The tent they inhabited at the rear of the siege lines was cloaked in enchantments that would prevent anyone from overhearing, peeking in, or spying on them in any conceivable way, but still Aliisza felt exposed.
“That lake,” she said, her eyes drifting around the silk-draped confines of the tent, “is the dullest place I’ve ever been, and I’ve spent time in duergar cities.”
Vhok took a small sip of the brandy and closed his eyes, savoring it. Aliisza had long ago gotten over not being offered any.
“It’s a dreary, gray cave,” she added. “I mean, the air is actually gray. It’s awful.”
Vhok opened his eyes and shrugged, waiting for more.
“They captured the captain,” she continued.
“An uridezu?” the cambion asked.
Aliisza nodded, lifting an eyebrow at the oddly accurate guess.
“Sometimes,” Vhok said, “I think you forget what I am.”
“I remember,” she said hastily.
Kaanyr Vhok was a cambion, the son of a human father and a demon mother. He shared the most dangerous qualities of both those chaotic animals.
Aliisza reached out a hand and shifted on the sofa.
“Come,” she said. “Sit with me, and I’ll tell you everything I saw. Every last detail. For the war effort.”
Vhok downed the rest of the brandy in one gulp, set the glass down, and took Aliisza’s hand. His olive skin looked dark and rich against her own pale flesh. Not as dark as Pharaun’s of course, but . . .
“Sounds to me,” the cambion said as he slid onto the sofa next to his demon lover, “as if these drow are planning a trip.”
“They are past planning,” she said.
“They are past foolishness,” replied Vhok. “Typical drow, serving a chaotic mistress with such strident lawfulness. Always marching in lockstep, with their Houses and their laws and their infantile traditions. No wonder the spider bitch turned her back on them. I’m surprised she suffered their nonsense this long.”
Aliisza smiled, showing perfect teeth—human teeth she chose for intimate occasions. She’d found over the decades that even Vhok could be put off by her jagged fangs. Aliisza smiled often and nearly as often changed the size and shape of her teeth to fit her mood.
“You think too little of them,” she cautioned. “One or two drow have proven interesting. One or two of the interesting ones, together, can prove dangerous.”
Vhok answered with a noncommittal grunt then said, “I suppose I should apologize for calling you back from the Lake of Shadows before you could make contact with this wizard of yours. It was unforgivably officious of me.”
The alu-demon leaned in closer and let the tip of her tongue play along the edge of Vhok’s pointed ear. He sat still, responding in ways more than simply physical. Aliisza could feel herself flush.
“You will get us both in trouble,” the cambion whispered to her, “with the wrong dalliances.”
“Or make us both triumphant,” she replied, “with the right ones.”
Vhok didn’t bother answering, and Aliisza moved to whisper very close, very quietly into his ear, “They could do it. The ship of chaos could get them there.”
Vhok nodded, and Aliisza tried to read that response. She thought he was happy with her at least for being as discreet as she was with that opinion, even in the spell-warded tent.
She began to unbutton his tunic, teasing him with each slow twist of her fingers, each incremental loosening of his clothing. Aliisza knew what to expect of Kaanyr Vhok without his clothes. Though from all appearances the marquis cambion was an aging half-elf from the World Above, his chest, arms, and legs were covered in green scales. That demon’s flesh was a sight few had ever lived to see twice.
“They go in search of the spider bitch,” Vhok said, twisting to help her more easily slide his tunic off.
“They mean to wake her?” Aliisza asked, turning her attention to the glistening scales on Vhok’s broad chest.
“They mean to take their quest for her favor to her sticky little throne,” the cambion replied, “or her sticky little bed . . . or her sticky little tomb, and wake her from her sleep. You say they’ve been feeding the ship?”
“A constant diet of manes,” she whispered into his ear.
Vhok nodded as he began to undress her.
“The wizard?” he asked.
“Pharaun,” she answered.
“He can do it, then,” Vhok decided. “A Master of Sorcere no less, with the captain enthralled.”
“They can get to the Demonweb Pits,” she said, “but do you think they can wake her?”
“No,” came a startling third voice in what Aliisza was sure was a tent occupied by only two.
