R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation (35 page)

The netherspirit burst into inert flecks of gray-black slime. Gromph’s protective enchantments prevented any of the splatter from fouling his own person.

He felt a certain satisfaction at his victory, but it withered quickly because he hadn’t killed the object of his hatred, merely preserved himself from the result of another failed attempt, and in the process discovered he’d utterly failed to comprehend Quenthel’s resources and capacities.

What was that bone wand? Where had it come from, and how did it work? Had it merely broken his own control, or had it summarily placed his minion under his enemy’s dominance?

He glumly concluded that until he knew more, it would be foolish to continue attacking a foe seemingly capable of turning his own potent wizardry against him.

So he’d break off hostilities.

And, he thought, with a sudden pang of uneasiness, hope his sister didn’t guess who’d engineered her recent perils.

All the undercreatures gawked when Pharaun and Ryld strolled into the cellar, and why not? The mage doubted this foul little drinking pit had ever seen such an elegant figure as himself, an aristocrat of graceful carriage, exquisite ornaments, dress, and coiffure . . . well, he hoped that, after some emergency adjustments, his hair was at least passable.

In any case, it was plain the goblins, orcs, and whatevers had little interest in aesthetic appreciation. They whispered, glowered, and fingered their weapons whenever they thought the two dark elves weren’t looking at them, and the fear and hate in the sweltering, low-ceilinged room were palpable. Pharaun supposed that considering what Greyanna and her hunters had wrought in the Braeryn the previous night, a measure of surliness was, if not good form, at least understandable.

He wondered how they’d react if they discovered his sister had slaughtered their fellows by the score merely to create an opportunity to kill him. Perhaps it was a question best left in the realm of the hypothetical.

Knowing that Ryld was watching his back, the Master of Sorcere sauntered to the bar and, with a sweep of his arm, scattered clattering coins across it. The currency was the usual miscellany encountered in Menzoberranzan—rounds, squares, triangles, rings, spiders, and octagons—half of it minted by the dozen or so greatest noble Houses and the rest imported from other lands in the Underdark and even the World Above. It was all silver, platinum, or gold, though, more precious metal than this squalid hole probably saw in a decade.

“Tonight,” Pharaun announced, “this company of boon companions drinks at my expense!”

The taverner, a squat orc with a twisted, oozing mouth and a mangy scalp, stared for a heartbeat or two, scooped up the coins, and began dipping some foul-smelling brew from a filthy tub. Cursing and threatening one another, the rest of the undercreatures shoved forward to get it. The wizard noted that no one thanked him.

After looking around for another moment, Pharaun spotted another dark elf slouched in a corner, evidently one of the wretches who’d sunk so low the goblinoids accepted him as one of their own.

“Come here, my friend,” the wizard beckoned.

The outcast flinched. “Me?”

“Yes. What’s your name?”

The fellow hesitated, then said, “Bruherd, once of House Duskryn.”

“Indeed, until your noble kin kicked you out. We have much in common, Bruherd, for I myself am outcast twice over. Now come advise me on a matter of vital importance.”

“I’m, uh, all right where I am.”

“I know you don’t mean to be unsociable,” said Pharaun, setting blue sparks dancing on his fingertips.

The Duskryn sighed, and, limping in a manner that betrayed some chronic pain, did as Pharaun had bade him. He was gaunt, and half a dozen boils studded his neck and jaw. He’d evidently parted with his
piwafwi
at some point during his decline, but he still wore a filthy robe that, the Mizzrym noted with mild surprise, had once been a wizard’s. With the aid of the silver ring, he could see that the dozens of pockets no longer held the slightest trace of magic.

“They may kill me for this,” Bruherd said, subtly indicating the goblins. “They only tolerate me because they believe me cut off from my own race.”

“I’ll pray for your welfare,” Pharaun said. “Meanwhile, what I need to know is this: Of all the libations laid up in our host’s no doubt vast and well-stocked cellar, which is the least vile?”

“Vile?” Bruherd’s lip twitched. “You get used to them.”

“One hopes not.”

Pharaun handed the other drow a gold, hammer-shaped coin minted in some dwarf enclave.

“Tell the barkeep you want the stuff that bubbles,” Bruherd advised.

“ ‘The stuff that bubbles.’ Charming. Clearly, I’ve fallen among connoisseurs.”

