R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation (36 page)

Pharaun grinned. “Well spoken, and quite in the spirit of a thousand thousand conspiracies before you. Whisk us away.”

“Gladly,” the noble said with a mean little smile of his own, “as soon as the two of you surrender your weapons and that cloak of pockets.”

The wizard crooked an eyebrow and said, “I thought you’d decided to trust us.”

“It’s time for you to show a little trust,” Houndaer replied.

Pharaun surrendered his
piwafwi
, hand crossbow, and dagger. He was a little worried about Ryld’s willingness to do the same. He could easily imagine the warrior deciding that, in preference to entering the dragon’s cave unarmed, he’d subdue Houndaer and his companion there and then and wring what information out of them he could.

The problem with that strategy was that the Tuin’Tarl and his nameless companion might not be privy to all the mystic secrets held by the cabal as a whole, and those who were might flee when the two emissaries failed to return. Thus, while the masters would likely succeed in forestalling a goblin revolt, they’d miss acquiring the extraordinary power they sought.

Besides, it would be much more fun to join, and undo the rogues from within.

Apparently Ryld shared Pharaun’s perspective, or else he was simply content to follow the wizard’s lead, for he handed over Splitter and his other weapons to Houndaer without demur.

The Tuin’Tarl reached into his pouch, extracted a stone, and tossed it. It exploded in a strange, lopsided way, tearing a wound in the air, a gash the size and shape of a sarcophagus standing on end and the color of the light that swims inside closed eyelids. He gestured to the portal and said, “After you.”

Pharaun smiled.

“Thank you.”

As easy as that? Pharaun thought. He was experiencing a certain sense of anticlimax, which was absurd, really. It had been astonishingly difficult to get this far.

He stepped into the portal, and experienced none of the spinning vertigo of ordinary teleportation. Save for a brief moment of blindness, it was just like striding from one room to the next. The only problem was the drider waiting on the other side.

The wizard struggled not to make a sound. Still, the huge creature, half spider, half drow, a bow in its hand and a quiver of arrows slung across its naked back, turned toward him. Pharaun had no fear of a single such aberration, but the goddess only knew just how elaborate this trap actually was. He whirled back toward the magical doorway just as Ryld came through.

Ryld, who’d slain his share of driders in the caverns surrounding Menzoberranzan, knew that this one—a hybrid creature with the head, arms, and torso of a dark elf male married to the body and segmented legs of a colossal spider—was larger than average; a robust example of its species, if species was the proper term. Nature didn’t make them, magic did. Sometimes, when the goddess deemed one of her worshipers insufficiently reverent, the punishment was transformation at the hands of a circle of priestesses and a demon called a yochlol.

The Master of Melee-Magthere naturally focused on the venomous aberration as soon as he stepped through the portal, but like every competent warrior—and unlike Pharaun, evidently—he also took in the disposition of the entire area.

The portal had deposited them in a large, unfurnished hall with a number of openings along the wall. It was the sort of central hub used in castles to link the various wings. A couple males were wandering through, and while neither had ventured into the drider’s immediate vicinity, they weren’t preparing to attack him or flee from him, either. Nor did the creature himself appear on the verge of assaulting anyone, though he regarded the newcomers with a scowl.

Somewhat pleased to be ahead of his clever friend for once, Ryld gripped Pharaun by the shoulder.

“Steady,” the swordsman said. “Don’t embarrass yourself.”

The wizard looked around, then grinned and said, “Right. Our friends didn’t trick us into entering a trap. The drider’s magically constrained.”

“No.”

Ryld glanced back to see that the two bogus orcs had stepped through the portal, which dwindled to nothing behind them. It was the bigger and more talkative of the duo who was speaking.

“The driders help us of their own free will.”

“Interesting,” said Pharaun.

In the blink of an eye, the goblinoids turned into an aristocratic warrior—Houndaer Tuin’Tarl, specifically, whom Ryld had trained—and a craftsman of one sort or another. The prince closed the portal with a wave of his arm.

“Do you still use that second-intention indirect attack?” Ryld asked. “That was a nice move.”

For the first time, Houndaer smiled a smile that had neither malice nor suspicion in it.

“You remember that, Master? It’s been so long, I’m surprised you even remember me.”

“I always remember the ones who truly learn.”

