Quenthel returned her glare to Faeryl as the soldiers fanned out, moving to surround her but staying well back. Many of the males aimed crossbows at her, and the wizards and priestesses all seemed ready to invoke various spells, should the Mistress of the Academy decide to bolt or attack. The snakes of Quenthel’s whip writhed in agitation, snapping at anyone who stepped too close.
“You insolent little whelp of a drow,” Quenthel snarled, shaking in fury as she looked at Faeryl, who only smiled sweetly in return. “All that time being so agreeable, and it was a lie. I knew you were being too accommodating. I should have let Jeggred have his way with you back in the wilds. I will see you flayed for this.”
“That might prove difficult, Mistress Quenthel,” Faeryl said, putting as much sarcasm as possible into her tone when she came to the honorific. “If you give this situation just a moment’s thought, you will see, I’m sure, that you are overmatched. It really would be better if you surrendered this foolish standoff.”
Quenthel blinked, weighing the ambassador’s words. Finally, reluctantly, she realized that she was overmatched and nodded.
“Excellent, Mistress,” Faeryl said. “Now, I think it would be a wise idea for you to lay down your arms and all of those wonderful trinkets I know you carry about yourself.”
Quenthel’s glare deepened, but she carefully set the whip down at her feet.
“Come on, Quenthel,” Faeryl admonished. “I’ve been traveling with you for several tendays now. I know about the ring and the rod and all the other things. Don’t make this more difficult.”
Sighing, Quenthel began to remove the various items, and when Faeryl seemed satisfied that the high priestess could no longer be a significant threat, she ordered her to step away from the pile of goods.
As others swooped in and gathered up Quenthel’s possessions, Faeryl stepped closer to Quenthel, smiling again.
“I am sorry it had to be this way, Quenthel,” she said, “but I’m sure you understand.”
Quenthel, who had regained some of her composure, smiled right back.
“Oh, I quite understand, Ambassador. My sister will be highly disappointed when she learns what you have done, but I wouldn’t worry too much about that. It’s a shame though . . . if there’s one thing Triel will miss more than her sister, it would have to be her beloved son.”
Faeryl didn’t let her smile falter, but Quenthel thought the ambassador might have swallowed just a little nervously at the thought of the Matron Mother of House Baenre hearing the news that her draegloth had been destroyed.
Faeryl shrugged and said, “That’s a worry for another time, Mistress. Now, if you will be so kind as to walk with me, I’ll introduce Matron Mother Drisinil Melarn and my own mother, Mistress Ssipriina Zauvirr. They are most interested in hearing more about how you planned to steal our provisions and take them back to Menzoberranzan with you.”
“Those goods belong in Menzoberranzan. They are ours by right,” Quenthel said, angry all over again.
In the back of her mind, a part of her told herself that she really did need to learn to control her anger better, but she didn’t want to listen.
Faeryl laughed cynically. “You didn’t actually think I was going to let you steal from my House, did you?” she said. “From my city? You are mad!” Taking a calming breath, the ambassador continued, ice dripping from her voice, “Look around you, Mistress Baenre. This is what’s left of your precious stores of goods.”
For the first time, Quenthel realized that the rows and rows of shelves and bins were mostly empty. There was nothing in there to take. She had been thoroughly tricked, from the beginning of the journey, perhaps, played for the fool that she was. The betrayal was not unexpected, and Quenthel knew that had the roles been reversed, House Baenre would have carried the situation to the same conclusion. What galled her was that whatever foolish Baenre whelp had been responsible for the logistics of the deal had never bothered to put enough troops loyal to the House in place to ensure that nothing like this ever happened. Quenthel suspected that whatever loyal forces had been here had been summarily rounded up and executed when the crisis grew. The fact that no one was there now was a testament to that.
“What have you done with it?” Quenthel demanded, half interested in the answer and half stalling for time so she could assess the situation better.
Though there were a number of drow troops there, there was still a chance she could escape—though it would require leaving Jeggred behind.
