R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation (66 page)

At the same moment, Valas flashed into view again, having been hiding somehow in the middle of the crowd. The scout plunged both kukris into the back of the first quaggoth. Ryld blinked in surprise but took advantage of the opportunity to spin and slash low, cutting the second deepbear across both knees. Both creatures collapsed in sprays of blood as Valas joined Ryld against the wall.

“That was impressive,” Ryld said as he and the scout kept the shouting, cursing throng at bay with their weapons.

“When those two came for you, I saw a chance and took it.”

“How do you want to get out of here?” Ryld asked, surveying the room for any signs of escape. “Just fight our way through?”

“I don’t know about you, but I’ve already got a means of escape,” Valas replied. “See you on the outside.”

With that, the scout backed into a shimmering blue doorway that had suddenly appeared at his back. Ryld had no time to gape as the door vanished from sight, leaving him alone against the horde of angry tavern patrons. A hobgoblin was closing warily from the right, while an orc and a strange lizard creature closed from the center and left, respectively.

Typical, he thought. Everyone but me must be able to blink in and out with those damnable doorways.

Ryld lunged in and cut high at the orc before spinning to deflect a blow from the lizard creature’s short blade. The warrior kicked out at the hobgoblin and slashed again at the orc, this time catching his foe right across the cheek. Blood spattered, and Ryld began to work his way through the crowd, knowing he couldn’t remain against the wall and hope to survive.

As he got in among the crowd and his opponents swirled around him, Ryld had an idea. Dropping to one knee, he made a couple of defensive thrusts as he reached down with his other hand and slapped the floor, calling up magical darkness. Nearly the entire taproom was engulfed in the inky blackness, and the battle cries of the crowd changed to the noise of confusion and panic. The darkness didn’t bother Ryld. He was used to fighting blind, feeling and hearing his foes as easily as he’d watched them before.

The reaction of the pressing throng was exactly what Ryld had hoped for. Not eager to attack a foe they couldn’t see and unwilling to get hit themselves, the crowd edged away from the warrior, giving him ample room. Reaching up, he slid Splitter off his back. With Valas gone, he no longer had to worry about controlling or shortening his swing. With the greatsword, he would be able to cut his way out much more quickly.

Not waiting for the unruly patrons to regain their wits, Ryld began slashing and cutting with bold stokes, clearing a path toward the door. The screams emanating from around the weapons master were unnerving to the rest of the brawlers. Quickly enough, Ryld emerged from the darkness, finding himself near the exit of the establishment. A couple more onlookers stood by the doorway, but when they saw the burly warrior appear with his greatsword leveled at them, they quickly scattered. Bruised and bleeding from several small cuts, Ryld darted through the exit and out onto the street.

Valas was leaning against a wall on the opposite side of the street, watching for him.

When Ryld saw the scout, he pursed his lips in displeasure, but before he could voice his anger, Valas nodded and said, “A lot easier to cut your way out of there without worrying about hitting me, wasn’t it?”

Ryld opened his mouth to retort, realized that Valas was right, and snapped it shut again.

Finally, after the two of them began making their way down the thoroughfare, the warrior said, “The next place we try, we’re taking a table near the front door.”

It was only after Ryld realized that they weren’t having to push their way through the crowds on the street, who parted for them warily, did he realize that he was still carrying Splitter in his hand, the blade dripping with blood.

“Yes, Captain Xornbane, by all means, dispatch them,” Faeryl’s mother said as the gray dwarves closed in on both Drisinil and Quenthel.

The two drow and the draegloth, unable to flee, stared about themselves. While Jeggred merely seethed with rage, straining to break free of the magical hold over him, Quenthel and Drisinil looked wild, desperate. The duergar who had spoken motioned, and several of the other gray dwarves moved in, axes lifted.

“Wait!” Faeryl exclaimed, then leaned in close to whisper with Ssipriina privately for a moment. “Mother, let’s not kill the two Menzoberranyr yet. I’d like to keep them for a while.”

“I think that would be an extraordinarily bad idea,” one of the males near her mother said, also leaning in.

Faeryl glared at the impertinent male, whom she seemed to recall was not of the family but had worked diligently as an aid for a number of years. Zammzt, she thought his name was. She wrinkled her nose slightly, for he was far from pretty.

