The 'trio' sat around an intricately carved stone table adorned with nude figures, their ironwood chairs cushioned with soft feather pads—warm and comfortable, effectively insulating them from the damp chill of the ground.
Three crystal goblets sat on the table, filled to the brim with a clear, emerald-green liquor. Watching the bubbles rise lazily from the bottom, Anthony faintly recalled happier times from fifty years ago.
How did alcohol in this world get carbonated? Was this another manifestation of magic?
Anthony flicked the crystal glass lightly, producing a crisp chime as his fingertip met the rim. Bathed in candlelight, his lips curled into a faintly amused smile as he raised his cup in a mock toast before politely declaring:
"Never tried this before. I'll taste it first."
The drink was subtly sweet with a hint of spice. He drained the glass in two hearty gulps, then grinned at the untouched cups of his companions. "Not bad at all. Who'd have thought it was brewed from mushrooms? A local specialty of Menzoberranzan? Why aren't you drinking?"
"Ullefir wine is a Menzoberranzan specialty—a premium spirit only House Ullefir can brew. It's always been pricey and rare on the surface. No surprise you've never encountered it," Jarlaxle replied with a smirk before downing his own glass in one go.
He'd initially worried about poison, but if some surface-dwelling mage dared drink it, a warrior like him had no reason to hesitate.
If they were poisoned, they'd all go down together. And when it came to holding liquor?
No way he'd lose to a mage.
Seeing both men empty their cups, Belos's gaze stiffened.
As an arena master, he was no stranger to drink.
But his habit was a restrained half-glass, sipped slowly.
Not just because this crystal-clear liquor was exorbitantly expensive—more crucially, its delayed kick could leave one slurring and trembling.
For a profession reliant on wits, that was near-suicidal.
Only those with freakish constitutions could guzzle freely without consequences.
Belos had brought it out purely for show, recalling Jarlaxle as a warrior who prized dexterity—fighting like an assassin.
Such precision-focused types seldom overindulged.
And if this surface-dweller truly were an archmage, he'd surely know alcohol's toll on spellcasting. In an uncertain situation, he'd naturally drink sparingly.
Thus, minimal expense for maximum prestige. Perfectly dignified.
After all, poured wine could always be… re-poured. The drunkards who frequented his arena wouldn't know the difference.
But against all expectations, the surface-dweller chugged like a barbarian, and Jarlaxle, pride stung, matched him shot for shot.
This only cemented Belos's assessment.
This surface-dweller was no archmage—likely a high-tier monk, or at best a clever brawler who'd picked up auxiliary spells to enhance his melee prowess. A spell-armed brute.
Yet one thing puzzled him: what sinister magic was that nakedness-inducing trick? So insidious, so violating. No sane person could prepare for that.
He'd need to investigate later.
"Not drinking? Stingy about the cost?"
His thoughts shattered as both men stared expectantly. With a resigned sigh, Belos took a measured sip before setting his cup down.
Such fine liquor deserved savoring. Gulping it achieved nothing beyond fleeting pleasure—what a waste.
The spectral Mage Hand lifted the wine bottle, refilling both cups to the brim. The two men clinked glasses and drained them in a single gulp.
Watching the Mage Hand perform such a task, Belos couldn't help but feel a twinge of resentment.
The Mage Hand cantrip was every mage's indispensable assistant—a lazy spellcaster's best friend, capable of fetching materials, serving meals, or even holding a drink. It was an essential tool in any mage's career.
But using Mage Hand to serve others? That was the kind of treatment reserved for apprentices attending their masters. It was tantamount to serving them personally, a humiliation no self-respecting mage would endure lightly.
When they had first taken their seats, Belos had suggested that the sweet-faced human witch lingering nearby handle the pouring. But Anthony had shut that down immediately.
"That's my private servant. See her hands? Not a single callus. She's never done a day of rough work in her life. If you're that desperate for help, I could always reanimate that freshly dead apprentice of yours—let him liven up the party?"
Even though Belos had some achievements in Necromancy magic, he couldn't help but feel a little creeped out when he thought of the Apprentices he had just killed pouring wine for himself with his arms stiff.
These surface-dwelling archmages… truly a different breed of twisted.
"No, no, I'll just use Mage Hand," he conceded, swallowing his pride—but not without a flicker of cunning.
With Jarlaxle present and drinks shared, outright violence was off the table—House Baenre's reputation ensured that much. But if this so-called archmage drank himself into a stupor… well, once Jarlaxle left, revenge wasn't entirely out of the question.
