R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation (48 page)

Much as the Mizzrym disliked hand-to-hand combat, perhaps a change of tactics was in order. He snatched a delicate little bone, dissected from a petty demon he’d killed in a classroom demonstration, and started to conjure.

Syrzan swung its arm and hurled a dozen flaming arrows. They missed, bumped off course by their target’s protective enchantments. Pharaun completed his incantation and so inflicted a hundred stabbing pains upon himself.

His body grew as large as an ogre’s, and his hide thickened into scaly armor. His teeth lengthened into tusks, and his nails into talons, while long, curved horns erupted from his brow. A hairless tail sprouted from the base of his spine, and a whip appeared in his hand.

The transformation only took a moment, and the discomfort was gone. With a beat of his leathery new wings, Pharaun hurled himself at his foe.

The wizard raised his monstrous arms high and bellowed an incantation. Pharaun felt a surge of churning vertigo. The scene before him seemed to spin and twist, and despite himself, he veered off course. He smashed down on the dais, and time skipped. When he came to his senses, he’d reverted to his natural form and felt as weak and sick as Smylla Nathos.

The lich was staring down at him.

“What an idiot you were to return,” Syrzan said. “You knew you were no match for me.”

Pharaun realized he could hear again, albeit through a jangling in his ears. He wouldn’t die deaf, for whatever that was worth.

“Stop preening,” said the Master of Sorcere. “You look ridiculous. This isn’t your pathetic dream world. This is reality, where I’m a prince of a great city and you’re just a sort of mollusk, and a dead, putrid one at that.”

As he taunted the creature, he groped for the strength to cast a final spell. No doubt the attack would fail like all the others.

So why, he thought, bother to attack? Try something else instead. Shaking with effort, he cast a spell off the side of the platform. Blue scintilla of power glittered briefly in the air.

“You call
me
pathetic?” Syrzan sneered. “What was that supposed to be?”

If you were wearing the ring you stole, Pharaun thought, you’d know, but I doubt it would fit on your bloated fingers.

The alhoon hoisted him off the ground, then wrapped dry, flaking tentacles around his head.

You’re still going to serve me
, Syrzan said directly into the mage’s mind, holding up one gnarled finger to reveal the silver ring.
When I devour your brain, I’ll learn all your secrets
.

“Perhaps the infusion would even cure your stupidity,” Pharaun wheezed, “but I fear we’ll never know. Look around.”

The lich turned, and he felt it jerk with surprise.

The lens of illusion he’d formed in front of the dais made Syrzan look exactly like a certain witty Master of Sorcere, and Pharaun himself resemble yet another humble orc. Once the Mizzrym created it, he’d willed the hand of ice to release the illithid’s head, and there came the construct, swooping straight at its originator.

Syrzan threw Pharaun down and faced its creation. No doubt if left unmolested, it could have averted the construct somehow, but Pharaun found the strength for one more spell. His labored incantation shattered the floor of the dais, staggering the alhoon and breaking its concentration.

The huge tentacles scooped Syrzan up and conveyed it to the maw behind them, whereupon the strangely shaped mouth began to suck and chew. The alhoon’s own magic mangled him as Pharaun’s never had. The lich faded for a moment, then became opaque and solid again. It was trying to shift to another plane of existence but couldn’t focus past the agony.

After a time, the enormous head blinked out of existence. Its passing dumped inert chunks of mummified mind flayer on the floor.

Pharaun’s strength began to trickle back. He rummaged through the alhoon’s stinking remains until he found his silver ring, then turned his magic on the renegades, though it wasn’t really necessary. Ryld, Welverin, and their cohorts already had the upper hand.

When the last rogue lay dead, the entranced Master of MeleeMagthere sat down cross-legged on the floor. His chin drooped down onto his chest, and he started to snore. Silver leg rattling as if a blow had loosened the components, Welverin limped over to check him and, Pharaun supposed, tend him as needed.

The Mizzrym thought he ought to take a look as well but when he tried to stand, his head spun, and he had to flop back down.

Triel stood on the balcony gazing down at the city below. It was virtually the same view she’d surveyed on the night of the slave uprising, the burning spectacle that showed her all Menzoberranzan was in turmoil.

