Yvonnel merely smiled. Minolin Fey remained oblivious to the intrusion, and K’yorl remained in there, seeing and hearing Yvonnel exactly as clearly as was Minolin Fey.
Yes, Yvonnel thought, this will do.
“DOWN!” JARLAXLE WARNED, and in the heartbeat it took Drizzt and Entreri to recognize the second newcomer, who was in the midst of casting, they surely did as they were told.
The lightning bolt went above them as they flattened themselves on the floor. They felt its radiating heat as it flashed into the hall, through the glabrezu, and into the far wall. The report jolted the stones so profoundly that both Drizzt and Entreri were able to regain their footing without even calling upon their own muscles to propel them upward. They spun around, blades ready.
But as the smoke cleared, the way in front of them was empty of enemies. Entirely empty.
Though they did see the glabrezu’s feet, still side by side in the hall, smoke rising from severed ankles.
“Archmage,” Entreri whispered, and Drizzt, too stunned by the display to find his voice, could only nod his agreement.
After a quick glance along the corridor to ensure that no more demons were about, the pair sheathed their weapons and Drizzt replaced his “buckle bow.” Together they returned to join Jarlaxle and the two wizards.
“You cannot,” Faelas Xorlarrin was saying to the mercenary leader when they arrived. “The matron mothers have sealed the city from magical intrusion. You cannot magically teleport into the city, or near to the city, or even use a simple dimensional door to breach one of the cavern’s outer walls. Nor will clairvoyance or clairaudience afford you any insights. Under the inspired guidance of Matron Mother Baenre, they have been most complete and effective in controlling the flow of such spells.”
“But you are here and mean to return,” Jarlaxle replied.
“I was instructed by Sos’Umptu Baenre, Mistress of Arach-Tinilith and High Priestess of the Fane of the Goddess to report to Luskan with news of the changing rules in Menzoberranzan. If you or any of Bregan D’aerthe intend to magically return to Menzoberranzan, Jarlaxle, you must do so with the express permission of Matron Mother Baenre.” He glanced at the other two. “She would not give such permission for these companions of yours whom she does not know, I am certain.”
“Oh, she would know one of them,” Gromph remarked, “and would welcome him with open fangs.”
Jarlaxle threw a smirk Gromph’s way, then shook his head and said to the archmage, “She suspects that I am in some way connected to your disappearance. No matter, then.”
“The way is magically sealed,” Faelas reiterated.
“There is always a seam in even the finest armor, even in the armoring spells the greatest wizard might conjure,” Jarlaxle returned, grinning at Faelas, then turning to encompass Gromph as well.
But Gromph paid him no heed, Drizzt noted, and was instead staring hard at the fifth drow of the group, Artemis Entreri, and with the rare hint of puzzlement gnawing at the edges of his expression.
“You cannot detect the truth, can you?” an obviously-pleased Jarlaxle asked the archmage, clearly catching on to the same thing Drizzt had noted.
“That is your human toy?” Gromph asked.
Entreri snickered, but not too loudly, and none, not even Jarlaxle, were about to correct Gromph.
“I wish I could decipher the magic of Agatha’s Mask,” Jarlaxle lamented. “So many grand old artifacts we have seen. Ah, but to have known the greatest days of Faerûn’s magic.”
“We are rebuilding the Hosttower,” Gromph reminded him. “Do you believe that I cannot unravel the magic of that simple mask should I try?”
“I ask that you wait until I am done with it,” Entreri remarked.
“If you ever address me again, I will turn you into a frog and step on you,” Gromph promised, his voice as steady and sure as anything Drizzt had ever heard.
Drizzt looked to his often too-proud companion and noted an almost involuntary twitch of Entreri’s fingers. Surely the assassin wondered if he might get out his deadly dagger or that awful sword and put one or both to use on Gromph before the archmage could cast a spell.
“Faelas speaks the truth,” Gromph confirmed. “The matron mothers and high priestesses have joined together in grand communal rituals, weaving their powers into a shield that has magically sealed off Menzoberranzan. They know that Demogorgon is about—or was—and his magical powers cannot be underestimated.”
