R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation (18 page)

Pharaun rose and reached into one of his pockets. Out in the lake, something big jumped. Noticing the splash, an orc on a raft grunted to his fellows, and they readied their barb-headed lances.

As Drisinil took hold of the door handle, the stump of her little finger throbbed beneath its dressing. The novice still found it difficult to believe that, after fighting for her life against the demon spider, Mistress Quenthel had immediately returned to the matter of the would-be truants and their self-inflicted punishment. It bespoke a calm and meticulous nature. Drisinil admired those qualities, but it didn’t make her hate their exemplar any less.

She took a final glance around the deserted corridor. No one was about, and no one was supposed to be, not in that length of that particular wing of Arach-Tinilith at that hour of the night.

She slipped through the sandstone door and pulled it shut behind her. Unlike much of the temple, no lamps, torches, or candles burned in the room beyond the threshold. That was by design, to keep a telltale gleam from leaking out under the door.

Drisinil’s sister conspirators awaited her. Some were novices with bandaged hands, just like herself. Others were instructors. Those high priestesses, hampered by their dignity, were having some difficulty making themselves comfortable among the haphazardly stacked boxes and tangles of furniture littering the half-forgotten storeroom. Of course, it didn’t help that they hesitated to clear away the shrouds of filthy cobwebs dangling everywhere for fear a living spider remained within.

Drisinil wondered if that particular prohibition made sense any longer. Perhaps spiders were no longer sacred.

Then, angry at herself, she pushed the blasphemous thought away. Lolth abided, beyond any question, and was likely to chastise those who even for a moment imagined otherwise.

Once she wrenched her mind back to immediate concerns, Drisinil was momentarily nonplussed to find the company regarding her expectantly. Did they expect her to preside over the meeting?

But then again, why not? She might be a novice, but she was Barrison Del’Armgo as well, and breeding mattered, perhaps more than ever when even the most powerful priestesses were running out of magic. Besides, the secret gathering had been her idea.

“Good evening,” she said. “Thank you all for attending,”—she smiled wryly—“and for not reporting me to Quenthel Baenre.”

“We still could,” said Vlondril Tuin’Tarl, a strange smile on her wrinkled lips. “Your task is to convince us we shouldn’t.”

The teacher was so old that she had begun to wither like a human crone. Most folk believed her mystical contemplations of ultimate chaos had left her a little mad. No one, not even another instructor, had opted to sit in her immediate vicinity.

“With respect, Holy Mother,” Drisinil said, “isn’t that selfevident? The goddess, who nurtured and exalted our city since its founding, has turned her back on us.”

Once again, Drisinil couldn’t help thinking of other possibilities, but even if she’d seen a point to it, she wouldn’t have dared to mention them. No one would, not in her present company.

“And Quenthel is to blame,” added Molvayas Barrison Del’Armgo.

Though stockier and shorter than Drisinil, her aunt had the same sort of sharp nose and uncommon green eyes. Richly clad, the elder scion of the House carried an enemy’s soul imprisoned in a jade ring, and at quiet moments one could occasionally hear the spirit weeping and pleading for release. Second to Quenthel as Barrison Del’Armgo was ever second to Baenre, Molvayas had helped her niece pass word of the meeting, and her support lent it a certain credibility.

“How do you know that?” asked T’risstree T’orgh.

Deceptively slender, a fully trained warrior as well as a priestess, she was notorious for carrying a naked falchion about in preference to the usual mace or whip of fangs, and gashing the exposed flesh of any student who displeased her with a fast but precisely controlled cut to the face. The short, curved blade lay across her knees.

Drisinil waited a beat to make sure Molvayas intended her to answer the question. Apparently she did, and rightly so, since it was the younger female who had actually conceived the argument.

“When Triel was mistress here,” said the novice, “all was well. Shortly after Quenthel assumed the office, Lolth rejected us.”

“ ‘Shortly’ being a relative term,” said a sardonic voice from somewhere in the back of the room.

“Shortly enough,” Drisinil retorted. “Perhaps the goddess gave us time to rectify the error. We failed to do so, so now she’s punishing us.”

“She’s afflicting all Menzoberranzan,” T’risstree said, “not just Tier Breche.”

