked, and neither of the pair disavowed him of that notion.

"I do not know," the psionicist answered honestly. "Though I believe that Jarlaxle is acting of his own volition and wisdom here. If I did not, I would not have marched us to this wretched place." He led their gazes to the portal, and another group of goblins trudging through, bearing several rolled tapestries and carpets. "He recognizes equivocation…"

"An easy egress," one of the others remarked.

Beside them, a quartet of goblins tripped and stumbled, spilling a mushroom-fashioned hutch across the floor. Drow drivers stepped up, cracking their whips against the flesh of the miserable creatures, who all fell to their hands and knees to try to collect the broken pieces.

The soldiers beside Kimmuriel nodded, recognizing the truth of it all, that they weren't bringing anything of real value to the castle, just utilitarian furniture and simple dressings.

And fodder, of course. Goblins, orcs, and kobolds, all as easily expendable to the dark elves as a cheap piece of mushroom furniture.

"Our independence?" Artemis Entreri answered after many stunned moments. "Could we not just leave the Bloodstone Lands?"

"And take this castle with us?"

Entreri went silent, finally understanding the drow's machinations. "You were serious when you warned Palishchuk to remain neutral?"

"We must pick a name for our kingdom," Jarlaxle said, ignoring the question and confirming it all at once. "Have you any suggestions?"

Entreri looked at him with complete incredulity.

"The gauntlet is down," Jarlaxle said. "You threw it at Knellict's feet when you did not kill the merchant."

Entreri looked away again, his lips going very tight.

"Was the man not worthy of your blade? Or was he not deserving of it?"

Entreri turned a hateful gaze the drow's way.

"I thought as much," Jarlaxle said. "You might have found a better moment to discover your conscience. But it does not matter, for it had to come to this in any event. Better now, I suppose, than when Knellict grew a better appreciation for what has truly come against him."

"And what might that be? A pair of impetuous fools, a small army of gargoyles and an undead dragon we can hardly control?"

"Look more closely," Jarlaxle said slyly, and he directed Entreri's attention to the watchtower off to the right of the gatehouse. A slender form moved there, silent as, and seeming no more substantial than, the shadows.

A drow.

Entreri snapped his gaze back over Jarlaxle. "Kimmuriel?"

"Bregan D'aerthe," Jarlaxle replied. "And ample slave fodder arrive regularly through magical gates. If you wish to start a war, my friend, you need an army."

"Start a war?"

"I had hoped that we could do this more easily, and more by proxy," Jarlaxle admitted. "I had hoped that we could get the two beasts—the king and the Grandfather of Assassins—to devour each other. You played our hand too quickly."

"And now you wish to start a war?"

"No," Jarlaxle corrected. "But it is not beyond the realm of possibility. If Knellict comes, we will drive him back."

"With the drow and Urshula and all the rest?"

"With everything at our disposal. Knellict is not one to be bargained with."

"Let us just leave."

That seemed to catch Jarlaxle off guard. He leaned on the wall, staring out at the south and the darkness that was interrupted only by the glow of a few fires burning in Palishchuk and the starlight. "No," he finally answered.

"There is a big world out there, where we might get lost—sufficiently so. It would seem that we have worn out our welcome."

"With Knellict."

"That is enough."

Jarlaxle shook his head. "We can leave whenever we wish, thanks to Kimmuriel. As of now, I do not desire to go. I like it here." He paused there and let his smile fall over Entreri until the man finally acknowledged it—with a derisive snort, of course. "Consider Calihye, my friend. Remind yourself that some things are worth fighting for."

"We make a stand where we need not. Calihye is not a plot of ground or a magically created castle. There is nothing to stop her from coming with us. Your analogy cannot hold."

Jarlaxle nodded, conceding the point. His smile told Entreri, however, that the point was moot. Jarlaxle liked it there; for the drow, apparently, that was enough.

Entreri looked over to the corner tower again, and though he saw no movement there, he knew that Jarlaxle's friends had come. He thought of Calimport and the catastrophe Bregan D'aerthe had wrought there, eliminating guilds that had stood for decades and altering the balance of power within the city with relative ease.

Would the same occur in the Bloodstone Lands?

Or was Jarlaxle's ambition even more ominous? A kingdom to rival Damara. A kingdom built on an army of drow and slave fodder, on undead servants and animated gargoyles, and forged in a bargain with a dracolich?

Entreri shuddered, and it was not from the cold northern wind.

"A gargoyle," Arrayan remarked, nodding toward the dark castle wall where a humanoid, winged creature had taken flight, moving from one guard tower to another. "The castle is alive."

"Curse them," Olgerkhan grunted, while Wingham only sighed.

"We should have known better than to trust a drow," Arrayan said.

"How often have I heard those words about our own half-orc race," Wingham was quick to answer, drawing surprised looks from both of his companions.

"The castle is alive," Olgerkhan reiterated.

"And Palishchuk has not been threatened," said Wingham. "As Jarlaxle promised."

"You would trust the word of a drow?" Olgerkhan asked.

Wingham's answer came in the form of a shrug and the simple reply of, "Have we a choice?"

"We beat the castle once," Olgerkhan growled in defiance, and he held a clenched fist up before him, the muscles in his arm bulging and knotting.

"You beat an unthinking animation," Wingham corrected. "This time, it has a brain."

"And one who has marched several steps ahead of us," Arrayan agreed. "Even inside, when they saved me from Canthan. When they brought you back to life through the vampirism of Entreri's dagger," she said to Olgerkhan, stealing much of his bluster. "Jarlaxle understood it all where I, and the wizard Canthan, did not. I wonder if even then his goal was not to destroy the construct, but to control it."