Faeryl laughed, “Oh, don’t worry. Black Claw made a tidy profit recently. The stock has been put to a far better use than what you intended, Mistress.”
The mockery in the girl’s tone was unmistakable.
“That’s enough, Faeryl,” Ssipriina Zauvirr said, taking a couple of steps forward. “There’s no need to ruin the surprise we have in store for our guests.”
As Faeryl lowered her head slightly in deference to her mother, she made her face stony smooth, but Quenthel knew that behind that facade, the Zauvirr daughter was delighted to have thwarted her.
Matron Mother Melarn also stepped forward—or rather, two heavily armed drow stepped forward, escorting her between them. She still frowned deeply, but she said nothing.
Ssipriina Zauvirr strolled halfway toward Quenthel and stopped.
“When my son managed to get into private contact with Faeryl and she was able to tell us what you were planning, we of course wasted no time in preparing for your arrival. I have to say, I am more than a little surprised that you actually expected to slip a storehouse full of goods out of the city, out from under our noses, without us noticing, but that’s really of no consequence. As my daughter indicated, House Zauvirr has put the profits to a far better use.”
Quenthel blinked in confusion.
“House Zauvirr?” she asked. “You are merely the caretakers. This company belongs to Houses Melarn and Baenre.” The high priestess turned to the other matron mother and said, “Are you permitting this? Are you content to let these deceitful, low-class merchants make the decisions for your investments? You are far more trusting than I.”
Drisinil Melarn didn’t say a word, though she grimaced slightly when Quenthel spoke to her. Ssipriina Zauvirr laughed, a quick, bitter sound.
“Oh, she is far from content, Quenthel Baenre, but she has little choice in the matter.”
Quenthel realized just why Matron Mother Melarn seemed so unhappy. The two drow flanking her were not escorts but guards.
“You would dare?” Quenthel asked. “You have laid hands on the matron mother of a high House of your own city and hope to get away with it? How can you expect to survive, when . . . when—”
The high priestess clamped her mouth shut, unwilling to finish the thought.
When Lolth will not grant you spells.
“Oh, not to worry,” Ssipriina said, smiling even more deeply than before. “With the funds I’ve made selling off your valuables, I have ensured that House Zauvirr will never again kneel before the likes of you two.”
Her eyes glittered red as she finished, and Quenthel saw pure hatred burning in them.
“Captain Xornbane, if you please?” Ssipriina called.
All around the drow gathering, appearing from nowhere, a horde of gray dwarves stood in a large circle, brandishing wicked-looking axes and heavy crossbows. Clearly, they had been standing there for a few moments but had simply been invisible. The duergar looked confident, ready for anything.
Quenthel felt the pit of her stomach leap into her throat, but before she could take any action she felt an invisible force seize her and hold her motionless. She couldn’t move a muscle and saw that Drisinil Melarn was in a similar condition.
“Shall we kill them now?” one of the duergar asked, stepping forward.
chapter
seven
It’s fortunate that Valas has been here before and knows the lay of the land, Ryld thought as he pushed his way through the throngs behind his companion.
The streets we
re more crowded than the previous day, if that was possible, and the warrior was sure that they would have made even slower progress if they’d been negotiating the web streets without a clue as to where to go for the right kind of information or the right kind of folk.
Ryld and Valas had set off shortly after the morning meal, the scout leading the larger drow into the lower quarters of the City of Shimmering Webs. At Quenthel’s instructions, they were trying to find someone, anyone, who had supplies, equipment, and bodies available to serve them on the return trip to Menzoberranzan. Ryld still doubted the likelihood of the priestess acquiring anything worthwhile in the Black Claw storehouses, but he wasn’t one to quibble with the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith. He had seen the folly of that with Pharaun. Or rather, he had seen the difficulties. Pharaun seemed to be getting away with his insidious little remarks more and more frequently, and the warrior realized, too, that the mage had begun following his own agenda more consistently.
