Maestro

by R. A. Salvatore

  Desperately, she thrust her staff ahead. She got inside the priestess’s reach, prodding the woman hard. But she was bitten on her forearm by two different snakes. She recoiled, gasping in pain, and overwhelmed with poison.

  Dahlia stumbled across the room and fell back onto her bed. She tried to stand again, but her legs gave out beneath her and she crumpled to the floor.

  KIRIY XORLARRIN GATHERED up her dagger, determined to kill this one slowly. She barely had the weapon in her hand, though, when the door burst open and her brother Ravel and that wretched Tiago Baenre charged in.

  They surveyed the scene quickly, and Tiago’s face was a mask of outrage.

  “You,” he said, shaking his head and coming forward. Behind him, an equally angry Ravel was casting a spell, and behind him, in the hall, Kiriy noted Saribel—no doubt the priestess these two males wanted to put on the throne of House Do’Urden.

  Kiriy’s plan unwound right there, right then.

  “Drizzt Do’Urden is in the city!” she cried the moment before Tiago leaped at her with that terrible sword of his.

  CATTI-BRIE SAT ON her bed, heavier robes tight around her, and wrapped in her blankets as well, as if that extra fabric was somehow shielding her from the memory of her encounter with the insufferable Gromph.

  She watched as the gray mist formed around her, as Guenhwyvar became substantial once more, returning at her call.

  How glad she was when the panther appeared, unhurt, and hopped up on the bed beside her.

  “Oh, Guen,” Catti-brie said, burying her face in the soft black fur. She wrapped her arms around the giant cat’s muscled shoulders and pressed her face in tighter, and her shoulders began to bob.

  She had to give herself this moment, had to allow herself to break down and just melt.

  But only for a moment, and then she sat back up and forced a wide smile on her face as she considered this wonderful feline friend.

  “He’ll not ever be forgettin’ that meetin’,” she whispered, letting the dwarven brogue come back to her, using it to bring the strength and resolve of Clan Battlehammer. “We surprised him, we two, aye, and he’s knowing that his little tricks won’t be workin’.”

  Guenhwyvar yawned hugely, those great teeth shining in the candlelight of Catti-brie’s tent, then slid down on the bed.

  Catti-brie bent over the panther and nuzzled her, drawing strength from her, confident then that she had done the right thing, and that her confrontation with Archmage Gromph had put them back on proper footing. In the solidity of the black panther, so too did Catti-brie find solidity under her feet once more.

  “Aye,” she said again to the cat, and to herself, and she closed her eyes and let herself fall into a restful and much-needed sleep.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Blasphemy

  THE DEADLY BLADE, PERFECTLY AIMED FOR A QUICK KILL, STOPPED short. There the scimitar held, and the wielder quivered.

  His mind screamed at him that it was a trick, but his thoughts could not overrule his heart, and his heart showed him something he could not strike.

  Because Drizzt could not strike Catti-brie.

  He heard Jarlaxle and Entreri approaching from behind, and glanced to regard them. When he turned back, as they rushed up to join him, Matron Mother Zhindia was gone.

  “Where is she?” Jarlaxle asked frantically.

  “Did you wound her?” Entreri demanded.

  Drizzt blinked and shook his head, though obviously not in response.

  Jarlaxle pushed past him into the deep alcove, throwing glittering dust out in front of him, an enchanted spray that would reveal all the alcove’s secrets to him. He noted no traps, no more glyphs, but at the far end, the lines of a secret door were clear to see.

  “Go!” Entreri bade him, but Jarlaxle shook his head and spun back.

  “To Do’Urden,” he said, and tossed Twinkle, which he had recovered in the war room, back to Drizzt. “House Melarn is out of the war at least. Her priestesses are slain and Zhindia cannot replace them quickly enough to resume the fight.”

  “She will likely resurrect them!” Entreri argued.

  “And we will be long gone from this city by then,” Jarlaxle countered, pushing past and starting back the way they had come. He paused, though, and closed his eyes, considering the layout of the strange house and the forces they had left behind, trapped behind the magically stuck bronze doors.

  He started off the other way, along the curving corridor.

