Quenthel stalked toward the novice. It occurred to her that she was doing to Drisinil as the living darkness had done to her. The thought vaguely amused her, perhaps simply because she was finally the predator, not the prey. Smiling, she gently laid the vipers across the other drow’s face and upper torso. The snakes hissed and writhed.
Drisinil roused with a cry and a start. She started to rear up, and Quenthel pushed her back down in her chair.
“Sit!” the Baenre snapped, “or the serpents will bite.”
Her wide eyes framed by the cool, scaly loops of the vipers, Drisinil stopped struggling.
“Mistress, what’s wrong?”
Quenthel smiled and said, “Very good, child, you sound sincere. After your first ploy failed, you should at the very least have rested elsewhere.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Drisinil’s hand shifted stealthily, no doubt toward a hidden weapon or charm. The vipers struck at the student’s face, their fangs missing her sharp-nosed features by a fraction of an inch. She froze.
“Please,” Quenthel said. “This will go easier if you don’t insult my intelligence. You have spirit, you believe I punished you too harshly, and you’re Barrison Del’Armgo, eager to bring down the one House standing between your family and supremacy. Of course you’re involved in the plot against me. You’re also an idiot if you didn’t think I’d realize it.”
“Plot?”
Quenthel sighed. “Halavin tried to kill me last night, and she didn’t act alone. A single traitor couldn’t have drugged all the food and drink set out at various points around the temple. It would have required abandoning her station for long enough that someone would have marked her absence.”
“Halavin could have tainted the meal while it was still in the kitchen.”
“She was never there.”
“Then perhaps the demon poisoned the viands with its magic.”
“No. As I’m sure you noted, each spirit represents one of the facets of reality over which the goddess holds special dominion. Poison is the weapon of an assassin, while with its continually fluctuating form, last night’s assailant was plainly a manifestation of chaos.
“The conspirators,” Quenthel continued, “had to contaminate each and every table because they didn’t know where I would stop and eat. Many fell unconscious, but you and the other plotters knew not to sample the repast.”
Drisinil said, “I had no part in it.”
“Novice, you’re beginning to irritate me. Admit your guilt, or I’ll give you to the vipers and interrogate someone else.” The serpents hissed and flicked their tongues.
“All right,” said Drisinil, “I was involved. A little. The others talked me into it. Don’t kill me.”
“I know what your little cabal has done, but I want to understand how you dared.”
Drisinil swallowed and said, “You . . . you said it yourself. Each demon seeks to kill only you, and each in its own particular way reflects the divine majesty of Lolth. We thought she sent them. We thought we were doing what the goddess wanted.”
“Because you’re imbeciles. Has no one taught you to look beyond appearances? If Lolth wanted me dead, I couldn’t survive her displeasure for a heartbeat, let alone three nights. The attacks resemble her doing because some blasphemous mortal arranged it so, to manipulate you into doing her killing for her. I’d hoped you conspirators knew the trickster’s identity, but I see it isn’t so.”
“No.”
“Curse you all!” Quenthel exploded. “The goddess favors me. How could you possibly doubt it? I’m a Baenre, the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith, and I rose to the rank of high priestess more quickly that any Menzoberranyr ever has!”
“I know . . .” The novice hesitated, then said, “The Mother of Lusts must have some reason for distancing herself from the city, and we . . . speculated.”
“Some of you did, I’m sure. Others simply liked the idea of eliminating me. I imagine your Aunt Molvayas would relish seeing me dead. She’d have an excellent chance of becoming mistress in her turn. We Baenre don’t have another princess seasoned enough to assume the role.”
“It was my aunt!” Drisinil exclaimed. “She came up with the idea of helping the demons kill you. I didn’t even want to help. I thought it was a stupid idea, but within our family, she holds authority over me.”
Quenthel smiled. “It’s too bad you weren’t more impressed with my authority.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No doubt that. Now, I need the names of all the conspirators.”
