R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation (72 page)

Faeryl frowned, not liking where this was leading. She was beginning to think it had been a mistake to put the full plan into motion until Pharaun and the others had also been brought into custody, or better yet, killed. Maybe she could get to him before the rest of them had a chance to speak with him, take care of it herself, one way or another. Perhaps then her mother would stop treating her like a child.

Aunrae nodded, her mouth pursed as though considering the younger drow’s words.

“You argue for your life, Halisstra Melarn, but still your pleas have some merit. We will wait to pass sentence on you until we’ve had a chance to hear all sides. As for the ‘clever boy,’ when he comes to us, when we have him in our possession, we will extract whatever information he has, fully and without paying any price. Somehow, I do not think Quenthel Baenre had established the proper leashes on her wizard. I do not intend to make the same mistake.”

“Matron Mother Nasadra,” Zammzt called from the back of the room, where he had just entered. “They are here.”

Pharaun, Ryld, and Valas had been led inside and shown to a waiting room, an all-too-familiar sight to each of them and one that did nothing to set their minds at ease. They were left alone, or rather with only sentries posted at each of the exits to keep them company. Pharaun occupied his time strolling through the chamber, admiring the frescos and statuary that were in abundance there, primarily exhibiting the motif of spiders, webbing, and the glory of the dark elves. There were a goodly number of musical instruments as well, some he didn’t even recognize. The Master of Sorcere supposed a good many of the works related to the history of House Melarn, but to Pharaun it was all just so much pomp and circumstance. Ryld and Valas, meanwhile, had their heads together in consultation, most likely discussing tactics for extricating themselves in the event that things went bad.

When the double doors at the far end of the room were thrown open, Pharaun turned to see not one but several ostentatious drow females—matriarchs all, he was sure—waiting in the large audience chamber beyond. They were attended by a retinue of House wizards, soldiers, and younger females, all of them in House livery and many of them, Pharaun noted, radiating magical protections and other spells.

“Good evening, and welcome to House Melarn,” one somewhat tall and slender drow said imperiously, waiting on the throne as the three males moved into the room. “I am Matron Mother Ssipriina Zauvirr.”

Pharaun bowed slightly as he moved to a place in front of the throne, far enough back so as not to seem threatening. Ryld and Valas moved to join him as the other matron mothers gathered around the throne, and the assortment of wizards, priestesses, and soldiers flanked everyone else.

Pharaun knew the woman was Faeryl’s mother, of course, but he couldn’t guess what she was doing on the throne of House Melarn.

The mage looked around the chamber, trying to find Faeryl. She was there, though off in a corner of the room, as if she were trying to avoid notice.

If I didn’t know better, Pharaun thought wryly, I would have to assume they’re expecting some sort of trouble.

Neither Valas nor Ryld said anything, but the wizard could feel them on either side of him, tense and ready to spring.

“We are honored and delighted to be guests in your House, Matron Mother Zauvirr,” Pharaun said. “To what do we owe this auspicious occasion?”

And where in the Abyss are Quenthel and Jeggred? he silently added.

Ssipriina Zauvirr sniffed and replied, “On the contrary, Pharaun Mizzrym, I should be the one thanking you and asking you why you have graced the City of Shimmering Webs with your august presence. The reputation that preceded you, telling of a confident, self-possessed mage of no small skill, was only half the story, it seems.”

Pharaun smiled in the most disarming way he could muster as he shifted his weight to one foot, letting the other turn out slightly.

“Everyone has her own opinions, as always, Matron Mother. That is not to say that anyone is in error, only that affectations and realities do not always mesh, and for good reason.”

“Of course,” another matron mother said, moving forward from Ssipriina’s left, “and our opinion is that you and your companions, while affecting the appearance of simple travelers or even emissaries from our sister city of Menzoberranzan, are in reality spies, here to steal from us and expose whatever weaknesses you thought you might be able to find to the world at large.”

So much for affectations, thought Pharaun, shifting his weight uneasily.

He felt, rather than saw Ryld, to his left, and Valas, to his right, both stiffen at the undisguised accusation.

“Easy,” he muttered under his breath. “Save the foolish heroics for the ‘all-else-fails’ part of the program.”

