“It was not . . .” he heard Arathis Hune say, the man’s voice slurred and his speech broken, as he, too, had not yet recovered from whatever it was that had struck the fighting pair.
“I care not,” Jarlaxle sternly replied. “My thoughts on this have been made clear to both of you.”
“Zaknafein attacked me,” Arathis Hune replied, his voice growing steadier.
“Go and retrieve your weapons and keep moving,” Jarlaxle ordered. “Out of the alley, out of the Braeryn. You and I meet tomorrow when Narbondel’s light begins to glow once more.”
Arathis Hune started to reply, but Jarlaxle interrupted with “Go!”
Zaknafein managed to pull himself to a seated position, looking back down the alley, watching his enemy depart and another drow, one he did not know, coming forward, passing the assassin without any acknowledgment at all, as far as Zaknafein could determine.
“And you,” Jarlaxle said to the unknown associate. “What am I to do with Zaknafein?”
“You’ve already done it,” Zaknafein reminded him. “For Zaknafein is Do’Urden and not Bregan D’aerthe.”
Jarlaxle sighed.
“You are the betting king,” Zaknafein told him. “Another match, then. Put that foul Hune in the alley and do not bet against me. On this one, I promise, do not bet against me.”
“We’ve already had this talk,” Jarlaxle countered.
Zaknafein looked past him to the newcomer drow, a very young man, he seemed, who stood a few steps behind Jarlaxle and appeared rather bored with this all.
“You are both valuable to me,” Jarlaxle said, drawing his attention again. “More valuable than a few sacks of gold coins. We three have many years of growing power ahead of us, my friend, and you trying to kill each other would put a serious damper on my plans.”
“To the Abyss with your plans! He tried to have me killed. By cheating. If Arathis Hune had gotten his way, I would be dead by Duvon’s hand.”
Jarlaxle shrugged. “We are drow. This is our way. We kill when we see gain. But for one of you to die—that would be to no one’s advantage here. Arathis Hune does not appreciate the true power of Bregan D’aerthe quite yet, perhaps, but he will come to see the benefit for us all with Zaknafein on our side.”
“You’re a clever fool,” Zaknafein said. He didn’t try to keep his anger out of his tone. “And a bigger fool when you believe you are at your most clever.”
“Again, we are drow. Have you not figured out what that means?”
“Tell me, Jarlaxle, what does that mean? That we should expect deception and treachery? That none are worth trusting?”
“Yes, to both!”
“Yet you ask me to trust you,” Zaknafein said, and Jarlaxle, for once, seemed at a loss for words.
Behind Jarlaxle, the young man snickered.
“Who are you?” Zaknafein demanded angrily.
“This is Kimmuriel,” Jarlaxle answered.
No one you want to anger, Zaknafein heard in his mind, and it all came together for him then. He had heard the name Kimmuriel before, in connection with House Oblodra, those of the mind magics.
Mind magics, like the unseen blast that had sent both Zaknafein and Arathis Hune spinning to the ground.
Like the kind Hune had used against him in the duel against Duvon.
Zaknafein turned his glare over Jarlaxle again, now focusing on the mercenary leader’s eyepatch and wondering if there was some way he might borrow it—just long enough for a single strike.
Dab’nay kept glancing at the black scrying pool, betraying her nervousness. She had arranged the fight, indeed, in order to garner the favor of Matron Soulez, who was trying to protect Uthegentel. The hulking weapon master of House Barrison Del’Armgo had long been watching Zaknafein, reportedly. Dab’nay knew Uthegentel only from afar, but even that cursory understanding of the man made it clear to her why Soulez was so interested in being rid of Zaknafein. Not only would that wound the ever-ambitious Matron Malice Do’Urden and likely halt her ascent, but it would stop the valuable Uthegentel from battling the man, a fight Uthegentel would likely, but not certainly, win.
What a disaster Uthegentel falling to Zaknafein would be for Soulez Armgo!