Ryld pushed past a cluster of illithids—illithids! Five of them standing on a street corner, and no one paying them any mind—and he followed the scout into a particularly squalid-looking taproom.
Ryld couldn’t get Pharaun off his mind. The mage seemed to be able to talk anyone around to his way of thinking, and when that didn’t work, he’d figure out a way to do what he wanted anyway and explain it all away later.
The warrior wondered how often his old friend had done the very same thing to him in order to get what he wanted.
Valas shouldered his way through the crowded bar, heading for the back of the place. It always seemed to be at the rear tables where information was brokered, and in this tavern it was no exception. Ryld took up a position to watch his companion’s back while Valas sat down across from a surly looking drow whose piwafwi was tattered and stained. The drow was definitely no noble, though Ryld would never hold that against him. Growing up on the streets of Menzoberranzan, the weapons master knew as well as anyone what it was like to be born a commoner.
A sava board rested on the table, and a game was in progress. Ryld could see that whoever had been across from this drow had played himself into a bad position and left before the inevitable conclusion. He found himself wanting to sit down and push a piece or two about, trying to stave off the endgame, but he forced himself to turn away, watching the crowded room for signs of trouble.
“We’re looking for pack lizards,” Valas began, setting a few gold coins on the table as he reached out and made a play on the sava board, “some supplies, and a few sellswords who can guard all of the above.”
The drow snaked a hand out from under his shredded piwafwi and scooped up the gold before Valas had even completed his move, one that was not really of much help to his position, Ryld noted.
Better to let the fellow continue winning, the weapons master surmised.
“You and just about everyone else in the city,” the drow chuckled, flashing a crooked smile that revealed several missing teeth. “Those kinds of things require more gold than the two of you are bound to have,” he added, giving Valas and Ryld an appraising look.
“Don’t worry about the coin,” the scout replied while Ryld returned his attention to the room. “Just point us in the right direction.”
“Well, then,” the informant said, “I know a gray dwarf who might still have a few lizards available—for the right price, mind you—that would serve you well enough. How about buying a round of drinks while I get someone who can take you to him?”
Ryld pursed his lips in consternation. He had hoped this would be a quick affair, but of course it was not to be.
The drow slid out from the table, clapped Ryld on the shoulder, and said, “My, you’re a healthy one, aren’t you?” before pushing through the crowd.
Ryld stole a glance down at Valas, who seemed to be studying the sava board. The scout made no move to lure a serving boy over.
“Are you going to order those drinks, or should I do it?” the weapons master asked his companion.
“Don’t worry about it,” Valas answered, looking up. “When the wretch returns, I’ll tell him I couldn’t get anyone’s attention in so crowded a place.”
Ryld nodded and turned back to wait.
It didn’t take long for the filthy drow to return, and he had not one, but four big half-ogres in tow. Ryld’s eyes narrowed at the sight of them clearing a path through the crowd none too gently.
“We may have trouble,” he muttered at Valas, who craned his neck to peer past the warrior.
“Let me out,” Valas insisted, pushing Ryld forward enough to slip out from behind the table.
The scout stood next to the warrior, and Ryld noticed that Valas had his kukris in his hands, though he kept them down at his sides where they weren’t easily seen.
“These are the fellows I was telling you about,” the drow informant said to the biggest of the half-ogres. “They’re the ones that’s got lots of coin.”
Ryld groaned inwardly as the half-ogre, who stood a good head taller than the drow, grinned ominously.
“We were just about to go fetch a round of drinks, as you suggested,” Valas said, making as if to step past the half-ogre, who was blocking their way. “I guess we’ll need a couple extra. Ryld, why don’t you come help me carry them all? Then we can talk business with you boys.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” the half-ogre said, his voice deep and rumbling. “Why don’t you sit down and tell us just how much gold you actually have? Then we’ll decide if you can leave or not.”
