R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation

by Richard Lee Byers; Thomas M. Reid; Richard Baker

  It was Valas who spoke first.

  “I think it’s unsafe to remain in the city for long, Mistress,” the diminutive scout said. “We have discovered what we came here to learn, and I think it would be wise to return to Menzoberranzan before riots fill the streets and we get caught up in another slave revolt, or worse.”

  “I agree with Valas,” Ryld added. “It is clear to me that the clerics here have handled the vanishing of Lolth less well than you and yours back home. There is little they can do for us.”

  Quenthel looked to Pharaun, knowing he would have something completely different and unorthodox in mind.

  Pharaun shifted a bit, eyeing the other two males before saying, “I think we might do better to investigate further. Valas opened my eyes to another possible avenue of study, one that I would like to take advantage of. There are other races who venerate the Dark Mother besides drow, and it would behoove us to discover whether or not they, too, suffer her loss.”

  Quenthel nodded and said, “An interesting idea, but not one of much practicality. We are not loved by many others, and I doubt that those who worship Lolth would too freely impart such secretive information to us. Notice how we haven’t been too forthcoming ourselves, even to the dark elves of our sister city. However, as there is still business I consider unfinished here, we will not be going just yet.”

  “Yes, precisely,” Pharaun replied. “While you’re busy with all that, I plan to at least look into my theory. I think I might know of a way to confirm it by tomorrow.”

  “I have other work for you tomorrow,” Quenthel said, giving the wizard a cold gaze. “Faeryl, Jeggred, and I shall pay a visit to the storehouses of Black Claw Mercantile and take what rightfully belongs to House Baenre while the three of you find a means to transport it back. I intend to get out of the city with those goods as quickly as possible. The caravans are long overdue in Menzoberranzan, and we are here to make sure due payment is made.”

  Pharaun scowled briefly, and Quenthel was expecting an argument, but the wizard merely stood, nodding again.

  Pharaun was surprised when Quenthel asked him to remain behind for a moment after dismissing the rest of the group, along with specific instructions to Jeggred to keep an eye on Faeryl, instructions that made the ambassador actually tremble. The wizard stood silently as Quenthel closed the door, then he cocked an eyebrow at her when she asked him if his detection spells were still in place.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, they are,” the mage responded. “The divination should remain in place for a full day.”

  “Good,” the high priestess said, nodding in satisfaction. “You’re pretty talented with divining information, are you not?”

  Pharaun could not help but grin but sat on the couch as he spread his hands ingenuously, wondering why she, of all drow, would pay him a compliment.

  “I manage to get by,” he said.

  “I want you to do something for me,” Quenthel said, biting her lip.

  Pharaun tipped his head to one side, surprised, for it was not at all like her, especially in recent tendays, to pay him a compliment, much less ask a favor of him.

  We are indeed a long way from Menzoberranzan, he thought wryly.

  It would give the wizard leverage if he could perform a genuine task for her, but of course the first notion that popped into his head was the prospect of being played. Shrugging, he motioned for her to speak further.

  After a lengthy pause, the high priestess said, “I want you to determine the identity of someone.”

  “ ‘Someone?’ ” Pharaun asked. “Surely you have more for me to work with?”

  “Yes . . .” Quenthel answered, biting her lip again, “someone who was trying to kill me.”

  Pharaun sat upright on the couch, looking directly at the female in front of him.

  “Kill you?”

  He was surprised, not because it was so inconceivable that Quenthel was the target of an attack—merely being the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith brought with it a host of enemies—but because she had decided to trust him enough with this confidence and the task. If that was indeed what she really wanted. Maybe she was just trying to occupy his time, keep him from something else. A hundred possibilities swirled in his head.

  “Someone back in Menzoberranzan sent several demons after me,” Quenthel said. “Sent them right into the Academy. Fortunately, my prowess was sufficient to fend off the attacks, but I would like to put a stop to them before we return. It is a waste of both the lives of my charges and the magic I have been forced to consume in the effort.”

