His hand went to his scimitar, and his eyes discerned a path down the wall and to the alleyway near the archer.

But pity overruled his anger, and he responded instead by calling upon his hereditary power to create a globe of darkness around the fool with the crossbow. Drizzt understood that he had no place in that fight, that he could accomplish nothing positive with combatants who were beyond reason. The weight of that tugged at him as he scaled the building to the roof and made off from the alley, trying to leave the screams of rage and pain behind him.

They were before him as well, however, just two streets down, where two mobs had engaged in a vicious, confused battle along the avenue separating the Ships of Baram and Taerl. As he ran along the rooftops above them, the drow tried to make out the allegiance of the fighters, but whether it was Ship Baram against Ship Taerl, or Suljack against Baram, or a continuation of Suljack and Taerl’s fight, or perhaps even another faction all together, he couldn’t tell.

Off in the distance, halfway across the city, near the eastern wall, flames lit up the night.

“Triple the guard at the mainland bridge,” High Captain Kurth instructed one of his sergeants. “And set patrols to walk the length and breadth of the shoreline.”

“Aye!” replied the warrior, clearly understanding the urgency as the sounds of battle drifted to Closeguard Island, along with the smell of smoke. He ran from the room, taking a pair of soldiers with him.

“It’s mostly Taerl and Suljack’s crews, I’m told,” another of the Kurth sergeants informed the high captain.

“Baram’s in it thick,” another added.

“It’s mostly the kid o’ Rethnor, from my guess,” said another of the men, moving to stand beside Kurth as he looked out to the mainland, where several fires blazed brightly.

That prompted a disagreement among the warriors, for though rumors abounded about Kensidan’s influence in the fighting, the idea that Taerl and Baram had gone against Suljack without prompting was not so far-fetched, particularly given the common knowledge that Suljack had thrown in with Deudermont.

Kurth ignored the bickering. He knew full well what was going on in Luskan, who was pulling the strings and inciting the riots. “Will there be anything left when that fool Crow is through?” he mumbled under his breath.

“Closeguard,” answered the sergeant standing beside him, and after a moment’s thought, Kurth nodded appreciatively at the man.

A stark cry, a shriek, from outside the room ended the bickering and interrupted Kurth’s contemplation. He turned, his eyes and the eyes of every man and woman in the room widening with shock as an uninvited guest entered.

“You live!” one man cried, and Kurth snickered at the irony of that notion.

Arklem Greeth had not “lived” in decades.

“Be at ease,” the lich said to all around, holding up his hands in an unthreatening manner. “I come as a friend.”

“The Hosttower was blasted apart!” the man beside Kurth shouted.

“’Twas beautiful, yes?” the lich responded, smiling with his yellow teeth. He tightened up almost immediately, though, and turned directly to High Captain Kurth. “I would speak with you.”

A dozen swords leveled on Arklem Greeth.

“I understand and accept that you had no real choice but to open the bridges,” said Arklem Greeth, but not a sword lowered at the assurance.

“How are you alive, and why are you here?” Kurth asked, and he had to work very hard to keep the tremor from his voice.

“As no enemy, surely,” the lich replied. He looked around at the stubborn warriors and gave a profound, but breathless, sigh. “If I came to do ill, I would have engulfed the lowest floor of this tower in flames and would have assailed you with a magical barrage that would have killed half of your Ship before you ever realized the source,” he said. “Please, my old friend. You know me better than to think I would need to get you alone to be rid of you.”

Kurth spent a long while staring at the lich. “Leave us,” he instructed his guards, who bristled and muttered complaints, but eventually did as they were told.

“Kensidan sent you?” Kurth asked when he was alone with the lich.

“Who?” Arklem Greeth replied, and he laughed. “No. I doubt the son of Rethnor knows I survived the catastrophe on Cutlass Island. Nor do I believe he would be glad to hear the news.”

Kurth cocked his head just a bit, showing his intrigue and a bit of confusion.

“There are others watching the events in Luskan, of course,” said Arklem Greeth.

“The Arcane Brotherhood,” reasoned Kurth.

“Nay, not yet. Other than myself, of course, for once more, and sooner than I expected by many years, I find myself intrigued by this curious collection of rogues we call a city. No, my friend, I speak of the voices in the shadows. ’Twere they who guided me to you now.”

Kurth’s eyes flashed.

“It will end badly for Captain Deudermont, I fear,” said Arklem Greeth.

“And well for Kensidan and Ship Rethnor.”

“And for you,” Arklem Greeth assured him.

“And for you?” Kurth asked.

“It will end well,” said the lich. “It already has, though I seek one more thing.”

“The throne of Luskan?” Kurth asked.

Arklem Greeth again broke out in that wheezing laugh. “My day in public here is done,” he admitted. “I accepted that before Lord Brambleberry sailed into the Mirar. It’s the way of things, of course. Expected, accepted, and well planned for, I assure you. I could have defeated Brambleberry, likely, but in doing so, I would have invoked the wrath of the Waterdhavian lords, and thus caused more trouble for the Arcane Brotherhood than the minor setback we received here.”

“Minor setback?” Kurth indignantly replied. “You have lost Luskan!”

Greeth shrugged, and Kurth’s jaw clenched in anger. “Luskan,” said again, giving the name great weight.

“It is but one city, rather unremarkable,” said Greeth.

“Not so,” Kurth replied, calling him on his now-obvious bluff. “It is a hub of a great wheel, a center of weight for regions of riches, north, east and south, and with the waterways to move those riches.”

“Be at ease, friend,” said Greeth, patting his hands in the air. “I do not diminish the value of your beloved Luskan.”

Kurth’s expression aptly reflected his disagreement with that assessment.

“Only because I know our loss here to be a temporary thing,” Greeth explained. “And because I expect that the city will remain in hands competent and reasonable,” he added with a deferential and thoroughly disarming bow toward Kurth.

“And so you plan to leave?” Kurth asked, not quite sorting it all out. He could hardly believe, after all, that Arklem Greeth—the fearsome and ultimately deadly archmage arcane—would willingly surrender the city.

The lich shrugged, a collection of mucus and seawater in its lungs crackling with the movement. “Perhaps. But before I go away, I wish to repay a certain traitorous wizard. Two, actually.”

“Arabeth Raurym,” Kurth reasoned. “She plays both sides of the conflict, moving between Deudermont and Ship Rethnor.”

“Until she is dead,” said the lich. “Which I very much intend.”

“And the other?”

“Robillard of Sea Sprite,” the lich said in a tone as close to a sneer as the breathless creature could imitate. “Too long have I suffered the righteous indignation of that fool.”

“Neither death would sadden me,” Kurth agreed.

“I wish you to facilitate that,” said Arklem Greeth, and Kurth lifted an eyebrow. “The city unravels. Deudermont’s dream will falter, and very soon.”

“Unless he can find food and—”

“Relief will not come,” the lich insisted. “Not soon enough, at least.”

“You seem to know much for one who has not shown himself in Luskan for many months. And you seem to be quite certain in your assurances.”