But then, the priestess had her epiphany. When Jarlaxle referred to “us,” he didn’t mean Bregan D’aerthe. He meant Zaknafein Do’Urden, and by extension, Jarlaxle, as well. It was no secret that Matron SiNafay was often quite vocal against the quick rise of ambitious Malice Do’Urden and her band, and the rumors were longstanding that Malice’s youngest daughter had been sired by SiNafay’s patron, and that insatiable Malice had often bedded SiNafay’s eldest son before his unfortunate circumstance.
“You can have all the coin you want without getting involved in the family squabbles of a ruling house,” Dab’nay repeated, because she was out of other things to say.
“Ah, yes,” Jarlaxle agreed, “but it would not be as much fun.”
Despite the final warning of the ugly Faceless One, Matron Malice was almost giddy with excitement when she returned to House Do’Urden.
She would soon deliver another child of Zaknafein, and now she was confident that House DeVir would be destroyed. Even without the birth magic, she had thought that DeVir was ripe for the picking, and with this added boost, her victory seemed assured—and likely a victory with minimal damage to her own house.
There was only one tempering notion here—or rather, two potential issues, though very related. Despite her earlier bravado, could she really be certain that Zaknafein’s progeny would be a daughter? And if it was a boy, she would have no recourse, particularly after utilizing a most sacred spell, which required the blessing of Lolth. A male child, even Zaknafein’s child, third boy of the house, would have to be sacrificed.
If it was a daughter, there remained the possibility of a residual curse from the casting of the destructive birth magic. But no, Malice told herself, determined to press on in her insatiable desire to climb the ranks of Menzoberranzan. They didn’t know there would be a curse, or if there was, perhaps it wouldn’t truly prove to be a curse at all, but possibly a blessing. Her eldest daughter, Briza, was the child of a brutish sire who was part demon or cambion or some grandparent not of this plane of existence, by all rumors, and yet the savage Briza—and even more so, the ultimately savage Uthegentel Armgo—certainly couldn’t consider that trait an affliction or curse!
“It will be a daughter, a priestess,” Malice whispered to herself. “And she will have the ambition of Matron Malice and the discipline of Zaknafein.”
As she smiled, she silently added, And this one will have the compassion beaten out of her. She will not be like Vierna.
Chapter 2
Expendable
“She is pleased. Quite,” Jarlaxle reported to Matron Mother Yvonnel Baenre in the dungeon chapel of the city’s First House.
The great Baenre turned to her entourage: her five daughters, three of them high priestesses, a fourth soon to be, and the fifth, young Sos’Umptu, no doubt on her path to be perhaps the greatest of all, for her devotion could not be doubted.
Jarlaxle liked that one, Sos’Umptu. She was the quietest of Matron Mother Baenre’s daughters, and least ambitious, despite her obvious skill in her clerical studies.
“You will watch carefully from afar,” the great Baenre instructed.
“Oh, I will,” answered Bladen’Kerst, the second oldest.
Jarlaxle winced despite himself. He hated and feared that one most of all. She was a hulking thing with wide and strong shoulders, and took particular delight in inflicting pain. Was there anything she had ever done to anyone whom she perceived below her station that was not cruel?
“We will,” corrected another—another of whom Jarlaxle carried a great enmity. This was Vendes, the fourth Baenre daughter, who seemed determined to ascend to the rank of high priestess by whipping as many victims as possible to death with her horrid seven-headed scourge, its living serpents writhing at her side as she spoke as if they understood every word and anticipated the taste of blood.
“No, she will,” Baenre commanded, nodding toward her eldest daughter, Triel. She was the shortest of the group, not even topping five feet, and quite ugly as drow women went. But she was broad and strong.
And calculating, Jarlaxle knew. Triel would succeed Yvonnel Baenre to the throne of the First House . . . if the old witch ever decided to die. That was probably a good thing, to the mercenary’s thinking. Triel wasn’t blinded by unrelenting sadism, like the other two, nor was she a pampered and privileged nit like Quenthel, the third daughter.
Nor was she blindly, wholly consumed by her love for Lolth like Sos’Umptu.
She would rule, and she would rule the house and the city wisely and with a measured hand—publicly, at least. Thus, she would want Jarlaxle and his growing mercenary band to carry out her dirtier deeds.
Jarlaxle couldn’t suppress his nod, considering his possible relationship with this one compared to that of the great and powerful Yvonnel, Yvonnel the Eternal, who had sat as a powerful force in Menzoberranzan, and indeed as the Matron Mother of the city, beyond the memories of the oldest drow. They said she was two thousand years old, many times the life expectancy of a drow.
