R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation (12 page)

“I have received some of those sendings myself, Matron Mother, and find their excuses suspicious at best. In any case, the dearth of traffic from Ched Nasad warrants investigation, and as my city’s representative in Menzoberranzan, the task is my responsibility.”

“No one has charged you with it.”

“Then I take it upon myself. Yet I’m reluctant to venture across the Underdark with merely my own little entourage for protection. Traders guard their caravans very well. Anything that could destroy all those merchant trains would likely put a quick end to me, too, in which case, Matron Mother, the priestesses of Menzoberranzan would know no more about the new menace beyond their borders than they do now. Accordingly, I ask you to provide me with a sizable escort. I’ll march it to Ched Nasad and back again and see what befalls me along the way.”

“You have an enterprising nature,” said Triel “It does you credit. Alas, Menzoberranzan can’t spare any troops. Not at this time. Our forces are engaged in training exercises.”

Faeryl fancied she knew the real reason the Baenre was at present reluctant to divest herself of any portion of her military strength. Her caution made perfect sense on its own terms, but surely it must yield to the gravity of the envoy’s concerns!

“Matron Mother, if trade with Ched Nasad does not resume, the people of Menzoberranzan will find themselves bereft of countless amenities. Some of your craftsmen will lack the raw materials they need for their work. Your own merchant clans will endeavor to send caravans to my city, and those expeditions will probably not return.”

“I imagine some clever male will import the same goods via a different route if he can reap a profit thereby.”

Faeryl was beginning to feel as if she were mired in some lunatic dream.

“Matron, you can’t be serious. Ched Nasad is the single greatest source of wealth your people possess.”

Demons of the Web, it was in fact half again as populous as Menzoberranzan itself. The two realms had long been equals, and it was only a comparatively recent happenstance that had reduced the once independent City of Shimmering Webs to vassalage.

Triel spread her dainty, obsidian hands in a gesture of helpless resignation and said, “Wealth that is as much ours when stored in our trading costers in Ched Nasad as in our own vaults here.”

Faeryl didn’t know what else to say. No argument, however cogent, seemed capable of piercing Triel’s shield of bland, almost mocking complacency.

“Very well,” the ambassador said through gritted teeth, struggling to keep a grip on her temper. “If I must, I’ll manage without your help. It will exhaust my purse, but perhaps I can hire some of the sellswords of Bregan D’aerthe.”

Triel smiled. “No, my dear, that won’t be necessary.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I cannot give you leave to depart so precipitously. Who then would speak on behalf of your people? Even more importantly, I believe you may be right. Some new peril may be lurking in the Underdark and massacring drow left and right. I don’t want it to kill you as well. I hold you in too high an esteem, and I certainly wouldn’t want the other nobles of Ched Nasad to think that I blithely sent you to your doom. They might infer that I have little regard for even the most exalted officers of your splendid city, when of course, nothing could be farther from the truth.”

“You honor me. Yet considering what’s at stake—”

“Nothing is more important than your safety.
Anything
could happen if you attempt to traverse the tunnels at this unsettled time. You might not even make it out of Bauthwaf. Why, one of Menzoberranzan’s own patrols, weary from too much duty, imagining a dwarf crouched behind every stalagmite, might mistake your band for a hostile force and loose a volley of poison darts at you. You might die an agonizing death at the hands of your own friends, in which case I would never forgive myself.”

A chill crept up Faeryl’s spine, because she understood what Triel had really said. The matron mother had just forbidden her to leave the city, on pain of death.

But why? What accounted for Matron Baenre’s sudden hostility? Faeryl had no idea until she happened to glance up at the draegloth’s face. Somehow the half-fiend’s leer suggested an explanation.

Triel had decided Faeryl was less diplomat than spy, an agent for some power inimical to Menzoberranzan, who’d concocted this business of missing traders to provide herself with a good excuse to leave the city and report to her superiors.

Matron Baenre couldn’t allow it, couldn’t permit a spy to pass along the tale of Menzoberranzan’s newfound weakness. She didn’t dare, because it was entirely possible that not all dark elf enclaves had suffered the same calamity, and even if they had, perhaps the dwarves, duergar, deep gnomes, and illithids had not.

