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

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

  Not waiting for the unruly patrons to regain their wits, Ryld began slashing and cutting with bold stokes, clearing a path toward the door. The screams emanating from around the weapons master were unnerving to the rest of the brawlers. Quickly enough, Ryld emerged from the darkness, finding himself near the exit of the establishment. A couple more onlookers stood by the doorway, but when they saw the burly warrior appear with his greatsword leveled at them, they quickly scattered. Bruised and bleeding from several small cuts, Ryld darted through the exit and out onto the street.

  Valas was leaning against a wall on the opposite side of the street, watching for him.

  When Ryld saw the scout, he pursed his lips in displeasure, but before he could voice his anger, Valas nodded and said, “A lot easier to cut your way out of there without worrying about hitting me, wasn’t it?”

  Ryld opened his mouth to retort, realized that Valas was right, and snapped it shut again.

  Finally, after the two of them began making their way down the thoroughfare, the warrior said, “The next place we try, we’re taking a table near the front door.”

  It was only after Ryld realized that they weren’t having to push their way through the crowds on the street, who parted for them warily, did he realize that he was still carrying Splitter in his hand, the blade dripping with blood.

  chapter

  eight

  “Yes, Captain Xornbane, by all means, dispatch them,” Faeryl’s mother said as the gray dwarves closed in on both Drisinil and Quenthel.

  The two drow and the draegloth, unable to flee, stared about themselves. While Jeggred merely seethed with rage, straining to break free of the magical hold over him, Quenthel and Drisinil looked wild, desperate. The duergar who had spoken motioned, and several of the other gray dwarves moved in, axes lifted.

  “Wait!” Faeryl exclaimed, then leaned in close to whisper with Ssipriina privately for a moment. “Mother, let’s not kill the two Menzoberranyr yet. I’d like to keep them for a while.”

  “I think that would be an extraordinarily bad idea,” one of the males near her mother said, also leaning in.

  Faeryl glared at the impertinent male, whom she seemed to recall was not of the family but had worked diligently as an aid for a number of years. Zammzt, she thought his name was. She wrinkled her nose slightly, for he was far from pretty.

  “Do you always butt into conversations you were not meant to hear?” the ambassador asked.

  Zammzt merely bowed in acquiescence and said, “Forgive me, but I am only looking after the House’s best interests. If this plan of subversion and surprise is to succeed in overthrowing House Melarn, then no one who knows the truth can be allowed to live. If the drow or the fiend are able to relay to anyone—anyone at all—what transpired here today, you will lose your backing from the other Houses. No one will support your rise to the council, Matron Mother. It’s an unnecessary risk.”

  Matron Mother Zauvirr studied her daughter carefully for a moment then said, “He does have a point.”

  “Mother, believe me,” Faeryl replied, “they will never get the chance to talk to anyone. I will make sure of it.”

  Ssipriina finally nodded and said, “All right, you’ve earned the chance to extract a little revenge, I suppose, but you must make certain that they do not talk to anyone, especially not Halisstra. Do you understand?”

  Zammzt clicked his tongue in consternation, but he apparently knew better than to argue further. He had made his case and had lost. He moved off to engage in conversation with some of the House wizards.

  Faeryl, elated, said, “Of course, Mother. I understand all too well. If our plan is to succeed, everyone must think these two were plotting together.”

  “Precisely. Now, I must go and prepare. We still have a lot of work to do.”

  With that, Ssipriina Zauvirr departed, Zammzt falling in beside her, his head leaning in close to discuss issues privately.

  The ambassador moved back over to Quenthel once more.

  “You see, Mistress Baenre,” she said, trying to emphasize the honorific to the point of sounding absurd, “we didn’t really steal the Black Claw merchandise. You did. Or at least, that’s how it will appear when we report finding members of two powerful Houses meeting in secret, having already smuggled desperately needed supplies out of Ched Nasad and preparing to steal even more.

  “I’m sure they’ll wonder why Matron Mother Melarn would have wanted to turn her back on her own city in favor of Menzoberranzan, but unfortunately, they won’t be able to ask her, since she resisted us and had to be killed.”