Dab’nay looked to the matron, who was also staring at the darkened pool and seeming none too happy.
“What do you think happened, Matron?” Dab’nay dared to ask.
Matron Soulez snapped her glare over to the priestess. Despite her station, Soulez wasn’t much older, Dab’nay believed. But there was no question of their relative power. Dab’nay struggled with the basics of the religion, while Soulez was a powerful high priestess, and now a matron. And Soulez played the game of Menzoberranzan better than almost anyone—her house was not as openly ambitious as House Do’Urden, but the Armgos were likely to sit their matron on the Ruling Council sooner, and certainly Soulez was destined for a higher seat on that council than Malice Do’Urden could ever hope to achieve.
If the two houses ever went to war, Malice would likely be dead within an hour.
If Zaknafein were no longer in the picture.
He might add another hour.
The pool began to shimmer once more, finally, and the alleyway came back into focus.
The empty alleyway.
“There is no blood,” Dab’nay observed.
“You will go and find out what happened,” Soulez told her. “Immediately.”
Dab’nay shuffled nervously from foot to foot. She had no idea which of the two remained alive, if not both. She had no idea whether someone had intervened—perhaps someone who had learned of her visits to House Barrison Del’Armgo, and so had figured out her role in arranging this fight.
Arathis Hune would certainly murder her if he learned of that. Zaknafein might not kill her, she thought, but in a way, that might be even more painful.
Because, she realized now, she did love him.
And yet she had arranged for him to very possibly be killed.
Dab’nay looked from the image in the scrying pool over to Matron Soulez. The woman had offered her so much—too much for her to refuse. No matter who won the fight, Dab’nay would climb within Bregan D’aerthe through simple elimination of one higher up than she, but Soulez had also promised her a place in House Barrison Del’Armgo.
She would become a priestess in a powerful house, and one that Dab’nay could not help but respect, mostly because of how expertly Matron Soulez had kept it away from the attention that could lead it to disaster.
One reason it kept such a low profile—and also a reason behind so much of its power—was how Soulez’s house used its men, specifically drawing strength from warriors and wizards, and not from its clergy, which was sparse and mostly unimpressive. The arrogant matrons of the other houses could not comprehend, or would not admit, the power of Barrison Del’Armgo without the appropriate balance of priestesses.
And yet, despite its seemingly low ranking among houses, Barrison Del’Amargo was dismissed at the other matrons’ peril.
With all that, the path for Dab’nay was alluring. If she could be brought into the house, her competition in the altar room would be akin to that she had known in House Tr’arach, an even lesser house. Other than Matron Soulez, and perhaps her promising young daughter Mez’Barris, there was little divine power to oppose her.
Yes, Dab’nay would like that. And she would know safety for the first time since her days in House Tr’arach.
She looked back at the scrying pool. A big part of her hoped Zaknafein had won the fight and Arathis Hune was dead.
But a bigger part hoped that the two had killed each other.
She didn’t want to admit that, not even to herself, but she told herself repeatedly that there was no place for love in Menzoberranzan, and even less place for honor. Even if Zaknafein had not been killed by her interference, how long might he survive?
And how long would she survive, she wondered as she departed House Barrison Del’Armgo, a question that would
be raised again not long after when she went to the Oozing Myconid and learned from barkeep Harbondair that both Zaknafein and Arathis Hune had walked out of that alleyway due to the interference of Jarlaxle himself.
Dab’nay retired immediately to one of her many rooms scattered throughout the city, and there she remained for several days, even summoning her own food and drink so that she would not be near to any potential assassins. She played through every scenario she could think of, given the disaster of the failure in the alleyway. Would Zaknafein try to kill her? Would Arathis Hune? Would Matron Soulez? She had to be prepared for the first two, but not the latter, and certainly not the possibility of both (or all three) at once. That compounded her nerves, for the two men would approach revenge very differently.
And who could know how the cunning matron would play it.
For the moment, though, it was the two men that preyed on her thoughts, especially when she considered that perhaps they would both come to see the role she had played, and figure out why she had done so, and so come after her in unison.