Drisinil didn’t hesitate an instant. “My aunt, Vlondril Tuin’Tarl . . .”
As ever, Quenthel maintained a calm, knowing expression, but inwardly she was surprised at the number of conspirators. An eighth of the temple! It was unprecedented, but then she was living in unprecedented times.
When Drisinil finished, the Baenre said, “Thank you. Where did you gather to hatch your schemes?”
“One of the unused storerooms in the fifth leg,” Drisinil said.
Quenthel shook her head. “That won’t do. It’s not big enough. Convene the group in Lirdnolu’s old classroom. Nobody’s used it since she had her throat slit, so it will seem a safe meeting place.”
Drisinil blinked. “Convene?”
“Yes. Last night’s plot failed, so obviously you must hatch a new one. You’ve chosen a new chamber for the conference because you suspect the storeroom is no longer safe. Say whatever you need to say to assemble your cabal in four hours’ time.”
“If I do, will you spare me?”
“Why not? As you’ve explained, you only participated reluctantly. But you know, it suddenly occurs to me that we have a problem. If I send you forth to perform this task, how do I know you won’t simply flee Tier Breche and take refuge in your mother’s castle?”
“Mistress, you already explained that such a course could only lead to my death.”
“But did you believe me? Do you still? How can I be sure?”
“Mistress . . . I . . .”
“If I had my magic, I could compel you to do as you’re told, but in its absence, I must take other measures.”
Quenthel raised the whip, sweeping the vipers off Drisinil’s face in the process, and slammed the metal butt of the weapon down in the middle of her forehead.
The mistress then took out the silver vial. She pinched the dazed, feebly struggling girl’s nostrils closed, poured the stimulant into her open mouth, and forced her to swallow.
The effect was immediate. The younger female bucked and thrashed until her eyes flew open.
The high priestess hopped back down to the floor. “How does it feel? I imagine your heart is hammering.”
Drisinil trembled like the string of a viol. Sweat seeped from her pores.
“What did you do to me?”
“That should be obvious to an accomplished poisoner like yourself.” “You’ve poisoned me?”
“It’s a slow toxin. Do as I ordered, and I’ll give you the antidote.”
“I can’t cozen the others like this. They’ll see something’s wrong with me.”
“The external signs should ease in a moment, though you’ll still feel the poison speeding your heart and gnawing at your nerves. You’ll just have to put up with that.”
“All right,” Drisinil said. “Just bring the antidote with you when you come to Lirdnolu’s room.”
The mistress arched an eyebrow, and Drisinil added, “Please.”
Quenthel smiled. Catching her mood, the whip vipers sighed with pleasure.
“How did you know your darkness would madden the beast?” asked Pharaun, lathering his narrow chest.
The night before, after he made way back to Pharaun, the two of them had found they had enough healing potions to cure all the wounds that either had sustained. Still, despite their restoration to full vitality, the next few hours proved exhausting, as they struggled to survive the madness of the hunt and watch out for Greyanna at the same tim
e. At last they’d escaped the Braeryn.
Claiming that while Greyanna was seeking them in the Stenchstreets, they’d be safe in pleasant, prosperous Narbondellyn, Pharaun had insisted that he and Ryld dispense with disguises and celebrate their sundry discoveries and escapes with a visit to one of Menzoberranzan’s finest public baths. The warrior had objected to what he saw as reckless bravado, but not too vehemently. Ryld supposed that he and Pharaun would climb beyond their foes’ reach soon enough. The prospect made him feel rather wistful.
He’d been enjoying the luxury of scrubbing off the sweat and grime that had accumulated on his person, sitting down, and thinking about nothing in particular. He should have known the peace and quiet couldn’t last for long. Pharaun couldn’t go long without craving conversation.
“How did you know that, shrouded in darkness or no, the foulwing wouldn’t just keep descending, guided by its other senses?” the wizard persisted.