“It’ll do,” said Ryld, still unobtrusively studying the crowd. “The important thing is that we toast our victory.”

Pharaun waited a beat, then chuckled. “You’re supposed to ask him what he’s talking about,” he said to Bruherd, “thus affording us a graceful way to commence boasting of our triumph.”

The lip twitched again. “I don’t think much about victories or triumphs anymore.”

Pharaun shook his head. “So much bitterness in the world! It weighs on the heart. Would it cheer you to learn I’ve avenged us in some small measure?”

“Us?” Bruherd grunted.

Across the room, a scuffle erupted between a shaggy hobgoblin and a wolf-faced gnoll. As the combatants rolled about the floor, somebody tossed them a knife, apparently just out of curiosity as to which would manage to grab it first.

“Hark to the glad tidings,” said the Master of Sorcere. “I’m Pharaun Mizzrym, expelled first from the Seventh House and now Tier Breche, neither time for any rational cause. Incensed, I chose to take vengeance on the Academy. With the aid of my similarly disgruntled friend Master Argith, I destroyed a patrol in the Bazaar earlier today. You may have heard something about it.”

Bruherd stared. The kobold and goblins within earshot did the same.

“It’s true,” said Ryld.

“That was you?” Bruherd said. “And you’re bragging about it? Are you insane? They’ll hunt you down!”

Pharaun said, “They were trying anyway.” The entire cellar was falling quiet. “I’ve heard rumors of an agency that will spirit a drow boy away if he’s well and truly discontent with his lot in life, as I trust Ryld and I have shown we are.”

Bruherd said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well,” Pharaun said, “they probably have to think you can be of some use to them, and if you’ll forgive my saying so . . .”

He caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye, and turned just in time to see the taverner fall back in two pieces. Evidently he’d been in the process of climbing silently over the bar with a short sword in hand, and Ryld, sensing him, had pivoted and cut him. The drow warrior spun smoothly back around, Splitter at the ready.

Pharaun turned back as well, just in time to see a mass of undercreatures rushing him. He snatched three smooth gray stones from a pocket and started to recite a spell. Ryld’s greatsword flicked across the wizard’s field of vision, killing two gnolls that sought to engage him, allowing him to finish the incantation unmolested.

A cloud of vapor boiled into existence in front of him. Those orcs and goblins caught in the fumes collapsed. Others recoiled to avoid their touch.

The fog blinked out of existence a heartbeat later.

“I’m afraid I can’t permit you to kill us and sell the corpses to the authorities,” Pharaun told the crowd, “and I’m shocked— shocked!—you would even try. Aren’t you pleased we massacred a patrol?”

“They don’t want the priestesses to find you here,” said Bruherd. He hadn’t made a move during the skirmish. Perhaps he’d frozen, or maybe he’d figured his best hope of survival lay in passivity. “I don’t, either. They’re liable to kill us, too.”

“How disappointing,” Pharaun said. “And here I thought Ryld and I had found a cozy enclave of kindred spirits. But of course we won’t force our company on those who lack the rarified sensibility to appreciate it. Neither, however, will we quit this place before we slake our thirst. You goblins and whatnot will have to withdraw. Good evening.”

The undercreatures glowered. The mage could tell what they were thinking. They were many, and the intruders only two. Yet they’d seen what those two could do, and after a moment, they started trudging out, leaving their unconscious comrades sprawled on the floor.

“You’re crazy,” Bruherd told the masters. “You need to keep your heads down very low for a few years. Give the matrons and the Academy time to forget.”

“Alas,” Pharaun said, “I suspect I’m unforgettable. You too may depart if you can bear to tear yourself away.”

“Crazy,” the outcast repeated.

He limped for the stairs and in a moment was gone like the rest.

Pharaun walked behind the bar. “Now,” he said, “to begin drow’s eternal search for
the stuff that bubbles
.”

Ryld surveyed the slumbering goblins as if pondering whether to stick his sword in them.

“I still think this is a bad idea,” the weapons master said.

Careful not to soil his boots, Pharaun stepped around the two bloody pieces of the barkeep and inspected a rack of jugs and bottles.

“You always say that, and you’re always mistaken. The goblinoids will carry word of our whereabouts far and wide. The rogues are bound to hear.”

“As will your sister and everyone else we’ve managed to annoy.”

Pharaun uncorked a jug. The pungent liquid inside didn’t seem to be fizzing, so he moved on.