Few in the city could survive a determined murder attempt by those two.
Many times over the next half tenday, Dab’nay told herself that she was being foolish, that her role in the fight had been a minor thing, after all, and that it was more likely that both Zaknafein and Arathis would thank her than blame her for the chance at killing the other.
Still, when the soft knock came on her door on the fifth day of her self-imposed exile, poor Dab’nay nearly jumped out of her slippers.
She moved to the door and listened.
“Don’t bother opening it,” came a voice from behind her, and she whirled about to see Jarlaxle sitting on the edge of her bed. “I only bothered to knock to announce that you had a visitor.”
“Well met, then,” Dab’nay replied, trying to stay calm. “I was about to have some supper—I have gotten quite good at summoning feasts that are as tasty as they are filling. Would you care to join me?”
“How could I possibly refuse?” asked the ever-cagey mercenary.
Dab’nay had not been lying about her growing proficiency in summoning food and drink, and she conjured up a feast worthy of the station of her guest, to which Jarlaxle added his own touch by producing a bottle of vintage Feywine from his magical pouch.
“You have not been about of late,” Jarlaxle remarked almost as soon as they had started their meal. “I grew worried that perhaps I had lost a powerful ally. Bregan D’aerthe is not rich in those with divine powers, of course.”
“Just that, of course,” Dab’nay replied, a bit more testily than she had intended. As she considered her reflexive response, and Jarlaxle’s answering dumbfounded expression, she really didn’t care at that moment. Perhaps it was past time that someone put this arrogant rogue in his place.
“Do you need a proclamation of mutual interest and benefit?” Jarlaxle asked.
“I do not even know what that means,” she answered. She knew what she really wanted but wasn’t about to say it. The proclamation that Dab’nay desperately wanted was one of friendship and loyalty.
She wasn’t going to get it, though, and knew that she couldn’t. Rarely would a drow in Menzoberranzan leave themself that vulnerable.
“I am glad that you are well, Priestess Dab’nay. Truly.” He lifted his Feywine in a toast to her.
She accepted that, even tapped her glass against his, and told herself that she should be satisfied with that, for it was more than most would get from any dark elf. She believed it, too, and would have believed Jarlaxle if he had indeed called her a friend, just as she believed that Zaknafein truly cared for her.
As she took her sip, she was glad the glass was hiding her frown, for Dab’nay realized that the cruel little woman she had thrown in with, Matron Soulez Armgo, would never see her that way.
Never.
“How fare your two lieutenants?” she asked.
“Three.”
That was a surprise to Dab’nay, and her heart flitted a bit. Was he offering her such a position?
“I have found a third,” Jarlaxle went on. “A new companion to us all, and one whose value cannot be underestimated.”
Dab’nay stared at him blankly.
“You will meet him soon enough, I expect.”
“Who?”
Jarlaxle held up his hand and shook his head. “It is not my place to introduce him when he is not beside me.”
Dab’nay took another drink, this time to hide her scowl.
“As to Zaknafein and Arathis Hune,” Jarlaxle said, “they are well. Zaknafein is back by Matron Malice’s side, and there to stay for some long while, I would think. She’ll not risk him again anytime soon. Whispers say that Mali— Matron Malice is preparing another ascent among the city hierarchy.”
Dab’nay knew that his slip of the tongue in referring to Matron Malice as simply Malice was Jarlaxle’s way of taking a measure of her. She was a priestess of Lolth, and no true priestess of Lolth would let such a break in etiquette go unscolded.
But Dab’nay remained impassive.
“Arathis Hune is out of the city,” Jarlaxle went on, apparently satisfied with her lack of response. “His mission might take him all the way to Ched Nasad.”
Dab’nay searched Jarlaxle’s red eyes for a hint of deception. Wouldn’t that be a convenient story to get her off her guard, so that Arathis Hune could kill her quickly?
He continued, “When do you expect to be returned to the Oozing Myconid?”
