R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation (124 page)

Her captors removed the hood, leaving Halisstra squinting in the bright light of an elegant hall made of gleaming silver-hued wood. Flowering vines wound along posts and beams, and a fire glowed to one side in a large hearth. Several pale elves watched her carefully—apparently guards of some kind, dressed in silver-hued scale mail with polearms and swords at their hips.

Lord Dessaer was a tall half-elf with golden hair and pale skin with a faint bronze hue to it. He was well-muscled for a male, nearly as big as Ryld, and he wore a breastplate of gleaming gold with noble accoutrements.

“Remove her gag, too,” the elf lord said. “She’ll have little to say otherwise.”

“Careful, my lord,” spoke the captor beside her, whom Halisstra saw was the black-bearded human she’d fought in the forest. “She knows something of the bard’s arts, and may be able to speak a spell with her hands bound.”

“I will exercise all due caution, Curnil.” The lord of the hall moved closer, gazing thoughtfully into Halisstra’s blood-red eyes, and said, “So, what shall we call you?”

Halisstra stood mute.

“Are you Auzkovyn or Jaelre?” Dessaer asked.

“I am not of House Jaelre,” she said. “I do not know of the other House you name.”

Lord Dessaer exchanged a worried glance with his advisors. “You belong to a third faction, then?”

“I was traveling with a small company, on a trade mission,” she replied. “We sought no trouble with surface dwellers.”

“A drow’s word is regarded with some skepticism in these lands,” Dessaer replied. “If you’re not Auzkovyn or Jaelre, then what was your business in Cormanthor?”

“As I said, it was a trade mission,” Halisstra lied.

“Indeed,” drawled Dessaer. “Cormanthor was not entirely abandoned during the Retreat, and my people object strongly to the drow effort to seize our old homeland. Now, I would like to know who exactly you and your companions are, and what you were doing in our forest.”

“Our business is our own,” Halisstra answered. “We intend no harm for any surface folk, and mean to be gone from this place as soon as our business is done.”

“So I should simply allow you to go free, is that it?”

“You would do yourself no harm if you did so.”

“My warriors engage in deadly battles every day against your kind,” Dessaer said. “Even if you say you have nothing to do with the Jaelre or the Auzkovyn, that doesn’t mean you’re not our enemy. We do not ask quarter of the drow, nor do we extend it to them. Unless you succeed in explaining to my satisfaction why you should be spared, you will be executed.”

The lord of the surface folk folded his arms before his breastplate, and fixed her with a fierce stare.

“Our business is with House Jaelre,” Halisstra said. She drew herself up as best she could with her arms bound behind her. “It does not concern surface elves. As I said before, my company is not here to cause any trouble to you or your people.”

Lord Dessaer sighed, then nodded to Halisstra’s guards.

“Escort the lady to her cell,” he said, “and let us see if she becomes more helpful with some time to fully consider her situation.”

Halisstra’s guards replaced her hood, covering her eyes again. She stood passively and allowed them to do so without protest. If her captors came to expect compliance from her, there was always the chance they might make a mistake and give her a chance to get out of her bonds.

Her guards led her out of the hall and back outdoors again. She could feel the deep chill of the air, and sensed the growing brightness in the sky even through her hood. Dawn was near, and the night was vanishing at the sun’s approach. She wondered if her captors meant to lock her in some open cage, a place where the curious and malcontent could come by to jeer and torment her, but instead they led her into another building and down a short flight of stone steps.

Keys jangled, a heavy door creaked open, and she was led through. Her hands were unbound, only to be secured again in heavy iron manacles as rough hands maneuvered her into place.

“Listen well, drow,” a voice said. “You will be unhooded and ungagged, at Lord Dessaer’s command. However, the first time you attempt to work a spell, you will be fitted with a steel muzzle and hooded so closely you will labor for every breath. We don’t go out of our way to mistreat prisoners, but we’ll repay every trouble you cause us threefold. If we have to break your limbs and shatter your jaw to keep you docile, we will.”

Her hood was removed. Halisstra blinked in the bright cell, illuminated by a hot beam of sunlight pouring in from a grate up in one corner. Several armed guards watched her carefully for any sign of trouble. She simply ignored them and allowed herself to slump against the wall. Her hands were chained together tightly, and the manacles were bound to a secure anchor in the ceiling, cleverly designed to take in any slack.