What remained unclear was why Triel believed as she did. Who had put the idea in her head, and what did that person have to gain by holding Faeryl in the city?

Jaw tight, the emissary stifled the impulse to confront Triel about the latter’s true concerns. She knew she wouldn’t be able to draw the Baenre into an genuine consideration of the allegations against her. Taking a malicious pleasure in the play-acting, Triel would simply feign shock that Faeryl doubted her trust and good will.

Indeed, if Faeryl wanted to avoid further humiliation, all she could do was go along with the pretense.

She smiled and said, “As I said before, Matron Mother, your concern honors me, and I will of course obey you. I’ll remain in the City of Spiders and savor its many delights.”

“Good,” said Triel, and Faeryl imagined the words that remained unspoken: We’ll know where to find you when it’s time for your arrest.

“May I have your permission to withdraw? I see there are many others seeking the benefit of your wisdom.”

“Go, with my blessing.”

Faeryl offered her obeisance, exited the hall, and walked through the great mound that was the Baenre citadel until she found herself alone and unobserved in a short connecting passageway. She took the rolled maps of the Underdark, the charts she had imagined that she and Triel might consult together, from beneath her arm. Teeth bared in a snarl, she smashed them repeatedly against the wall until the stiff parchment cylinder flopped limp and battered in her hands.

Gromph and Quenthel strolled about the plateau watching the apprentices and masters of Sorcere perform the rituals. The sound of chanting and the pungent scent of incense filled the air, along with various conjured phenomena: flashes of light, dancing shadows, demonic faces appearing and disappearing, moaning and crackling. All to lay a new set of wards about Tier Breche.

Gromph was mildly impressed. By and large, his minions were doing a good job of it, though they weren’t laying any enchantments he couldn’t pierce. In fact, since he was supervising them at their labors, getting past the wards would be easy.

“I wonder if all this will actually protect us,” said Quenthel, scowling, her long skirt rippling in the stray breeze kicked up by someone’s incantation.

Gromph was surprised that even after Beradax’s attack, she hadn’t donned a suit of mail. Perhaps she thought her frightened novices and priestesses required a show of confidence.

“It didn’t protect us before,” hissed one of the annoyingly vocal snakes comprising the whip on her belt.

Four of them were twisting this way and that, watching for danger. The fifth kept its cold eyes staring at Gromph, not, the archmage was convinced, because his sister suspected him of trying to murder her. Or rather she did, but not specifically. She simply had too many viable suspects. There were subordinates who aspired to be Mistress of Arach-Tinilith, and the myriad foes of House Baenre. Perhaps it was even Triel seeking to forestall the all but inevitable day when Quenthel would challenge her for preeminence.

“Enchantments can attenuate with time,” said Gromph, honestly enough. “The new ones will be stronger. Strong enough, I trust, to keep you safe in Arach-Tinilith.”

“It isn’t just the temple at risk,” Quenthel snapped. “Next time, a demon could attack Sorcere or Melee-Magthere.”

Don’t count on it, Gromph thought, but he said, “I understand.”

“I’ve seen enough for now,” said the mistress, her scowl deepening. “Don’t let your males slack off. I want the defenses complete before you leave to cast your spell into Narbondel.”

“Consider it done.”

Quenthel turned and walked back toward Arach-Tinilith. The primary entrance to the imposing spider-shaped temple had become merely an odd-looking hole. The artisans hadn’t yet finished repairing the crumpled adamantine leaves of the gate. Gromph smiled to think how that must annoy his sister. Knowing her as he did, he was fairly certain the unfortunate metalworkers had already felt the weight of her displeasure.

Well, perhaps they wouldn’t have to bear it for much longer. He fingered a small ornament, a black stone clasped in a silver claw dangling over his heart.

Quenthel hadn’t asked about the trinket, nor had Gromph expected her to. He always wore his amulet of eternal youth and the brooch that helped him imbue Narbondel with radiant warmth. Beyond those two staples, he tended to adorn the Robes of the Archmage with a constantly changing array of charms and talismans, depending on his whim and the particular magical tasks he expected to perform that day. His sister had had no reason to suspect that this particular trinket was of any particular significance, certainly not to herself.

