R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation (50 page)

“Of course, Mistress, of course.”

The Master of Sorcere bowed low.

Pharaun cast a spell, then slipped through the closed door like a ghost. On the other side was a drab, stale-smelling little room. Wrapped in a blanket like an invalid, her scarred face a mask of bitterness, Greyanna sat in the only chair.

For an instant, she stared at him stupidly, then started to throw off the cover, presumably with the intent of jumping up. He lifted his hands as if to cast a spell, and the threat froze her in place.

“What a dreary habitation,” he said. “It was Sabal’s, wasn’t it, when her fortunes were at their nadir. Mother has a good memory and a charming sense of irony as well.”

“And she’ll kill you, outcast, for breaking into the castle.”

“I always assumed so. That’s one reason I never paid you a visit hitherto. But our circumstances have changed. The Council needs me to help determine what’s become of the Spider Queen, and you, dear sib, are no longer a person of any importance. As Miz’ri’s demoted you for your repeated failures to kill me, I doubt she’ll make an issue of your extinction, even if she’s certain I’m responsible. She
smiled
at me this afternoon when I saw her in House Baenre, can you believe it? She must have decided she’d like me to resign from Sorcere and rejoin the family someday. Evidently she’s just realizing how powerful I’ve become in the decades since you chased me out the door.”

“I’m surprised you still want to kill me,” Greyanna said. “You’ve already defeated and ruined me. Death may prove a mercy.”

“I considered that, but I’m going on a journey into the unknown, a quest fraught with peril and adversity to be sure, and I need something special to hearten me, a memory fraught with spectacle and drama to cheer me on the trail.”

“I suppose I understand,” the priestess said, “but I wonder why it’s come to this. All these years, I’ve never truly understood the basis for our feud. If I’m to die, will you at least tell me why you chose Sabal over me? Was it fondness? Was it lust?”

“Neither,” Pharaun chuckled. “My choice had nothing whatever to do with personalities. How could it, when you twins were so alike? I threw in with Sabal simply because she was dangling from the bottom rung of the Mizzrym ladder. I thought it would be an amusing challenge to lift her to the top.”

“Thank you for explaining,” Greyanna said. “Now die.”

Pharaun’s own living rapier leaped from beneath the blanket. Obviously Greyanna had not only claimed the fallen weapon but figured out how to control it. No doubt she’d been wearing it in its steel-ring form when he entered the room. Knowing how he loved to talk, she’d lulled him with conversation and took him by surprise.

The long, thin-bladed sword hurtled across the room toward Pharaun’s chest. He frantically shifted to the side, and the point plunged into his left forearm instead. For a heartbeat, he couldn’t feel the puncture, and it flared with pain.

He had to immobilize the weapon or it would pull itself free and attack again. He grabbed hold of the blade with his right hand, and it sliced into his palm. A rapier was made for thrusting, but it had sharp edges even so. Sharp enough, anyway.

At the same instant, Greyanna cast off the blanket and snatched a mace from behind her chair. She jumped up and charged.

Pharaun narrowly dodged her first swing, then threw himself against her, ramming her with his shoulder. The impact knocked her stumbling backward.

It didn’t hurt her, though. She laughed and advanced on him again.

He knew why she was so exhilarated. She thought that with his left hand dangling at the end of a spastic arm and the right busy gripping the rapier, he wouldn’t be able to cast any appropriate spells to fend her off.

And she was right.

Edging away from Greyanna, his hand dripping blood, he let go of the living sword and started to conjure, rapidly as only a master could.

His sister rushed him. The rapier jerked itself out of his wound, hurting him anew. It pivoted in the air and aimed itself at his heart.

Five darts of azure force shot from his right hand into Greyanna’s body. She made a sighing sound and collapsed, her mace clanking against the floor.

At once the rapier became inert, and fell clattering to the floor.

He studied Greyanna, making sure she was truly dead, then examined his own wounds. They were unpleasant, but a healing potion or two would mend them.

“Thank you, sister,” he said, “for a most inspiring interlude. When I sally forth to save our beloved Menzoberranzan, it will be with a heart full of joy.”

She felt as if a bit of herself was sliding from her womb, and for a moment she felt diminished, as if she were giving too much away.

The regret was fleeting.

For in chaos, the one would become many, and the many would travel along diverse roads and to goals that seemed equally diverse but were, in effect, one and the same. In the end there would be one again, and it would be as it had been. This was rebirth more than birth; this was growth more than diminishment or separation.

This was as it had been through the millennia and how it must be for her to persevere through the ages to come.

She was vulnerable now—she knew that—and so many enemies would strike at her, given the chance. So many of her own minions would deign to replace her, given the chance.

But they, all of them, held their weapons in defense, she knew, or in aspirations of conquests that seemed grand but were, in the vast scale of time and space, tiny and inconsequential.

More than anything else, it was the understanding and appreciation of time and space, the foresight to view events as they might be seen a hundred years hence, a thousand years hence, that truly separated the deities from the mortals, the gods from the chattel. A moment of weakness in exchange for a millennium of surging power. . . .

So, in spite of her vulnerability, in spite of her weakness (which she hated above all else), she was filled with joy as another egg slid from her arachnid torso.

For the growing essence in the egg was her.

“And why should my aunt trust anyone who sends a male to do her work for her?” Eliss’pra said, staring disdainfully down her nose at Zammzt.

