R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation (103 page)

Only a day before, Halisstra would have described Danifae as one of her most prized possessions. She was not only held to an unbreakable loyalty, but she served also as a confidante, perhaps even something of a friend—even if her faithfulness was magically compelled. They had shared many diversions and plotted many intrigues together. Danifae had been eager to follow her into her self-imposed exile, volunteering to share her trials and continue her servitude. Of course she would have paid a terrible price had she remained in House Melarn after Halisstra’s flight, but had she been too eager, perhaps?

“Here I stand, afraid to confront or discipline my own handmaid,” Halisstra breathed. “Lolth has cast me low, indeed.”

With her coldness locked away in her heart, Halisstra carefully retraced her steps. She wasn’t hungry anymore, but it was necessary to allay suspicions. She turned around, and advanced more openly toward the party’s hiding place, allowing a slight scuff of her boot soles against the sand-covered stones to whisper through the dead, still air of the chamber. She would let Quenthel and Danifae believe she had heard nothing, but she would watch both of them closely from that point forward.

Nimor Imphraezl made his way among the grand palaces and jagged stalagmites of the Qu’ellarz’orl, draped in a hooded
piwafwi
. He wore a merchant’s insignia, posing as a well-to-do commoner with business on the high plateau of Menzoberranzan’s haughtiest noble Houses. It was a thin disguise, as anyone taking note of his confident step and rakish manner would not mistake him for anything other than a noble drow himself. The costume was not uncommon among highborn males who wished to move about incognito. Certain spells at his command might have sufficed to offer him almost any appearance he could think of, but Nimor had discovered long ago that the simplest disguises were often the best. Most drow houses were guarded by defenders who would note the approach of someone veiled in webs of illusion, but spotting a common disguise required a mundane vigilance that some dark elves had forgotten.

He passed a pair of Baenre armsmen, walking in the opposite direction. The noble lads eyed him with open curiosity and not a little suspicion. Nimor bowed deeply and offered an empty pleasantry. The young rakes glanced back over their shoulders at him once or twice, but continued on their business. Baenre boys had become hesitant to start trouble unless they were certain of themselves. Nimor took an extra turn or two on his way to his destination anyway, just to make sure they hadn’t taken it into their heads to follow him. With one last double-back to clear his trail, he turned to a high walled palace near the center of the plateau and approached the fortresslike gate.

House Agrach Dyrr, the Fifth House of Menzoberranzan, clambered in and around nine needle-like towers of rock within the bounds of a great dry moat. Each fang of rock had been joined to its neighbor by a graceful wall of adamantine-reinforced stone, impossibly slender and strong. Flying buttresses, bladelike and beautiful, linked the natural towers to those wrought by drow, a narrow cluster of minarets and spires in the center of the compound that rose hundreds of feet above the plateau floor. A railless bridge spanned in a single elegant arch the sheer chasm surrounding the structure.

Nimor climbed the bridge and approached openly. Near the far end he was challenged by several swordsmen and a pair of competent-looking wizards.

“Hold,” called the gate captain. “Who are you, and what is your business with Agrach Dyrr?”

The assassin halted with a smile. He could sense the myriad instruments of death trained upon him, as if he might suddenly take it into his head to utter some truly inappropriate answer.

“I am Reethk Vaszune, a purveyor of magical ingredients and reagents,” he said, bowing and spreading his arms. “I have been summoned by the Old Dyrr to discuss the sale of my goods.”

The gate captain relaxed and said, “The master told us to expect you, Reethk Vaszune. Come this way.”

Nimor followed the captain through several grand reception halls and high, echoing chambers in the great heart of the Agrach Dyrr castle. The captain showed him to a small sitting room, elaborately furnished in exotic corals and limestone rendered in the motifs of the kuo-toa, the fish creatures who dwelled in some of the Underdark’s subterranean seas. Exotic enough to bespeak the House’s wealth and taste, the room radiated arrogance.

“I am informed that Master Dyrr will join us shortly,” the guard captain said.