“Surely,” said Drisinil, “you didn’t expect her to be
fair
. I hope a priestess knows Lolth’s ways better than that. Her wrath is as boundless as her might. Besides which, Arach-Tinilith is the repository of the deepest mysteries and thus the mystic heart of Menzoberranzan. It makes perfect sense that whatever befalls us here should touch the city as a whole.

“In any case,” the novice continued, “Lolth has shown us her intent. Despite our safeguards, two spirits invaded the temple, the first in the guise of a spider, the second a living darkness. Spider and darkness, reflections of the essence of the goddess. The demons injured those who got in their way. They bruised them and broke their bones, but they didn’t try to kill any of us, did they? They were plainly seeking Quenthel, and they sought to kill her and her alone.”

Some of the other priestesses frowned or nodded thoughtfully.

“It did seem that way,” said Vlondril, “but what do you think is unacceptable about Quenthel? Isn’t she doing all the same things Triel did?”

“We don’t know everything she does,” said Drisinil, “and we don’t know what she thinks. Lolth does.”

“But you don’t know she sent the demons,” T’risstree said. Born a commoner but risen to a level of power and prestige, she had evidently shed the habit of deference to the aristocracy. “Perhaps one of Quenthel’s mortal enemies sent them.”

“What mortal possesses a magic potent and cunning enough to penetrate the temple wards?” Drisinil replied.

“The archmage?” Vlondril offered, picking at the skin on the back of her hand. Her tone was light, as if she spoke in jest.

“Even if he does,” Drisinil said, “Gromph is a Baenre, too, and Quenthel serving as mistress strengthens his House. He has no reason to kill her, and if it isn’t he, then who? Who but the goddess?”

“Quenthel is still alive,” said a priestess from House Xorlarrin. She’d worn a long veil to the conclave, apparently so anyone who noticed her walking the halls would assume she was engaged in a certain necromantic meditation. “Do we think Lolth tried to kill her and failed?”

“Perhaps,” Drisinil said. Some of her audience scowled or stiffened at what could be construed as blasphemy. “She is all-powerful, but her agents are not. However, I think she intended the first two assassins to fail. She’s giving her priestesses a chance to ponder what’s happening. To comprehend her will, perform our appointed task, and earn her favor once more.”

Vlondril smiled. “And we do that by murdering Quenthel ourselves? Oh, good, child, very good.”

“We kill her ourselves,” Drisinil agreed, “or, if that isn’t feasible, we at least assist the next demonic assassin in whatever way we can.”

T’risstree shook her head. “This is sheer speculation. You don’t know the mistress’s death will bring Lolth back.”

“It’s worth a chance,” Drisinil said. “At the very least, if we give the demons what they want, they’ll stop invading Arach-Tinilith. They haven’t slain any of us yet, but if we don’t help them, and Quenthel lives on, they may decide to eliminate us, too, for after all, it’s a demon’s nature to kill.”

“The demons may be less dangerous than House Baenre,” T’risstree said.

“The Baenre won’t know who facilitated Quenthel’s demise,” Drisinil said. “So what will they do, wreak their vengeance on every priestess in Arach-Tinilith? They can’t. They need us to educate their daughters and perform the secret rites.”

“If Quenthel dies,” said a priestess leaning against the wall, “Molvayas has a fair chance of becoming Mistress of Arach-Tinilith—but how do the rest of us stand to gain?”

“My niece has explained,” said Molvayas, “that we’ll all renew our bond with the goddess and replenish our magic. Beyond that, I promise that if I become mistress, I’ll remember those who lifted me up. High priestesses, you will be my lieutenants, ranking higher than any other instructor. Novices, your time at Arach-Tinilith will be spent far more pleasantly than is the rule. You, too, will exercise authority over your peers. You’ll enjoy luxuries. I’ll excuse you from the more onerous ordeals and teach you secrets most pupils never learn.”

“We’ll hold you to that,” said another voice from the back, “and expose you if you renege.”

“Exactly,” said Molvayas. “You’ll always be in a position to inform House Baenre of my guilt. Your numbers are too great for me to murder all of you, and so you know you can trust me to keep my pledge. Even if it were otherwise, I’d be stupid to play you false, considering that I’ll always need loyal supporters.”

“It’s tempting,” the veiled Xorlarrin said. “I’d take almost any chance to win my magic back. Still, we’re talking about the Baenre.”