  Pharaun nodded, thinking. Someone powerful enough to bend demons to his will had to come from Sorcere, he reasoned. Certainly, plenty of mages in the school of magic had the wherewithal, but how many of them were so interested in eliminating Quenthel Baenre?

  “I will look into it,” the Master of Sorcere said. “If I can determine who sent the fiends in your direction, you will be the first to know it.”

  “Good,” Quenthel said. “You will tell no one of this, not even the other members of our expedition.”

  “Of course not, Mistress,” Pharaun replied. “This issue is between the two of us, and the two of us only.”

  “Very well,” the high priestess said, indicating that the meeting was at an end. “Ferret out my enemy, and when we return to Menzoberranzan in triumph, I will make certain you are duly honored for your part. Your future at Tier Breche will be as bright as Narbondel.”

  Pharaun bowed low as a gesture of thanks.

  If by that you mean I will glow with the flame of a thousand of your killing spells, he thought, then we shall see.

  “I look forward to the accolades, Mistress Quenthel,” the mage said aloud, and with that he pulled the door open for her and followed her out to attend to the evening meal with the others.

  Gromph sat at his bone desk, mulling over his inability to peer into the Demonweb where Lolth resided. None of his usual scrying spells had been successful, and he was growing irritated. He was considering ways to get around this dilemma when the message arrived. It was a mere whisper, but Gromph nonetheless recognized Pharaun Mizzrym’s magically transmitted voice.

  Reached Ched Nasad. City in chaos; matron mothers ruling in name only. Investigating new possibility, more information next communication. Quenthel to visit Black Claw tomorrow.

  Gromph’s mouth tightened at the mention of his sister.

  Hopefully, she will not come back, he thought.

  The archmage knew of the spell the other wizard was using to communicate, and he was aware that he could whisper an answer to his counterpart. Unfortunately, he had not prepared for this. Thinking quickly, he whispered a few instructions.

  “Focus attention on gathering information to aid our own situation. Keep me apprised of all new possibilities. Report on success at Black Claw with next—

  “—contact,” Gromph finished, but he knew that the spell had winked out before he’d managed to utter the last word. He shook his head, disgruntled, but he knew the Mizzrym was clever enough to figure out what he meant, regardless. Whether he would follow those instructions or not was an entirely different matter.

  The Baenre wizard sat back in his chair, contemplating for a moment, pondering what condition the expedition team was likely to be in. He especially wondered how his sister fared and if the strain of his own attacks, coupled with the journey, had taken their toll. He certainly hoped so.

  He suspected that she and Pharaun were clashing on a regular basis. The wizard was too independent, too full of himself to know when to placate the high priestess, and she had been too long inside the Academy, too used to getting her own way, unwilling to listen to advice, no matter how reasonable.

  That’s my sister, the archmage thought, frowning.

  It often seemed to Gromph as if both of his sisters made poor decisions for no other purpose than to spite others. Even if Quenthel did survive her journey, Gromph thought she might very well be ripe for the slaughter when she ret
urned. If she returned. If Quenthel were to lead the expedition into disaster in Ched Nasad, it would certainly be to Gromph’s advantage. He could be rid of both her and the Mizzrym fop in one very charming blow. Yet, the fate of Menzoberranzan might very well rest on their shoulders. Was sending them off together the wisest choice?

  Still uncertain what his next step would be regarding his own investigations of Lolth’s domain, but with a whole new set of issues to deal with, Gromph arose from behind his bone desk and hurried to find his sister.

  Triel scowled slightly when she saw Gromph enter the audience chamber. It was not a time for public petitioning, and though her brother was hardly some common supplicant, she had hoped to avoid any visitations for a while. The matron mother straightened herself in the overly large throne as her brother approached. The archmage bowed low and stepped close, further irritating the matron mother. She liked everyone to keep a little distance.

  Gromph kept his voice low, leaning in so as to nearly whisper, “Triel, I have news.”

