by Lisa Smedman
Not that Q’arlynd had been that kind of masterand not that he’d let anyone else meddle with his property. Yet in Ched Nasad, a slave had never known when the lash would fall.
In days gone by, Q’arlynd would have crossed his arms and stared imperiously down his nose at the svirfneblin. But that had been another place, another time. Furthermore, it was important that things get off to a good start. He dropped down into a squat that brought his eyes level with Flinderspeld’s, and smiled. He started to extend his hands in the arm-clasping gesture the surŹface elves so loved, but couldn’t quite bring himself to complete it. He was of a noble House, after all. He rested his hands on his knees instead. “Good to see you again, Flinderspeld.”
Flinderspeld blinked behind the gemcutter’s loupe. “What are you doing here, M” He checked his tongue, and drew his shoulders a little straighter. He glanced at Q’arlynd’s hands, which were bare. Q’arlynd had been careful to tuck into a pocket the master ring that connected him with his apprentices; he didn’t want to remind Flinderspeld of his former servitude. Not yet. “What brings you to Silverymoon, Q’arlynd?”
“I’d hoped to purchase a chardalyn. Do you sell them?”
Disappointment flickered briefly across Flinderspeld’s face. His attention slid to the crowd that was gathering, and his expression changed to one of understanding. “Of course.” He stepped back and opened the larger door. “I stock them. Come in.”
Flinderspeld closed the door, set down his stick, and folded his arms across his chest. “Now that Blinnet can’t overhear us, tell me why you’re really here.”
Blinnet: that must be the name of the female who’d led Q’arlynd here. He waggled a finger at Flinderspeld. “You’re entirely too smart, for a s”
“For a what?” Flinderspeld interrupted, his nostrils flarŹing. “A slave? A svirfneblin?”
“For a shopkeeper,” Q’arlynd said, affecting a hurt look.
“Oh.”
“But then, I always knew you were an intelligent fellow.” Q’arlynd nodded at the display of expensive gems. “Just look what you’ve built for yourself, in such a short time. This is quite the shop.”
Flinderspeld glanced through the window at the knot of people gathered outside his shop. “What is it you want, Q’arlynd?”
“If I told you I came to see how you were faring, what would you say?”
“I wouldn’t believe you. It’s been four years.”
There it was again: that flicker of disappointment.
Q’arlynd gestured at the frowning faces outside the window. “Visiting you might have caused you problems. I enquired after you instead, from time to time. That’s how I knew where to find you. I thank you for welcoming me into your shop, even though it will be bad for business.”
Flinderspeld shrugged. “I was curious to see what you wanted.” His eye settled on the tiny silver sword Q’arlynd had hung around his neck. “You wear Eilistraee’s symbol, I see.”
Q’arlynd hid his smile. “That I do.” He plunged into his carefully rehearsed request. “It’s temple business that brings me to Silverymoon. Together with some other wizards, I’m trying to learn the location of a surface elf temple that predates Eilistraee’s banishment from Arvandora quest Eilistraee’s high priestess has given her blessing to. The divinations we’ve tried so far haven’t worked; you may have heard of the difficulties the augmented Faerzress is causing among the drow.”
Flinderspeld nodded.
“WeIneed your help.”
Flinderspeld turned to the counter. “What do you want? A scrying gem?”
“We’ve tried that already, and it didn’t help. Nor, it turns out, did the gorgondy wine we purchased. I hoped to locate a more potent vintage.”
Flinderspeld frowned. “Why come to me? I cut gems; I don’t vint wine.”
Q’arlynd spread his hands. “You’re the only svirfneblin I know. And, more to the point, the only one who knows me. Years ago, you mentioned the Fountains of Memory. I need to look into their waters and use them to find the temple.”
Flinderspeld gave Q’arlynd a guarded look. “What makes you think I know where they are?”
“I don’t. But you must know someone who doeswhoever told you about them. If not him, then a gorgondy wine vintner, or his supplier. Your business here in Silverymoon brings you into contact with scores of svirfneblin. Surely one of them will know where the Fountains of Memory can be found.”
“They won’t take you there.”
“That’s right. You will.”