Both of them stood and in a thought had their swords in their hands. The blades, identical to the finest detail, practically hummed with magical energy. They stood back-to-back, a defensive stance born of instinct more than practice.
Aliisza could see no one but could feel Vhok tense behind her. She had come to know his moods well, and what she sensed from him was anger, not fear. Aliisza continued to scan the room until a figure presented itself.
“Nimor,” Aliisza breathed.
“A dangerous decision,” Vhok said to the shadowy figure of the drow assassin, “walking in here unannounced.”
“Believe me,” Nimor replied, stepping into the warm torchlight nearer the center of the tent, “voyeurism was the last thing on my mind. As you said, Lord Vhok, there is business to be handled. Besides, I didn’t ‘walk’ in.”
Vhok slipped his sword, a blade he called “Burnblood,” back into its sheath and stepped away from Aliisza. With slow, deliberate motions, he picked up his tunic and slipped it back on, covering the scaly flesh he so seldom exposed.
The edge of Nimor’s thin lips slipped up in wry amusement. Something about that reaction made Aliisza uneasy—more so than normal when in the assassin’s presence.
“What business brings you here now, Anointed Blade?” asked Vhok.
“That drow expedition, of course,” the assassin replied. “They have found a ship of chaos, and they mean to pay their sleeping goddess a visit?”
The assassin was looking at Aliisza, expecting an answer. She sheathed her own sword and slipped back down to the sofa, never taking her eyes off the dark elf. The alu-fiend didn’t bother refastening the clasps Vhok had undone on her bodice.
“There’s very little reason to suspect they’ll succeed,” said Vhok.
“Would you agree, Aliisza?” Nimor asked.
Aliisza shrugged and said, “They have a wizard with them who could likely handle the ship. I became acquainted with him in Ched Nasad just before the end, and I found him quite capable.”
“Ah, yes,” Nimor said, “Pharaun Mizzrym. He could be the next archmage, or so I hear. If his name were Baenre, that is.”
“They could do it,” Vhok said.
Nimor took a deep breath and said, “There are a thousand things that could go wrong between the Lake of Shadows and the Abyss, and a thousand thousand things could go wrong between the edge of the Abyss and the sixty-sixth layer.”
“What will they find there, Nimor?” Aliisza asked, genuinely curious.
Nimor smiled, and Aliisza momentarily thrilled at his feral expression.
“I haven’t the vaguest notion,” he answered.
“If they find Lolth?” asked Vhok.
“If they find Lolth,” said Nimor, “and she’s dead, then we can settle in for as long a siege as necessary. Menzoberranzan is doomed. If she sleeps and they can’t wake her or if she has simply decided to abandon her faithful on this world, the same is true. If she sleeps and they do wake her or she is ignoring them and they regain her favor, well, that would pose a difficulty for us.”
“How do we know what they’ll find?” asked the cambion.
“We don’t,” Nimor answered.
The dark elf folded his arms across his chest and tipped his head down. His features
grew tighter, darker as he wrapped himself in thought.
“Let them go, but . . .” Aliisza suggested, the words tripping over her tongue before she’d thought them through.
“Send someone with them,” Nimor finished for her.
The alu-fiend smiled, showing a row of yellow-white fangs.
“Agrach Dyrr is alone,” Triel Baenre said. “Alone and under siege.”
Gromph nodded but didn’t look at his sister. He was captivated by the sight of Menzoberranzan. The City of Spiders stretched out before him, ablaze in faerie fire, magnificent in its chaos, in its perversion of nature—a cave made into a home.
“Good,” Gromph replied, “but don’t assume they’ll give up easily. They have loyal servants of their own and allies who make up for what they lack in intelligence with superiority of numbers.”
From where they stood on a high belvedere on the outside edge of one of the westernmost spires of the House Baenre complex, Gromph had a largely unobstructed view of the subterranean city. The Baenre palace stood against the southern wall of the huge cavern, atop the second tier of a wide rock shelf. It was the First House, and its position above the rest of the city was more than symbolic.
“They may have thrown in with the gray dwarves,” Andzrel Baenre said, “but no dark elf in Menzoberranzan fights on their behalf.”