“The mere sight of him can drive a man to tear out his own eyes, I have been told,” Jarlaxle replied, and he was staring at Gromph’s eyes as he spoke. Drizzt nearly gasped when he looked closely at the archmage, to see the scratches that confirmed Jarlaxle had referenced the actions of Gromph himself.
Drizzt didn’t know much about Demogorgon, though it was a name that he, like every adult of every sentient race on the face of Toril, had surely heard. Looking at Gromph, perhaps the most powerful wizard he had ever met, a wizard worthy of being spoken of in the same breath as the great Elminster himself, Drizzt suddenly realized just how profoundly he preferred to keep it that way.
“Even with the wards of the matron mothers, surely Gromph can break through the barrier and get us into the city,” Jarlaxle said.
“No,” Faelas answered, his subsequent sharp intake of breath and his expression clearly revealing that he had blurted it out before realizing that he was insulting the Archmage of Menzoberranzan … who was standing right beside him. “At the very least, such an intrusion would alert the matron mothers that Archmage Gromph was involved,” he quickly added. “In that event, you would be compromised.”
Jarlaxle sighed and seemed at a loss, though only for a moment, of course. He was, after all, Jarlaxle. “Kimmuriel,” he said with a wry grin.
Faelas nodded.
“His magical abilities are apart from their wards,” Jarlaxle reasoned. “In the days of House Oblodra, the greatest Houses always held a measure of fear and watchfulness for Matron Mother K’yorl, for she and her mind-magic minions could walk past their wards.”
Thinking he had found the answer, Jarlaxle grinned more widely and nodded at his own cleverness. Until he got to the scowling Gromph.
“I will reduce him to ash,” the archmage promised, and there was no compromise or debate to be found in his tone. “Yes, dear Jarlaxle, do go find him.”
All four of the others took a cautious step back from the sheer weight of the threat.
“He was your instructor in what you most desired,” Jarlaxle dared to reply.
“Was,” said Gromph. “And he betrayed me.”
“You do not know that.”
Gromph glared at him.
“Am I to believe that mighty Gromph Baenre considers himself to have been used as a puppet by Kimmuriel?” Jarlaxle answered. “You think it was Kimmuriel who tricked you into casting a spell beyond your control, one that brought the great Demogorgon into the tower of Sorcere?”
“There are many times when Jarlaxle speaks too much,” Gromph warned.
“But that cannot be,” Jarlaxle pressed anyway. “How can Kimmuriel have had knowledge of that kind of power? To summon the Prince of Demons? Every matron mother in the city would have murdered her own children to find such a secret.”
“Most matron mothers would do so simply for the pleasure of it,” Entreri remarked under his breath, so that only Drizzt could hear.
“To summon a power that cannot be controlled?” Faelas asked doubtfully.
“Yes, because such a threat alone would elevate the summoner!” Jarlaxle insisted. “It matters not if House Baenre, or Barrison Del’Armgo, or Xorlarrin, or any of the others would also be consumed in the process. A matron mother possessing the power to call forth the greatest of demonkind would dominate the Ruling Council by mere threat! Besides, such an act would be to the pleasure of Lolth, the Lady of Chaos. Is not Demogorgon the epitome of chaos, even among his own frenzied kind?
“No, it could not have been Kimmuriel,
” Jarlaxle finished.
“You deflect and dodge!” Gromph declared. Then he added with finality, “If I find your Oblodran stooge, I will destroy him.”
When Jarlaxle started to respond, Gromph held up a finger, just a finger, and it was enough of a warning to lock Jarlaxle’s retort into his throat.
“You should be leaving,” Gromph said to Jarlaxle and his two warrior companions a few uncomfortable heartbeats later. “You have a long walk ahead of you.”
“Your own journey will prove no less trying,” Jarlaxle replied to his brother.
“Farewell. Perhaps we will meet again soon,” Faelas said, and he began casting a spell that would transport him back to the waiting Sos’Umptu.
Gromph, too, began casting the spell that would return him to Luskan, but not until offering a derisive snicker at the trio of travelers.
“Always a pleasant one,” Entreri said when the wizards were gone.
“It will be his death,” Jarlaxle noted. “Someday.”
