R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation (30 page)

A novice with a gold earring cried out in pain. She dragged on her shirt, baring her right shoulder, and found the spider that was biting her. Her frantic efforts to remove the arachnid without hurting it should have been comical but Drisinil couldn’t laugh. Frazzled, addled by the poison, she could only stare at the dark flecks swarming thickly on every side. Some of the other conspirators had started to notice as well. They whispered to one another, and their eyes grew wide.

Something brushed Drisinil’s arm. She cried out and spun around. It was one of the Quenthel’s vipers that had touched her.

“Stay close,” the mistress said.

Once again, the spiders increased in number. Somehow hordes of them were scuttling over the bodies of the conspirators, biting, crawling under their clothing, freckling their skins like the sores of some hideous plague. Shrieking, no longer caring that the creatures were sacrosanct, their victims struggled to crush them and brush them off, but they couldn’t get them all. A few of the traitors retained the presence of mind to activate protective talismans, only to discover that the magic didn’t help, either.

The one place free of spiders was the upper tiers. Once they realized the creatures weren’t going climb up and attack them, the loyalists mocked and jeered at the plight of the traitors. Whenever one of the plotters tried to grope her way into their safe space, a loyalist would knock her back with a casual swat from a mace or whip. Some even shot down with hand crossbows any conspirator who attempted to stagger for the door.

Drisinil did remain at Quenthel’s side, and the spiders crawled over her feet but otherwise took no notice of her. They didn’t avoid the Baenre, however. They climbed all over her body without biting, and, laughing, she stooped, picked up more, and poured them over her head until the creatures virtually encrusted her. Her bright red eyes shone from a pebbled, squirming mask.

Finally the shrieking stopped, uncovering the sound of Vlondril ecstatically chanting one of the litanies as the spiders destroyed her. After another moment, that noise ceased as well. Drisinil noticed her aunt’s corpse slumped among the carnage, though she only recognized it by the jade gown. Molvayas’s face was swollen and bloodied beyond recognition.

Quenthel gazed up at the living and called, “We asked Lolth for a sign, and she gave us one. My foes are dead and I remain, robed in the goddess’s sacred spiders. I am the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith, and my minions will question my leadership no more or else die in agony for their effrontery.”

The surviving priestesses and novices hastily paid her obeisance.

“Good,” the Baenre said. “You are wise, and so I make you a vow. We will put an end to these nightly attacks. We will regain our magic. We will hear Lolth’s voice again. We will make our order and our temple greater than ever before. Now, clear away this mess.”

The spiders began to disappear, from the room and Quenthel’s person as well. Drisinil couldn’t quite tell if they were simply scuttling away or teleporting out.

“I did it,” the student said. “I brought the traitors together for you. Now, please give me the antidote.”

Quenthel smiled and said, “There is none.”

“What?”

“I didn’t poison you. The liquid was simply a stimulant to combat drowsiness. I gave you enough to make the effect alarming, but it’ll wear off.”

“You’re lying! Playing with me!”

“I would have administered a slow poison had I been carrying one, but as I was not, I had to improvise.”

Drisinil felt a surge of bitter humiliation and a need to demonstrate she wasn’t entirely a fool.

“Well,” she blurted, “then, you’ve tricked everyone all the way around. I know Lolth didn’t control those spiders. You did. You read a scroll or used some sort of charm before you entered the room.”

“If so, does it matter?” A yellow arachnid crawled out of Quenthel’s snowy hair and onto her shoulder. She paid it no mind. “Lolth teaches that the cunning and strong must master the foolish and weak. However you look at it, this outcome is in accordance with her will. Now, let’s talk about your future.”

Drisinil swallowed. “You promised to spare me.”

“I did, didn’t I?” a smiling Quenthel replied. “Unlike some, we Baenre generally keep our word. A reputation for fair dealing facilitates certain transactions. However, I never promised not to punish you.”

“I understand. Of course I’ll take a flogging or whatever you think appropriate.”

“That’s quite agreeable of you. How about this, then? We’ll nip off the other eight fingers and cut out your tongue as well.”

For a moment, Drisinil thought she hadn’t heard correctly.

“Now you’re joking.”