  Triel doubted the guards outside, flanking the doors, were going to hear a normal conversation, but her brother had not become Archmage of Menzoberranzan through carelessness. She inclined her head to listen.

  “Do tell,” she said.

  “Quenthel and the others have reached Ched Nasad,” the archmage said. “Pharaun Mizzrym reports that the city is in an uproar. Apparently, Menzoberranzan is not the only city afflicted with Lolth’s disfavor.”

  “We don’t know that it is disfavor!” Triel snapped. “There may be another explanation.”

  Gromph inclined his head slightly in apology.

  “Afflicted with her absence,” he corrected himself. “But the matron mothers there have done a poor job of keeping the situation quiet.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “I gathered that trouble could be brewing . . . major trouble.”

  Triel sighed. As much of a relief as it was to find out Menzoberranzan was not being singled out for some sort of punishment, the news didn’t get them any closer to discovering why the Dark Mother had chosen to disappear. Triel was at a loss as to the next step.

  “Did he say what they were planning to do?” she asked her brother.

  “Quenthel seems intent on following through with your instructions to bring back goods from Black Claw,” Gromph replied.

  The idea of more magical supplies lifted Triel’s spirits slightly, but only slightly.

  “Then I suppose they’ll be returning within a few tendays,” she said. “We are really no closer to an answer than we were when they left. It is only a matter of time before Menzoberranzan is in the same difficulties as her sister city.”

  “Unfortunately, you may be more correct than you understand.”

  “What other dire news do you have to report?”

  If this was the way her mornings were going to start out, Triel considered remaining in Reverie until the midday meal a preferable alternative to actually rising and dealing with the issues at hand.

  “I have received reports that our patrols are encountering a lot more activity around the perimeter of the city.”

  “What kind of activity?”

  “Exactly what you might expect,” Gromph said. “Though nothing has actually happened, no skirmishes breaking out, our patrols have spotted what looks to be scouting parties surveying our situation. Duergar, deep gnomes, and even kuo-toans have been spotted in greater-than-normal numbers.”

  “They know. They can tell that things aren’t right.”

  “Perhaps. Or, they could simply be passing by . . . traveling to somewhere else, and we’ve simply grown more sensitive to their presence.”

  “I doubt it,” she replied. “This can’t last. We’re going to have to confront the situation soon. I will bring this up at the next council meeting.”

  “Of course,” Gromph said and made a move to withdraw.

  Triel motioned that her brother was dismissed and told herself that it was time to get on with her day, but she continued to brood atop her throne for some time after that.

  Quenthel was thankful she had Jeggred along for the trip from the Flame and Serpent to the storehouse district. The mood of the city had grown worse since even the previous day, and the drow received more than a few menacing looks and jostles as they moved through the streets. Fortunately, the trio didn’t have to travel far to get to where they needed to go, and much of the journey was made by way of levitation. Faeryl was in a sullen mood, despite the fact that she seemed more than eager to aid the Menzoberranyr. Perhaps she was still displeased with Quenthel’s lack of trust, or maybe she simply couldn’t abide Jeggred’s presence. The high priestess couldn’t blame her. The draegloth took such delight in tormenting Faeryl, Quenthel almost felt sorry for the younger drow. Almost.

  Quenthel had sent the males to procure transportation for the return trip to Menzoberranzan. She wasn’t about to haul her own provisions on her back again, whether they managed to locate a stockpile of goods or not, and if they did they would need sufficient pack lizards and guards to ensure the materials arrived safely.

  Valas had warned the high priestess that anyone worth his salt was going to command an exorbitant price, if he could be convinced to work at all, but Quenthel didn’t care and told the scout so.

  Why is it, Quenthel thought as they approached Black Claw’s storehouses from a back street, where there were fewer folk milling about, that with males you always have to explain things to them in exacting detail? Why can’t they just do as they’re told and be done with it?

  Pharaun was the worst, she decided. Quenthel had no doubt that the wizard was off doing his own little tasks, completely ignoring her instructions to him to help Valas and Ryld. He had an infuriating habit of ignoring her wishes, and she would have to do something about that—when they got back to Menzoberranzan, of course. She needed his talents too much until then.