The warrior shrugged and said, “I didn’t know, but it seemed like a good guess. The thing’s an animal, isn’t it?”
Pharaun grinned. “Not really. It’s a creature from another plane. Still, your instincts were sound.”
Ryld shrugged and replied, “I was lucky to get away from there with my life. Very lucky.”
“Fire and glare, you’re a master of Tier Breche. You’re not supposed to be modest. Are you ready to move?”
They rose from an octagonal pool set in the black marble floor, and, having completed the quotidian business of cleaning themselves, headed for a larger basin where they would luxuriate in steaming, scented mineral water. Later in the day, it would be packed, but it wasn’t fashionable to visit the baths so early in the morning. They had it to themselves, which was convenient. They could converse without fear of eavesdroppers.
Ryld walked straight down the steps and sat on the underwater ledge. The warmth felt good on his leg, mended but still a little sore, and he sighed with contentment. Pharaun made a production of immersing himself in stages, an inch at a time, as if the heat were almost more than he could bear.
“I’ve been thinking about your malaise,” the wizard said, once everything but his head was finally submerged. “I have a solution.”
“What do you mean?”
“Resign from Melee-Magthere and become the weapons master of a noble House. It will have to be one of the lesser ones, of course, you being a commoner, but that’s all right. You may see more excitement that way.”
“Why would I do that? It’s not a move up. It might not be a loss of rank, depending on the House, but still, what would be the point?”
“You’re bored, and it would be a change.”
“One that would put me under the thumb of any number of high priestesses. I’d have less autonomy than I do as an instructor.”
“I managed to pursue my own objectives while under my mother’s supervision. Still, you make a legitimate point. You might find yourself abhorring the tug of the reins. What’s the answer, then?”
“Who says there is one? Except, perhaps, further lunatic holidays with you. I admit, this one broke the tedium.”
A diminutive female gnome carried a pile of freshly laundered and folded towels out of a doorway on the far wall. Ryld wondered if she was one of the Prophet’s followers, and if she had any of the rabble-rouser’s duergar firepots stashed somewhere in the bathhouse. It felt strange to think of a humble undercreature that way—wielding stone-burning bombs against its betters.
“You speak of our errand in the past tense,” the wizard said.
“Well, once you tell the archmage the runaways are in the Braeryn fomenting a pitiful little goblin uprising, it’ll be over, won’t it? Gromph will pardon your transgressions. The Council, having failed to stop our inquiries, will, I trust, see no point in continuing to try to kill us. It’ll be more to their advantage to let us go on training wizards and soldiers to serve them.”
“You’re very certain the insurrection will be pitiful. Is it because Greyanna’s followers exterminated so many undercreatures last night?”
Ryld scooped up a handful of hot water and splashed it on his neck, which had gotten a little stiff from his exertions.
“No,” he said. “The hunters killed plenty of goblins, but they were only a fraction of a fraction of the creatures jammed into every nook and cranny of the district—you saw the interior of Smylla’s home. Trust me, you still don’t really understand.”
“I understand that many other such specimens inhabit the rest of the city as well. Why, then, do you doubt their ability to do some appreciable damage? It can’t be for want of spirit. The underfolk are in an excellent humor, enflamed by their Prophet’s oratory, painting their racial emblems hither and yon, and murdering potential informers and unbelievers.”
“They still lack martial training and proper weapons.”
“Some were warriors before the slavers captured them. Some are thrall soldiers still. As for the arms, well, when visiting the World Above, did you ever see a city burn? I did. I had to torch one myself to complete a mission. The destruction and loss of life were impressive, even though the inhabitants knew their buildings could catch fire and had procedures for dealing with it.”
“Whereas we don’t? Surely you wizards . . . ?”
Pharaun shrugged. “Not really. Why would it occur to us? Perhaps we could improvise something, but if we didn’t catch the conflagration early, it might not be entirely effective.”