Jarlaxle believed it.
Yvonnel the Eternal was . . . different.
“I hope High Priestess Triel is not dismayed by what she sees,” Matron Mother Baenre said, turning back to Jarlaxle. “You should hope so, as well.”
“I took her to the Faceless One, as you instructed me,” Jarlaxle replied.
“When will she cast the spell?”
“She will give birth early in the next year.”
Matron Mother Baenre looked to Triel, her expression questioning.
“If birth magic is as powerful as they say—” Triel started.
“It is,” the Matron Mother interjected.
“Then should we be concerned? Would Matron Malice Do’Urden dare turn her sights to a greater target?”
“She is not suicidal, child,” said the Matron Mother. “Do you think any of the Ruling Council would allow for such a thing without extreme retribution?”
Triel nodded and fell silent.
“Leave us,” Baenre instructed her. “And you,” she told Quenthel. “And back to your studies, child,” she told Sos’Umptu.
Jarlaxle shifted nervously, which was no common occurrence for the confident and capable rogue. He hadn’t been thrilled when told of the location of this meeting, and was less so now, being in this place with Matron Mother Baenre’s two most vicious and sadistic daughters.
For this was the burial chapel for Baenre nobles, and Jarlaxle was surrounded by the graves of those who had gone before, including the tomb of one Doquaio Baenre, resting directly behind the spot where the Matron Mother had chosen to place her magically created seat.
Purposely, of course—everything she did was purposeful.
Jarlaxle had a history with Doquaio—one might even say that Jarlaxle had killed Doquaio, though Jarlaxle had no memory of it, for it all had happened in the first moments of his life.
“The Faceless One has promised his help?” Baenre asked Jarlaxle.
The rogue nodded. “He will clean up the loose ends at Sorcere when House Do’Urden executes the assault.”
Matron Mother Baenre shuddered visibly. “A hideous fool,” she said, “so consumed by ambition that he melted his own face. I do so hate ambitious men who cannot accept their place.”
Jarlaxle didn’t try to hide his smile at that, particularly given the positions of Baenre’s two openly admitted sons: one the archmage of Menzoberranzan, the other, Dantrag, a superb weapon master considered to be the finest swordsman in Menzoberranzan. Dantrag wanted nothing more than to be appointed as the principal master of Melee-Magthere, the drow academy of physical combat, a position for which he was supremely qualified. But Matron Mother Baenre wouldn’t allow it, valuing his presence in the house too much.
To say nothing of his own ambition.
“What has the Faceless One told you of the birth magic?” Baenre asked.
Surprised by the question, Jarlaxle shrugged and immediately lifted his guard. If he admitted knowing too much, might Baenr
e loose Vendes and Bladen’Kerst upon him then and there?
“I only arranged the meeting, as you instructed,” he answered. “I never glanced at the scroll.”
“Or where he got it?”
“Or . . .” Jarlaxle started, then fumbled over the thought and spent a moment considering the question. He had seen, he realized—and had an idea, at least—of where the Faceless One kept the original.
“He penned it?” Baenre pressed.
“Yes.”
“From an original scroll?”
“Yes.”
“And now Jarlaxle knows where that original is?”
“Yes . . . no . . . somewhat,” the rogue stuttered.
“Good,” said the Matron Mother. “You will better discern the location. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Of the original writing?” Jarlaxle asked, completely lost by this unexpected turn in the conversation. If Matron Mother Baenre wanted him to enlist the Faceless One again with such a dweomer, that could be easily enough achieved.
Unless . . .
Jarlaxle cocked his head. “Matron Mother?” he asked leadingly. “Are you . . . ?”
“Be gone, Jarlaxle,” she replied. “You bore me. Need I have my daughters here remind you that all that we have said is for no other ears, or all that you have learned is for no one outside this room in the moment that you learned it?”
“No, of course not,” the rogue answered, and now he was hiding his smile. For he, he alone among the drow outside of House Baenre, now knew that Matron Mother Baenre was pregnant.
In Menzoberranzan, perhaps more than anywhere else in the world, knowledge was power.
Of course, in Menzoberranzan, knowing things often got one killed, particularly if that informed person was a man.
Jarlaxle left the compound of the First House soon after, mulling it all over. He performed many tasks for Matron Mother Baenre and the others of her family, but this one had kept him off-balance from the very beginning. Even the desire of House Baenre to put their thumb on the scale of power in this inter-house battle had caught him by surprise—more so when he had learned that Baenre wanted to intervene on behalf of House Do’Urden.