Flinderspeld’s arms folded. “Or what?” He shook his head. “Are you going to threaten me?”
Q’arlynd spoke softly. “No.”
“What then? Remind me that you set me free? I was your slave for years before you did that.”
“I thought about trying that,” Q’arlynd said. “Then I decided that it wouldn’t work. You bear me too big a grudge; I can see that now. And offering to pay you for the informaŹtion would only insult you. I’m forced, therefore, to resort to something a little more drastic.”
He reached inside a pocket and pulled out two black rings.
Flinderspeld tensed and glanced around his shop, as if searching for a weapon.
Q’arlynd held out one of the rings. Flinderspeld’s eyes widened as he saw which one Q’arlynd was offering him.
“If you can describe the Fountains of Memory, I can teleport us there,” Q’arlynd explained. “You can ensure I bring you along by using the master ring to control my actions. Once I’ve glimpsed the temple in the pools, and we’ve used them to reach it, you can erase my memories of the Fountains of Memory, with a spell that’s contained within this.” He gestured at his forehead, and rendered the lorestone visible.
Flinderspeld’s eyes widened. “A selu’kiira! And a powerful one, judging by the color. How?”
“It’s a long story,” Q’arlynd said. “But the awarenesses inside it can do as I’ve describedsomething you can verify for yourself once you’re wearing that ring. You’ll be able to touch not only my thoughts, but theirs, as well.”
Flinderspeld stared at the proffered ring. “Why would you let me do this?”
“Because I trust you.”
Flinderspeld fell silent for several moments. Q’arlynd waited, trying not to betray the tension he felt. Svirfneblin were naturally mistrustful. Flinderspeld might reject the proposal out of hand, ring or no.
Flinderspeld thrust out a hand. “Give me the ring. And your trueseeing crystal.”
Q’arlynd lifted the chain from his neck and handed over both gemstone and ring. He watched with a bemused smile as Flinderspeld studied the ring carefully through the gemstone, assuring himself that it was, indeed, the master ringand not the slave ring, concealed by an illusion. His time among the drow had taught him to never be too trusting. He handed the gemstone back to Q’arlynd, and put on the master ring. “Your turn.”
Reluctantly, Q’arlynd slipped the slave ring onto his own finger. He closed his eyes and braced himself as Flinderspeld thrust into his mind and rifled through his private thoughts. His jaw clenched. Then Flinderspeld delved deeper. Q’arlynd heard the svirfneblin’s voice in conversation with the awareŹnesses inside the kiira. He couldn’t make out the words.
One of his arms jerked up; Flinderspeld had taken conŹtrol of it. Q’arlynd found himself walking jerkily forward. He spun when he reached the far wall, nearly toppled, and felt his arms jerk out to steady himself. He walked forward again and squatted, then jumped. He tried to glance at Flinderspeld as the svirfneblin walked him back across the room again, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. Flinderspeld chuckled, and spun Q’arlynd around a second time.
Q’arlynd started to worry. Had he misjudged Flinderspeld? If so, he’d just condemned himself to a life of slavery. To a svirfneblin.
The insult had slipped into his mind before he could preŹvent it; Flinderspeld would certainly have heard it. Q’arlynd mentally shouted to the svirfneblin that he had
n’t meant it, that he didn’t think of the deep gnomes as a lesser race. But he knew this was a lie.
Thanks to the slave ring, so did Flinderspeld.
Q’arlynd’s hand came up. His finger pointedat his own forehead. He felt Flinderspeld yank an evocation from his mind. Sweat trickled down Q’arlynd’s temples as he fought to form a word, but Flinderspeld held him stiffly in place. Strain as he might, all that came out was, “Nnnn”
“Keep silent!” Flinderspeld shouteda passable imitation of a drow master’s command, an order Q’arlynd had used many times. A bolt of magical energy streaked out of Q’arlynd’s finŹgertip and bored into his forehead, hot and painful. Q’arlynd’s eyes watered. He groaned.
Suddenly, his body was his own again.
“We’re even, now.” Flinderspeld said. He tugged the master ring off and held it out to Q’arlynd. “And I don’t want your ring. Controlling someone else’s body was … interesting, but I didn’t like the place it led me to. It felt…” He paused, searching for the word. “Wrong.”