  Entreri snarled and spat, not thrilled with leaving a nearly-defeated Matron Mother Melarn behind, but he moved to follow. Then he paused long enough to grab Drizzt, who seemed almost incoherent in that strange moment, and drag him along.

  MATRON MOTHER ZHINDIA stumbled into her private chambers. Her sparkling red eyes aptly reflected the red wall of anger that coursed through her. “Sornafein!” she called, seeking her patron, her plaything, a handsome musician who would often help her sort through her volatile, careening thoughts and find a proper course.

  And Matron Mother Zhindia had a lot to think about at that moment. Six of her priestesses were dead, and only she and Kyrnill had escaped. She flinched as she considered the image of Kyrnill so quickly departing the battle, then grimaced more as her memory took her to the other side of the table, where that human intruder had jammed a dagger into the eye of priestess Yazhin Melarn, Zhindia’s only daughter, whom Zhindia had recalled from her studies at Arach-Tinilith simply so that she could witness the glory of an inter-House war.

  Zhindia had been trying to groom Yazhin to succeed her, perhaps even above Kyrnill, and certainly if Zhindia outlived the former Matron Mother of House Kenafin. She resolved to ask Lolth’s blessing in resurrecting Yazhin. She did not wish to begin anew her efforts.

  “Sornafein!” she called again, growing angrier by the moment. What was taking him so long?

  The handsome patron stumbled out of the side room then, and fell to his knees. He stayed there gasping, eyes far too wide, hands slapping at his throat as if he could not draw enough breath.

  Zhindia started for him, but fell back when a young woman strode out of the side room to stand beside the kneeling Sornafein. This creature—Zhindia did not know her—held a rope in her hand, and tugged it casually. Another woman, this one old and emaciated, a battered thing indeed, came crawling out to kneel on the other side of the young one, who dropped a hand and gently stroked the hair of the withered old thing as one might do to a pet dog.

  Up came Zhindia’s hands, in the beginnings of a spell.

  “Halt!” the young woman demanded, and the weight of the command slapped Zhindia across the face as surely as a heavy punch, and sent her staggering backward several steps.

  “I am not your enemy, Matron Mother Zhindia,” the young woman said. “Though you would be wise to never consider me a friend.”

  The proud and volatile Zhindia growled and began casting once more, and again, the young woman yelled “Halt!” and magically slapped her across the face.

  Again Zhindia staggered under the weight of the magical blow, but this time, she came up in a charge, her snake-headed scourge in hand.

  The young woman, so incredibly beautiful, merely smiled.

  That alerted Zhindia and she led her charge with another spell, one that wasn’t interrupted, one that would dispel any defenses this impudent young creature had enacted.

  Or it should have, at least. Zhindia realized it hadn’t when she was flying backward, thrown by the power of a repulsion spell.

  She hit the far wall hard, shocked by the bared might, that she, a matron mother, had been so casually thrown aside by this intruder drow priestess who could not have yet lived a quarter of a century.

  Common sense told Matron Mother Zhindia to opt for discussion then, but her outrage would not allow it. She still leaned heavily on the wall, but turned to glare at the intruder and stubbornly returned the wicked grin. She realized that her spell, though unsuccessful, had not been interrupted.

&n
bsp; “You have exhausted your commands, I see,” she said, and she launched into another spell.

  “Halt!’ the young woman cried, and Zhindia felt that stinging slap across her face.

  “Halt!” she said again, and again, and again, and each time brought a painful stinging slap, sending Zhindia into a turn one way and then the other.

  It went on for many heartbeats, many incantations, many slaps, and when it ended, it took Zhindia a long while to even realize that she wasn’t being magically slapped any longer.

  “I am the favored of Lolth!” she growled, and she clawed at the wall to regain her footing, stubbornly turning to face her adversary squarely—and noted then that the young woman was quietly spellcasting.

  Matron Mother Zhindia howled and leaped forward, but too late. The young priestess finished her incantation, throwing one hand out to Zhindia, the other reaching for the kneeling Sornafein.

  Zhindia saw her patron go flying aside, his skin erupting in brutal wounds as he bounced to the floor and lay face down, blood pooling around him. Then she too felt the stab of the powerful spell. It slammed her back against the wall, and opened a deep gash from her shoulder, down across her chest to her opposite hip.