“Damn the Baenre!” Drisinil spat. “Perhaps killing Quenthel is the first rumble of the cave-in that will bury the entire clan.”

“What cave-in?” T’risstree asked.

“I don’t know, exactly,” Drisinil admitted. “Still, consider this: Houses rise and fall. It’s the way of Menzoberranzan and the will of Lolth. Thus far, House Baenre has been the exception, perching on the top of the heap for century after century. Perhaps, with the old matron mother’s death, the family has finally forfeited the goddess’s regard. Why not . . . everyone knows Triel is out of her depth. Perhaps it’s time at last for House Baenre to honor the universal law. If so, wouldn’t it be glorious to commence the decline in their fortunes here, now, this very moment in this very room?”

“Yes,” T’risstree declared.

Surprised, Drisinil turned to face her. “You agree?”

Setting her razor-edged falchion aside, T’risstree rose and said, “I was dubious, but you convinced me.” For an instant, she grinned. “I don’t like Quenthel anyway. So yes, we’ll usher her into her tomb, regain the goddess’s approval, and run the academy as we please.”

She extended her hands. Drisinil smiled and clasped them despite the twin shooting pains the pressure produced, then she turned to the other females and said, “What about the rest of you? Are you with us?”

They tendered a ragged chorus of assent. She guessed that those who doubted she had hit on the way to propitiate Lolth were nonetheless eager to move up in the temple hierarchy, or at least disliked Quenthel. Maybe they were simply indulging the innate dark elf taste for bloodshed and betrayal.

Drisinil herself truly did believe she’d contrived the proper metaphysical remedy for their woes but deep down, she was even more excited at the prospect of avenging herself on her torturer. How could it be otherwise? For the rest of her life, her self-mutilated hands would announce to any who looked that someone had once defeated and humiliated her.

“I thank you,” she said to the other clerics. “Now, let’s put our heads together. We have much to plan and only a little time before others will start to miss us.”

And plan they did, whispering, bickering, occasionally grinning at some particularly inventive and vicious suggestion. Drisinil knew that some if not all of the scheming would come to nothing—it was too contingent on Quenthel’s doing precisely what the plotters wanted exactly when and where they wanted it done—but the effort served to cement their commitment to the conspiracy and to limn at least the bare bones of a strategy.

Finally it was done. The priestesses started to slip out the way they’d come, one and two at a time. The more restless stood in a clump around the exit, awaiting their turns. T’risstree was among them.

Drisinil crossed the floor in as relaxed and casual a manner as she could affect. She didn’t want someone to realize her intent, and, surprised, react in some audible way.

No one did. All dark elves were actors in that they were liars, and perhaps she was a better dissembler than most. She sauntered within arm’s reach of T’risstree, took hold of the dirk concealed inside her long, fringed shawl, and drove the blade into the high priestess’s spine. This time, for whatever reason, the stumps of her severed pinkies didn’t hurt a bit.

T’risstree’s back arched in a spasm of agony, and, to Drisinil’s surprise, her teacher tried to flounder around to face her. Her arm shaking, T’risstree lifted the falchion.

Drisinil turned along with the high priestess, keeping behind her. She grabbed hold of T’risstree’s hair, jerked her head back, and sliced open her throat. The instructor collapsed. The sword slipped from her fingers and clanked on the floor.

The onlookers gawked.

“T’risstree T’orgh meant to betray us,” Drisinil said. “I saw it in her eyes when I took her hands. We can leave the carcass here for the time being. With luck, no one will discover it until after Quenthel’s death.”

Either the other conspirators believed her explanation, or, more likely, didn’t care that she’d murdered the teacher. A few congratulated her on her finesse, and, utterly indifferent to the corpse sprawled in their midst, resumed their departures.

Drisinil picked up and examined the fallen falchion. Once Quenthel was slain, it ought to look nice on her wall.

Faeryl prowled the rounded, treacherous surfaces at the apex of the ambassadorial residence. She was trying to monitor all four sides of her home, which entailed clambering about with a certain celerity. Yet she was also trying to hide from anyone who might be peering from the window of a neighboring mansion or up from one of the quiet residential boulevards of prosperous West Wall, and the faster she moved, the more problematic stealth became. She’d sneaked up there two hours ago, when everyone else thought she was bundling or burning documents, and she still wasn’t sure she’d struck the proper balance between the two necessities.