Q’arlynd yanked off the slave ring. “You won’t help me, then.”
Flinderspeld lifted an eyebrow. “I didn’t say that.”
Q’arlynd squatted down to Flinderspeld’s level, not quite believing what he had heard. “You’ll lead me to the Fountains of Memory?” he asked eagerly.
“Not only that. I’ll let you remember it afterward.”
Q’arlynd’s eyebrows rose.
Flinderspeld smiled. “Your ancestors have promised me they’ll erase your memory of the pools, if you try to tell anyone where they are. I’m not sure if I believe them, but I’m willing to gamble that you’ll keep your mouth shut, once the spell you hope to cast at the ruined temple is complete.”
“My ancestors told you … what I’m planning?”
Flinderspeld’s smile widened to a grin. “You’ll have to trust me to keep quiet about that.”
Q’arlynd nodded to himself. Flinderspeld was better at striking a bargain than he’d thought. No wonder he was prosŹpering. “Well played.”
“For anyone else, the answer would have been no. But you weren’t all that bad, as drow go. You did set me free, regardless of what your motive was at the time. I owe you one, for that.”
Q’arlynd smileda genuine smile of friendship, not the false one he’d practiced in the mirror before coming here. He clasped Flinderspeld’s arms and said a word he never thought he’d utter, except in jest. “Friends?”
Flinderspeld returned the arm clasp and spoke in Low Drow. “Allies.”
Q’arlynd’s eyebrows lifted.
Flinderspeld burst into laugher. “Friends.”
T’lar rolled a spike-spider back and forth between her palms, savoring the harsh pricks as its needles drove into her flesh. The metal throwing ball wasn’t loaded, and its needles held no poison. She did it for the sensation alone. Each jab, each welling of blood was a penance for letting her target slip away. She’d learned that he’d departed for the World Above, but hadn’t been able to find out where, or why.
In another moment, however, that little problem would be rectified.
She stood, together with the new high priestess, next to a black iron barrel hoop that hung from a chain by the ceiling. Inside the hoop, a spider descended on a thread of silk. The high priestess coaxed it in the direction she wanted with a morsel of raw meat, her free hand slowly guiding the hoop. The metal grated softly against the chain as it turned. She caught the spider and deftly moved it to the side, adherŹing the strand to the hoop. The final strand in place, she transferred the spider to her shoulder, and inspected its handiwork. Within the hoop was a five-pointed star, made entirely from web.
“We can begin.”
T’lar nodded. She slipped the spike-spider into her belt pouch and wiped her bloody palms against the thighs of her skin-tight tunic. “Summon him.”
The high priestess flicked the iron hoop, setting it spinning. Then she picked up a candle. She held it a moment near her face and invoked Lolth’s name. As she did so, the flickering light illuminated her elaborately coiffed hair, obsidian blood-drop earrings, and silver crown. Only a short time ago, that crown had graced the head of Laele Zauviir, but the Spider Queen’s temple in Sshamath had a new high priestess, now. Streea’Valsharess Zolond was much stronger than Zauviir had beenready to grasp power in her own two hands, instead of licking up the crumbs the Conclave offered.
Streea’Valsharess Zolond touched the candle to the web inside the hoop. The strands of spider silk ignited. Sustained by magic, they continued to burn. “Lords of the Abyss, hear my command,” she intoned. “In Lolth’s name, send forth the demon Glizn.”
A puff of yellow smoke erupted out of the center of the spinning hoop, filling the chamber with an acrid stench. Smoke drifted toward the spider carvings adorning the ceiling. A stationary figure appeared within the hoop, held by the burnŹing web while the hoop spun around it: a tiny demon, barely twice the length of T’lar’s hand, with batlike wings. It looked like a quasit, except that its skin was black and dry, instead of oily green. Instead of the usual horns, it had stiff white tufts of hair growing from its scalp. The demon’s red eyes were too large for its face, and their expression was one T’lar was used to seeing on the faces of her targets. Fear. Deep inside those eyes, someone screamed.
