Regis the halfling, thinner than he had been in years and favoring one arm from a ghastly wound he'd received on his last adventure with his friends, just shrugged and replied, “Kemp of Targos speaks only of the price of the ore for the fishermen.”

“And the fishermen buy a considerable portion of the ore!” Bruenor roared. “Why'd I put ye back on the council, Rumble-belly, if ye ain't to be making me life any easier?”

Regis gave a little smile at the tirade. He thought to remind Bruenor that the dwarf hadn't put him back on the council, that the folk of Lonelywood, needing a new representative since the last one had wound up in the belly of a yeti, had begged him to go, but he wisely kept the notion to himself.

“Fishermen,” the dwarf said, and he spat on the ground in front of Regis's hairy, unshod feet.

Again, the halfling merely smiled and sidestepped the mark. He knew Bruenor was more bellow than bite, and knew, too, that the dwarf would let this matter drop soon enough—as soon as the next crisis rolled down the road. Ever had Bruenor Battle-hammer been an excitable one.

The dwarf was still grumbling when the pair rounded a bend in the path to come in full view of Drizzt and Catti-brie, still sitting on the mossy bank, lost in their cloud-dreams and just enjoying each other's company. Regis sucked in his breath, thinking Bruenor might explode at the sight of his beloved adopted daughter in so intimate a position with Drizzt—or with anyone, for that matter—but Bruenor just shook his hairy head and stormed off the other way.

“Durned fool elf,” he was saying when Regis caught up to him. “Will ye just kiss the girl and be done with it?”

Regis's smile nearly took in his ears. “How do you know that he has not?” he remarked, for no better reason than to see the dwarfs cheeks turn as fiery red as his hair and beard.