Gromph turned to his left and looked west across the high ground of Qu’ellarz’orl. Before him was the high stalagmite tower of House Xorlarrin and beyond that the cluster of stalactites and stalagmites that housed the treasonous Agrach Dyrr. Flashes of fire and lightning—the work of Xorlarrin’s formidable and plentiful mages—flickered across the ground and in the air around Dyrr’s manor. The lichdrow who was the rebel House’s master was holed up inside there somewhere, and his own mages answered back with fire and thunder of their own. Gromph could feel his sister Triel and the weapons master Andzrel behind him, waiting for him to speak.
“It seems as if I’ve been gone a very, very long time,” Gromph said, his voice subdued but carefully modulated to covey to his sister his grave disappointment at the state of the war.
He could sense Triel stiffen behind him then shake his words off.
“You have been,” she said, letting no small amount of acid into her own voice, “but let us not dwell on failures in the face of such grave danger to all we hold dear.”
Gromph allowed himself a smile and glanced back over his shoulder at his sister. She was staring at him, her arms folded in front of her, cradling them as if she were cold. He turned back to the ongoing stalemate around the foot of Agrach Dyrr and noted with some satisfaction how well his new eyes were seeing. The blurring and the pain were mostly gone, leaving Gromph to enjoy the irony of watching House Agrach Dyrr fall with a set of Agrach Dyrr eyes.
“Not all the Houses are at our beck and call, though, are they?” he asked.
Triel sighed and said, “It is still Menzoberranzan, and we are still dark elves. Houses Xorlarrin and Faen Tlabbar are firmly with us. Faen Tlabbar brings with it House Srune’lett, who’s strongly allied with House Duskryn. Of the lesser Houses we can rely on Symryvvin, Hunzrin, Vandree, and Mizzrym to serve us.”
“That’s all?” Gromph asked after a pause.
“Barrison Del’Armgo perhaps still stings over Oblodra,” Triel replied. “They remain loyal to Menzoberranzan, and they fight, but they keep their own council.”
“And carry their own allies,” Gromph added.
“Thankfully, no,” Triel corrected, obviously pleased with proving her brother wrong at the same time she was pleased that that powerful House was on its own. “The other lesser Houses remain neutral but offer their assets in defense of the city. Better a dark elf neighbor you hate than a duergar in any capacity.”
“Or a tanarukk,” Gromph added.
“Or a tanarukk,” his sister agreed.
Gromph turned his attention back to the city at large. There were very few drow in the streets and the archmage could see columns of troops moving, some at double time, through the winding thoroughfares.
“The city is quiet,” he commented.
“The city,” Andzrel cut in, “is hard under siege.”
Gromph bristled at that but knew better than to kill the messenger, at least in that case.
“We are surrounded on all sides, but we’re fighting,” the weapons master continued, “and will continue to fight. Our own forces hold Qu’ellarz’orl and are moving to support House Hunzrin in Donigarten north.”
“The siege of Agrach Dyrr,” Triel offered, “is largely House Xorlarrin’s, and they seem to have it well in hand.”
“Is the lichdrow dead?” asked Gromph.
There was a pause, during which neither the matron mother nor the weapons master bothered to answer.
“Then they could have a firmer hand,” the archmage concluded.
Andzrel cleared his throat and continued, “Faen Tlabbar, aside from blocking Agrach Dyrr’s retreat west, guards the southwest approaches to the Dark Dominion from the Web to the western tip of Qu’ellarz’orl. They face the largest concentration of gray dwarves, assisted by House Srune’lett. Faen Tlabbar also supports House Duskryn’s efforts to hold the caves north of the Westrift.”
“Well,” said Gromph with a wry edge to his voice, “isn’t Faen Tlabbar impressive.”
“They are,” Triel agreed, “and Srune’lett and Duskryn require no more proof. If Faen Tlabbar were to betray us, they would take those two Houses with them at least.”
“Why in all the Underdark might they do that?” Gromph joked.
Triel laughed, and the weapons master cleared his throat.
“What of the lesser Houses?” Gromph asked.