The high priestess laughed. “What lovely irony! Whatever happened, quasit, to flip things inside out?”
T’lar glanced sideways at the high priestess.
Streea’Valsharess Zolond gestured at the demon, and chuckled. “Until recently, one of Q’arlynd Melarn’s apprentices wore this demon.”
“And now the quasit wears him?”
“So it would seem.” She chuckled. “I’d been wondering why we hadn’t heard from Glizn. I assumed it was because ‘Piri’ had been found out by his master, and slunk away.”
The demon tugged, but failed to free its wings from the burning web. It shifted into centipede form, then into a squat toad, but still wasn’t able to escape. At last it let out a thin squeak. “Why have you summoned me?”
“Where is Q’arlynd Melarn?” the high priestess said.
“I don’t know!” the quasit squeaked. Fear oozed from it like a bad smell. “I haven’t seen him since my lord called me back to the Abyss. So you might as well unbind me, and send me back, since I can’t help you to”
The demon’s voice suddenly deepened. Words jerked from the tiny mouth. “I… can… find …”
The quasit snapped its jaw shut, biting its own tongue.
The high priestess studied the bound demon, her head cocked to one side. “Piri? Was that you who answered just now?”
The demon’s face contorted from one emotion to the next: fear, anger, determination. A hiss escaped its lips. It might have been a yes.
“How can you find him?” T’lar demanded. “Tell me.”
The demon’s jaws creaked open. Shut. Open again. “Scry” the deeper voice said. Then the mouth snapped shut. One hand jerked. A finger twitched.
The high priestess pointed at a tiny copper band on the quasit’s finger. “How will you scry him? With that ring?”
The quasit’s head jerked sharply: a nod.
The high priestess reached for it.
“No! Only … I… can …”
The high priestess scoffed. Her fingers closed around the ring.
T’lar caught her arm. “Leave it.”
The high priestess glared at her.
T’lar pointed out the obvious. “If it were possible for either of us to use the ring, the apprentice wouldn’t have told us about it.” She stepped closer and pinched the demon’s tiny chin. The quasit tried to bite her, but she held it fast. “Stop that!” she ordered. “Let Piri speak.”
The demon winced.
T’lar curled her lip. Quasits were such pitiful excuses for demons. She drew her daggerthe one with the spider pommel that she’d taken as a trophy of Nafay’s killand held it where the de
mon could see it. “What would you like in return for telling us, Piri? Release?”
Tears welled in the overlarge red eyes.
“Then fight the demon. Scry your master. Tell me where he is. If I believe what you tell me, I’ll skin you free and send your soul to Lolth.”
The demon’s expression suddenly changed. The quasit spoke in its own shrill-pitched voice. “Oh no!” it squeaked. “That will hurt!”
The priestess laughed. “Only for a moment, demon. And think on this: if T’lar uses that pretty little dagger of hers properly, being parted from your skin will only temporarily kill you. As long as you die here, you’ll re-manifest in the Abyss.” She gestured at his body. “Free of that annoying wizard, I might add.”
The quasit met the high priestess’s eyes briefly, then let out a heavy, sulfurous sigh. “Fine,” it said petulantly. “I’ll let him do it.” Its eyes slid sideways to T’lar. “But she has to swear by the Spider Queen, that she’ll send me back clean. No skin.”
T’lar smiled. “I swear it, by Lolth’s dark webs.”
The demon nodded. It tightened its ring hand into a fist, closed its eyes, and puckered its forehead into a frown of concentration.
The two drow waited. The silence stretchedlong enough for the spider on the high priestess’s shoulders to scuttle to the ground and spin a trap-web in one corner of the room. At last the quasit’s eyes fluttered open. A high-pitched, tittering laugh burst from its lips.
“He saw him, he saw him, he saw him!” the quasit squeaked. “He was talking to a svirfneblin.”
T’lar leaned closer. “Where was he?”
The quasit giggled. “Don’t know.”
Anger hissed from T’lar’s lips.
“But he heard where he’s going! The ‘Fountains of Memory’ he said.”
T’lar glanced at the high priestess. Streea’Valsharess Zolond shrugged. It seemed she hadn’t heard of the place either.