“Care to make a wager on who’ll arrive first?”

“Either way,” Ryld snorted, “we wind up dead.”

“Had I wished to hear the dreary voice of pessimism, I would have detained our friend Bruherd,” the wizard said as he inspected a jar full of cloudy liquid. “Here’s a jar of pickled sausages if you care to break your fast, but I won’t vouch for the ingredients. I think I see a kobold’s horn floating in the brine.”

He opened a glass bottle with a long, double-curved neck, and the contents hissed.

“Aha! I’ve found the draught the Duskryn recommended.”

“Someone’s here,” said Ryld.

The mage turned. Two figures were descending the stairs. They looked like orcs, with coarse, tangled manes and lupine ears, but Pharaun’s silver ring revealed that the appearance was an illusion, disguising dark elf males. The wizard saw the masks as translucent veils lying atop the reality.

He conveyed the truth of the situation to Ryld with a rapid flexing and crooking of his fingers.

“Gentlemen,” said the mage, “well met! My comrade and I have been looking everywhere for you.”

“We know,” said the taller of the newcomers, evidently not surprised that a Master of Sorcere had instantly penetrated his disguise. He was Houndaer Tuin’Tarl, one of the highest ranked of the missing males, likewise one of the first to elope, and thus almost certainly one of the ringleaders. Certainly he looked like a princely commander of lesser folk. His rich silk and velvet garments, the magical auras of many of his possessions, and strutting demeanor all proclaimed it. He wore crystals in his thick, flowing hair—a nice effect—had close-set eyes and a prominent jaw, and looked as if he knew how to manage the scimitar hanging at his side. He also looked rather tense

“We’ve known for a while,” said the other stranger, whom Pharaun didn’t recognize.

At first glance, he appeared to be a nondescript commoner, with the squint and small hands of a craftsman proficient at fine work. However, the dagger tucked in his sash fairly blazed with potent enchantments, as did an object concealed within his jerkin. Evidently he’d layered one disguise on another.

“Well,” said Ryld, “you took your time contacting us. I guess that’s understandable.”

“I think so,” said Houndaer as he and his comrade advanced. A goblin moaned, and the noble kicked the creature silent. “Why were you seeking us?”

“It’s our understanding,” said Pharaun, stepping from behind the bar, “that you offer a haven for males who find existence under the thumbs of their female relatives uncongenial and who, for whatever reason, aspire neither to the Academy, a merchant clan, nor Bregan D’aerthe. If so, then we wish to join your company.”

“But you two already did aspire to the Academy,” the aristocrat said. “You rose to high rank there. Some might say that gives my associates and I cause for concern.”

The orc mask’s tusked mouth perfectly copied the motions of his actual lips. Pharaun couldn’t have created a better illusion himself.

“You speak of the dead past,” Pharaun said. “You’ve no doubt heard I’m in disgrace, and Master Argith finds Melee-Magthere stale and tedious.” The dark powers knew, his discontented friend shouldn’t have much trouble convincing them of that. “We require an alternative way of life.”

Houndaer nodded and replied, “I’m glad to hear it, but what assurances can you give that you aren’t an agent the matrons sent to find us?”

Pharaun grinned. “My solemn oath?”

Everyone chuckled, even Ryld and the boy with the dagger, who were both quietly, thoughtfully watching their more loquacious companions palaver.

“Seriously,” the wizard continued, “if our escapade in the Bazaar failed to convince you of our bona fides, I have no idea what other persuasion we can offer. But it didn’t fail, did it? Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. So unless you perceive something in our manner that screams spy . . .”

The faux commoner smiled. “You’re right.” He turned to Houndaer and added, “They smell all right to me, and if they’re not, I doubt a little quizzing in this stinking goblin hole will prove otherwise. Let’s get them home before some servant of the clergy comes sniffing for them and finds us. Either way, it’ll all get sorted out in the end.”

For a moment, as the power of Pharaun’s silver ring wavered, the drow’s mild, civilized tone became an orc’s growl. He even smelled like a dirty undercreature.

The Tuin’Tarl’s mouth tightened. Pharaun suspected he didn’t much like taking advice from anyone, his companion included.

“I’m just being careful—as should you—but you may have a point.” He turned back to the masters and said, “If we take you to our stronghold, there’s no going back. You’ll aid our cause or die.”