“Well, thank you. It’s good to have you with us, and you’re going to be glad you are. Great things are in store.” the noble said. The drider scuttled toward them. “Ah, here comes Tsabrak. You’ll see his mind isn’t sluggish or otherwise crippled, yet he’s on our side nonetheless.”

In point of fact, the drider didn’t look especially congenial. The length of his legs lifted his head above those of the four dark elves, and he glared down at them with eyes full of madness and hate. Ryld inferred that Tsabrak had entered into a typical Menzoberranyr alliance. He’d thrown in with the runaways to secure some practical advantage, but he still loathed
all
the drow who’d deformed him and cast him out.

“What is this?” the drider snarled, exposing his fangs. They seemed to impede his speech a trifle. “Syrzan said no!”

Syrzan wasn’t a typical drow name, but Ryld had no idea to which other race it might belong. He glanced over at Pharaun, who conveyed with a subtle shrug that he didn’t know, either.

“Syrzan is my ally, not my superior,” said Houndaer, glaring back at the spider-thing. “I make my own decisions, and I’ve decided these gentlemen can help us. They’re masters of Tier Breche—”

“I know who they are!” Tsabrak screamed, flecks of foam, perhaps mixed with venom, flying from his lips. “Do you think me a mindless beast? I studied on Tier Breche the same as anyone!”

“Then you know how useful their talents could be,” said the craftsman, “and how unlikely it is they can do us any harm, particularly now that the prince has disarmed them.”

“Just point us to Syrzan,” Houndaer said. “It will allay your fears.”

It? Ryld wondered.

“I can’t,” the drider said. “It’s gone off somewhere.”

“Where?” Houndaer asked

“Agitating slaves? Acquiring more magic fire from its secret source? How do I know? You’ll just have to sit on these two until it gets back.”

“That’s all right,” the noble said. “Master Argith and I can reminisce about old times. We’ll all wait in the room where Syrzan interviewed the other recruits.”

“Perhaps you’d care to tag along,” the craftsman said, “to make absolutely sure the masters don’t cause any trouble.”

Pharaun beamed up at the bloodthirsty aberration and asked, “Please? There are half a dozen questions concerning drider existence that have perplexed me for years.”

Tsabrak ignored him, instead glowering at Houndaer and the artisan as if he suspected them of playing a trick on him. Finally, he said, “Yes. I’ll go. Somebody with sense needs to be there.”

“Fine.” Houndaer nodded to Ryld and Pharaun and said, “Come this way.”

The masters and their hosts, or captors, set off through a maze of passageways. As promised, Pharaun treated Tsabrak to a barrage of questions, and, when the drider failed to respond, cheerfully answered himself with a gush of scholarly speculation.

Ryld paid little attention. He was too busy studying the rogues’ citadel, a forlorn and dusty place where Pharaun’s monologue echoed away into the quiet. No servants were in evidence, merely runaway males and driders, who often recognized their former instructors and curiously peered after them. The marks of magical attacks, bursts of lightning and sprays of acid, scarred the walls.

By all appearances, the conspirators were hiding in the seat of a House extinguished by its enemies. No one was supposed to take possession of such a fortress without the Baenre’s permission, and few would dare. The vacant castles were supposedly cursed and haunted places, breeding grounds for sickness, insanity, and bad luck. As if to compound the potential for ill fortune, the squatters had broken the copious shrouds of spiderweb wherever they impeded traffic and even in corners where they didn’t.

At one point, the masters and their warders passed a row of small octagonal windows. The glass was gone but the molded calcite cames remained. Ryld glanced out and saw mansions shining green and violet far below. The rogues had taken a stalactite castle, hanging from the cavern ceiling, for their hiding place. No doubt the isolation had attracted them.

A moment later, the little procession reached its destination, a chapel with rows of benches, a crooked aisle snaking up the middle to an asymmetrical basalt altar, and murals, agleam with silvery phosphorescence, carved in bas-relief on the walls and ceiling. To Ryld’s surprise, these last depicted not the Demonweb but other hells entirely devoid of spiders, yochlols, or the goddess Lolth herself. Apparently the House that once abode here had sacrificed to forbidden deities. Perhaps that transgression had contributed to its downfall.

