“You should take care how you refer to those people,” Jerem Boll replied, his voice going low. “You speak of the core of Luskan’s power, of the men who allowed their folk to join in your impetuous march to tear down the most glorious structure that this city—nay, the most glorious structure that any city in the north has ever known!”
“A glorious structure ruled by a lich who loosed undead monsters randomly about the streets,” Deudermont reminded him. “Would there have been a seat at Prisoner’s Carnival for Arklem Greeth, I wonder? Other than a position of oversight, I mean.”
Jerem Boll narrowed his gaze, but didn’t respond, and on that sour note, the meeting was adjourned.
“What?” Deudermont asked of the surly-faced Robillard when they were alone. “You don’t agree?”
“When have I ever?”
“True enough,” Deudermont admitted. “Luskan must start anew, and quickly. Forgiveness is the order of the day—it has to be! I will issue a blanket pardon to everyone not directly affiliated with the Arcane Brotherhood who fought against us on the side of the Hosttower. Confusion and fear, not malice, drove their resistance. And even for those who threw in their lot with the brotherhood, we will adjudicate with an even hand.”
Robillard chuckled.
“I doubt many knew the truth of Arklem Greeth, and probably, and justifiably, saw Lord Brambleberry and me as invaders.”
“In a sense,” said the wizard.
Deudermont shook his head at the dry and unending sarcasm, and wondered again why he kept Robillard at his side for all those years. He knew the answer, of course, and it came more from exactly that willingness to disagree than the wizard’s formidable skill in the Art.
“The life of the typical Luskar was no more than a prison sentence,” Deudermont said, “awaiting the formality of Prisoner’s Carnival, or joining in with one of the many street gangs….”
“Gangs, or Ships?”
Deudermont nodded. He knew the wizard was right, and that the thuggery of Luskan had emanated from six distinct locations. One was down now, with Arklem Greeth blown away, but the other five, the Ships of the high captains, remained.
“And though they fought with you, or not against you at least, are you to doubt that some—Baram comes to mind—haven’t quite forgiven you for past…meetings?”
“If he decides to act upon that old score, let us hope that he’s as poor a fighter on land as he was at sea,” said Deudermont, and even Robillard cracked a smile at that.
“Do you even understand the level of risk you’re taking here—and in the name of the folk you claim to serve?” Robillard asked after a short pause. “These Luskar have known only iron rule for decades. Under the fist of Arklem Greeth and the high captains, their little wars remained little wars, their crimes both petty and murderous were rewarded with harsh retribution, either by a blade in the alley or, yes, by Prisoner’s Carnival. The sword was always drawn, ready to slash anyone who got too far out of the boundaries of acceptable behavior—even if that behavior was never acceptable to you. Now you retract that sword and—”
“And show them a better way,” Deudermont insisted. “We have seen commoners leading better lives across the wide world, in Waterdeep and even in the wilder cities to the south. Are there any so ill-structured as the Luskan of Arklem Greeth?”
“Waterdeep has its own iron fists, Captain,” Robillard reminded him. “The power of the lords, both secret and open, backed by the Blackstaff, is so overwhelming as to afford them nearly complete control of day to day life in the City of Splendors. You cannot compare cities south of here to Luskan. This place has only commerce. Its entire existence settles on its ability to attract merchants, including unsavory types, from Ten-Towns in Icewind Dale to the dwarves of Ironspur to Mirabar and the Silver Marches to the ships that put into her harbors and yes, to Waterdeep as well. Luskan is not a town of noble families, but of rogues. She is not a town of farmers, but of pirates. Do I truly need to explain these truths to you?”
“You speak of old Luskan,” the stubborn Deudermont replied. “These rogues and pirates have taken homes, have taken wives and husbands, have brought forth children. The transition began long before Brambleberry and I sailed north from Waterdeep. That is why the people so readily joined in against the drawn sword, as you put it. Their days in the darkness are ended.”
“Only one high captain accepted the invitation to sit with you for your acceptance speech, and he, Suljack, is considered the least among them.”
“The least, or the wisest?”
Robillard laughed. “Wisdom is not something Suljack has oft been accused of, I’m sure.”
“If he sees the future of Luskan united, then it’s a mantle he will wear more often,” Deudermont insisted.
“So says the governor.”
“So he does.” Deudermont insisted. “Have you no faith in the spirit of humanity?”
Robillard scoffed loudly at that. “I’ve sailed the same seas you have, Captain. I saw the same murderers and pirates. I’ve seen the nature of men, indeed. The spirit of humanity?”
“I believe in it. Optimism, good man! Shake off your surliness and take heart and take hope. Optimism trumps pessimism, and—”
“And reality slaughters one and justifies the other. Problems are not often simply matters of perception.”
“True enough,” Deudermont conceded, “but we can shape that reality if we’re clever enough and strong enough.”
“And optimistic enough,” Robillard said dryly.
“Indeed,” the captain, the governor, beamed against that unending sarcasm.
“The spirit of humanity and brotherhood,” came another dry remark.
“Indeed!”
And wise Robillard rolled his eyes.
CHAPTER 21
THE UNFORGIVING ICEWIND DALE
T he rocks provided only meager shelter from the relentlessly howling wind.
North of Kelvin’s Cairn, out on the open tundra, Drizzt and Regis appreciated having found any shelter at all. Somehow the drow managed to get a fire started, though the flames engaged in so fierce a battle with the wind that they seemed to have little heat left over for the companions.
Regis sat uncomplaining, working his little knife fast over a piece of knucklehead bone.
“A cold night indeed,” Drizzt remarked.
Regis looked up to see his friend staring at him curiously, as if expecting that Regis would launch into a series of complaints, as, he had to admit, had often been his nature. For some reason even he didn’t understand—perhaps it was the feeling of homecoming, or maybe the hope that he would soon see Wulfgar again—Regis wasn’t miserable in the wind and certainly didn’t feel like grumbling.
“It’s the north sea wind come calling,” the halfling said absently, still focused on his scrimshaw. “And it’s here for the season, of course.” He looked up at the sky and confirmed his observation. Far fewer stars shone, and the black shapes of clouds moved swiftly from the northwest.
“Then even if we find Wulfgar’s tribe in the morning as we had hoped, we’ll not likely get out of Icewind Dale in time to beat the first deep snows,” said Drizzt. “We’re stuck here for the duration of the winter.”
Regis shrugged, strangely unbothered by the thought, and went on with his carving.
A few moments later, Drizzt chuckled, drawing the halfling’s eyes up to see the drow staring at him.
“What?”
“You feel it, too,” said Drizzt.