“Do you always butt into conversations you were not meant to hear?” the ambassador asked.

Zammzt merely bowed in acquiescence and said, “Forgive me, but I am only looking after the House’s best interests. If this plan of subversion and surprise is to succeed in overthrowing House Melarn, then no one who knows the truth can be allowed to live. If the drow or the fiend are able to relay to anyone—anyone at all—what transpired here today, you will lose your backing from the other Houses. No one will support your rise to the council, Matron Mother. It’s an unnecessary risk.”

Matron Mother Zauvirr studied her daughter carefully for a moment then said, “He does have a point.”

“Mother, believe me,” Faeryl replied, “they will never get the chance to talk to anyone. I will make sure of it.”

Ssipriina finally nodded and said, “All right, you’ve earned the chance to extract a little revenge, I suppose, but you must make certain that they do not talk to anyone, especially not Halisstra. Do you understand?”

Zammzt clicked his tongue in consternation, but he apparently knew better than to argue further. He had made his case and had lost. He moved off to engage in conversation with some of the House wizards.

Faeryl, elated, said, “Of course, Mother. I understand all too well. If our plan is to succeed, everyone must think these two were plotting together.”

“Precisely. Now, I must go and prepare. We still have a lot of work to do.”

With that, Ssipriina Zauvirr departed, Zammzt falling in beside her, his head leaning in close to discuss issues privately.

The ambassador moved back over to Quenthel once more.

“You see,
Mistress
Baenre,” she said, trying to emphasize the honorific to the point of sounding absurd, “we didn’t really steal the Black Claw merchandise. You did. Or at least, that’s how it will appear when we report finding members of two powerful Houses meeting in secret, having already smuggled desperately needed supplies out of Ched Nasad and preparing to steal even more.

“I’m sure they’ll wonder why Matron Mother Melarn would have wanted to turn her back on her own city in favor of Menzoberranzan, but unfortunately, they won’t be able to ask her, since she resisted us and had to be killed.”

Faeryl signaled to the commanding duergar and watched with a warm feeling as three of the gray dwarves stepped close. At her nod, they raised their axes high and swung. Behind her, Faeryl heard Quenthel’s muffled cry of protest, but she didn’t bother turning around.

There was no more than a grunt from Drisinil as three axes slammed into her flesh, but the blades bit deeply and the fat drow’s eyes widened in pain and terror, though she couldn’t react in any other way. The three duergar yanked their axes free and prepared to strike again, but Faeryl motioned for them to hold. She wanted to watch as Drisinil died slowly.

“You’ll never look down your nose at me again, you fat rothé.”

Drisinil’s red eyes blinked and widened, seeming to plead with Faeryl in some way, but the younger drow only smiled as she stood casually, hands on hips, and watched the matron mother’s lifeblood drip into a puddle on the floor around her motionless body. Drisinil shuddered, and her eyes began to glaze over. Her breathing was rapid for a moment or two, then stopped. Her lifeless eyes stared at nothing.

Faeryl turned back to Quenthel, who had been able to see the murder. The high priestess seemed to look both terrified and furious, all at the same time. The ambassador stepped in close to the Baenre noble and smiled.

“Of course, they’ll be told that you were caught while trying to flee the scene, though you and I will know better, at least for a time. You and Jeggred are going to receive a stay of execution, just as I did back in Menzoberranzan. Aren’t you pleased? Instead of dying right away, you’ll get some of House Zauvirr’s hospitality, just as I was graciously entertained by your sister.”

Faeryl spat the words at her captive, the smile gone from her face. All of the hatred, the fear, surged to the forefront of her thoughts.

“And as for you, you wretched, foul-smelling beast,” Faeryl said, turning to Jeggred, “I will ensure that you learn what true pain is.”

The draegloth’s eyes bored into her balefully, but she forced herself to stare resolutely back at him for three long breaths before finally turning away.

“Gruherth,” Faeryl called, looking for one of her brothers in the throng of drow still milling about, “I want those two moved— secretly, mind you—to the dungeons in House Melarn.”

Gruherth appeared and said, “We’ll need a safe way to transport them.”

“I’ll take care of that,” another wizard said, stepping closer to the fiend.

