Quave’s voice sounded over Drisinil’s shoulder. “We’ve got her, Mistress.”
“Thank you,” Quenthel said. “Take her to the penance chamber and secure her.”
“Yes, Mistress,” said Quave. “I assume you’ll do the cutting yourself.”
“I’d like to,” said the Baenre, “but there’s another matter demanding my attention. You can do it. Enjoy yourself. Just mind she doesn’t die of it. They can drown in their own blood when you take the tongue.”
Pharaun relaxed in the chair, enjoying the feel of the barber’s fingers kneading tonic into his scalp. It wasn’t as relaxing as a fullbody massage, but soothing nonetheless.
The barber chattered away, and the wizard periodically responded with a noncommittal, “Indeed,” or a grunt. Like, he suspected, tonsorial customers of all races in all ages of the world, he wasn’t actually listening.
The barber’s stall, a little box redolent of unguents and pomades, was open at the front, and it was more interesting to gaze out at the sights of the Bazaar. A commoner strode by carrying a clucking chicken, imported from the Lands of Light, in a box. A merchant had probably promised the fellow the fowl would lay for years to come, though in reality, such birds rarely thrived in the Underdark. A portrait painter rendered his subject, the enchantments in the brush enabling him to fill the canvas with astonishing speed. An armorer drove a rapier through a bound, gagged kobold to demonstrate the sharpness of the point.
Cowl up, mantle drawn close around him, and Splitter hidden by the charm of concealment Pharaun had cast on it, Ryld loitered across the way in a tent with the sides folded up. There, games of all sorts were on display. The hulking swordsman stood pondering a sava board, where he’d set up a problem with the onyx and carnelian pieces.
A change came over the scene beyond the doorway, and people looked to the north. Some started to squeeze up against the stalls, clearing the center of the lane. A ragged, furtive-looking commoner hurried away in the opposite direction.
Ryld sauntered to the near edge of the tent, glanced where everyone else was peering, then gave Pharaun a subtle nod, confirming what the wizard had already guessed. A patrol was headed their way.
Pharaun wished the guards could have waited just a few moments, but alas, he would have to go to work before the barber finished with him. A tragedy, but it couldn’t be helped.
A moment later the patrol marched by, casting stern glances hither and yon, their tread silent thanks to their enchanted boots. In at least nominal command was a priestess of ArachTinilith armed with a polished wooden wand. Assisting her were a teacher from Melee-Magthere and Gelroos Zaphresz, one of Pharaun’s junior colleagues in Sorcere. It was unfortunate. Possessed of a store of jokes and comical ditties, Gelroos was congenial company. At least if Pharaun murdered the other mage today, he wouldn’t have to worry about Gelroos trying to assassinate him tomorrow.
In addition to its officers, the patrol consisted of a number of warriors-in-training, boys whom Ryld had almost certainly instructed at one time or another. Pharaun wasn’t particularly worried about them. His fellow teachers were the real threat.
The Master of Sorcere waited until the guards had marched past then, surprising the barber, he tossed aside the hair-sprinkled cloth covering his chest, stood up, and handed the craftsman a gold coin, a princely overpayment for his services. He touched a finger to his lips in wordless explanation of what he actually wanted to buy. He picked up his piwafwi, whose elegance he’d obscured with a minor illusion, swirled it around his shoulders, walked to the doorway of the stall, and peeked out.
The patrol had tramped about twenty yards down the lane. Any farther and they’d turn a corner, so Pharaun had attained as much separation from the enemy as he was going to get. He draped a fold of silk across the lower half of his face, then stepped out into the open, brandished a glass marble and a pinch of rust, and recited an incantation. His half-barbered hair stood on end, and the air around him smelled of ozone. A crackling blue-white spark appeared in the air before him, then shot down the aisle.
When it reached the patrol, the flickering point of radiance exploded, shooting flares of lightning in all directions. Many of the callow young soldiers danced, burned, and fell, as they possessed neither the spiritual strength nor the protective talismans that might have minimized their injuries and kept them on their feet. Unfortunately, the sizzling, jumping arcs of power struck a handful of vendors and shoppers as well. Pharaun hadn’t particularly wanted to harm noncombatants, but the aisle was simply too cramped.