“Symryvvin assists Duskryn above the Westrift,” Andzrel said.
“Another probably in Ghenni’s pocket, should it come to that,” Triel commented.
Gromph shrugged and said, “If they defend Menzoberranzan now, let them make plans for afterward. If we survive, we survive as First House.”
“I agree, Archmage,” said Andzrel.
Gromph turned to look at the warrior, letting a cold gaze linger over the drow’s rough features and battle-scarred armor.
“Of course you do,” the archmage said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Andzrel looked down then looked at Triel, who only smiled at him.
“House . . .” the weapons master began, obviously thinking it safer to continue his debriefing than further patronize the powerful archmage with his support. He cleared his throat and continued, “House Hunzrin is hard pressed against forces of the Scoured Legion in Donigarten north. Vandree holds well against duergar south of the Westrift. Mizzrym lends what it can to Xorlarrin’s efforts against Agrach Dyrr, and they also send patrols into the mushroom forest where they’ve encountered the odd spy.”
“The tanarukks are mostly in the east, then?” Gromph asked.
“As one would expect, Archmage,” the weapons master risked. “They marched from below Hellgate Keep, which lies to our east. The duergar are from Gracklstugh.”
Gromph let a breath out slowly through his nose.
“I never thought I’d live to see the day,” Triel murmured. “Gracklstugh . . .”
“The tanarukks are more formidable foes,” Gromph went on, ignoring his sister. “Tell me that more than House Hunzrin are holding against them.”
“Barrison Del’Armgo fights well in the south of Donigarten,” Andzrel replied, “against the largest concentration of the Scoured Legion.”
“Mez’Barris will have her heroes,” Triel sighed.
“North?” Gromph asked.
“Barrison Del’Armgo again, with help from the Academy, holds the Clawrift,” replied the weapons master, “mostly east into Eastmyr. The duergar are thin there. There have been reports of illithid incursions—mostly one or two at a time—in the east, from beyond the Wanderways.”
“The flayers sense weakness,” Gromph said. “They’re scavengers.
They’ll harry us when they can and disappear entirely when they can’t. Some of them can prove . . . irritating, but they’ll wait till we’re weaker—if we let ourselves get weaker— before they appear in force.”
Neither Triel nor Andzrel risked comment on that.
“And the other Houses?” asked Gromph.
“They protect themselves,” Triel answered. “They patrol the immediate surrounds of their manors, assist in keeping the peace in the streets, and I’d prefer to believe, they await command.”
“Well,” said Gromph, “I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough. Still, I’d have liked more allies within our own damned city.”
“Tier Breche is with us,” Triel said, “though I doubt I have to tell you that. In Quenthel’s absence, Arach-Tinilith answers only to me. I know you have done well in your return to power at Sorcere, and Melee-Magthere will always fight should one raise a blade against the City of Spiders.”
“Your gold has paid for the mercenaries, I assume,” Gromph said.
Triel shrugged and replied, “Bregan D’aerthe is on extended contract, though the Abyss knows where Jarlaxle’s been. It’ll take every dead duergar’s gold teeth to replenish our coffers in the end, but in the meantime, Bregan D’aerthe act as infiltrators and scouts and are moving forces throughout the city to monitor and support the lesser Houses.”
“Much of what we’ve told you today, Archmage,” Andzrel offered, “came from Bregan D’aerthe reports.”
“Good for them,” Gromph lied.
“Menzoberranzan will stand,” Andzrel declared.
“But not forever,” Triel added.
“Not for long,” said Gromph.
There was a long silence. Gromph spent the time watching the flickering of valuable battle magic being spent against House Agrach Dyrr.
“What will be left?” asked Triel after a time.
“Matron Mother,” Andzrel said, “Archmage, in my opinion the greatest threat from within the city is no longer Agrach Dyrr but Barrison Del’Armgo.”
Gromph lifted an eyebrow and turned to look at the weapons master.
“Even without any of the lesser Houses at their side,” the warrior went on, “they are the greatest threat to the First House’s power. Matron Mother Armgo is already making overtures to many of the lesser Houses, especially Hunzrin and Kenafin.”
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