  Faeryl signaled to the commanding duergar and watched with a warm feeling as three of the gray dwarves stepped close. At her nod, they raised their axes high and swung. Behind her, Faeryl heard Quenthel’s muffled cry of protest, but she didn’t bother turning around.

  There was no more than a grunt from Drisinil as three axes slammed into her flesh, but the blades bit deeply and the fat drow’s eyes widened in pain and terror, though she couldn’t react in any other way. The three duergar yanked their axes free and prepared to strike again, but Faeryl motioned for them to hold. She wanted to watch as Drisinil died slowly.

  “You’ll never look down your nose at me again, you fat rothé.”

  Drisinil’s red eyes blinked and widened, seeming to plead with Faeryl in some way, but the younger drow only smiled as she stood casually, hands on hips, and watched the matron mother’s lifeblood drip into a puddle on the floor around her motionless body. Drisinil shuddered, and her eyes began to glaze over. Her breathing was rapid for a moment or two, then stopped. Her lifeless eyes stared at nothing.

  Faeryl turned back to Quenthel, who had been able to see the murder. The high priestess seemed to look both terrified and furious, all at the same time. The ambassador stepped in close to the Baenre noble and smiled.

  “Of course, they’ll be told that you were caught while trying to flee the scene, though you and I will know better, at least for a time. You and Jeggred are going to receive a stay of execution, just as I did back in Menzoberranzan. Aren’t you pleased? Instead of dying right away, you’ll get some of House Zauvirr’s hospitality, just as I was graciously entertained by your sister.”

  Faeryl spat the words at her captive, the smile gone from her face. All of the hatred, the fear, surged to the forefront of her thoughts.

  “And as for you, you wretched, foul-smelling beast,” Faeryl said, turning to Jeggred, “I will ensure that you learn what true pain is.”

  The draegloth’s eyes bored into her balefully, but she forced herself to stare resolutely back at him for three long breaths before finally turning away.

  “Gruherth,” Faeryl called, looking for one of her brothers in the throng of drow still milling about, “I want those two moved— secretly, mind you—to the dungeons in House Melarn.”

  Gruherth appeared and said, “We’ll need a safe way to transport them.”

  “I’ll take care of that,” another wizard said, stepping closer to the fiend.

  Pulling a few items from his pockets, the mage cast a spell, and a large white bubble formed around the draegloth. At the instruction of the wizard, four guards lifted the sphere—with surprising ease, Faeryl noted—and began to carry it into another part of the storehouse.

  Very quickly, the same spell was applied to Quenthel, and four other drow boys bore her milky white sphere away, too.

  Faeryl turned and looked for the duergar leader.

  “Captain . . . Xornbane, is it?”

  The gray dwarf who had given the order to kill Drisinil nodded.

  “As I understand it, the next step in our plan is to get your company inside House Melarn unnoticed.”

  “That’s right,” the duergar repeated, folding his arms across his chest impatiently.

  “Have all the arrangements been made to deal with this?”

  “They have,” he said, then he turned and trudged off after Faeryl’s mother, leaving the ambassador to fume at his
rudeness.

  Gruherth reappeared.

  “We’re ready to begin moving everything through to the interior of House Melarn,” he said to his sister. “Mother wants you there at the front so that we can throw off suspicion in case there are Melarn troops in sight once we begin crossing through the portal.”

  Faeryl grimaced but nodded. She had forgotten how much at her mother’s beck and call she had been when she was last in the city. Still, she decided, it was better than being at Quenthel’s beck and call.

  Much better.

  Aliisza wriggled her toes in delight as she stretched out on the bed next to the wizard. It had been quite a while since she had felt this good, and it wasn’t merely the physical pleasures that delighted her. This Pharaun was quite the wit, she had decided, boisterous and clever for a drow.

  “How come you’re so unlike the rest of your race?” the alu asked him, rolling over beside him and walking her alabaster fingers up his slender, graceful black arm, enjoying the contrast in color. “Every other dark elf I’ve ever met and talked to has been so staid and boring. You, on the other hand, make me laugh.”