The dark elves settled themselves in the pews. While Houndaer and the commoner seemed convinced of the masters’ claim of estrangement from Tier Breche, they nonetheless retained possession of the newcomers’ gear. Tsabrak crouched just inside the door, his legs splayed out on either side of the entrance.

“I admire the decor,” Pharaun said. “Without even trying, I noticed images of Cyric, Orcus, Bane, Ghaunadaur, and Vhaeraun. Quite a nice selection of patron powers for the discriminating worshiper.”

“We’re not looking for a new god,” Houndaer spat.

“I’m sure,” the wizard said. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to tell Master Argith and me what your grand and glorious scheme
is
all about. And why now?”

“Why now?” the noble asked.

“Our fellowship has existed for decades,” the craftsman cut in, “though it’s only recently that we all eloped and took up residence here full time. Formerly we merely gathered for an hour or two every fortnight or so.”

“If you’re a male,” Houndaer said, “and utterly dissatisfied with your place in Menzoberranzan, you need some sort of a refuge, don’t you?”

“I quite agree,” the wizard said. “Of course, others have opted for a merchant House, the Academy, or Bregan D’aerthe.”

Houndaer made a spitting sound. “Those are just places to hide from the matrons. This is a fortress for males who want to turn Menzoberranzan upside down and put ourselves on top. Why not? Aren’t our mages and even our warriors as powerful as the clergy?”

Pharaun grinned and said, “They certainly are now that the priestesses have mislaid their magic.”

Houndaer blinked. “You know about that?”

“I’ve inferred it. You obviously know as well. Otherwise, you wouldn’t run about breaking spiderwebs simply for the fun of it, to say nothing of putting your master plan into motion. I’d be curious to hear how you found out and if you know why.”

“We don’t know why,” Houndaer said, shaking his head. “We started to figure it out after a couple of us saw priestesses die fighting gricks out in the Bauthwaf. The bitches should’ve used spells to save themselves, but they didn’t, and we guessed it was because they couldn’t. After that, we kept our eyes open and waylaid a few clerics to see what they’d do to defend themselves. Everything we learned supported our theory.”

Pharaun sighed and said, “Then you aren’t in touch with some chatty informant in the realms of the divine. Like me, you merely observed and deduced. What a pity. Aren’t you, in your ignorance, apprehensive that Lolth will rekindle the priestesses’ magic just when it’s least convenient?”

“Maybe the goddess turned against the clergy because it’s our turn to rule,” said the commoner. “Who’s to say? In any case, this is our chance, and we’re taking it.”

“Your chance to do what?” asked Ryld. “You talk as if you intend to revolt, but instead you’re inciting the slaves into an uprising.”

Houndaer cursed. “You know that, too?”

“We stumbled on it while looking for you,” Pharaun explained. He brushed a stray strand of his coiffure back into place. His white hair shone like ghost flesh in the soft light shining from the carvings. “As Master Argith noted, on first inspection, whipping the undercreatures into a lather would seem irrelevant to your objective.”

“Look deeper,” the noble said. “We’re canny enough to know we can’t topple the matriarchy all at once. Even without their spells, our mothers and sisters are too powerful. They have too many talismans, fortresses, and, most importantly, troops and vassals serving out of fear.”

“I begin to comprehend, and I apologize for not giving you sufficient credit,” Pharaun said. “This is merely the opening gambit in a
sava
game that will last a number of years.”

“When fighting engulfs Menzoberranzan,” Houndaer said, “and the clerics cast no spells to put down the revolt, their weakness will become apparent to everyone. Meanwhile, our brotherhood will take advantage of the chaos to assassinate those females who pose the greatest obstacles to our ambitions. With luck, the orcs will account for a few more. At the end of the day, our gender’s position in the scheme of things will be considerably stronger, and every male in the city will start aspiring to supremacy.

“In the years to come, our cabal will do whatever we can to diminish the females and put ourselves in their place. One day soon, we’ll see a noble House commanded by a male and eventually, a master in every House.”

He smiled and added, “Needless to say, a master who belongs to this fraternity. I’ll enjoy ruling over House Tuin’Tarl, and I imagine that you, Brother of Sorcere, wouldn’t say no to primacy over your own family.”

Pharaun nodded and said, “You’re far too canny to have forgotten we’ve all gone rogue. . . .”