"Neutrality, then?" asked the drow, and he let his expression sour. "Rarely is the course of the coward rewarded, I fear. But perhaps King Artemis will forgive—"

"No," Wingham interrupted. "You are right in one thing, Jarlaxle. Palishchuk must not let the events around her bury her under their weight. Not without a fight. We have survived by the sword for all of our history, and so it will be again. Kill me now if you will. Kill us all if you are so thirsty for blood, but understand that if King Gareth's horn calls out for allegiance, the warriors of Palishchuk will answer that call."

Jarlaxle's sudden smile took the half-orc off his guard, and the drow dipped a sincere and respectful bow. "I never said that you should not," Jarlaxle offered, and he turned and walked off into the night.

He knew that the half-orc would misinterpret him, would think that his carefree attitude regarding any alliance Palishchuk might choose was a sign of supreme confidence. Jarlaxle loved irony.

"King Gareth has reached Palishchuk," Kimmuriel informed Jarlaxle the following afternoon in large and airy foyer of the main keep of Castle D'aerthe. The room had become his audience chamber, in effect, though Artemis Entreri, the man Jarlaxle had named as king, hardly spent any time in the place. He was always out along the walls, in some odd corner with a stone wall sheltering him from the increasingly cold north wind. Jarlaxle understood that his human friend was trying to keep as far away as possible from Kimmuriel and the scores of other dark elves who had come in through the magical gate the psionicist and the wizards of Bregan D'aerthe had created.

The king's absence had not deterred Jarlaxle from playing the games of court fashion, however. Bregan D'aerthe had brought in furnishings that soon adorned every room of the keep. Jarlaxle sat on Entreri's throne, a purple and blue affair fashioned of a giant mushroom stalk and with the cap used as a fan-like backdrop. Other smaller chairs were set about, including the one directly before the throne, in which sat Kimmuriel.

All around them, dark elves tacked tapestries up on the walls, both to defeat the intrusion of stinging daylight and to steal some of the bluster of the biting breeze. Those tapestries showed no murals to the onlookers, however, just fine black cloth, for they were folded in half, their bottom hem tacked up with the top, Kimmuriel's expression, and those of the other dark elves, reminded Jarlaxle keenly that he was asking quite a bit of his former band in making them come up to such an inhospitable environment.

"He has made good time, given the size of his force," Jarlaxle replied. "It would seem that our little announcement made an impression."

"You waved a wounded rothe before a hungry displacer beast," Kimmuriel remarked, an old Menzoberranyr saying. "This human, Gareth, strikes with the surety of a matron mother. Most unusual for his race."

"He is a paladin king," Jarlaxle explained. "He is no less fanatical to his god than my mother, Lolth torment her soul eternally, was to the Spider Queen. More so than the dedication one might expect out of fallen House Oblodra, of course."

Kimmuriel nodded and said, "Thank you."

Jarlaxle laughed aloud.

"You anticipated this move by Gareth, then," Kimmuriel reasoned, and there was an edge to his tone. "Yet you allowed me to expend great resources in opening the many gates to this abysmal place? The price of the cloth will come out of your fortune, Jarlaxle. Beyond that, I have only a minimal crew operating in Menzoberranzan at the height of the trading season, and almost all of my wizards have been fully engaged in transporting goods, warriors, and fodder for your expedition."

"I did not know that he would march, no," Jarlaxle explained. "I suspected that it could come to this, though the speed of Gareth's response has surprised me, I must admit. I expected this decisive encounter to occur no earlier than next spring, if at all."

Kimmuriel stroked his smooth, narrow black chin and looked away. After a moment of mulling it over, the psionicist offered a deferential nod to his former master.

"There was great potential gain, and nothing to lose," Jarlaxle added.

Kimmuriel didn't disagree. "Yet again I am reminded of why Bregan D'aerthe has not seen fit to kill you," he said.

"Though you have come to see me as an annoyance?"

Kimmuriel smiled—one of the very few expressions Jarlaxle had ever seen on the soulless face of that one. "This will rank as no more than a minor inconvenience, with perhaps some gain yet to be found. Whenever Jarlaxle has an idea, it seems, Bregan D'aerthe is stretched."

"Dice have six sides for a reason, my friend. There is no thrill in surety."

"But the win must come from more than one in six," said Kimmuriel. "The Jarlaxle I knew in Menzoberranzan would not wager unless four of the sides brought a profit."

"Do you think I have so changed my ways, or my odds?"

"There was the matter of Calimport."

Jarlaxle conceded that point with a nod.

"But of course, you were caught in the thrall of a mighty artifact," said Kimmuriel. "You cannot be blamed."

"You are most generous."

"And, as always, Jarlaxle won out in the end."

"It is a good habit."

"And he chose wisely," said Kimmuriel.

"You have a high opinion of yourself."

"Little of what I say or think is opinion."

True enough, Jarlaxle silently conceded. Which was exactly why he had made certain that Rai-guy, the temperamental and unpredictable wizard, was dead and Kimmuriel was still alive and in charge of Bregan D'aerthe during Jarlaxle's sabbatical.

"And I must admit that your recent scheme has intrigued me," Kimmuriel said. "Though I know not why you insist on even visiting this Lolth-forsaken wilderness." He wrapped his arms around him as he spoke and cast a disparaging glance to the side, at a tapestry that lifted out from the wall under the weight of the howling wind rushing in through the cracks in the stone.

"It was a good chance," Jarlaxle said.

"It always is, when there is nothing truly to lose."

Jarlaxle sensed the hesitance in his voice, almost as if Kimmuriel was expecting a confrontation, or an unpleasant surprise. The psionicist feared, of course, that Jarlaxle meant to challenge him and order Bregan D'aerthe into battle against King Gareth.

"There are ways around Gareth's unexpectedly bold move," he said to reassure his former, and likely future, lieutenant.

"There are ways through them, as well," Kimmuriel replied. "Of course."

"The point of this wager is not to place too much on the table. I'll not lose a drow soldier here—and though I do believe that our fodder serve us well by charging into the chewing maw of Gareth's able army, in even that endeavor we must be stingy. I am not Matron Baenre, obsessed with the conquest of Mithral Hall. I do not seek a fight here—far from it."

"Gareth will grant you nothing in a parlay," said Kimmuriel. "You say that he is acting boldly, but no less so than you did when you sent word of the rise of King Artemis."

"He will not parlay," Jarlaxle agreed, "because we have nothing to offer to him. We will remedy that, in time."

"So what will you say to him now?"

"Not even farewell," Jarlaxle answered with a grin.

Kimmuriel nodded with contentment. He glanced again at the waving tapestry, and squeezed his arms just a bit more tightly around himself, but Jarlaxle knew him well enough to realize that he was at peace.

A few miles to the south of the castle, on a field outside of Palishchuk, another warrior was anything but at peace. Olwen Forest-friend stalked about the encampment, speaking encouragement to the men and women of the Army of Bloodstone. His forest-green cloak whipped out behind him as he strode briskly from campfire to campfire. His face flushed with passion and eagerness and his legendary war axe gleamed in the firelight. For many years, his favorite weapon had been the bow, but as his agility had decreased with age, he found that running along the fringes of the battlefield no longer suited him. It hadn't taken long for Olwen to discover the thrill of close combat, nor to perfect the technique.