The fires were gone. In their place, cold pools of standing water dotted the streets and hindered traffic. The rain had flooded cellars and dungeons as well, and it would take time to get rid of it. No one had anticipated a downpour, not with miles of rock between the City of Spiders and the open sky, and in consequence, no builder had made much provision for drainage.

Someone coughed a discreet little cough. Triel turned. Standing in the doorway, Gromph inclined his head.

“Matron.”

She felt a thrill of pleasure—relief, actually—at the sight of her brother, who’d come to her so quickly once she’d given him leave. She took care to mask the feeling.

“Archmage,” she said. “Join me.”

“Of course.”

Gromph walked somewhat stiffly toward the balustrade.

In one corner of the terrace, Jeggred slouched on a chair too small for him and gnawed a raw haunch of rothé. He looked entirely engrossed in his snack, but Triel was confident he was watching her sibling’s progress. That was his task, after all, to ward her from all potential enemies, including her own kin.
Especially
her own kin.

Gromph looked out at the city’s domes and spires. Some had lost their luminescence, as if his rain had washed it away, and many had flowed and twisted in the fire’s embrace, warping the spider carvings into crippled shapes or effacing them entirely. The wizard’s mouth twisted.

“It could have been worse,” Triel said. “The stoneworkers can repair the damage.”

“They have their work cut out for them, especially without slaves to help.”

“We have some. A few undercreatures declined to revolt or were captured instead of slain. We’ll drive them hard and buy and capture more.”

“Still, does anyone remember precisely how every rampart and sculpture looked? Can anyone recreate Menzoberranzan exactly as it was? No. We’re changed, scarred, and—”

He winced and rubbed his chest.

“Forgive me,” the archmage continued. “I didn’t come to lament but to perform my function as your advisor, to share my thoughts on how to meet the challenges to come.”

Triel rested her hand atop the cool, polished stone of the rail and asked, “How do you see those challenges?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? We’ve just experienced what promises to be the first in a series of calamities. By dint of observing you in combat, every Menzoberranyr with half a brain now knows you priestesses have lost your power. Rest assured, no matter what measures the Council takes, the word will spread beyond our borders. Perhaps some escaped thrall is proclaiming it even now. Soon, one or another enemy will march on us, or, if our luck is really bad, they might all unite in a grand alliance.”

Triel swallowed. “None of our foes dares even to dream of taking Menzoberranzan.”

“This Syrzan did. When its kin, and others, find out we’ve lost our divine magic, a significant fraction of our drow warriors, and virtually all our slave troops, it may inspire them to optimism. And they’re not even the greatest threat.”

“We ourselves are,” Triel sighed.

“Exactly. We always have our share of feuds and assassinations. Occasionally one House exterminates another outright, and that’s as it should be. It’s our way, it makes us strong. But we can’t endure constant, flagrant warfare. That would be too much . . . chaos. It would tear Menzoberranzan to shreds. Up to now, fear of the Spider Queen and her clergy has kept the lid on, but it won’t anymore.” He spat. “It’s a pity our new heroes didn’t die heroic deaths in their homeland’s defense.”

“You refer to Quenthel and the outcast Mizzrym?”

“Who else? Do you imagine them any less ambitious than the rest of us? They championed the established order yesterday, but, inspired by the knowledge that many would rally to their banners, may themselves seek to topple it tomorrow. Quenthel may try to seize your throne, not in a hundred years but now. Pharaun may strike for the Robes of the Archmage—by the Six Hundred and Sixty-six Layers, he all but did, having spent no effort in finding me before scurrying to your side. What a disaster that would be! Aside from any personal inconvenience to you and me, the city in its weakened state can’t withstand that sort of disruption.”

“I suppose they could be planning just that,” Triel said, frowning. “Perhaps we should have followed through and at least killed Master Pharaun.”

“If we execute one of the saviors of Menzoberranzan—damn his miserable little hide—it would have made House Baenre look frightened and weak.” The archmage smiled a crooked smile. “Which we are, at the moment, but we don’t dare give the appearance.”

“What, then, do you recommend?”

Below the balcony, a lizard hissed and wheels creaked as a cart rolled by.

“Use them in a way that simultaneously benefits us and neutralizes the threat they represent,” said Gromph. “Surely you and I agree that the present situation can’t continue. We must find a way to restore the priesthood’s magic.”

