He'd believe it when he could hear Zak speak. When he could listen to him, touch him, assure himself that what he was witnessing wasn't false or some illusion made up by a mad sorcerer or a desperate wish.

Drizzt might never know them, of course. Not for a long, long time. Jarlaxle preferred to keep such things private, and if they reached such a point as where they had left each other, even then Drizzt may never know the hurt. Because it wasn't Drizzt's fault that he no longer knew the mercenary. It was by no device of his own that he'd not forgotten, but simply didn't know Jarlaxle for long enough.

The brigand would just have to fix that problem himself, and with time and a careful hand.

He began to follow, his mind carefully going over everything that had been said, and every memory he had of Zak himself. If anyone could tell if what he was seeing was false or not, it'd be Jarlaxle. Even a hair out of place could alert him.

"Your father has been dead for quite a long time." Softly spoken, faintly thoughtful, the pain and regret from that time buried and hidden.

"I'd be as likely to believe Malice has risen again."