“That I might meet your new lieutenant?” she answered coldly. “Do you expect me to bow?”
“To no one!” Jarlaxle was quick to reply. “Of course not. Ah, dear Dab’nay, I hear the anger behind your words. And I understand it. But I am surprised to have to explain this to you: You will never assume a position in the top ranks of Bregan D’aerthe. Not openly, at least. Do you think that Matron Mother Baenre and the others of the Ruling Council would ever allow such a thing of a priestess of Lolth? As far as they are concerned, as far as they must ever be concerned, you are an associate, an independent priestess who sometimes works with Bregan D’aerthe, and always with fine recompense.”
“As one can discern from my lavish surroundings,” Dab’nay replied sarcastically.
Jarlaxle rose to leave. He paused and looked around the large and somewhat well-furnished room, which they both knew was one of several Dab’nay owned. “Better this than where Dab’nay found herself after the disaster of House Tr’arach’s attack on House Simfray.”
“A battle my house won.”
“A battle you lost,” Jarlaxle corrected. “To the death of Matron Hauzz.”
“Only because—” she started to argue, her ire flaring.
Jarlaxle stopped her with an upraised hand. “It was a drow house war,” he said. “There is no ‘only because.’ House Tr’arach found disaster because greater forces than House Simfray were allied against them.”
“Including you.”
“Including me. Which is the only reason you survived. Or your brother, for that matter.”
The two stared at each other for a long while, then Jarlaxle tapped his forehead in a semi-salute and departed through the room’s door—which was locked, but which opened to his verbal call before he ever touched it!
Dab’nay sat there for a long while, not even bothering to get up and shut the door, pondering the conversation. Jarlaxle had openly placed a limitation upon her ascent within his mercenary band, but strangely, she was not angry, and was not even glad then that she had thrown in her lot with Matron Soulez. It took her a while to sort through that seeming paradox. If she couldn’t climb the ladder of Bregan D’aerthe, shouldn’t she logically want to join House Barrison Del’Armgo?
But Dab’nay couldn’t deny the truth of Jarlaxle’s reasoning. Were he to elevate Dab’nay or any other priestess within his band to a position of official leadership, particularly now that Bregan D’aerthe was growing quite powerful, some of the matrons would likely
see them as a threat, perhaps even as a potential new house, and one more dangerous because it was mobile, ethereal even, and with business connections to the greatest houses in the city.
She couldn’t sort through it. Not then.
Nor was she sure how she felt about Zaknafein being trapped within House Do’Urden. She missed his caress and his kiss, but perhaps it was for the better. At least with him in there beside Malice, the cruel Soulez could not soon try to arrange his demise once again.
Dab’nay got up and went to close the door, carefully checking the hallway.
She hoped that Arathis Hune was really out of the city, and hoped, too, that he would stay away for a long, long time.
Chapter 15
Every Angle
The young drow warrior peered over the edge of the balcony, trying to stay out of sight. He didn’t want the man in the mostly empty chamber below him to know he was there. To him, it was like watching a woman undressing or a priestess at prayer. If the target knew he was there, watching, the thrill would not be the same, nor would the insights he hoped to gain.
Dinin Do’Urden, secondboy of the house, had gone to great lengths to manipulate this area of the balcony ringing House Do’Urden’s training gymnasium so that he might watch the display below unnoticed.
Now, finally, his efforts had paid off.
Below him stood Zaknafein, the drow whose reputation was spreading far and wide across the winding ways of Menzoberranzan. Stripped to the waist, sinewy muscles glistening with sweat, the man had already completed the more energetic part of his daily training ritual.
Now he stood calmly, his back not quite square with Dinin’s position. His arms hung loosely at his sides—he was affecting a posture of relaxation, a normal pose in an unthreatening situation. Before him and to the right, a large rat sat up on its haunches, chewing some tidbit it had found.
Dinin didn’t understand that. There were not supposed to be rats in House Do’Urden; how might one have gotten into this room?
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