Smoothing his face as best he could, the mage spread his hands in gracious acquiescence and said, “I’m sorry, Mistress . . .”

“Matron Mother Jyslin Aleanrahel, of House Aleanrahel.”

Pharaun swallowed then said, “Matron Mother Aleanrahel. While I’m sure our efforts at avoiding attention must seem terribly surreptitious, I can assure you that we meant nothing antagonistic. We only wished to—”

“To avoid being confronted like this?” Jyslin interjected. “How well did that serve you?”

Pharaun sighed and said, “Not well at all, it appears, but my companions and I still aren’t completely sure we understand your concerns. I must profess, I am confused as to why we’re meeting here, if none of you is Matron Mother Melarn.”

Several of the matron mothers gave each other knowing glances. Pharaun was thoroughly confused. He continued to scan the room and saw something else quite odd: a drow, obviously nobly born but stripped to her underclothes and held prisoner between two stout guards, and it wasn’t Quenthel.

“Oh, we have no concerns,” Jyslin Aleanrahel replied. “Not anymore. Until you arrived, we were concerned that we would not be able to detain you, that you might try to slip out of the city. We were concerned that you would report your discoveries to your superiors back in the City of Spiders. We were more concerned that you would try something foolish, like concluding your high priestess’s ill-conceived plan of theft and spying. You’ve cooperated nicely, though, so we feel we have the situation well in hand.”

Ryld made an almost inaudible strangled noise, and the mage felt the warrior shift his weight. In response, several of the soldiers, who had unassumingly fanned out to more completely surround the trio, tensed as though expecting Ryld to lunge at them.

Pharaun frowned.

“I wasn’t aware that our high priestess was planning anything of the sort,” he said. “If something is amiss, we must all work to see that it is rectified. Just tell us where she is, and I’m sure we can resolve whatever—”

“Quenthel Baenre was caught committing treasonous acts against Ched Nasad,” yet a third matron mother said, stepping out from behind the throne. Pharaun sensed that this one, with a graceful age about her face, might just be the most formidable drow he’d ever met. “There was no doubt about her guilt. She died trying to flee the scene of her crimes.”

Pharaun blinked, reeling. Dead? Quenthel Baenre was dead? He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be worried. Behind him, he heard both of his companions’ gasps of surprise.

“She was caught conspiring with House Melarn to illegally enter the city and steal valuable resources belonging to us,” the older drow said, “and we believe she was also committing espionage on behalf of Menzoberranzan. We consider these to be crimes against the city, against all drow, and most especially against the Dark Mother herself.”

Conspiracy? Pharaun thought. How ridiculous could they be?

He stared at the throne where Faeryl’s mother sat, and he was beginning to understand who was behind it, and perhaps why.

No wonder Faeryl was so eager to help us, he thought. She was leading us by our noses the whole time.

“Furthermore,” the matron mother continued, “you, by association with Quenthel, are accused of the same charges. You are under arrest, and you will be confined on the premises until such time as we can determine your guilt or innocence.”

“Not today,” Ryld said, taking a step forward and reaching for Splitter.

As one, a multitude of soldiers brandished hand crossbows, and at least half a dozen wizards and priestesses appeared to ready spells.

“Ryld, you fool, wait!” Pharaun growled, still trying to keep his voice low. “There are better ways . . .”

Valas reached a hand out and stopped the larger drow from finishing the act of unsheathing his greatsword.

“Not yet,” the scout pleaded. “We’ve got no chance like this.”

Ryld snarled, but he released the hilt of his weapon and stepped back again.

“Good,” the third matron mother said. “You are not as foolhardy as Faeryl suggested. Though the bravado is misplaced here, I’m sure it’s served you well in the past.”

“Mistress . . . ?” Pharaun began.

“Aunrae Nasadra, of First House Nasadra,” the drow finished for him.

Of course you are, the wizard thought.

“Mistress Nasadra,” he said, “while I am shocked and saddened by the news of Quenthel’s death, I implore you to hear me out. I have absolutely no knowledge of any conspiracy between her and anyone here in the city. There must have been a great misunderstanding.”