“Oh, no. I firmly believe you engineered the plot against me, and I intend to make sure you don’t get up to any more mischief. Ever. If you can’t communicate, work magic, or grip a weapon, that should take care of it. Obviously, it won’t be possible for you to continue at Arach-Tinilith, and I wouldn’t count on the warmest of welcomes when you return home. I doubt Mez’Barris Armgo will have much interest in a grotesquely crippled and thoroughly useless daughter. She may even consider you an embarrassment to be killed or locked away.”

Enraged, panicked, Drisinil lunged, but never landed a blow. Powerful hands grabbed her from behind, hauled her back, and something hard and heavy bashed her over the head. Her legs folded beneath her. She would have fallen if not for her captors holding her up.

Quave’s voice sounded over Drisinil’s shoulder. “We’ve got her, Mistress.”

“Thank you,” Quenthel said. “Take her to the penance chamber and secure her.”

“Yes, Mistress,” said Quave. “I assume you’ll do the cutting yourself.”

“I’d like to,” said the Baenre, “but there’s another matter demanding my attention. You can do it. Enjoy yourself. Just mind she doesn’t die of it. They can drown in their own blood when you take the tongue.”

Pharaun relaxed in the chair, enjoying the feel of the barber’s fingers kneading tonic into his scalp. It wasn’t as relaxing as a fullbody massage, but soothing nonetheless.

The barber chattered away, and the wizard periodically responded with a noncommittal, “Indeed,” or a grunt. Like, he suspected, tonsorial customers of all races in all ages of the world, he wasn’t actually listening.

The barber’s stall, a little box redolent of unguents and pomades, was open at the front, and it was more interesting to gaze out at the sights of the Bazaar. A commoner strode by carrying a clucking chicken, imported from the Lands of Light, in a box. A merchant had probably promised the fellow the fowl would lay for years to come, though in reality, such birds rarely thrived in the Underdark. A portrait painter rendered his subject, the enchantments in the brush enabling him to fill the canvas with astonishing speed. An armorer drove a rapier through a bound, gagged kobold to demonstrate the sharpness of the point.

Cowl up, mantle drawn close around him, and Splitter hidden by the charm of concealment Pharaun had cast on it, Ryld loitered across the way in a tent with the sides folded up. There, games of all sorts were on display. The hulking swordsman stood pondering a
sava
board, where he’d set up a problem with the onyx and carnelian pieces.

A change came over the scene beyond the doorway, and people looked to the north. Some started to squeeze up against the stalls, clearing the center of the lane. A ragged, furtive-looking commoner hurried away in the opposite direction.

Ryld sauntered to the near edge of the tent, glanced where everyone else was peering, then gave Pharaun a subtle nod, confirming what the wizard had already guessed. A patrol was headed their way.

Pharaun wished the guards could have waited just a few moments, but alas, he would have to go to work before the barber finished with him. A tragedy, but it couldn’t be helped.

A moment later the patrol marched by, casting stern glances hither and yon, their tread silent thanks to their enchanted boots. In at least nominal command was a priestess of ArachTinilith armed with a polished wooden wand. Assisting her were a teacher from Melee-Magthere and Gelroos Zaphresz, one of Pharaun’s junior colleagues in Sorcere. It was unfortunate. Possessed of a store of jokes and comical ditties, Gelroos was congenial company. At least if Pharaun murdered the other mage today, he wouldn’t have to worry about Gelroos trying to assassinate him tomorrow.

In addition to its officers, the patrol consisted of a number of warriors-in-training, boys whom Ryld had almost certainly instructed at one time or another. Pharaun wasn’t particularly worried about them. His fellow teachers were the real threat.

The Master of Sorcere waited until the guards had marched past then, surprising the barber, he tossed aside the hair-sprinkled cloth covering his chest, stood up, and handed the craftsman a gold coin, a princely overpayment for his services. He touched a finger to his lips in wordless explanation of what he actually wanted to buy. He picked up his
piwafwi
, whose elegance he’d obscured with a minor illusion, swirled it around his shoulders, walked to the doorway of the stall, and peeked out.

The patrol had tramped about twenty yards down the lane. Any farther and they’d turn a corner, so Pharaun had attained as much separation from the enemy as he was going to get. He draped a fold of silk across the lower half of his face, then stepped out into the open, brandished a glass marble and a pinch of rust, and recited an incantation. His half-barbered hair stood on end, and the air around him smelled of ozone. A crackling blue-white spark appeared in the air before him, then shot down the aisle.