The rest of the patrol began to pivot. The captain from MeleeMagthere was smoking, blackened, and blistered, but if he was anything like Ryld, his burns weren’t likely to slow him down. Gelroos and the priestess looked as if the lightning hadn’t even touched them. The female was spinning around a hair faster than the other two, raising her baton. Thanks to his silver ring, Pharaun could tell it was a spider wand, a weapon capable of entangling him in sticky webbing.
He had no intention of enduring that kind of humiliation. He rattled off a string of magic words and thrust his arm out. Five slivers of arcane force leaped from his fingertips, hurtled across the intervening space, and slammed into the cleric’s torso. She stumbled backward and collapsed.
A wiry male with deep-set eyes, and a trace of a scholar’s stoop, Gelroos peered up the street and called, “Master Mizzrym!”
“So much for my ability to manufacture a nonmagical disguise,” Pharaun answered, grinning, “but then we do know one another fairly well.”
“You’re allowed to try to kill another Master of Sorcere,” said Gelroos. “That’s entirely proper. But you overstepped when you struck down these youths. It was pointless and sloppy, and their mothers won’t appreciate the waste. They’ll reward me for taking you down.”
“Does it help if I explain that all I do, I do to deliver Menzoberranzan from twin calamities?” Pharaun asked.
Gelroos raised his hands, preparing to conjure, and the remaining warriors charged.
“Ah. I thought not.”
He too began to cast.
Gelroos completed his spell a moment before Pharaun finished his. Crashing and crunching, the surface of the lane spat stone in the air. It was like a geyser, save for the fact that the chunks of rock didn’t fall back to earth. Instead, they shifted around one another and fitted together, forming a towering, massive, and vaguely drowlike form, like a heroic statue abandoned when the sculptor had barely begun. Its footsteps shaking the ground, the creature lurched up the corridor between the stalls.
Pharaun was mildly impressed. It wasn’t easy to summon and control an essential spirit of the earth—nor easy to fend one off, either—but the manifestation didn’t shake his concentration. He continued his recitation without a flub, meanwhile floating up into the air to avoid, if only momentarily, the swords of the onrushing warriors.
He spoke the final syllable of the conjuration. A dagger made of ice flew from his hand. Gelroos dodged it, but the conjured blade exploded, peppering its target with frozen shards. One slashed open the mage’s cheek and he stumbled, but Pharaun could tell he wasn’t seriously hurt.
Below the Mizzrym, some of the warriors were readying their crossbows. Others began to levitate. By rushing him, they’d drawn even with the game merchant’s tent, and Ryld burst from underneath it. Half an hour earlier, he’d purchased a scimitar to use in this particular battle, but it was Splitter, rendered visible by his touch, that he currently clasped in his hands. He must have decided that, since Gelroos had already called out Pharaun’s name, it would be pointless to try to conceal his own identity.
The greatsword leaped back and forth, each stroke dropping a foe to the ground. Bellowing for his minions to turn and face the new threat, Ryld’s fellow instructor tried to shove his way toward him.
Stone, liquid as magma, flowed upward from the ground into the elemental’s body. Most of the rock served to grow the creature bigger and taller, but some of it accumul
ated in the palm of its hand, forming a spiky sphere that it no doubt intended to hurl at Pharaun.
The wizard snatched a tiny vial of water from one of his pockets. Brandishing it, he chanted. He felt the walls of the cosmos attenuating, and for a moment, sensed an infinite number of Pharauns conjuring in adjacent realities, receding away from him like reflections in a mirror, growing subtly less and less like himself with each step.
A pulse of scarlet light struck him in the chest. Gelroos must have conjured it. The blaze of pain was extraordinary. Pharaun strained to complete the last word of power and final mystic pass without a fumble.
