Archmage by R. A. Salvatore

split the night and turned many nearby eyes their way.
    “It’s me greatest quest!” the dwarf protested, on the edge of desperation. “I can’no be doin’ it without ye!”
    “Yes you can,” Catti-brie answered. “ We can. Drizzt and I will be beside you, and thousands of your sturdy kin as well.”
    Bruenor looked at her sharply, clearly feeling he had been deceived, or as if he was the last to know.
    “They have to go,” Catti-brie insisted. “Their business—Regis’s business in particular—is no less urgent than your own. More urgent than your own, I say, for Gauntlgrym has been there for thousands of years, and will be there for thousands more, no doubt, but Donnola . . .”
    She looked at Regis, who nodded his gratitude.
    “Yer girl?” Bruenor asked incredulously, as if the thought of chasing a woman when such a grand adventure lay in front of them was perfectly ludicrous.
    “The woman I will make my wife,” said Regis. “Perhaps we will name our first child Bruenor, though I fear his beard will disappoint you.”
    Bruenor started to argue, but the halfling’s words turned that into a sputter, then a laugh.
    And so they ate and so they drank, and many cheers and flagons of ale were lifted into the night air, and many promises that they would see each other again, in Gauntlgrym likely. This was no good-bye, they all declared, but merely a temporary parting of the ways.
    How many have made those often futile promises?
    “Are we disturbing your private gathering?” came an unexpected voice. Jarlaxle walked into the firelight, flanked by the sisters Tazmikella and Ilnezhara.
    “We’ve room for more,” Drizzt said quickly, before Bruenor could protest. He slid along the log he had taken as a bench, making room for the newcomers.
    “A drink?” Drizzt asked, looking to Bruenor, who scowled for a heartbeat, but produced another flagon.
    Ilnezhara handed the first flagon along to Jarlaxle and explained, “I prefer blood,” as Bruenor reached behind his shield once more. The dwarf stopped and stared at her.
    “You walk openly among the dwarves and others,” Drizzt said quietly to Jarlaxle.
    “The war is over and so I have come to try to mend relations between the races, ostensibly,” the drow mercenary replied and took a sip of the ale. “Though, of course, I am here as a spy for Matron Mother Baenre, to whom I will, of course, provide a complete accounting.”
    Wulfgar bristled and Bruenor hopped up at that declaration.
    To which Jarlaxle merely shrugged and smiled, and looked to Drizzt. “My use of ‘of course’ two times in one sentence did not properly relay my sarcasm?”
    “It’s been a long year,” Drizzt replied.
    “Ah,” Jarlaxle agreed. “Well, good dwarf and man-giant, do be at ease,” he said. “I will tell Menzoberranzan nothing more than that which they already know. The dwarves won, the orcs fled, the human kingdom will be built anew, and for all of our—of their —efforts, this war Menzoberranzan prodded onto the Silver Marches has done little more than strengthen the bonds of the alliance of Luruar.”
    “That’s what ye’re meaning to tell ’em, eh?” asked Bruenor.
    “Aye,” Jarlaxle answered. “In exchange for a small favor.”
    Bruenor straightened at that, and cast a sour look Drizzt’s way, but Drizzt held up his hand, begging the dwarf for patience.
    “I have two associates, both known to you, who are intrigued at the prospect of your intended reclamation of Gauntlgrym,” the drow explained.
    “Them two?” Bruenor asked, pointing to the sisters.
    “Try not to be so foolish,” Tazmikella said.
    “Good dwarf, we are already long bored,” Ilnezhara agreed.
    “Not them,” Jarlaxle explained, “but dwarves, including the newest member of Bregan D’aerthe. Both have asked for a leave, that they might march beside you to your homeland, and given all that they have done, I would be a terrible leader and a worse friend to refuse them.” He lifted