“Waterdeep? Mirabar?” Taerl asked.

Kensidan grinned. “They will not. I have already spoken to the dwarves and men of Mirabar who live in the Shield District. I explained to them the benefits of our new arrangement, where exotic goods shall pass through Luskan’s gates, in and out, without restriction, without question. They expressed confidence that Marchion Elastul would go along, as has his daughter, Arabeth. The other kingdoms of the Silver Marches will not pass over Mirabar to get to us.” He looked slyly to Kurth as he added, “They will accept the profits with feigned outrage, if any at all.”

Kurth offered an agreeing grin in return.

“And Waterdeep will muster no energy to attack us,” Kensidan assured them. “To what end would they? What would be their gain?”

“Revenge for Brambleberry and Deudermont,” said Baram.

“The rich lords, who will get richer by trading with us, will not wage war over that,” Kensidan replied. “It is over. Arklem Greeth and the Arcane Brotherhood have lost. Lord Brambleberry and Captain Deudermont have lost. Some would say that Luskan herself has lost, and by the old definition of the City of Sails, I could not disagree.

“But the new Luskan is ours, my friends, my comrades,” he went on, his ultimately calm demeanor, his absolute composure, lending power to his claims. “Outsiders will call us lawless because we care not for the minor matters of governance. Those who know us well will call us clever because we four will profit beyond anything we ever imagined possible.”

Kurth stood up, then, staring at Kensidan hard. But only for a moment, before his face cracked into a wide smile, and he lifted his glass of rum in toast, “To the City of Sails,” he said.

The other three joined in the toast.

Beneath the City of Sails, Valindra Shadowmantle sat unblinking, but hardly unthinking. She had felt it, the demise of Arklem Greeth, stabbing at her as profoundly as any dagger ever could. The two were linked, inexorably, in undeath, she as the unbreathing child of the master lich, and so his fall had stung her.

She at last turned her head to the side, the first movement she’d made in many days. There on a shelf, from within the depths of a hollowed skull, it sparkled—and with more than simple reflection of the enchanted light set in the corners of the decorated chamber.

Nay, that light came from inside the gem, the phylactery. That sparkle was the spark of life, of undeath existence, of Arklem Greeth.

With great effort, her skin and bones crackling at the first real movement in so many days, Valindra stood and walked stiff-legged over to the skull. She rolled it onto its side and reached in to retrieve the phylactery. Lifting it to her eyes, Valindra stared intently, as if trying to discern the tiny form of the lich.

But it appeared as just a gem with an inner sparkle, a magical light.

Valindra knew better. She knew that she held the spirit, the life energy, of Arklem Greeth in her hand.

To be resurrected into undeath, a lich once more, or to be destroyed, utterly and irrevocably?

Valindra Shadowmantle smiled and for just a brief moment, forgot her calamity and considered the possibilities.

He had promised her immortality, and more importantly, he had promised her power.

Perhaps that was all she had left.

She stared at the phylactery, the gemstone prison of her helpless master, feeling and basking in her power.

“It’s all there,” Jarlaxle insisted to Drizzt on the outskirts of Luskan as evening fell.

Drizzt eyed him for just a moment before slinging the pack over his shoulder.

“If I meant to keep anything, it would have been the cat, certainly,” Jarlaxle said, looking over, and leading Drizzt’s gaze to Guenhwyvar, who sat contentedly licking her paws. “Perhaps someday you’ll realize that I’m not your enemy.”

Regis, his face all bruised and bandaged from his fall, snorted at that.

“Well, I didn’t mean for you to roll off the roof!” Jarlaxle answered. “But of course, I had to put you to sleep, for your own sake.”

“You didn’t give me everything back,” Regis snarled at him.

Jarlaxle conceded the point with a shrug and a sigh. “Almost everything,” he replied. “Enough for you to forgive me my one indulgence—and rest assured that I have replaced it with gems more valuable than anything it would have garnered on the open market.”

Regis had no answer.

“Go home,” Jarlaxle bade them both. “Go home to King Bruenor and your beloved friends. There is nothing left for you to do here.”

“Luskan is dead,” Drizzt said.

“To your sensibilities, surely so,” Jarlaxle agreed. “Beyond resurrection.”

Drizzt stared at the City of Sails for a few moments longer, digesting all that had transpired. Then he turned, draped an arm over his halfling friend, and led Regis away, not looking back.

“We can still save Longsaddle, perhaps,” Regis offered, and Drizzt laughed and gave him an appreciative shake.

Jarlaxle watched them go until they were out of sight. Then he reached into his belt pouch to retrieve the one item he had taken from Regis: a small scrimshaw statue the halfling had sculpted into the likeness of Drizzt and Guenhwyvar.

Jarlaxle smiled warmly and tipped his great cap to the east, to Drizzt Do’Urden.