  “Now, remember,” Quenthel warned Faeryl as they neared the office side of the storehouse. “Tell them only what I instructed you. If I’m not happy with this little encounter, Jeggred will make sure it’s not a problem in the future.”

  The draegloth was strolling along behind the two priestesses, and Faeryl stole a quick glance over her shoulder at him. Quenthel noticed her faint shudder and smiled to herself. It turned out to be quite useful that Triel had set Jeggred upon the girl back in Menzoberranzan. It had made her so . . . compliant.

  “Yes, Mistress Quenthel,” Faeryl replied. “I understand.”

  The three of them were at the door to the storehouse, where a contingent of six House Zauvirr guards barred the entrance. Faeryl approached boldly, even as the males goggled at the sight of the towering draegloth behind her.

  “We must inspect the stores,” Faeryl said in what Quenthel thought was a surprisingly commanding voice. “Stand aside and let us enter.”

  The male who appeared to be the leader managed to pull his gaze away from Jeggred long enough to look at her quizzically.

  “I don’t know you,” he said. “What is your business?”

  Faeryl stepped closer, standing a little taller so that he was forced to peer up at her scowling face. She grasped the House insignia that was pinned to her piwafwi and thrust it into his view.

  “You know this, don’t you?” she snapped, shaking the insignia. “You’re here to keep out the riffraff, stupid boy, not bother a personal envoy of Matron Mothers Zauvirr and Melarn.”

  Quenthel noted with satisfaction that the lad gulped, visibly shaken as he moved with haste to the side, allowing Faeryl access to the door. The ambassador stepped inside, with the high priestess and Jeggred right behind her. As Quenthel strolled past, she smiled sweetly at one of the males, who still gaped at the draegloth, his eyes wide.

  Inside the storehouse, which appeared to have been spun from webbing and hardened to stone, Faeryl led the way through an office area, through a large door, and into a cavernous chamber that had been subdivided into storage areas by low walls.
Her footsteps echoing in the vast storeroom, Faeryl walked across the stone floor, hurrying past row after row of shelves and bins. Quenthel followed her, figuring the ambassador knew the way to the most valuable hoards of magic.

  Quenthel supposed there was a secure section of the storehouse, and she began to worry. Any magic of value would likely be warded.

  I should have brought that fop Mizzrym along, after all, she chided herself.

  “Mistress!” Yngoth hissed, rising up from the whip. “We are in danger!”

  Quenthel spun around, looking for signs of a threat, but she could see nothing.

  “What danger?” she demanded. “Where?”

  “A force is here . . . drow,” Zinda answered, and all five of the snakes were agitating against her hip.

  “Drow and others,” Zinda added.

  Someone’s hiding, the high priestess realized. What have you done, insolent child?

  A heartbeat later, a small host of drow appeared from behind a low wall, soldiers with swords and hand crossbows at the ready, and a handful of House wizards, too. They were all from House Zauvirr. Quenthel recognized two of the dark elves as matron mothers. It was obvious simply by their demeanor and bearing. One bore the insignia of House Zauvirr, and she was smiling coldly. The other, a rather plump drow, was most definitely not smiling and in fact looked quite distressed.

  “By the Dark Mother,” one of the males standing near Faeryl breathed, raising his crossbow and sighting down it at the fiend.

  “He’s dangerous,” Faeryl called out, but several of the House wizards were already in action, casting spells even as the draegloth sprang forward, his teeth bared and his claws out, ready to shred anyone and everyone to ribbons. Faeryl took an involuntary step back, shuddering. Jeggred remained still, crouching as though he would spring again, snarling in fury, but unmoving otherwise.

  “That will hold him,” one of the wizards claimed.

  Quenthel gasped in surprise, looking back and forth between Jeggred and Faeryl.

  “Yes, Quenthel,” Faeryl called out. “He has been rendered helpless. He cannot extract you from this.”