He wasn’t sure he’d succeeded until a vacancy, a gap not in matter but in the medium that underlies it, opened under the elemental’s feet. The creature cocked back its arm to throw, and the animating force fell out of the body it had created for itself and down the hole. The wound in the fabric of the world contracted and sealed itself. Rumbling and thudding, the huge stone form fell apart.
Pharaun took stock of himself. It didn’t look as if the red light had done more than scrape and prick his skin. He grinned down at Gelroos.
“Not quite, colleague.”
“This time,” the younger wizard said through gritted teeth. He started casting, and Pharaun did the same.
Force crackled around the outcast Mizzrym but failed to bite
into his flesh. His own magic, launched from the same round little mirror he used to check his appearance, made the air surrounding Gelroos tinkle like chiming crystals. The junior wizard screamed, and in the blink of an eye he was transformed into an inert figure made of cool, smooth glass.
Metal rang below Pharaun’s feet. He looked down. Ryld appeared as if he might be having a difficult time of it, but a conjured barrage of ice, flung into the midst of the surviving students, turned the tide. Ryld cut down his fellow Master of Melee-Magthere, whirled to do the same to a young spearman, and the fight was over.
Pharaun surveyed the battlefield. Though burned and incapacitated, some of the warriors-in-training were still alive, but that was all right. The important thing had always been to murder his fellow instructors. That was what would impress the rogues.
He floated back down to earth. “That wasn’t too difficult. Looking back, it’s a pity we didn’t slaughter Greyanna and her allies in the same fashion.”
Ryld grunted, pulled up the hem of a fallen fighter’s cloak, and wiped the blood from Splitter.
“Can you shatter Gelroos before we decamp?” Pharaun asked. “Otherwise, he’ll eventually revert to flesh and blood.”
“If you like.”
Ryld hefted his blade.
chapter
fifteen
Wrapped in a plain, dark piwafwi, the cowl drawn over her head, Quenthel tramped south across the city. The experience was strange, unique in her personal experience. She was on foot, not mounted on a lizard or enthroned on a floating stone disk. She was alone, not accompanied by a column of guards and servants, and most strangely of all, no one paid her any real attention. Oh, slaves scurried out of her path, and males offered her a cursory show of respect, but no one feared her or cringed in awe of her. Indeed, she herself had to offer obeisance to the noble females she encountered along the way, lest their soldiers chastise her for insolence.
It was galling, unsettling, and somehow tempting as well. In her most private thoughts, she’d imagined herself simply running away from the implacable foe who worked so assiduously to kill her. It might be the only way she could survive. If she opted to flee at once, she was already off to a good start. She’d managed to slip away from Tier Breche with no one, she hoped, the wiser.
Flight was a cowardly notion, though, unworthy of a Baenre, and it angered her when she entertained it even for a moment. Until the attacks began, she never had before. She turned a corner, and Qu’ellarz’orl, came into view. Her destination was nigh, and she focused her thoughts on the task at hand.
Sneaking away from the Academy had been a little complicated. First, she’d had to surreptitiously lay hands on nondescript outerwear that would allow her to pass for a commoner. Such a piwafwi certainly hadn’t existed among her own garments, all of which were costly and bejeweled, but she’d found it among the effects of one of the kitchen staff. After disposing of the cook lest the missing garment be reported, she had to exit Arach-Tinilith without anyone realizing it was her, including her own watchful sentries. Finally, she needed to skulk to the edge of the plateau and float down to the cavern floor below without the guards at the top of the staircase noticing.
She’d managed it, though, and she was confident of her ability to sneak back into the Academy, even after the plateau had been put on a state of heightened security.
A road ran up the eminence that was Qu’ellarz’orl to the castles of Menzoberranzan’s greatest families. It wasn’t off limits to commoners. Merchants and supplicants used it all the time, but they were subject to search and interrogation by House Baenre patrols.
Quenthel started up the twisting road and made it better than halfway to the top before she heard the distinctive grunt and hiss of a riding lizard. She scurried off the path into the forest of giant, phosphorescent mushrooms, where she crouched behind a particularly massive specimen.