If she had noticed it at all, she probably assumed the stone was onyx, ebony, or jet. In actuality, it was polished ivory cut from a unicorn’s horn after Gromph slew the magical equine—sacred to the despicable elves of the World Above—in a necromantic rite. The orb was only black because of the entity he had placed inside it only two hours before.

“That was her,” he murmured, too softly for any of the spellcasters bustling about him to overhear. “Did you take her scent?”

Yes
, the demon answered, its silent voice like a nail scratching the inside of Gromph’s head.
Though it was unnecessary. I may not possess the power of sight, but that has never hindered me as I sought my prey.

“I was just making sure. Now, can you succeed where Beradax failed?”

Of course. No one of your world has ever escaped me. Afterward, I will feast on Quenthel’s soul, one tiny morsel at a time.

Most likely the netherspirit would do exactly that, and if it failed, Gromph had six more waiting in line to pick up where it left off. Perhaps it wouldn’t even come to that. He had, after all, manipulated events in such a way as to inspire more mundane assassins.

A third-year student came scurrying up with a stubby chalcedony wand in his hand. Recalled to more immediate concerns, Gromph sighed and prepared to teach the youth how the device worked.

Pretending to take an interest in an itinerant vendor’s rack of cheaply forged and poorly balanced daggers, Ryld turned and surreptitiously surveyed the intersection.

A fellow with what the weapons master suspected were selfinflicted sores on his legs chanted for alms and shook a ceramic bowl. Since it was a rare if not demented dark elf who ever felt the tug of pity, the beggar sat near the entrance to a shabby boarding house catering to non-drow.

A female hurried by with a hooked and pointed pole—virtually a pike, when one really looked at it—on her shoulder and a giant weasel on a leash. She was plainly an exterminator headed out to rid a household of some substantial infestation.

A snarling noble from House Hunzrin drew his rapier and lashed a commoner with the flat, evidently because the latter had been a trifle slow stepping out of his way. The Hunzrins were notorious for their virulent arrogance. Perhaps it stemmed from the fact that they controlled the greater part of Menzoberranzan’s agriculture. Or maybe they were compensating for the fact that, for all their wealth, they were stuck living in “mere East.”

Any number of other rather drab and hungry-looking souls rushed on about their business.

“Reliving childhood memories?” the wizard asked.

“You forget,” Ryld replied, “I was born in the Braeryn. I had to work my way up to get to Eastmyr.”

“I daresay you took one look around, then kept right on climbing.”

“You’re right. Just now, I was checking to see if someone’s tailing us. No one is.”

“What a pity. I was hoping that if we asked enough questions in diverse male gatherings, some more friends of the runaways would try to murder us, or at least seek to learn what we’re about. Perhaps the rogues are too canny for that.”

“What do we do now?”

“Visit the next vile tavern, I suppose.”

They started walking, and Pharaun continued, “Say, did I ever tell you how, two days into my first mission to the World Above, I wound up having to tail a human mage while the sun was blazing in the sky? I was blind with the glare, my eyes—”

“Enough,” Ryld said. “You’ve told this a thousand times.”

“Well, it’s a good story. I know you’ll enjoy hearing it again. There I was, blind with the glare . . .”

As the two masters strolled on, they passed a doorway sealed with a curtain of spiderweb. Forbidden by sacred law to disturb the silken trap until such time as its builder ceased to occupy it, the luckless occupant of the house had placed a box beneath his front window to serve as a makeshift step.

Across the way, a ragged half-breed child, part dark elf, part human by the look of her, brushed past a drunken laborer, then quickened her pace a trifle. Ryld hadn’t actually seen her lift the tosspot’s purse, but he was fairly certain she had.

Pharaun came to a sudden halt. “Look at this,” he said.

Ryld turned, the long, comfortable weight of Splitter shifting ever so slightly across his back. On a wall at the mouth of an alley, someone had clumsily daubed a rudimentary picture of a clawed hand surrounded by flames. Though it was small and smeared in paint that barely contrasted with the stone behind it, Ryld was slightly chagrined that Pharaun had noticed it and he hadn’t, but he supposed wizards had a nose for glyphs.

“Do you know what this is?” asked Pharaun.