A moment later, a hidden door in the opposite wall slid smoothly open, and Old Dyrr appeared. The ancient wizard was decrepit indeed, a rare sight for any elf, let alone a drow. He leaned on a great staff of black wood, and his ebon skin seemed as thin and delicate as parchment. A bright, cold spark burned in the old wizard’s eye, hinting at reserves of ambition and vitality that had not yet been tapped completely despite his great age.

“We are delighted to see you again so soon, Master Reethk,” the ancient drow said with a dry, crackling voice. “Have you perchance obtained the things we discussed?”

“I believe you will be satisfied, Lord Dyrr,” Nimor said.

He glanced at the guard captain, who looked to the old wizard to make sure that he was dismissed. Dyrr sent him along with a small wave of his hand, then the old wizard made another gesture and spoke an arcane word, encapsulating the chamber in a sphere of crawling blackness that hissed and moaned softly like a thing alive.

“I hope you’ll forgive me, young one, if I take steps to ensure that our conversation remains private,” the ancient drow wheezed. “Eavesdropping seems to be a way of life among our kind.”

He shuffled to an ornately carved chair and lowered himself into the seat, seemingly careless of the fact that he bared the nape of his wattled neck to Nimor in so doing.

“A sensible precaution,” Nimor said.

The old one reckons me no threat, the assassin noted. Either he is very trusting—unlikely—or very confident. If he has such confidence in isolating himself with me, then either he does not have the measure of my strength, or I do not have the measure of his.

“It
is
confidence, young one,” the old wizard said, “and you do not have the measure of me, for we are both of us more than we appear.” Dyrr laughed again, a wet and rasping sound. “Yes, your thoughts are known to me. I did not reach my advanced age through carelessness. Now, take a seat. We will dispense with this foolishness and discuss our business.”

Nimor spread his hands in a gesture of acquiescence and took the chair opposite the old wizard. With some care he organized his thoughts, locking away his darker secrets in a place he would not examine while Dyrr sat by reading his thoughts. Instead he concentrated solely on the matter at hand.

“You have no doubt heard of the unfortunate demise of the Matron Mother of House Faen Tlabbar?” the assassin said. “And her daughter Sil’zet, as well?”

“It did not escape my notice. Count on the Tlabbars to go crying murder to the ruling council. What possible action did they hope to exhort from the other matron mothers, I wonder?”

“Perhaps they were overcome with grief,” Nimor replied.

He reached slowly into a pouch at his side, allowing the wizard to note the deliberate nature of his motion. From the pouch he withdrew a platinum brooch, worked in the barred double-curve symbol of Faen Tlabbar and crowned by a dark ruby. Nimor placed it on the table.

“The matron mother’s own House brooch, which I managed to pocket as a keepsake for you. I hope your scrying shield is good, Lord Dyrr. No doubt the Tlabbar wizards will be seeking that emblem with all the magic at their disposal.”

“Half-witted children fumbling in the dark,” Dyrr muttered. “Five hundred years ago I’d forgotten more about the Art than that whole house full of wizards had collectively deciphered in all their years of training.”

He reached out one near-skeletal hand for the brooch and weighed it in his hand.

“I am sure you have a means to confirm the authenticity of the brooch,” said Nimor.

“Oh, I believe you, assassin. I do not think you have cheated me, but I will examine the issue later, just to be certain.”

The wizard left the brooch sitting on the table and leaned back into his chair. Nimor waited patiently while Dyrr settled back, tapping one long, thin finger on his staff, a satisfied smile on his face.

“Well,” the old wizard said finally, “in our previous meeting I required that you demonstrate to me the reach and skill of your brotherhood by removing an enemy of my House, and I suppose that you have done exactly that. You have won my ear. So what is it that the Jaezred Chaulssin want of House Agrach Dyrr?”

Nimor shifted and shot a sharp glance at the wizard. Dyrr was very well informed indeed, to know of that name. Very few outside of Chaulssin did. In fact, Nimor had studiously avoided bringing it up when he had first approached the ancient lord. He wondered what clues he had left for the wizard to decipher, and whether Dyrr could be permitted that knowledge.

“Do not be hasty, boy,” Dyrr cautioned him. “You gave away nothing that I did not already know. I have been aware of the House of Shadows for quite a long time.”

“I am impressed,” Nimor said.