“Not soon enough,” Entreri muttered.
“The way is full of demons,” Drizzt reminded them both.
“We’ll be fighting every day,” Entreri agreed, “and likely will find little rest when we pause our journey to eat or sleep. Would it have been too much trouble for Gromph or the other one to have magically brought us nearer to the city, at least?”
“The matron mothers are watching for such spells,” Jarlaxle said as they started off once more. “Who knows how far their scrying eyes might extend?”
“Even here?” Entreri remarked, glancing around as if expecting the might of Menzoberranzan to descend upon him then and there. Drizzt, too, shuffled nervously, but when he looked at the nonchalant Jarlaxle he found some peace.
“This was the appointed meeting place,” Jarlaxle explained to the others. “No one is more careful than Archmage Gromph, and no one is less inclined to have a visit with the matron mothers. I trust that we were properly warded from any prying eyes.”
“But going forward?” Drizzt asked.
“They are looking for magic. We’ll be using little, so it seems.” Jarlaxle paused and turned his gaze aside, a sudden thought taking his attention. “We will eventually need Kimmuriel,” he explained after a few moments. “And not just to help us get into the city—perhaps we can accomplish that on our own. But Dahlia’s mind is twisted, her thoughts are wound like a writhing pile of worms. The only person who can hope to unravel that is Kimmuriel. Rescuing Dahlia without that resource would do us little good. Better in that event that we simply and mercifully end her life.”
Drizzt glanced sideways at Entreri as Jarlaxle spoke and noted the man’s profound grimace.
“So just call to him now then and let us be done with this,” an agitated Entreri said. “And save us the pain of the march.”
It wasn’t about the march at all, Drizzt knew, or about any demons that might rise to block their path. Entreri had to get to Dahlia and had to learn if she could be saved. His tone suggested that he merely wanted to rid himself of the inconvenience, that he had better things to do with his time. But were that the case, why would he even be with them now?
“We are in less of a hurry than your impatience demands,” Jarlaxle answered. “Let us search the tunnels about Menzoberranzan and devise our plans, perhaps?”
“Battling fiends all the way?” Entreri asked.
Jarlaxle laughed, but Drizzt caught something behind that dismissive gesture. And then it hit him: Jarlaxle didn’t know how they were going to accomplish this mission. Jarlaxle, the maestro who prepared for every eventuality, who never stepped along the roads of a journey without complete preparation, was truly at a loss.
And had been since the beginning.
Jarlaxle took the point and started away, and Drizzt held Entreri back a bit so that he could ask, “Have you ever seen him like this? So unsure?”
“Consider where we’re going,” Entreri replied. “And consider that the whole of Menzoberranzan is on its highest guard right now. Would you believe his confidence if he pretended as much?”
Drizzt couldn’t disagree with that. Menzoberranzan was shut down, the drow locking out the demons and monitoring every movement about the city. If their task to sneak in and steal Dahlia away had seemed difficult before, it surely seemed impossible now.
Foolhardy.
Suicidal.
Jarlaxle was uneasy—that much was clear—because he now lacked information about his adversaries. Lack of knowledge was never Jarlaxle’s way.
They were still going, though, each putting one foot in front of the other on the winding way into the deeper Underdark. Perhaps Jarlaxle was already considering ways in which he might correct his lack of understanding and accordingly adjust his course. Perhaps he would find the solutions.
Drizzt had to believe that, had to hope for that, because he wasn’t about to turn back either. His friendship to Dahlia, his debt to Jarlaxle, and surprisingly, his relationship to Artemis Entreri would demand no less of him that he try.
“We always knew this would be difficult,” he said to Entreri as they made their way along in Jarlaxle’s wake.
Up ahead, there came a demonic shriek, followed by a sharp whistle from Jarlaxle.
Already the fiends had found them once more.
“Some things we knew,” Entreri corrected with an angry snort. But he drew Charon’s Claw and his jeweled dagger and rushed ahead.
