“Mahskevic enchanted you with magical haste to compensate,” the elf replied, retrieving the dagger and adjusting his sleeveless light brown tunic.

Tunevec snorted at his opponent. “You do not even know how Drizzt Do'Urden fights,” he reminded. “Truly! Have you ever seen him in battle? Have you ever watched the movements— impossible movements, I say! — that you so readily attribute to him?”

If Le'lorinel was impressed by the reasoning, it did not show. “The tales of his fighting style and prowess are common in the northland.”

“Common, and likely exaggerated,” Tunevec reminded.

Le'lorinel's bald head was shaking before Tunevec finished the statement, for the elf had many times detailed the prowess of Drizzt to his half-elf sparring partner.

“I pay you well for your participation in these training sessions,” Le'lorinel said. “You would do well to consider every word I have told you about Drizzt Do'Urden to be the truth and to emulate his fighting style to the best of your meager abilities.”

Tunevec, who was naked to the waist, toweled off his thin and muscular frame. He held the towel out to Le'lorinel, who just looked at him with contempt, which was usual after such a failure. The elf walked past, right to the trapdoor that led down to the top floor of the tower.

“Your enchantment of stoneskin is likely used up,” the elf said with obvious disgust.

Alone on the roof, Tunevec gave a helpless chuckle and shook his head. He moved to retrieve his shirt but noted a shimmering in the air before he ever got there. The half-elf paused, watching as old Mahskevic the wizard materialized into view.

“Did you please him this day?” the gray-bearded old man asked in a voice that seemed pulled out of his tight throat. Mahskevic's somewhat mocking smile, full of yellow teeth, showed that he already knew the answer.