“I doubt it,” Aunrae replied, “but you may yet have a chance to prove it and spare your neck. Simply tell us the truth. Did you or did you not sneak into the city and meet in secret with Drisinil Melarn, matron mother of House Melarn, in order to steal goods out of Black Claw Mercantile’s storehouses?”

Pharaun looked around at the myriad faces staring expectantly at him—and at the scores of weapons leveled at him and his two companions—and he did the only thing he could; he lied.

“Absolutely, Mistress Nasadra,” he deadpanned, and everyone including Ryld and Valas gasped. Before the other two Menzoberranyr could refute his false admission, he continued, “Or rather, Quenthel must have. It all makes sense, now. You see, Mistress, she ordered my two companions and me to track down caravans that could help transport a large amount of goods, without telling us what they were for. Mistress Baenre told us males very little, you must realize.

“Right before we set out to follow her instructions, I overheard her speaking with Faeryl Zauvirr, the ambassador to Menzoberranzan who was accompanying us. I recall that she said something about meeting with her mother and one other, though of course at the time, I didn’t know to whom she was referring. She asked Faeryl something to the effect of, ‘and you’re certain the meeting place is secure? We can’t afford to be seen, you know.’ ”

“You pompous, smart-mouthed liar!” Faeryl screamed from across the room. “Kill them now and be done with it!”

Pharaun did all he could to avoid smiling. Around him, everyone began to talk at once, and though he heard more than a few snatches of conversation condemning him and his outlandish story, he knew that he had sown the seeds of doubt. Already, though, the troops who had surrounded them—troops wearing the insignia of House Zauvirr—began to advance uncertainly upon the three of them.

“All right, wizard,” Ryld hissed, “we’re out of time. What are we going to do?”

Pharaun opened his mouth to tell the warrior that he had absolutely no idea, when a sudden and violent shudder rocked the chamber, causing everyone to stumble and flail about, their center of balance disrupted. A heartbeat later, a monumental thundercrash penetrated the walls, deep and loud, and reverberated through the entire room.

“By the Dark Mother,” someone cried as everyone looked at everyone else in confusion and panic.

A servant ran into the chamber, a wild look of fear in his eyes.

“Mistresses! It’s duergar! Hundreds of them, surrounding us . . . they’re attacking!” Another sonic shock knocked the liveried boy to his knees, and he seemed to hug the floor in terror. “They burn the stones themselves, Mothers. The city is burning!”

Aliisza was more than a little surprised to see the horde of duergar seemingly appear out of thin air around the great manor Pharaun and his companions had entered. From the looks on their faces, though, she wasn’t nearly as surprised as the drow who were guarding the place. The gray dwarves, whom she estimated numbered between two and three thousand, had formed a line along one side of the manor house before making themselves visible by firing off a volley of crossbows. They also lobbed several dozen small clay pots, which burst into orange balls of flame upon impacting the stonework wall that surrounded the manor.

The few drow who’d been lounging around near the palatial front gates scrambled for cover as the hail of bolts and incendiary bombs struck. The blast from the initial attack shook the entire web street, and Aliisza had to improve her grip to avoid slipping and falling from her roost on the roof of the building on the opposite side of the open plaza. When she could look again, she saw that few of the dark elves had survived the first attack.

An alarm was quickly sounded inside the courtyard of the cystlike building, and more drow appeared from inside, a large contingent of them, in fact. Aliisza watched as they formed a line across the protective wall and returned fire with their hand crossbows. Several duergar dropped before the barrage, but the gray dwarves exhibited wise tactics, throwing up a shield wall with the front rank and firing a second volley from behind that protective barrier. In several places, the stone itself seemed to burn from the duergar fire bombs, and the fire was spreading.

In the plaza, citizens of Ched Nasad scrambled for cover, and in the distance, Aliisza could see a large column of troops marching, one web street over, in her direction. The duergar were about to have unwanted company . . . or so she thought.

That’s when the second mass of gray dwarves appeared inside the courtyard, flanking the drow who had formed up to defend the front gates.

Oh, how clever, the alu-fiend thought. They look like they’ve done this a time or two. 

Pharaun never hesitated.