“But you would catch it early. The undercreatures won’t rebel all at once, and that will make it possible to quash each little uprising as it begins.”
“You’re assuming ‘the Call,’ whatever it is, will pass by word of mouth, or at any rate, that it won’t be disseminated rapidly. You could be right. The noise baffles may hinder it, but what if the Prophet has some arcane means of rousing every goblin and bugbear at the exact same instant?”
“Do you know of such a magic?”
“No.”
“And you’re a Master of Sorcere. So it’s reasonable to assume no such power exists.”
Pharaun arched an eyebrow. “Indeed? Thank you for your expert opinion.”
Ryld made a spitting sound and said, “Look. You think a rebellion could amount to something. I disagree, but say you’re right. Isn’t that all the more reason to report to Gromph immediately?”
The wizard waved to a goblin slave who was sauntering by. “The difficulty is that I have yet to succeed.”
“What?”
“My assignment is to find the runaways. I glimpsed two of them for a matter of moments, then lost them. Do you think the Baenre will deem that satisfactory?”
Frowning, Ryld said, “Considering that we did uncover something of interest . . .”
“Remember, our great and glorious archmage doesn’t hold me in high esteem. He sent me out as a decoy, a target for the priestesses to harass. Knowing him as I do, I’m sure that if I fulfill the letter of our agreement, he’ll swallow his dislike and keep his end, but should I fall the least bit short, it will be a different matter.”
“You can at least tell him the rogues are in the Braeryn.”
“Can I? We sifted through the Stenchstreets as well as any outsiders could. We didn’t find the house where the runaways hang their cloaks, and we actually have only the flimsiest of reasons for assuming it’s in the Braeryn at all.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Of course. When am I not? Now, here’s what I intend to do: Find the rogues’ hiding place. Discover who the Prophet is and how his wizardry—or whatever it is—works. Learn where the firepots came from, where they’re cached around the city, and the master plan for the rebellion. And most importantly of all, determine what the fugitives know about the clergy losing its magic.”
“In hopes of coming out of this affair more powerful than you ever were before.”
Pharaun grinned. “More powerful than we ever were before. That might dispel your boredom for good and all.”
“All my motives are genuine, including my wariness of Gromph. I take it you are in a frantic hurry to return?”
Ryld sighed. “I’m in no rush. Our excursion has been interesting, and I like to finish what I start, but what if the orcs rebel before we get around to warning our fellow drow?”
“Then we’ll make sure never to tell anyone we knew it was coming.” The wizard grinned and added, “Actually, the awareness that we race to avert a calamity will make our exploits all the more stimulating.”
“And should we lose the race, maybe the rebellion won’t kill anyone who matters to the two of us. I suppose I agree. We’ll keep on searching.”
“Excellent!”
Bearing a silver tray, the goblin bustled to the side of the pool. Bending the knees of his splayed, bristly legs, he brought the salver low enough for the dark elves to take the goblets on top of it.
Pharaun gave the thrall a smile and a wave, dismissing him, then lifted his cup.
“To mystery and glory!”
Ryld sipped from his own cup, acknowledging the toast. The drink was red morel juice, sweet and very cold, a pleasant contrast to the heat of the water.
“So I guess it’s back to looking like orcs,” said the weapons master.
“I grieve to disappoint you, but the time for that sort of deception has passed.”
“What do you mean? If we don’t look like undercreatures, how are we going to get into another one of those secret meetings?”
“We don’t know that the Prophet will hold another assembly. He’s already explained his strategy and distributed his secret weapon. Even if he does, it might not be for several days, during which we’ll have Greyanna seeking us relentlessly. We’ve evaded her so far, but we must acknowledge the possibility that our luck could sour eventually.”
“You’re right about that.”
“Therefore, we need to find the rogues quickly, which means a change of tactics is in order. Why are the boys trying to instigate a goblin revolt?”
“I don’t know.”
R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation Page 22