  She gasped and crumpled to her knees, staring in disbelief.

  “I am in the favor of Lolth,” she said, blood dripping with every word.

  “Apparently, so am I,” the young woman replied.

  “Who are you?”

  “Someone you will come to know, I assure you,” the woman replied. “Unless of course, your stubbornness forces me to utterly destroy you here and now. I expect that Kyrnill will not be displeased, at least.”

  Zhindia fell to all fours and spat blood onto the floor.

  “You are out of the fight with House Do’Urden,” the young woman stated, “by order of Matron Mother Baenre, by order of Lady Lolth.”

  There it was, a name to enrage Zhindia once again. Fire burned in her eyes as she snapped her head up to glare at the intruder, but her outrage became confusion as she noted a third drow enter, a naked woman, who smiled at her and addressed her with great familiarity.

  “Enough, Zhindia,” she said in a watery voice, one that triggered Zhindia’s recollection. “There is more afoot than you can know.”

  “Yiccardaria?” Zhindia whispered.

  She saw Yiccardaria turn her attention to the young priestess, who shrugged. The handmaiden scowled and motioned for the priestess to proceed.

  With a resigned sigh, she did so, and Zhindia felt waves of healing magic flooding through her. Glorious magic that sealed her wounds, and those of Sornafein, she could tell from the man’s relieved groans.

  “Her attitude annoys me,” the young priestess said to Yiccardaria.

  “Enough, Yvonnel,” the handmaiden replied, and Matron Mother Zhindia’s eyes widened at the mention of that name. “You are done here.”

  “She is out of the fight,” Yvonnel said, pointing to the vanquished Matron Mother of House Melarn.

  “She is out of the fight,” the handmaiden agreed. “She will turn her attention to the fallen priestesses in her war room.” She stared directly at Zhindia. “Perhaps Lady Lolth will see fit to grant you some powers of resurrection.”

  “Perhaps not,” Yvonnel added with a laugh, and she and the handmaiden retreated into the side room, the withered old woman crawling behind them.

  The finality of the slamming door was not lost on the shaken Matron Mother Zhindia.

  THEIR MOVEMENTS WERE too swift and too coordinated as they careened along the curving corridors of House Melarn. Most of the remaining priestesses had run for the war room, trying to save those not yet quite dead, or were even then banging on the door of Matron Mother Zhindia’s private quarters.

  House Melarn was not strong with wizards, and most, like House Wizard Iltztrav, were too concerned with simply maintaining the supporting web structure to focus on the battles Zhindia chose to fight. And all of them, especially Iltztrav, had been wary of going against House Do’Urden from the beginning. It was no secret that the Xorlarrins were infiltrating and dominating the fledgling House, and Tsabrak Xorlarrin had just been named as Archmage of Menzoberranzan.

  So that left the warriors, and those drow who encountered Drizzt and his two companions were sent fleeing almost immediately, overwhelmed. Many of the famed Melarni driders were off to House Do’Urden. Many, but not all, and not the newest of them. It was the newest drider, Braelin, who at last stood between Jarlaxle and the others and the exit from House Melarn.

  Drizzt and Entreri broke left and right, Drizzt rolling to his feet with Taulmaril in hand, but Jarlaxle, in the middle, was first to act. “Hold your shot!” he ordered Drizzt, and Drizzt nearly paid with his life for complying as the drider heaved a javelin at his head.

  A second roll got him clear.

  “Braelin!” Jarlaxle yelled. “Oh, Braelin!”

  To the left, Entreri sucked in his breath, recognizing the Bregan D’aerthe warrior.

  The bigger question loomed, however: Did Braelin recognize himself?

  It didn’t seem that way when he charged forward, a heavier spear in hand. He thrust the weapon at Jarlaxle, and the mercenary had to retreat fast, calling to him plaintively all the while.

  “He cannot understand you,” Entreri said, moving around to the drider’s right flank, Drizzt coming to Braelin’s left. “It is not Braelin! No more!”

  “Take him!” said Drizzt.

  “You will be doing him a favor,” Entreri added.