The drow priestess reclined imperiously upon an overstuffed couch that had been further padded with an assortment of plush fabrics, as much for decoration as comfort. Quorlana thought the slender dark elf should have looked oddly out of place in the richly appointed private lounge, dressed as she was in her finely crafted chain shirt and with her mace close at hand. Yet Eliss’pra somehow managed to appear as though she was counted among House Unnamed’s most exclusive clientele. Quorlana wrinkled her nose in distaste; she knew well which House Eliss’pra represented, and she found that the haughty drow reclining opposite her exhibited a little bit too much of her aunt’s superior affectations.

Zammzt inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the other dark elf ’s concern.

“My mistress has given me certain . . . gifts that she hopes express her complete and enthusiastic sincerity in this matter,” he said. “She also wishes me to inform you that there will be many more of them once the agreement is sealed. Perhaps that will assuage your own fears, as well,” he added with what he must have intended as a deferential smile, though Quorlana found it to be more feral than anything. Zammzt was not a handsome male at all.

“Your ‘mistress,’ ” Eliss’pra replied, avoiding both appellations and names, as the five of them gathered there had agreed at the outset, “is asking for a great deal from my aunt, indeed from each of the Houses represented here. Gifts are not nearly a generous enough token of trust. You must do better than that.”

“Yes,” Nadal chimed in, sitting just to Quorlana’s right. “My grandmother will not even consider this alliance without some serious proof that House—” The drow male, dressed in a rather plain
piwafwi,
snapped his mouth shut in mid-word. His insignia proclaimed him as wizard member of the Disciples of Phelthong. He caught his breath and continued, “I mean your mistress—that your mistress is actually committing these funds you speak of.”

He seemed chagrinned that he had nearly divulged a name, but the male maintained his firm expression.

“He’s right,” Dylsinae added from Quorlana’s other side, her smooth, beautiful skin nearly glowing from the scented oils that she habitually slathered on herself. Her gauzy, hugging dress contrasted sharply with Eliss’pra’s armor, reflecting her propensity for partaking in hedonistic pleasures. Her sister, the matron mother, was perhaps even more decadent. “None of those whom we represent will lift a finger until you give us some evidence that we aren’t all putting our own heads on pikes. There are far more . . . interesting . . . pastimes to indulge in than rebellion,” Dylsinae finished, stretching languidly.

Quorlana wished she were not sitting quite so close to the harlot. The perfume of her oils was sickly sweet.

Despite her general distaste for the other four drow, Quorlana agreed with them on this matter, and she admitted as much to the group.

“If my mother were to ally our own House with you other four lesser Houses against our common enemies, she would need certain assurances that we would not be left by the rest of you to dangle as scapegoats the moment events turned difficult. I’m not at all certain such a thing exists.”

“Believe me,” Zammzt responded, circling to make eye contact with each of them in turn, “I understand your concerns and your reluctance. As I said, these gifts I have been ordered to bestow upon your Houses are but a small token of my mistress’s commitment to this alliance.”

He reached inside his
piwafwi
and produced a scroll tube, and a rather ornate one, at that. After slipping a fat roll of parchment from the tube, he unfurled the scroll. Quorlana sat forward in her own chair, suddenly curious as to what the dark elf male might have.

Scanning the contents of his stack of curled parchment, Zammzt sorted them and began to circle the gathering, removing a set of pages and handing them to each co-conspirator in turn. When he handed Quorlana her sheaf, she took it from him gingerly, uncertain what kind of magical trap might be inlaid in the pages. She eyed them carefully, but her suspicions were dispelled; they were spells, not curses. He was offering them scrolls as gifts!

Quorlana felt elation rise up into her. Such a treasure was priceless in days of such uncertainty and unease. The Dark Mother’s absence had put a strain on every priestess who worshiped her. Quorlana herself had not been able to weave her own divine magic in four tendays, and she broke out into a sweat every time she thought on it. But with scrolls, the fear, the anxiety, the sense of hopelessness might be staved off, at least for a time.

It was only with the utmost effort that the drow priestess resisted the urge to read through the scrolls there and then. Forcing herself to remember whom she served, at least for the moment, she instead pocketed the parchment sheets inside her
piwafwi
and turned her attention back to the clandestine gathering in front of her.

“The only other proof strong enough to convince you of our sincerity would be moving forward with hiring the mercenaries,” Zammzt said, though none of the other dark elves seemed to be paying the least bit of attention to him.

Eliss’pra and Dylsinae were both wide-eyed with the same excitement Quorlana felt. Nadal, though not as personally thrilled—the spells were worthless to him as a wizard—could still recognize the value of the gifts.

“It should be obvious to each of you,” Zammzt continued, “that once our House approaches outsiders, there is no turning back. We would be completely committed, with or without your pledge of alliance. That, my charming companions, is putting the cart before the lizard.”

“Nonetheless,” Eliss’pra answered, still smiling as she gazed on the scrolls in her hands, “that is precisely what you must do if you wish to count my aunt among your allies.”

“Yes,” Dylsinae agreed.

Nadal nodded his concurrence.

“I think my mother would be willing to accept those terms. Especially after she sees these,” Quorlana voiced her assent, then gestured at the scrolls tucked away in her
piwafwi.
“Most definitely if there are more where these came from.”

How in the Underdark do they have precious scrolls to spare? she wondered.

Zammzt frowned and said, “I am not promising anything. I very much doubt that I can convince her to agree to this, but if she is willing, I will procure the services of the mercenaries and bring you the proof.”

No one spoke. They were all one step away from the point of no return, and despite the fact that none of them were actually in a position to make the decision, they felt the weight of that decision just as heavily.

“Then we will meet again after you have hired the army,” Eliss’pra said, rising from her couch. “Until then, I don’t wish to see any of you near me, not even on the same web street.”