Of course, the immediate priority was reclaiming his precious staff…
Three rounds later, as the wine vanished cup after cup, Belos noted Jarlaxle's trembling fingers and the surface-dweller's drooping eyelids—as if sleep were moments away. Seizing the opportunity, he finally spoke.
"Gentlemen, perhaps we should pause and discuss… earlier matters."
At this, Anthony perked up, his sharp gaze sending a fresh wave of dread through Belos. "Earlier matters? Wonderful. Does this mean you're ready to repay my gold?"
The mention of coin snapped Jarlaxle's attention as well, his lone eye fixed on Belos with drunken curiosity.
Though his earnings as a mercenary captain were decent—supplemented by persuasive donations from local shops and lesser houses—gold was gold. No one would refuse extra, especially in Menzoberranzan, where male drow, even those of House Baenre, had to carve their own paths.
Belos hesitated. "Well… I was hoping you might return my staff first…"
"What was that? I'm a bit drunk—ears aren't working right." Anthony summoned a crimson Mage Hand to refill his cup with unsettling precision.
Oh, of course. Too drunk to hear but not too drunk to pour flawlessly. Belos suppressed a groan.
There was no way out without sacrifice. But he truly was in a bind.
"About the compensation…" He weighed his words carefully. "Twenty thousand gold isn't impossible, but my current liquidity is… strained. Much of my recent ticket revenue went into procuring magical materials for commissioned crafts. How about this? Return my staff, and I'll issue a promissory note—one month's term, with ten percent interest."
"A promissory note?" Anthony nearly spat out his wine. "You've barely touched your drink, yet you're already spouting nonsense. Tell you what—how about I write you a note? Lend me a hundred thousand gold, and I'll give you thirty percent interest in a month."
Belos's face burned. The insult was clear: Anthony thought he was trying to weasel out. "Master Anthony, I am an archmage. Do you truly believe I'd stoop to such dishonor? If it reassures you, I'll name Captain Jarlaxle as my guarantor. Should I flee, House Baenre will hunt me down. Does that satisfy you?"
Anthony remained silent. Beside him, Jarlaxle tilted his head slightly.
He had not agreed to be anyone's guarantor.
This was a fool's bargain. If Belos vanished, the debt would fall on him.
Twenty thousand gold coins were no trivial sum. Even he couldn't cover that on short notice.
Unlike his politically entrenched sisters, he had no access to the family's treasury.
Only a fool with waterlogged brains would recklessly act as another's guarantor.
Belos, of course, noticed Jarlaxle's hesitation. His Mage Hand wobbled in the air, raising a single finger.
A silent offer: Ten percent of the deposit as a fee for the favor.
Jarlaxle's grin returned.
"Master Belos has lived in Menzoberranzan for nearly two centuries. He's a notorious—ahem—renowned Enchantment Master. And with his arena's annual Gladiator Contest starting soon, repaying this sum won't be an issue."
Belos seized the momentum.
"Exactly! Once the arena opens, just food and drink sales alone will net thousands of gold daily. The real profits come from the casino I co-own with the Council—a seventy-thirty split. On a good day? Ten thousand gold."
"This is your 'arena'?" Anthony eyed the cramped tavern skeptically.
Belos rose to his feet, as if personally insulted. "Of course not. The Black Pit Arena lies east of the city, carved into the shore of Lake Donigarten—a marvel excavated just a thousand paces away. It can seat three thousand spectators at once."
"The annual Gladiator Contest held at Black Pit Arena is sponsored by the Menzoberranzan Council, with prizes hefty enough to draw the finest fighters. Families wager slaves or kin for the gold, and even nobles from nearby city-states send their champions."
"One day, the name 'Black Pit Arena' will echo across all planes—and mark my words, it won't be the only one!"
The drow's fervor almost made Anthony believe him. Almost. "Then why are you broke right now?"
Belos' face darkened—thankfully hidden by his complexion. "Ah… Last year, I gambled on a team. Invested heavily. Then… one misstep, and the ship sank. Left my current funds… strained."
"Hmm." Anthony weighed his options. House Baenre's reputation outweighed some archmage's, but he wasn't one to act without guarantees.
That staff, though—flawless, enchantable, powerful—tempted him.
After a pause, he spoke. "I'll honor Captain Jarlaxle's request. But your contest ends in seven days. I'll draft a ten-day promissory note. Interest stays at ten percent. Pay up, and the staff's yours. Deal?"