When it reached the patrol, the flickering point of radiance exploded, shooting flares of lightning in all directions. Many of the callow young soldiers danced, burned, and fell, as they possessed neither the spiritual strength nor the protective talismans that might have minimized their injuries and kept them on their feet. Unfortunately, the sizzling, jumping arcs of power struck a handful of vendors and shoppers as well. Pharaun hadn’t particularly wanted to harm noncombatants, but the aisle was simply too cramped.

The rest of the patrol began to pivot. The captain from MeleeMagthere was smoking, blackened, and blistered, but if he was anything like Ryld, his burns weren’t likely to slow him down. Gelroos and the priestess looked as if the lightning hadn’t even touched them. The female was spinning around a hair faster than the other two, raising her baton. Thanks to his silver ring, Pharaun could tell it was a spider wand, a weapon capable of entangling him in sticky webbing.

He had no intention of enduring that kind of humiliation. He rattled off a string of magic words and thrust his arm out. Five slivers of arcane force leaped from his fingertips, hurtled across the intervening space, and slammed into the cleric’s torso. She stumbled backward and collapsed.

A wiry male with deep-set eyes, and a trace of a scholar’s stoop, Gelroos peered up the street and called, “Master Mizzrym!”

“So much for my ability to manufacture a nonmagical disguise,” Pharaun answered, grinning, “but then we do know one another fairly well.”

“You’re allowed to try to kill another Master of Sorcere,” said Gelroos. “That’s entirely proper. But you overstepped when you struck down these youths. It was pointless and sloppy, and their mothers won’t appreciate the waste. They’ll reward me for taking you down.”

“Does it help if I explain that all I do, I do to deliver Menzoberranzan from twin calamities?” Pharaun asked.

Gelroos raised his hands, preparing to conjure, and the remaining warriors charged.

“Ah. I thought not.”

He too began to cast.

Gelroos completed his spell a moment before Pharaun finished his. Crashing and crunching, the surface of the lane spat stone in the air. It was like a geyser, save for the fact that the chunks of rock didn’t fall back to earth. Instead, they shifted around one another and fitted together, forming a towering, massive, and vaguely drowlike form, like a heroic statue abandoned when the sculptor had barely begun. Its footsteps shaking the ground, the creature lurched up the corridor between the stalls.

Pharaun was mildly impressed. It wasn’t easy to summon and control an essential spirit of the earth—nor easy to fend one off, either—but the manifestation didn’t shake his concentration. He continued his recitation without a flub, meanwhile floating up into the air to avoid, if only momentarily, the swords of the onrushing warriors.

He spoke the final syllable of the conjuration. A dagger made of ice flew from his hand. Gelroos dodged it, but the conjured blade exploded, peppering its target with frozen shards. One slashed open the mage’s cheek and he stumbled, but Pharaun could tell he wasn’t seriously hurt.

Below the Mizzrym, some of the warriors were readying their crossbows. Others began to levitate. By rushing him, they’d drawn even with the game merchant’s tent, and Ryld burst from underneath it. Half an hour earlier, he’d purchased a scimitar to use in this particular battle, but it was Splitter, rendered visible by his touch, that he currently clasped in his hands. He must have decided that, since Gelroos had already called out Pharaun’s name, it would be pointless to try to conceal his own identity.

The greatsword leaped back and forth, each stroke dropping a foe to the ground. Bellowing for his minions to turn and face the new threat, Ryld’s fellow instructor tried to shove his way toward him.

Stone, liquid as magma, flowed upward from the ground into the elemental’s body. Most of the rock served to grow the creature bigger and taller, but some of it accumulated in the palm of its hand, forming a spiky sphere that it no doubt intended to hurl at Pharaun.

The wizard snatched a tiny vial of water from one of his pockets. Brandishing it, he chanted. He felt the walls of the cosmos attenuating, and for a moment, sensed an infinite number of Pharauns conjuring in adjacent realities, receding away from him like reflections in a mirror, growing subtly less and less like himself with each step.

A pulse of scarlet light struck him in the chest. Gelroos must have conjured it. The blaze of pain was extraordinary. Pharaun strained to complete the last word of power and final mystic pass without a fumble.