CHAPTER 8
A House Devout
BRAELIN JANQUAY MOSTLY KEPT TO HIMSELF THAT DAY. HOUSE Do’Urden had been called out to supply a patrol group in the caverns outside of Menzoberranzan. By edict of the Ruling Council all such groups were to be headed by a noble of the House. However, like any rule in Menzoberranzan, it had translated to the various Houses as more of a suggestion than a literal command, and predictably, none of the Xorlarrins, nor Tiago Baenre, had been so inclined.
And so Braelin had been declared a noble of the bastard House. In House Do’Urden, it was as simple a matter as Tiago and Saribel claiming it to be so, apparently. There was no royal family, after all, with a Baenre and several Xorlarrins all laying claim to the title of noble, to say nothing of the surface elf who served as the Matron Mother of House Do’Urden. Or the two Armgos, Tos’un and the half-drow Doum’wielle, who had also been granted nobility.
Since Braelin had come to House Do’Urden at the wish of Jarlaxle, who was afforded great latitude in the matter by Matron Mother Baenre, and who, no doubt, would serve as a major noble in the House should he decide to reside there, it was only fitting, said Tiago and Saribel, that Braelin be given the honor in his stead.
Of course, the real reason the Houses were working around the edict of the Ruling Council was that none of the House nobles—indeed, few nobles in all the city other than perhaps that crazed Malagdorl Armgo creature—wanted any part of the extra-city patrols. The tunnels were thick with demons, and the ultimately deadly Demogorgon—and, if reports were true, other demon lords—hunted out there somewhere.
The mission was doubly dangerous for Braelin. He had no allegiance to any of his dozen Do’Urden companions, nor they to him. They were common soldiers from several different Houses, sent to serve in the Do’Urden ranks as several of the matron mothers tried to keep their eyes attuned to the happenings in Matron Mother Baenre’s lackey House. Braelin doubted that any of the soldiers accompanying him would make a move against him—no one outside his or her matron mother’s protection would willingly invoke the wrath of Jarlaxle—but if the situation arose where a demon had gained the upper hand over Braelin, should he expect assistance?
He doubted that.
So he remained among the main group of his patrol, sending others out to walk point and envisioning an escape route with every corridor they traversed.
He also made a mental note to speak with Jarlaxle. He wasn’t supposed to be a noble of House Do’Urden, and wanted nothing to do with such an “honor,” as he truly wanted nothing to do with Men
zoberranzan, a place he had escaped years before. He was of Bregan D’aerthe and the entire purpose of putting him in the House was to give Jarlaxle inauspicious eyes in the fledgling House, which would surely be in the middle of any excitement within the city.
Braelin reminded himself all the time that he just had to survive until Jarlaxle returned. He was confident that Jarlaxle would put the upstart Tiago in his place.
Fortunately, the House Do’Urden patrol encountered no monsters that day out in the wilds of the Underdark, and they returned to Menzoberranzan with not a blade drawn in alarm.
“Hold close until we reach the compound,” Braelin ordered his soldiers when a trio of recruits started to break off from the main group.
The two men, of minor Houses, and a woman of Barrison Del’Armgo looked back at Braelin doubtfully, then ignored him entirely and moved off down a side alley leading to the Stenchstreets.
A flustered Braelin stood with hands on hips watching the mutinous commoners melt into the shadows. He thought to shout a warning that he would inform Tiago of their impudence, but he held his tongue. He wasn’t a real noble of House Do’Urden, or of any House for that matter. He was a Houseless rogue, whose only claim to authority was because Jarlaxle had taken him into Bregan D’aerthe. In Menzoberranzan, at this troubled time, that meant he had no claim to authority at all.
He was reminded of that fact when the remaining commoners laughed.
Braelin sharply turned on one in particular, a young priestess formerly of House Fey-Branche, who had been offered to House Do’Urden mostly because she had been dismissed from Arach-Tinilith for her ineptitude and so had become an embarrassment to Matron Mother Byrtyn Fey.
“You think there will be no consequences?” he asked the woman as convincingly as he could manage. In fact, Braelin knew there would be none.
She just smiled at him and before he could further chastise her, another group, five of them this time, simply walked off the other way.
“Is there even a House Janquay remaining in the city?” the Fey-Branche woman asked, her eyes on the new deserters.
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