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Valas said, his voice steely cold. “We’ll just take our business elsewhere.”
“I suppose a half-ogre would be stupid enough,” Ryld said to the scout, “to think that just because Lolth has gone quiet, we’ve forgotten how to fight.”
The half-ogre smiled and said, “That’s a pretty good joke, dark elf.”
Then the creature lunged.
In the end, it was the most straightforward approach, Pharaun decided, that would grant him entry into one of the wizardly institutes. He knew all too well from his working knowledge of Sorcere’s defenses that most forms of arcane stealth would likely be detected, however careful he might be. It was the nature of mages to be distrustful of other mages, and he had discovered that with a handful of different academies, schools, and research organizations to choose from in Ched Nasad, the local spellcasters were even more wary of one another.
Apparently, competition between the associations for luring new talent inside their halls was fierce, and the prestige garnered from successful recruiting paramount. True to drow nature, the societies weren’t above using any method, however violent and underhanded, to shift the balance of power. What better way to get inside, Pharaun reasoned, than to pose as a prospective new member? All that it required was doffing his House insignia and asking at the front gates for the opportunity to speak with someone who could give him a tour, expound upon the amenities and responsibilities, and so on. He could easily pass himself off as a wayward wizard in need of a home without revealing his true level of expertise or the means by which he had acquired it.
The first place Pharaun visited was the imposing halls of the Disciples of Phelthong, run by the Archmage of Ched Nasad himself, Ildibane Nasadra. Pharaun figured that being the largest and best endowed of the various schools, it would have what he sought. However, he was careful to explain to the minor official who was sent to escort him that his interest, his area of specialty, lay in the study of creatures. It would be paramount for the facility to have a vast menagerie on hand if he was to feel truly at home. When he discovered that the Disciples did not maintain such a zoo, he politely declined to take a tour.
The second place Pharaun chose to investigate was known as the Arcanist Conservatory. It was neither the most impressive nor the least, but he picked it on a hunch. The drow who met with him after he’d explained himself to the sentries at the front of the edifice was an enchanter by the name of Kraszmyl Cla
ddath of House Claddath, a short, surprisingly stocky fellow with slightly yellowing hair and bad teeth. Pharaun feigned skills of a middling nature as he introduced himself, and Kraszmyl seemed genuinely delighted to escort his guest through the premises.
“Tell me, Master Claddath, does the conservatory maintain a collection of live specimens on site?”
“Well, if you mean the best menagerie of creatures from both the World Above and the Underdark, properly housed and cared for, then yes.”
“Oh, how delightful!” Pharaun didn’t have to fake his excitement. “This sounds like the right place for me.”
“Tell me, Master Pharaun, what is your particular expertise with this area of study?”
“Well, my last assignment was for a merchant who wanted me to study various breeding effects on rothé herds,” the mage lied, “but I have a special interest in a new field. I am most curious to learn more about chitines and choldriths.”
“Really?” Kraszmyl seemed nonplussed at the idea as he led Pharaun deeper into the confines of the conservatory. “Why in the world would you find such base creatures of interest?”
“Oh, they are tremendously fascinating!” Pharaun gushed. “While we find them to be nothing more than simple hunting sport, they actually have a unique culture and religious focus that in several ways mirrors our own.”
“Oh, I see,” Master Claddath said woodenly. “I hope you’re not one of those odd cretins who actually thinks we should cease our hunting.”
Pharaun laughed. “Certainly not,” he said, “but imagine the possibilities if I could make them more of a challenge?”
“Yes, I could see the value in that. Well, here we are,” the guide said, ushering Pharaun into a wing of the facilities that contained countless cages, cells, and holding pens.
Pharaun had never seen such a collection of species before, and he was more than impressed.
“It is spectacular!” he said.
“Yes, it is, Master Pharaun, but I have concluded by your reaction that you have seen nothing of the sort before. Now, why don’t you tell me the real reason for your visit to our little conservatory today?”
R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation Page 50