  Jarlaxle cast a plaintive stare over his former scout, his former friend. He could not dispel this kind of magic and he could never reach the drow known as Braelin trapped inside the horrible form. To do so would ensure a most terrible death for Braelin. The new identity of a drider was the only defense from memories too awful to be survived.

  “Ah, Braelin, my friend,” he said quietly, dodging back as the drider came on fearlessly. “I fear this will prove my greatest gift to you of all.”

  And with that, Jarlaxle nodded.

  Charon’s Claw took a drider leg, and before Braelin even tipped that way, a lightning arrow hit him in the back of the neck. He stumbled and swerved, seven legs skittering wildly to keep him upright, his head lolling from side to side.

  A second arrow plunged into his back. Entreri got underneath enough to prod Charon’s Claw into the drider’s spidery belly, spilling ichor.

  Braelin tumbled against the wall and folded over, struggling mightily, but futilely.

  Drizzt put the bow up and Entreri backed away, both allowing Jarlaxle to move in for the final blow.

  “Ah, Braelin,” the mercenary said, kicking aside the spear and moving in close to regard his old companion.

  The drider grabbed at him, even got his hands around Jarlaxle’s throat.

  But only until Jarlaxle’s fine-edged sword sliced into Braelin’s heart.

  Jarlaxle stood up and gave a sigh.

  Noise down the corridor behind revealed pursuit, and so the three ran off, out the door and onto the web bridges that fronted House Melarn.

  They didn’t descend, and if they had, they would have found an organized ambush awaiting them.

  “Use the emblems,” Jarlaxle instructed.

  When the three were able to levitate, the mercenary led them off along the western wall of the great cavern, toward the sound of fighting on the balconies of House Do’Urden.

  BACK BY THE doorway on the bridge of webs, the drider heaving his dying breaths behind them, Yvonnel and Yiccardaria watched the three depart. Behind them, studying the dying abomination, K’yorl seemed quite amused.

  “The champion battle should be singular,” the handmaiden instructed, and Yvonnel nodded.

  “That human has been in the city before,” said Yiccardaria.

  “I know, from the memories of the Eternal. He is Artemis Entreri.”

  “It is a small world after all,” said Yiccardaria. “And one rich with the simple beauty of coincide
nce.”

  Yvonnel looked at her curiously.

  “Artemis Entreri,” the handmaiden prompted. “There is history with House Horlbar.”

  Yvonnel got the reference then, and chuckled.

  “So you have not forgotten.”

  Yvonnel laughed louder. “Beautiful indeed!” she replied. In his escape from Menzoberranzan those many years ago—thirteen decades and more—Artemis Entreri had encountered one of the two Matron Mothers of House Horlbar, a woman named Jerlys, and had promptly and efficiently dispatched her.

  Jerlys Horlbar was Matron Mother Zhindia Melarn’s mother.

  “Matron Mother Zhindia’s daughter, the young priestess Yazhin, was in the bloodied war room,” Yiccardaria explained. “And she, too, fell to Artemis Entreri.”

  “And Lolth will not allow her resurrection?”

  “Lolth cannot.”

  That brought a surprised look from Yvonnel.

  “The human carries a most awful and effective dagger,” Yiccardaria explained. “Matron Mother Zhindia will learn that there is nothing left of Yazhin, no soul, to resurrect.”

  Yvonnel nodded and looked at the now-distant departing trio. “And Kyrnill will be in the room before Zhindia, no doubt,” she said. “Perhaps Zhindia will blame her rival for her inability to bring back her dead daughter.”

  “Chaos is a beautiful thing,” said the handmaiden. “Full of excitement, the very edge of existence.”

  Yvonnel looked back, and stuttered. Yiccardaria had become again a yochlol in form, ugly and without symmetry, tentacles waving and dripping ooze.

  “We will be watching with great amusement,” Yiccardaria promised in her bubbly, watery, mud-filled voice, and with that, she melted away.

  Yvonnel light-stepped past the puddle of Abyssal mud left in the departing yochlol’s wake, back into the corridor.

  “Come, my pet,” she told K’yorl. “I will give you the image of House Do’Urden and show you where to bring us.”