Triel nodded, looking away from her battered city.

“I propose that as a first step,” the archmage continued, “we send agents to another city—likely Ched Nasad—to find out if their divines are similarly afflicted, and if so, whether they know why. You can assign Quenthel to lead the expedition. After all, it concerns Arach-Tinilith perhaps most of all. I’ll be delighted to loan you the services of Master Pharaun. If the story I heard was correct, that weapons master friend of his should go as well, if for no other reason than it’ll make Pharaun squirm.”

“Ched Nasad . . .” Triel whispered.

“The three of them ought to be more than capable of surviving a trek as far as Ched Nasad,” continued Gromph, “and they can’t very well try to overthrow us while they’re leagues away from the city, can they? Who knows, perhaps Lolth will return before they do, and in any case, with time, their notoriety will fade.”

His suggestion left Triel feeling a little sheepish. She hid it as best she could by pretending to consider his plan.

“Faeryl Zauvirr proposed an expedition to Ched Nasad. She claimed to be concerned because the caravans have stopped.”

Gromph cocked his head. “Really? Well, our representatives can sort that out as well. You know, it’s good that the ambassador is already keen to go. She’ll make a valuable addition and a more than adequate cover for the whole enterprise.”

“Waerva told me Faeryl was a spy,” said Triel, “and sought to depart the city in order to report our weakness to her confederates. So I forbade her to leave.”

“What proof did Waerva offer?”

“She told me she learned of Faeryl’s treachery from one of her informants.”

Gromph waited a moment as if expecting something more.

“And that’s it?” he asked at length. “With respect, Matron, may I point out that if you haven’t spoken with the informer yourself, if you haven’t probed the matter any further, then you really only have Waerva’s word for it that the envoy is a traitor.”

“I can’t handle everything personally,” Triel scowled. “That’s why we have retainers in the first place. I have not entirely lost touch with my—
our
interests in Ched Nasad, though their explanations and excuses do wear thin.”

“Of course, Matron,” Gromph said quickly. “I quite understand. I have the same problem with my own retainers, and I only have Menzoberranzan’s wizards to oversee, not an entire city.”

“Why would Waerva lie?”

“I don’t know, but I’ve had some dealings with Faeryl Zauvirr. She never struck me as stupid enough to cross the Baenre. Waerva, on the other hand, is reckless and discontented enough for any game. Accordingly, I think it might be worthwhile to inquire into this matter ourselves.”

Triel hesitated before saying, “That could prove difficult. Despite my orders, the Zauvirr tried to flee Menzoberranzan. I hired some agents of Bregan D’aerthe, led by Valas Hune—do you know him?”

“I’ve heard the name mentioned,” Gromph replied.

“He would make a fair addition to your little band of explorers,” Triel said. “He’s known to be more than passingly familiar with the wilds of the Underdark—a guide of some accomplishment, in fact.”

Gromph bowed his agreement.

“Be that as it may, it was Valas Hune I hired to fetch Faeryl back. He completed his task well, and I gave the ambassador to Jeggred.”

The wizard rounded on the draegloth.

“What’s the prisoner’s condition?” he asked the creature. “Is she alive?”

“Yes,” said Jeggred through a mouthful of bloody meat. “I was taking my time, to prove I can. But you can’t have her. Mother gave her to me. She just told you.”

Gromph stared up into the half-demon’s eyes.

“Nephew,” he said, “I’m sore, frustrated, and in a foul mood generally. Right now I don’t give a leaky sack of rat droppings whether you’re a sacred being or not. Show some respect, lead me to this prisoner forthwith, or I’ll blight you where you sit.”

Clutching the rothé bone like a club, Jeggred sprang upward from his seat.

Triel said, “Do as the archmage bade you. I wish it as well.”

The draegloth lowered his makeshift weapon.

“Yes, Mother,” he sighed.

Her pack weighting her shoulders, her heart pounding, Waerva turned and peered about. The cave stretched out before her and behind, with stalactites stabbing down from the ceiling and stalagmites jutting up from the uneven floor. Nothing moved.

What, then, had she heard? As if in response to her unspoken question, a drop of falling water plopped somewhere in the passages ahead. It was one of the most common sounds of the Underdark, and scarcely a harbinger of peril.