The man’s laugh erupted straight from his belly. “Of course,” he answered, and he sprang from the desk and clapped Wulfgar hard on the shoulder. “I prefer a guest who does not cover his feelings with rosy words!” he cried. He walked past the stunned barbarian toward the door—and the boy.

“Did you speak to them?” he demanded of the lad.

The boy blanched even more than before and shook his head emphatically.

“Not a single word?” Malchor yelled.

The boy trembled visibly and shook his head again.

“He said not a—” Drizzt began, but Malchor cut him off with an outstretched hand.

“If I find that you uttered even a single syllable, ….” he threatened. He turned back to the room and took a step away. Just when he figured that the boy might have relaxed a bit, he spun back on him, nearly causing him to jump from his shoes.

“Why are you still here?” Malchor demanded. “Be gone!”

The door slammed even before the wizard had finished the command. Malchor laughed again, and the tension eased from his muscles as he moved back to his desk. Drizzt came up beside Wulfgar, the two looking at each other in amazement.

“Let us be gone from this place,” Wulfgar said to Drizzt, and the drow could see that his friend was fighting a desire to spring over the desk and throttle the arrogant wizard on the spot.

To a lesser degree, Drizzt shared those feelings, but he knew the tower and its occupants would be explained in time. “Our greetings, Malchor Harpell,” he said, his lavender eyes boring into the man. “Your actions, though, do not fit the description your cousin Harkle mantled upon you.”

“I assure you that I am as Harkle described,” Malchor replied calmly. “And my welcome to you, Drizzt Do’Urden, and to you, Wulfgar, son of Beornegar. Rarely have I entertained such fine guests in my humble tower.” He bowed low to them to complete his gracious and diplomatic—if not entirely accurate—greeting.