“On the contrary, you believe that I am making empty boasts.” Dyrr pointed at his own temple and smiled coldly. “I am not given to bluffing or making wild guesses. Long ago I discerned a pattern of activity that spanned a number of the great cities of our race and inferred the existence of a secret league between seemingly weak minor Houses, each renowned for the skill of its assassins, each reputed to be governed by its males, each a secret ally of the others. These families that otherwise would have been devoured by their ambitious matriarchal rivals instead survived through the convenient and violent deaths of any emergent enemies.

Though I find it ironic that any particular House of the Jaezred Chaulssin must, by definition, be considered the blackest sort of traitors to the city unfortunate enough to host them. Placing loyalty to your House above loyalty to your city is not a particularly egregious sin, of course, but to acknowledge a tie of loyalty to a House in another city all together, that is something entirely different, is it not?”

Nimor kept his mind carefully empty and said, “You seem to know all our secrets.”

He studied the wizard carefully, trying not to let the calculations he performed in his mind show.

“Not entirely true,” Dyrr replied. “I would give much to know how your brotherhood orders its Houses, where your true strength is held, and who rules your society. You name yourselves after the city of Chaulssin, which fell into shadow many hundreds of years ago. I wonder about the significance of that appellation.”

He knows more than we can permit, Nimor thought.

He glanced up sharply at the old wizard, realizing that Dyrr would have noted that thought. The ancient mage simply studied him with his weak gaze and inclined his head. The assassin regained the mastery of his thoughts and decided to change the subject.

“For the sake of our friendship, I respectfully submit that it would be best for all involved if you did not do anything with your knowledge that would draw it to anyone else’s attention. We feel quite strongly that our secrets are best left that way.”

“I will do as I wish. However, I do not wish to incur your enmity. I think it would be inconvenient to have the Jaezred Chaulssin as my enemy.”

“It is not merely inconvenient, Lord Dyrr; it is invariably fatal.”

“Perhaps. In any event, I will keep your secrets.”

The old drow laughed softly, clutching his staff with his withered hands.

“Now, let’s get to our business, young one. You and your fellows demonstrated no small amount of ability in the murder of Matron Mother Tlabbar, the enemy of my House. Very well, I am suitably impressed. What is it you want of Agrach Dyrr?”

“I need an ally in Menzoberranzan, Lord Dyrr, and I have a strong suspicion that you might be that ally.” Nimor leaned forward, offering a sly grin. “Events now proceed in this city that will lead to the downfall of the Houses ahead of yours. If you choose to be a part of those events, you will find that House Agrach Dyrr is possessed of a great opportunity to order the city largely as you like. We believe you can help us to steer Menzoberranzan through the difficult times ahead.”

“And if we refuse, we die?”

Nimor shrugged.

“Given the uncertainty of matters as they stand,” said Dyrr, “I am hesitant to embrace a cause I know little about.”

“Understandable. I will, of course, elaborate, but I hope you will recognize the wisdom, in these uncertain times, of taking aggressive and resolute steps to create the certainty you wish to see. Impose your vision on events, instead of allowing events to limit your imagination.”

“Easy words to speak, young one, but more difficult to render into action,” Dyrr said.

The ancient wizard fell silent for a long time, regarding the rakish assassin with a baleful, unblinking gaze. Nimor met his eyes without flinching, but he found himself wondering again what hidden strength the Agrach high mage must hold. Dyrr smiled again, doubtless reading Nimor’s thoughts, and shifted in his seat.

“Very well, then, Prince of Chaulssin. You have awakened my curiosity. Explain exactly what you mean, and what you plan, and I will say if House Agrach Dyrr can stand by your bold actions or not.”

“Gather closely, dear friends,” Pharaun said with a flourish, “and I will explain a few things it would be wise to remember while we walk within the shadows.”

The wizard stood confidently in the center of the chamber, arms folded, showing no hint of the exhaustion or despair of the day’s desperate flight. Stirring from his Reverie shortly before sunset, he had spent almost an hour preparing dozens of spells from his collection of traveling tomes.

While no one bothered to draw closer to the wizard, all focused their attention on him. Pharaun grinned in delight, pleased as ever by the attention. He knotted his fists behind his back as if lecturing to novices at Sorcere, and began.