The wizard struggled not to make a sound. Still, the huge creature, half spider, half drow, a bow in its hand and a quiver of arrows slung across its naked back, turned toward him. Pharaun had no fear of a single such aberration, but the goddess only knew just how elaborate this trap actually was. He whirled back toward the magical doorway just as Ryld came through.
Ryld, who'd slain his share of driders in the caverns surrounding Menzoberranzan, knew that this one—a hybrid creature with the head, arms, and torso of a dark elf male married to the body and segmented legs of a colossal spider—was larger than average; a robust example of its species, if species was the proper term. Nature didn't make them, magic did. Sometimes, when the goddess deemed one of her worshipers insufficiently reverent, the punishment was transformation at the hands of a circle of priestesses and a demon called a yochlol. The Master of Melee-Magthere naturally focused on the venomous aberration as soon as he stepped through the portal, but like every competent warrior—and unlike Pharaun, evidently—he also took in the disposition of the entire area. The portal had deposited them in a large, unfurnished hall with a number of openings along the wall. It was the sort of central hub used in castles to link the various wings. A couple males were wandering through, and while neither had ventured into the drider's immediate vicinity, they weren't preparing to attack him or flee from him, either. Nor did the creature himself appear on the verge of assaulting anyone, though he regarded the newcomers with a scowl.
Somewhat pleased to be ahead of his clever friend for once, Ryld gripped Pharaun by the shoulder. «Steady,» the swordsman said. «Don't embarrass yourself.» The wizard looked around, then grinned and said, «Right. Our friends didn't trick us into entering a trap. The drider's magically constrained.» «No.»
Ryld glanced back to see that the two bogus orcs had stepped through the portal, which dwindled to nothing behind them. It was the bigger and more talkative of the duo who was speaking. «The driders help us of their own free will.» «Interesting,» said Pharaun. In the blink of an eye, the goblinoids turned into an aristocratic warrior—Houndaer Tuin'Tarl, specifically, whom Ryld had trained—and a craftsman of one sort or another. The prince closed the portal with a wave of his arm. «Do you still use that second-intention indirect attack?» Ryld asked. «That was a nice move.» For the first time, Houndaer smiled a smile that had neither malice nor suspicion in it. «You remember that, Master? It's been so long, I'm surprised you even remember me.» «I always remember the ones who truly learn.»
«Well, thank you. It's good to have you with us, and you're going to be glad you are. Great things are in store.» the noble said. The drider scuttled toward them. «All, here comes Tsabrak. You'll see his mind isn't sluggish or otherwise crippled, yet he's on our side nonetheless.»
In point of fact, the drider didn't look especially congenial. The length of his legs lifted his head above those of the four dark elves, and he glared down at them with eyes full of madness and hate. Ryld inferred that Tsabrak had entered into a typical Menzoberranyr alliance. He'd thrown in with the runaways to secure some practical advantage, but he still loathed all the drow who'd deformed him and cast him out. «What is this?» the drider snarled, exposing his fangs. They seemed to impede his speech a trifle. «Syrzan said no!» Syrzan wasn't a typical drow name, but Ryld had no idea to which other race it might belong. He glanced over at Pharaun, who conveyed with a subtle shrug that he didn't know, either. «Syrzan is my ally, not my superior,» said Houndaer, glaring back at the spider-thing. «I make my own decisions, and I've decided these gentlemen can help us. They're masters of Tier Breche—» «I know who they are!» Tsabrak screamed, flecks of foam, perhaps mixed with venom, flying from his lips. «Do you think me a mindless beast? I studied on Tier Breche the same as anyone!» «Then you know how useful their talents could be,» said the craftsman, «and how unlikely it is they can do us any harm, particularly now that the prince has disarmed them.» «Just point us to Syrzan,» Houndaer said. «It will allay your fears.» It? Ryld wondered. «I can't,» the drider said. «It's gone off somewhere.» «Where?» Houndaer asked. «Agitating slaves? Acquiring more magic fire from its secret source? How do I know? You'll just have to sit on these two until it gets back.»