The patrol, a mounted officer and a dozen foot soldiers, marched by without so much as glancing her way. Hiding from her own troops was another bizarre, almost surreal experience.
When the warriors passed, she hurried on up the slope. She quickly reached the top of the rise. Before her rose the most opulent fortresses in the city. At the easternmost end of the expanse, House Baenre towered on the highest ground of all, dwarfing every other structure.
She turned her steps toward the tall, slender spire known as Spelltower Xorlarrin, residence of the Fifth House. Bands of shimmering faerie fire striped the iron walls.
She climbed the steep steps to the gate under the watchful eyes of the sentries on the battlements. Had she not already known it, their vigilance would have shown that she could maintain complete anonymity no longer.
Still, she’d do the best she could.
When a sentry armed with spear and long sword strode over to ask her business, she said, “I’m going to show you something remarkable. Don’t let your amazement show.”
He looked skeptical. He lived in the Spelltower, after all, and had seen his share of marvels.
“All right, ma’am. Show me, if you will.”
She twitched open her piwafwi, giving him a glimpse of the Baenre House insignia hanging at her throat.
His eyes widened, but otherwise, he did a fair job of doing as she’d bade him.
“How may I serve you?” he asked softly, the slightest quaver in his voice.
“I want to enter the tower without anyone paying the least attention to me, and I want to talk to your matron alone.”
“Please, come with me.”
The guard led her through the gate and into a confusion of service passages such as every castle possessed. The corridors eventually brought them into a nicely appointed room with comfortable-looking sandstone chairs, a carnelian-and-obsidian sava set awaiting a pair of players, and frescos of some of Lolth’s attendant demons adorning the walls.
Her escort departed in search of his mistress, leaving Quenthel to prowl restlessly about the room. Finally the door opened, and Zeerith Q’Zorlarrin slipped through. Her features were plain and nondescript, but she was notable for a dignified bearing and composure that rarely failed her even in the most extreme situations. For a matron, her costume was rather plain and austere.
The two princesses saluted one another, then Zeerith ushered her guest to a seat.
“When Antatlab told me you’d come without a single guard, I wondered if he’d gone mad,” the matron remarked.
“Can I trust him not to gossip about my visit?”
“He’s discreet enough. Now, may I ask why I’m so unexpectedly enjoying the honor of your company?”
Quenthe
l related the events of the past three nights.
“If I still possessed my magic,” she concluded. “I could deal with this matter easily, but as things stand . . . I need help.”
The words galled her, but they had to be said.
“Why have you sought it here?” Zeerith asked.
“The Xorlarrins have always supported the Baenre and profited thereby. Try as I might, I can’t think of a compelling reason you’d want me dead, and your House boasts many of the best wizards in Menzoberranzan. So, if I must trust someone, you’re a good chance. Will you aid me, Matron?”
Zeerith took her time replying. Quenthel knew the other female was cold-bloodedly pondering whether to help, deny, or betray her. Where did the greatest advantage lie?
“Your plight is an outrage,” the Xorlarrin said at last, “an affront to all priestesses. Of course I’ll aid you. For ten thousand talents of gold, and your support when my clan’s dispute with House Agrach Dyrr becomes public knowledge.”
“What dispute?”
“The one I’ll be stirring up in a tenday or two. Do we have a bargain?”
Quenthel’s mouth tightened. If she’d come to the Spelltower in the full panoply of a Baenre princess, Zeerith would have thought twice about making conditions, but by arriving incognito the mistress had shown her desperation and in so doing, shifted the transaction to another level.
“Yes,” she growled, “I agree.”
“I thank you for your generosity. What do you require?”
“Every night,” said Quenthel, “a new demon comes to kill me, and I fend it off as best I can. If this goes on, a night will come when the entity kills me instead. I need to do more. I need to end the siege, and it’s my hope your mages know a way. I confess I don’t. I’ve ransacked every vault, chest, and drawer in Arach-Tinilith and found nothing that will serve.”
“So that’s why you came in secret. You want a weapon, and you don’t want your foe to know about it. Otherwise, he might take countermeasures.”
R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation Page 24