The guards left her half a loaf of some kind of crusty, gold-brown bread and a soft leather jack of cool water, and they exited the cell. The door was riveted iron plate, evidently locked and barred from outside.

So what now? she wondered, staring at the opposite wall.

From what little she’d seen of the surface town, Halisstra suspected that her comrades could break her out easily enough with a determined effort.

“Hardly likely,” Halisstra muttered to herself.

She was a Houseless outcast whose usefulness did not overcome the simple fact that, as the eldest daughter of a high House, she stood as Quenthel’s most dangerous rival in the band. The Mistress of the Academy would be only too happy to abandon Halisstra to whatever fate awaited her.

Who would argue against Quenthel on her behalf?

Danifae? Halisstra thought.

She allowed her head to drop to her chest and she laughed softly and bitterly.

I must be desperate indeed, to hope for Danifae’s compassion, she thought.

Once dragged off as a battle captive herself, Danifae would find the situation deliciously, perfectly ironic. The binding spell wouldn’t let Danifae raise a hand against her, but without specific instructions, the battle captive would not be compelled to seek her out.

With nothing else to do but stare at the wall, Halisstra decided to close her eyes and rest. She still ached in calf, torso, and jaw from the injuries she’d sustained in her desperate last stand. As much as she longed to use the
bae’qeshel
songs to heal herself, she dared not. The pain would have to be endured.

With a simple mental exercise she distanced her mind from her body’s pain and fatigue, and slipped deep into Reverie.

In Dessaer’s audience hall, the half-elf lord watched his soldiers lead the dark elf away while he stroked his beard thoughtfully.

“So, Seyll,” he said, “What do you make of this?”

From behind a hidden screen a slender form in a skirt and jacket of embroidered green glided forward. She was a full-blooded elf, thin and graceful—and she was also a drow, her skin black as ink, the irises of her eyes a startling red. She moved close to Dessaer and gazed after the departing soldiers with their hooded captive.

“I think she’s telling the truth,” she said. “At least, she’s not a Jaelre or an Auzkovyn.”

“What shall I do with her?” the lord asked. “She killed Harvaldor, and she damned near killed Fandar as well.”

“With Eilistraee’s grace, I will restore Harvaldor to life and heal Fandar,” the drow woman said. “Besides, is it not the case that Curnil’s patrol attacked her and her companions on sight? She was simply defending herself.”

Dessaer raised an eyebrow in surprise and glanced at Seyll.

“You intend to give her your goddess’s message?”

“It is my sacred duty,” Seyll replied. “After all, until it was given to me, I was very much like her.”

She inclined her head to indicate the absent prisoner.

“She’s a proud one from a high House,” Dessaer said. “I doubt she’ll care to hear Eilistraee’s words.” He rested a hand on the drow priestess’s shoulder. “Be careful, Seyll. She’ll say or do anything to get you to lower your guard, and if you do, she’ll kill you if you stand between her and freedom.”

“Be that as it may, my duty is clear,” Seyll replied.

“I will delay my judgment for a tenday,” the Lord of Elventree said, “but if she refuses to hear your message I must act to protect my people.”

“I know,” said Seyll. “I do not intend to fail.”

The Houses of Menzoberranzan mustered for battle. From a dozen castles and palaces, caverns and strongholds, slender males in elegant black chain mail marched in proud columns or pranced along in the high saddles of riding lizards, pennons flying from their lances. Under normal circumstances each House might have sent hundreds more slave warriors, a rabble of kobolds, orcs, goblins, and ogres to drive into their foes before valuable drow troops were committed to battle, but armed slaves were something of a scarcity after the alhoon’s uprising. Thousands of lesser humanoids had survived the revolt and its failure, as well as the dreadful reprisals that ensued, but the warriors among the slave races had naturally suffered the greatest losses. Even those who’d been allowed to surrender were certainly not to be trusted with weapons again.

Nimor sat in the saddle of an Agrach Dyrr war-lizard, and smiled in satisfaction as the forces of House Dyrr marched past before him. The companies gathered in a small, somewhat cramped plaza near the border between West Wall and Narbondellyn, ironically enough not very far at all from the compound of House Faen Tlabbar. Each drow swordsman carried a light kit in addition to his arms and armor, and a supply train of sorts was taking shape as each company brought its own pack lizards and attendants. Many of the common folk of the city had turned out to watch the mustering of the army, as it was easily the largest assemblage of soldiers the matron mothers had commanded since the ill-fated assault on Mithral Hall years before.