«That's all right,» the noble said. «Master Argith and I can reminisce 'bout old times. We'll all wait in the room where Syrzan interviewed the other recruits.» «Perhaps you'd care to tag along,» the craftsman said, «to make absolutely sure the masters don't cause any trouble.» Pharaun beamed up at the bloodthirsty aberration and asked, «Please? There are half a dozen questions concerning drider existence that have perplexed me for years.» Tsabrak ignored him, instead glowering at Houndaer and the artisan as if he suspected them of playing a trick on him. Finally, he said, «Yes. I'll go. Somebody with sense needs to be there.» «Fine.» Houndaer nodded to Ryld and Pharaun and said, «Come this way.» The masters and their hosts, or captors, set off through a maze of passageways. As promised, Pharaun treated Tsabrak to a barrage of questions, and, when the drider failed to respond, cheerfully answered himself with a gush of scholarly speculation. Ryld paid little attention. He was too busy studying the rogues' citadel, a forlorn and dusty place where Pharaun's monologue echoed away into the quiet. No servants were in evidence, merely runaway males and driders, who often recognized their former instructors and curiously peered after them. The marks of magical attacks, bursts of lightning and sprays of acid, scarred the walls. By all appearances, the conspirators were hiding in the seat of a House extinguished by its enemies. No one was supposed to take possession of such a fortress without the Baenre's permission, and few would dare. The vacant castles were supposedly cursed and haunted places, breeding grounds for sickness, insanity, and bad luck. As if to compound the potential for ill fortune, the squatters had broken the copious shrouds of spiderweb wherever they impeded traffic and even in corners where they didn't. At one point, the masters and their warders passed a row of small octagonal windows. The glass was gone but the molded calcite frames remained. Ryld glanced out and saw mansions shining green and violet far below. The rogues had taken a stalactite castle, hanging from the cavern ceiling, for their hiding place. No doubt the isolation had attracted them. A minute later, the little procession reached its destination, a chapel with rows of benches, a crooked aisle snaking up the middle to an asymmetrical basalt altar, and murals, agleam with silvery phosphorescence, carved in bas-relief on the walls and ceiling. To Ryld's surprise, these last depicted not the Demonweb but other hells entirely devoid of spiders, yochlols, or the goddess Lolth herself. Apparently the House that once abode here had sacrificed to forbidden deities. Perhaps that transgression had contributed to its downfall. The dark elves settled themselves in the pews. While Houndaer and the commoner seemed convinced of the masters' claim of estrangement from Tier Breche, they nonetheless retained possession of the newcomers' gear. Tsabrak crouched just inside the door, his legs splayed out on either side of the entrance. «I admire the decor,» Pharaun said. «Without even trying, I noticed images of Cyric, Orcus, Bane, Ghaunadaur, and Vhaeraun. Quite a nice selection of patron powers for the discriminating worshiper.» «We're not looking for a new god,» Houndaer spat.
«I'm sure,» the wizard said. «Perhaps you'd be kind enough to tell Master Argith and me what your grand and glorious scheme is all about. And why now?» «Why now?» the noble asked. «Our fellowship has existed for decades,» the craftsman cut in, «though it's only recently that we all eloped and took up residence here full time. Formerly we merely gathered for an hour or two every fortnight or so.» «If you're a male,» Houndaer said, «and utterly dissatisfied with your place in Menzoberranzan, you need some sort of a refuge, don't you?» «I quite agree,» the wizard said. «Of course, others have opted for a merchant House, the Academy, or Bregan D'aerthe.»
Houndaer made a spitting sound. «Those are just places to hide from the matrons.
This is a fortress for males who want to turn Menzoberranzan upside down and put ourselves o
n top. Why not? Aren't our mages and even our warriors as powerful as the clergy?» Pharaun grinned and said, «They certainly are now that the priestesses have mislaid their magic.» Houndaer blinked. «You know about that?»
«I've inferred it. You obviously know as well. Otherwise, you wouldn't run about breaking spiderwebs simply for the fun of it, to say nothing of putting your master plan into motion. I'd be curious to hear how you found out and if you know why.» «We don't know why,» Houndaer said, shaking his head. «We started to figure it out after a couple of us saw priestesses die fighting gricks out in the Bauthwaf. The bitches should've used spells to save themselves, but they didn't, and we guessed it was because they couldn't. After that, we kept our eyes open and waylaid a few clerics to see what they'd do to defend themselves. Everything we learned supported our theory.»
