“Get her sold,” Skerrit agreed. “There’ll be more to find on the field tomorrow night, and the night after that, and after that again.”
The two wretches shuffled across the dark field. Somewhere in the darkness, a wounded woman, not yet found by the rescue teams, moaned pitifully, but they ignored the plea and went on their profitable way.
CHAPTER 18
ASCENSION AND SALVATION
Y ou are recovering well,” Robillard said to Deudermont the next morning, a brilliantly sunny one, quite rare in Luskan that time of year. In response, the captain held up his injured arm, clenched his hand, and nodded. “Or would be, if we could quiet the din,” Robillard added. He moved to the room’s large window, which overlooked a wide square, and pulled aside a corner of the heavy curtain.
Out in the square, a great cheer arose.
Robillard shook his head and sighed then turned back to see Deudermont sitting up on the edge of his bed.
“My waistcoat, if you would,” Deudermont said.
“You should not…” Robillard replied, but without much conviction, for he knew the captain would never heed his warning. The resigned wizard went from the window to the dresser and retrieved his friend’s clothes.
Deudermont followed him, albeit shakily.
“You’re sure you’re ready for this?” the wizard asked, helping with the sleeves of a puffy white shirt.
“How many days has it been?”
“Only three.”
“Do we know the count of the dead? Has Drizzt been found?”
“Two thousand, at least,” Robillard answered. “Perhaps half again that number.” Deudermont winced from more than pain as Robillard slid the waistcoat along his injured arm. “And no, I fear that Arklem Greeth’s treachery marked the end of our drow friend,” Robillard added. “We haven’t found as much as a dark-skinned finger. He was right near the tower when it exploded, I’m told.”
“Quick and without pain, then,” said Deudermont. “That’s something we all hope for.” He nodded and shuffled to the window.
“I expect Drizzt hoped for it to come several centuries from now,” Robillard had to jab as he followed.
Propelled as much by anger as determination, Deudermont grabbed the heavy curtain and pulled it wide. Still using only his uninjured arm, he tugged the window open and stepped into clear view of the throng gathered in the square.
Below him on the street, the people of Luskan, so battered and bereaved, so weary of battle, oppression, thieves, murderers, and all the rest, cheered wildly. More than one of the gathering fainted, overcome by emotion.
“Deudermont is alive!” someone cried.
“Huzzah for Deudermont!” another cheered.
“A third of them dead and they cheer for me,” Deudermont said over his shoulder, his expression grim.
“It shows how much they hated Arklem Greeth, I expect,” Robillard replied. “But look past the square, past the hopeful faces, and you will see that we haven’t much time.”
Deudermont did just that, and took in the ruin of Cutlass Island. Even Closeguard had not escaped the weight of the blast, with many of the houses on the western side of the island flattened and still smoldering. Beyond Closeguard, in the harbor, a quartet of masts protruded from the dark waves. Four ships had been damaged, and two fully lost.
All across the city signs of devastation remained, the fallen bridge, the burned buildings, the heavy pall of smoke.
“Hopeful faces,” Deudermont remarked of the crowd. “Not satisfied, not victorious, just hopeful.”
“Hope is the back of hate’s coin,” Robillard warned and the captain nodded, knowing all too well that it was past time for him to get out of his bed and get to work.
He waved to the crowd and moved back into his room, followed by the frenzied cheers of desperate folk.
“It’s worth a thousand gold if it’s worth a plug copper,” Queaser argued, shaking the figurine in front of the unimpressed expression of Rodrick Fenn, the most famous pawnbroker in Luskan. Languishing beside the many others who dealt with the minor rogues and pirates of the city, Rodrick had only recently come into prominence, mostly because of the vast array of exotic goods he’d somehow managed to wrangle. A large bounty had been offered for information regarding Rodrick’s new source.
“I’ll give ye three gold, and ye’ll be glad to get it,” Rodrick said.
Queaser and Skerrit exchanged sour looks, both shaking their heads.
“You should pay him to take it from you,” said another in the store, who seemed an unassuming enough patron. In fact, he had been invited by Rodrick for just such a transaction, since Skerrit had tipped off Rodrick the night before regarding the onyx figurine.
“What d’ye know of it?” Skerrit demanded.
“I know that it was Drizzt Do’Urden’s,” Morik the Rogue replied. “I know that you hold a drow item, and one the dark elves will want returned. I wouldn’t wish to be the person caught with it, to be sure.”
Queaser and Skerrit looked at each other again, then Queaser scoffed and waved a hand dismissively at the rogue.
“Think, you fools,” said Morik. “Consider who—what—ran beside Drizzt into that last battle.” Morik gave a little laugh. “You’ve managed to place yourself between legions of drow and Captain Deudermont…oh, and King Bruenor of Mithral Hall, as well, who will no doubt seek that figurine out. Congratulations are in order.” He ended his sarcastic stream with a mocking laugh, and made his way toward the door.
“Twenty pieces of gold, and be glad for it,” Rodrick said. “And I’ll be turning it over to Deudermont, don’t you doubt, and hoping he’ll repay me—and if I’m in a good mood, I might tell him that the two of you came to me so that I could give it back to him.”
Queaser looked as if he was trying to say something, but no words came out.
“Or I’ll just go to Deudermont and make his search a bit easier, and you’ll be glad that I sent him and that I had no way to tell any dark elves instead.”
“Ye’re bluffing,” Skerrit insisted.
“Call it, then,” Rodrick said with a wry grin.
Skerrit turned to Queaser, but the suddenly pale man was already handing the figurine over.
The two left quickly, passing Morik, who was outside leaning against the wall beside the door.
“You chose well,” the rogue assured them.
Skerrit got in his face. “Shut yer mouth, and if ye’re ever for telling anyone other than what Rodrick’s telling them, then know we’re to find ye first and do ye under.”
Morik shrugged, an exaggerated movement that perfectly covered the slide of his hand. He went back into Rodrick’s shop as the two hustled away.
“I’ll be wanting my gold back,” Rodrick greeted him, but the smiling Morik was already tossing the pouch the pawnbroker’s way. Morik walked over to the counter and Rodrick handed him the statue.
“Worth more than a thousand,” Rodrick muttered as Morik took it.
“If it keeps the bosses happy, it’s worth our very lives,” the rogue replied, and he tipped his hat and departed.
“Governor,” Baram spat with disgust. “They’re wanting him to be governor, and he’s to take the call, by all accounts.”
“And well he should,” Kensidan replied.
“And this don’t bother ye?” Baram asked. “Ye said we’d be finding power when Greeth was gone, and now Greeth’s gone and all I’m finding are widows and brats needing food. I’ll be emptying half of me coffers to keep the folk of Ship Baram in line.”