  Pharaun, with his head propped on his hands as he lay stretched out on his back, smiled.

  “Just unlucky, I suppose.”

  Aliisza furrowed her brow in confusion and asked, “What?”

  “Can you imagine how it must be for me, being around ‘staid and boring’ drow all the time?” he asked, sitting up and folding his legs beneath him. “No one ever appreciates my witticisms. I offer up clever remarks, and I either get funny looks, if I’m speaking with other males, or scowls, if I’m in the presence of the ladies. It’s damned depressing. So I say it’s just bad luck. I was born a drow, but I was given a much sharper intellect than most of my species.”

  Aliisza giggled and rested her chin on both hands, gazing at the dark elf ’s red eyes.

  “Oh, come on,” she said. “It can’t be that bad. At least you get to talk to other drow. Look at me. I spend the entire day herding tanarukks around.”

  “Oh, yes, the tanarukks. A few grunts and an obscene gesture, and they’ve recited their clan history, right?”

  Aliisza laughed outright.

  “They’re not so bad as all that, but they certainly aren’t ones for clever humor. Not even Kaanyr likes to devote this much time to just . . . talking—” She paused, seeing the wizard’s smile turn into a frown. “What now?”

  “Why did you have to go and mention his name? I was doing just fine until you brought up your other lover. That’s no kind of pillow talk, you know.”

  “Sorry. I won’t do it again,” Aliisza promised. “But tell me . . . how is it you manage to spar with this high priestess of yours? I thought the females of your species didn’t put up with too much of that nonsense.”

  Pharaun groaned and fell back against the pillow.

  “She goes from bad to worse,” he moaned to no one in particular. “Why do you keep bringing up these most unpleasant subjects? You’re torturing me! Was I that unsatisfying?”

  Aliisza punched him on the arm, laughing.

  “Just answer the question.”

  Pharaun eyed her for a moment. He seemed suddenly wary.

  “Why are you so curious?”

  Aliisza shook her head.

  “No real reason. Just curiosity, I suppose.”

  Pharaun rolled away from her to the side of the bed and asked, “Why are you here? In Ched Nasad, I mean.”

  Aliisza pouted just a little. She really hadn’t meant to put him on edge, and now she had to think of a way to calm the wizard down again. She decided the truth, or just enough of it, was the best medicine.

  “Because Kaanyr Vhok wants me to find out what’s going on.”

  “You told me you already knew. In fact, you explained to me what’s going on. What else are you looking for?”

  “Nothing,” the alu replied, reaching a hand out to stroke the back of the drow’s arm with her fingers. “I have all the information I’m supposed to get. Well, except for visiting one of the matron mothers to see if she wants Kaanyr’s assistance. They have some old pact or something. I’m still here because you’re here.”

  Pharaun eyed her a moment longer, then chuckled and shook his head.

  “I knew this was a bad idea,” he said at last. “The matron mothers of this city are the one big thing I’d like most to avoid, and here you are, preparing to drop in on one. Somehow, that just doesn’t bode well for me.”

  “Oh, stop it,” Aliisza said, arching one of her eyebrows at the mage. “I’m not about to tell any matron mother about you. I wouldn’t want word getting back to—back to you-know-who”—she smiled again “—though I don’t see how you can avoid the matron mothers, given the company you’re traveling with.”

  “What, Quenthel? No, that’s not a problem. She knows House Melarn won’t be too agreeable to her plan to take the Black Claw goods back to Menzoberranzan, so—” The wizard stopped in midsentence. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. I am a sex-addled idiot.”

  He stared at Aliisza intently, his red eyes glittering.

  The alu-fiend stared back, but she couldn’t help but smile.

  “What are you doing, considering whether to try to kill me to keep your secret safe?” she asked. Arching one eyebrow she shimmied back away from the wizard, leaning back on her elbows provocatively. “I have a better idea,” she said, feeling her voice grow husky with desire. “Teach me another magic trick instead.”