Pharaun sighed and said, «Then you aren't in touch with some chatty informant in the realms of the divine. Like me, you merely observed and deduced. What a pity. Aren't you, in your ignorance, apprehensive that Lolth will rekindle the priestesses' magic just when it's least convenient?» «Maybe the goddess turned against the clergy because it's our turn to rule,» said the commoner. «Who's to say? In any case, this is our chance, and we're taking it.» «Your chance to do what?» asked Ryld. «You talk as if you intend to revolt, but instead you're inciting the slaves into an uprising.» Houndaer cursed. «You know that, too?»
«We stumbled on it while looking for you,» Pharaun explained. He brushed a stray strand of his coiffure back into place. His white hair shone like ghost flesh in the soft light shining from the carvings. «As Master Argith noted, on first inspection, whipping the undercreatures into a lather would seem irrelevant to your objective.» «Look deeper,» the noble said. «We're canny enough to know we can't topple the matriarchy all at once. Even without their spells, our mothers and sisters are too powerful. They have too many talismans, fortresses, and, most importantly, troops and vassals serving out of fear.» «I begin to comprehend, and I apologize for not giving you sufficient credit,»
Pharaun said. «This is merely the opening gambit in a sava game that will last a number of years.» «When fighting engulfs Menzoberranzan,» Houndaer said, «and the clerics cast no spells to put down the revolt, their weakness will become apparent to everyone.
Meanwhile, our brotherhood will take advantage of the chaos to assassinate those females who pose the greatest obstacles to our ambitions. With luck, the orcs will account for a few more. At the end of the day, our gender's position in the scheme of things will be considerably stronger, and every male in the city will start aspiring to supremacy.
«In the years to come, our cabal will do whatever we can to diminish the females and put ourselves in their place. One day soon, we'll see a noble House commanded by a male and eventually, a master in every House.» He smiled and added, «Needless to say, a master who belongs to this fraternity. I'll enjoy ruling over House Tuin'Tarl, and I imagine that you, Brother of Sorcere, wouldn't say no to primacy over your own family.» Pharaun nodded and said, «You're far too canny to have forgotten we've all gone rogue. .» «Our kin will welcome us back once we've weakened them to the point where they're desperate for reinforcements. We'll concoct tales of travels to the far ends of the Underdark, or something. It won't matter to them when they're desperate enough.»
«Indeed, you've plotted everything out so shrewdly that I only see one potential pitfall, Pharaun said. «What if the goblins and gnolls should actually succeed in slaughtering us all, or at least inflicting such damage on our city that the devastation breaks our hearts?» Houndaer stared at the mage for a moment, then laughed. «For a moment, I almost thought you serious.» Pharaun grinned. «Forgive me. I have a perverse fondness for japes at inappropriate moments, as Master Argith will attest.» Houndaer smiled at Ryld and said, «I'd just as soon hear him attest that I mastered all those lessons on strategy he pounded into my skull.» «You did,» said Ryld, and perhaps it was true. His instincts told him that this scheme, outlandish as it seemed, might work, and he abruptly realized he didn't know how he felt about the possibility. He and Pharaun had infiltrated the rogues to betray them, to placate the archmage, and because the Mizzrym wizard had some vague notion that they'd achieve greater status and power and thus a permanent cure for Ryld's formless dissatisfaction, thereby. Yet now the conspirators were offering high rank and a role in a grand adventure. Perhaps, then, the teachers should become in truth the rebels they were pretending to be. The warrior glanced over at Pharaun. With a flick of his fingers so subtle that no one else would notice, the wizard signed one word in the silent language: Persevere.
Ryld took it to mean that his friend, with his usual acuity, had divined what he was thinking and was urging him to hold to their original intent. He gave a tiny nod of assent. He didn't know if Pharaun was making a wise choice, but he did realize he wouldn't even be here listening to this apocalyptic talk if his friend hadn't asked for his aid. When all was said and done, Ryld had descended from Melee-Magthere to help the wizard achieve his ends, and that was what he was going to do.