“I surmise that the Council meeting went well,” said Dyrr, standing at Nimor’s stirrup.

The undead sorcerer did not appear in his own shape, of course, nor even that of the aged male he affected within his own house. His current guise was that of a nondescript Agrach Dyrr wizard, young and hale, draped with the fine vestments of his House.

“Your matron mother was well coached,” Nimor replied. He kept his voice low, even though no one stood close enough to eavesdrop. “We’ve got half the soldiers in the city mustering for battle.”

“Yasraena has proven a useful front,” the lich observed. “I have known a dozen or more Matron Mother Dyrrs, and from time to time I find that my female relations object to my . . . unique position within the House. Yasraena would kill me if she could, of course, but she knows that Agrach Dyrr would of necessity be destroyed should something unfortunate befall me. I have made her aware of certain long-standing arrangements in order to discourage her from surprising me.”

Nimor chuckled dryly and said, “I suspect that you are rarely surprised, Lord Dyrr.”

“Success follows preparation in equal measure, young Nimor. Consider that your lesson for the day.” The lich affected a smile across his illusory features, and stepped away from Nimor’s mount. “Good luck in your venture, Captain.”

Nimor wheeled the war-lizard around as the last of the column passed by.

He turned back to the lich and said, “One more word. Narbondel was illuminated hours late a tenday ago, but every day since it has been illuminated on time, and it is whispered throughout the city that the Masters of Sorcere have misplaced their archmage.”

Dyrr smiled and spread his hands.

“As Archmage Baenre may be unavailable for quite some time,” the lich said, “it would please me to find the Masters of Sorcere determine on their own who among them should take Gromph’s seat.”

“Won’t Matron Mother Baenre and the Council have something to say about that?”

“Not if the assembled masters realize the power they truly hold now,” Dyrr said. “I am not a member of the Academy, of course, but a couple of young pups of my House are, and they keep me well-informed. The masters debate whether this is the time to break with tradition and name their own archmage, but half of them scheme to eliminate any fellow clever and bold enough to take the job, while the other half contemplate whether they might return to their own Houses and rule there. Breaking from the Council in such a way would mean civil war, and those few masters who don’t realize the civil war is raging already are arguing to adhere to the status quo in fear of Lolth’s return. Regardless, Sorcere is well and truly paralyzed by Gromph’s absence.”

The lich turned, leaning heavily on his tall staff, and ambled off with a dry, crackling laugh.

Nimor raised an eyebrow and watched the lich depart, considering his ally’s words, then he trotted off after the column.

“Lieutenant Jazzt!” he called.

From alongside the marching column of House Agrach Dyrr’s warriors, a small, scarred male detached himself and came trotting to Nimor’s side. The soldiers marching in the expedition knew very well that “Captain Zhayemd” was no scion of their House, but it had been explained to them that the detachment’s commander enjoyed Matron Mother Yasraena’s complete confidence and had, in fact, been adopted into the leadership of their ancient clan—a common enough practice among the high Houses of the city. Nimor didn’t doubt that Jazzt Dyrr, second cousin to the matron mother herself, had received some additional and specific orders concerning the circumstances under which he was to ignore Nimor’s commands, but as Nimor intended to scrupulously honor his bargain with Agrach Dyrr, he was reasonably certain that the Dyrr officer would offer no trouble.

“Yes, Captain?” Jazzt said.

He was careful not to show any expression at all, simply regarding Nimor with the bland curiosity of a seasoned veteran.

“Form up the company there, beside the Baenre contingent. Tell the men to make ready for a long march. I hope to set out within the hour.”

“Yes, Captain,” Jazzt replied.

The lieutenant stepped back and saluted sharply, then turned and began to bark orders to the Agrach Dyrr soldiers. Nimor turned his mount aside and trotted across the plaza to a small tent bustling with activity. There, the highborn officers and commanders of each of the various House contingents had gathered, most with some number of sergeants and messengers in train. Several arguments on all manner of different topics—the order of march, the best place to halt at the end of the day, the fastest route to the Pillars of Woe—proceeded at the same time.