  Pharaun, feeling a combination of exhilaration and dread, left Aliisza in the little house. Exhilarated from the satisfying afternoon he’d spent with the alu, he was dreading all the things he’d let slip. Though he’d repeatedly told himself to be wary, he’d stumbled several times thus far. Being with the fiend had reduced his normally sharp instinct for caution to some half-remembered sense of danger that he knew he ought to be cognizant of but wasn’t. It was just an accepted practice that a drow never opened himself up to a fiend, that he should keep his dealings strictly business, and yet here he was, sharing her bed and spilling his best-kept secrets. Still, if he had to pick a risky diversion, Aliisza was quite the prize.

  Whatever his apprehensions, Pharaun found that his steps were light as he made his way back to the Serpent and Flame. He had useful information to share with the rest of the Menzoberranyr, and he also had a couple of divinations he wanted to attempt that he hoped would clarify a bit just exactly what was going on in the Abyss. Plus, he might still have time to fulfill that request of Quenthel’s. All in all, it was turning out to be a truly memorable day.

  Despite his own elation, Pharaun could still feel the tension of the city buzzing in the air, and he was careful to avoid the worst of the crowds. After the experience of the previous day, he didn’t think it wise to get caught up in a chest-thumping competition with a congregation of disgruntled citizens. He made certain to spend most of his time floating from section to section, avoiding completely the calcified webbing ladders that connected different levels.

  The mage stopped along the way at a dingy-looking shop called Gauralt’s Spices, a place that purported to offer hard-to-find components for spellcasting. Valas had mentioned it to him that morning before they set out on their separate errands, and Pharaun found it exactly where the scout had said it would be. Of course, getting what he needed might prove to be another matter, but Gauralt, a drow male who ran the place, was able to supply him with the four strips of ivory and the particular incense he needed, and he was on his way again in no time.

  Back at the inn, none of the rest of the mage’s companions had returned. He supposed that Ryld and Valas might spend most of the day attempting to round up the needed supplies and mounts for the return journey, but he was somewhat surprised that Quenthel, Faeryl, and Jeggred had not come back from the storehouse. He couldn’t imagine what would require them to spend that much time there, but then it was just as well.

  If she was here, he told himself, she’d simply find someth
ing to snipe about, anyway.

  He began to make a mental checklist of the spells he wanted to cast. First, he would use his new components to try to track down who was trying to kill Quenthel.

  And probably offer to help, he added, grinning.

  He also planned to try again to take a peek into the Demonweb Pits.

  It was a spell he had tried more than once back in Menzoberranzan, with no luck whatsoever, but he hoped it would yield more satisfying results away from the City of Spiders. The Master of Sorcere had no basis for this supposition, but he thought it was still worth an attempt.

  Pharaun retrieved the four strips of ivory he’d acquired, along with the incense, and sat down to perform the spell. Casting it would leave him weary and low on spells, but if the knowledge he gained from it was useful, he would count the cost worthwhile.

  The mage arranged the four strips of ivory into a rectangle upon the carpeting, lit the incense, and closed his eyes. It was not a spell he cast often, and it required a careful application of chanting and specific questions. He couldn’t stumble at any point, for he didn’t know when the next opportunity to try it would arise.

  With the incense burning and the spell begun, Pharaun asked his question, beseeching the elemental forces of magic and the planes of existence to grant him a meaningful answer.

  “Reveal to me the enemy of Quenthel Baenre of House Baenre in Menzoberranzan, the enemy who seeks to destroy her, who calls forth demons to slay her in the very temple where she reigns.”

  The burning incense flared, and smoke filled the room. After a moment, a message formed in Pharaun’s mind, words uttered by the wind, or perhaps the Weave itself. However it was delivered, the message that Pharaun received was clear.

  The one who seeks the high priestess’s death shares her blood and her ambition. Quenthel’s enemy sprang from the same womb but is not of the womb.

  Pharaun blinked, his red eyes taking in the darkened room as the last remnants of the incense burned out and turned to ash.

  Sprang from the same womb but not of the womb. A sibling, but not a female. A male? A brother? Gromph! It had to be. . . .