Pharaun turned to Tsabrak and said, «I assume the driders have allied themselves with the conspiracy because the boys promised you a place of honor in the splendid Menzoberranzan to come. Perhaps they even pledged to find a way to transform you back into a drow.» «Something like that,» Tsabrak sneered. «Mainly, though, those of us who joined did it for the chance to kill lots and lots of priestesses.» «I can't say I blame you,» Pharaun said. «Well, gentlemen, your plans are inspiring to say the least. I'm glad we sought you out.» «So am I,» said Ryld. «The only things I'm still hazy on,» the mage continued, «are Syrzan and the Prophet one and the same? I see by your expressions that they are. Who is … it really, and what power does it use to so enthrall the goblins?» «I think you're about to find out,» Houndaer said. An instant later, something droned through the air, almost like a noise, but not. Actually, the sensation existed solely within the mind. Pharaun turned, and Tsabrak scuttled aside to reveal the robed figure in the doorway. Ryld felt a jolt of dismay. Afraid it was already too late, he sprang up from the bench.
EIGHTEEN
Off to Faeryl's left stood an iron maiden cast in the form of a tubby jester in cap and bells. The bells looked real, and would evidently jingle while a victim writhed inside. The device was open just a crack, not enough to expose the spikes inside. Straight ahead, a chain and hook dangled from their pulley, fishing for a prisoner to hoist, and a rack waited to stretch one. To the left, a brazier of coals threw off dazzling heat, and a collection of probes, knives, pincers, and pears hung on their pegs. Her nemesis, the small male with all the ugly baubles, lounged in that vicinity in an iron chair with shackles attached to the armrests. That was about as much as the envoy could see while roped naked to a molded calcite post. She was hungry, thirsty, and sore from standing for hours in one position. Her bonds chafed her, and her head ached. However, she had yet to endure one of the genuine agonies this stuffy cellar provided, and she thought she knew why. Some messenger had instructed the torturers to wait for Triel to arrive before commencing the festivities. Faeryl had already attempted to converse with the little male and her jailers and failed to elicit a response from either. She had nothing else to do but struggle to govern her thoughts. She didn't want to imagine all the things the Baenre might do to her, but she herself had presided over enough excruciations that it was difficult not to envision the possibilities. She didn't want to dwell on the massacre of her followers, either, but the memories kept welling up inside her. Surrounded and outnumbered, the daughters and sons of Ched Nasad had perished one by one. As Faeryl watched the slaughter, her eyes ached with the tears she refused to shed. Naturally, she didn't «love» her minions, but she was used to them, even fond of a few, and she knew that without a retinue she was nothing, just a fallen priestess in a land of enemies, bereft of goddess and home alike. Then the small male confronted her and used his magic to confound her and knock her out. She woke ti
ed to the stone stake. A door creaked, and voices murmured. Faeryl's instincts warned her that Triel had come at last. The ambassador closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, composing herself. She wouldn't show fear. Dignity was all she had left—for a little while longer anyway, until her captors lashed and burned it out of her. Sure enough, Triel and her draegloth son emerged from the doorway that apparently led to more salubrious precincts of the Great Mound. The Baenre matron was smiling. Fangs bared in a grin, Jeggred bounded along on his caprine legs. The little male rose and offered obeisance. «Valas,» said Triel. «Well done. Did the Zauvirr give you any trouble?» «They tried to sneak away in disguise,» the male replied. «It almost fooled the lookout, but once he figured out what was what, everything went as planned.» The Baenre proffered a fat pouch that looked too big and heavy for her tiny hand. «I'll send word when I need Bregan D'aerthe again,» she said. Valas took the pouch, then bowed low. He withdrew, and Triel and her monstrous son turned toward the prisoner. «Good evening, Matron,» Faeryl said, «or is it morning now?» Fighting hands outstretched, talons at the ready, jaws agape, Jeggred lunged at the prisoner. Despite herself, Faeryl flinched. Both the claws and the pointed teeth stopped less than an inch from her flesh. The draegloth loomed over her, pressing close, almost seeming to embrace her like a lover. He ran a pointed nail across her cheek, then lifted it to his bestial muzzle. He sucked, and a bit of warm, viscous drool, mixed, perhaps, with a trace of her blood, dripped onto her forehead.
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