Pulling a few items from his pockets, the mage cast a spell, and a large white bubble formed around the draegloth. At the instruction of the wizard, four guards lifted the sphere—with surprising ease, Faeryl noted—and began to carry it into another part of the storehouse.

Very quickly, the same spell was applied to Quenthel, and four other drow boys bore her milky white sphere away, too.

Faeryl turned and looked for the duergar leader.

“Captain . . . Xornbane, is it?”

The gray dwarf who had given the order to kill Drisinil nodded.

“As I understand it, the next step in our plan is to get your company inside House Melarn unnoticed.”

“That’s right,” the duergar repeated, folding his arms across his chest impatiently.

“Have all the arrangements been made to deal with this?”

“They have,” he said, then he turned and trudged off after Faeryl’s mother, leaving the ambassador to fume at his rudeness.

Gruherth reappeared.

“We’re ready to begin moving everything through to the interior of House Melarn,” he said to his sister. “Mother wants you there at the front so that we can throw off suspicion in case there are Melarn troops in sight once we begin crossing through the portal.”

Faeryl grimaced but nodded. She had forgotten how much at her mother’s beck and call she had been when she was last in the city. Still, she decided, it was better than being at Quenthel’s beck and call.

Much better.

Aliisza wriggled her toes in delight as she stretched out on the bed next to the wizard. It had been quite a while since she had felt this good, and it wasn’t merely the physical pleasures that delighted her. This Pharaun was quite the wit, she had decided, boisterous and clever for a drow.

“How come you’re so unlike the rest of your race?” the alu asked him, rolling over beside him and walking her alabaster fingers up his slender, graceful black arm, enjoying the contrast in color. “Every other dark elf I’ve ever met and talked to has been so staid and boring. You, on the other hand, make me laugh.”

Pharaun, with his head propped on his hands as he lay stretched out on his back, smiled.

“Just unlucky, I suppose.”

Aliisza furrowed her brow in confusion and asked, “What?”

“Can you imagine how it must be for me, being around ‘staid and boring’ drow all the time?” he asked, sitting up and folding his legs beneath him. “No one ever appreciates my witticisms. I offer up clever remarks, and I either get funny looks, if I’m speaking with other males, or scowls, if I’m in the presence of the ladies. It’s damned depressing. So I say it’s just bad luck. I was born a drow, but I was given a much sharper intellect than most of my species.”

Aliisza giggled and rested her chin on both hands, gazing at the dark elf ’s red eyes.

“Oh, come on,” she said. “It can’t be that bad. At least you get to talk to other drow. Look at me. I spend the entire day herding tanarukks around.”

“Oh, yes, the tanarukks. A few grunts and an obscene gesture, and they’ve recited their clan history, right?”

Aliisza laughed outright.

“They’re not so bad as all that, but they certainly aren’t ones for clever humor. Not even Kaanyr likes to devote this much time to just . . . talking—” She paused, seeing the wizard’s smile turn into a frown. “What now?”

“Why did you have to go and mention his name? I was doing just fine until you brought up your other lover. That’s no kind of pillow talk, you know.”

“Sorry. I won’t do it again,” Aliisza promised. “But tell me . . . how is it you manage to spar with this high priestess of yours? I thought the females of your species didn’t put up with too much of that nonsense.”

Pharaun groaned and fell back against the pillow.

“She goes from bad to worse,” he moaned to no one in particular. “Why do you keep bringing up these most unpleasant subjects? You’re torturing me! Was I that unsatisfying?”

Aliisza punched him on the arm, laughing.

“Just answer the question.”

Pharaun eyed her for a moment. He seemed suddenly wary.

“Why are you so curious?”

Aliisza shook her head.

“No real reason. Just curiosity, I suppose.”

Pharaun rolled away from her to the side of the bed and asked, “Why are you here? In Ched Nasad, I mean.”

Aliisza pouted just a little. She really hadn’t meant to put him on edge, and now she had to think of a way to calm the wizard down again. She decided the truth, or just enough of it, was the best medicine.

“Because Kaanyr Vhok wants me to find out what’s going on.”

“You told me you already knew. In fact, you explained to me what’s going on. What else are you looking for?”