House Do’Urden was the city’s tenth house. The Do’Urdens were no threat to House Baenre, of course, and would almost certainly never be, so why did Baenre care? And particularly, why would she care about House DeVir, the city’s fourth house, when that house was widely rumored to be on the decline?
Was House DeVir reversing their fortunes and quietly regrouping, growing too strong for their own good, Jarlaxle wondered. Did the Matron Mother feel the need to take them down?
Jarlaxle suspected he was missing something here, and that bothered him most of all. He survived on information. He hated not knowing something when knowing that something could lead to profitable opportunities.
He sent out couriers as soon as he arrived at the Oozing Myconid, then gathered together some food and tried to enjoy his meal and release the spinning troubles from his mind. It would all make sense soon enough, he assured himself repeatedly.
Dab’nay joined him soon after in answer to one of his summonses. She took her seat tentatively, Jarlaxle noticed, never taking her stare off him.
“Is there a problem?” he asked. “And would you like some food?”
“No and no,” she answered. “But I know why you have asked me here, and the subject is beyond my understanding and my freedom to discuss.”
“You have never heard of the birth magic ritual?”
“I did not say that.”
“Well?”
“It is not a subject to be discussed. Certainly not with a man, and certainly not by a priestess who is not in the favor of Lolth.”
“Are you not? The Spider Queen has not abandoned you,” Jarlaxle replied. “There are no mercenaries carrying bounties for your murder. Your magical spells do not fail you.”
“I was never a high priestess.”
“You still receive your magical bounty from Lolth.”
Dab’nay replied with a slight nod that seemed more of a shrug. Jarlaxle backed away from the conversation, which normally was not an unusual subject between him and Dab’nay. They both understood the anomaly here: Dab’nay had abandoned any formal house or church structure. She had openly spoken ill of Lolth. There was nothing in her life now to indicate any fealty to Lolth or to the Spider Queen’s spokeswoman on the material plane, Matron Mother Baenre.
Yet her spells still came to her, even the more powerful ones that required some acquiescence from the otherworldly handmaidens of Lolth.
She was an instrument of chaos, Jarlaxle had concluded. Lolth liked that, even if the instrument didn’t much like Lolth. In a strange way, that gave Jarlaxle a bit more respect for the Spider Queen. She would put her own ego aside, it seemed, and allow Dab’nay to do her work, even if Dab’nay didn’t do it in her name.
Pragmatism always impressed Jarlaxle.
And yet Dab’nay would still not betray this particular bit of information.
Jarlaxle’s second summons was answered then, when another drow joined them at the table. Exceptionally thin and not tall, the man seemed almost a child in a decorated nightshirt rather than a formidable wizard in appropriate robes.
Jarlaxle knew better than to let appearances deceive him.
“Well met, Hazaufein,” he said. “I believe you know my friend here.”
“Priestess Dab’nay,” the man said in greeting.
“I am glad that you were able to join us,” said Jarlaxle.
“A fortunate coincidence, nothing more,” the man replied. “I did not expect to hear from you.”
“How fares Matron K’yorl?” Jarlaxle eyed Dab’nay when he asked that question, expecting her surprised expression. And indeed, she was suddenly looking at the newcomer with more scrutiny.
Of course she was! For Matron K’yorl Odran was the matriarch of House Oblodra, the city’s third house, and the most unusual, and unnerving, house. The Odrans, or Oblodrans, drew their power from psionics, the strange mind magics. They were ranked third, but no one really knew how powerful that family might be, since the magic was so unconventional and not fully understood.
“As vicious as ever,” Hazaufein replied.
“How do you know Matron K’yorl?” Dab’nay asked, and Hazaufein turned a startled stare her way.
“I am her elderboy,” he answered.
“Have you never been formally introduced to Hazaufein Oblodra?” Jarlaxle remarked, knowing the answer but wanting to see her reaction.
“But you are . . .” Dab’nay stated, then turned to Jarlaxle. “But he is a wizard. He studied at Sorcere when I graduated from Arach-Tinilith.”
“It is true,” Hazaufein said. “Not all the nobles of my house are proficient in mind magic. And the more traditional wizardry serves as a fine compliment.”
“And puts K’yorl’s eyes outside of House Oblodra,” said Jarlaxle.
“She hardly needs that,” Hazaufein said dryly. “She can wear the eyes of anyone she wants, whenever she wants.”
That reminder had Jarlaxle shifting a bit in his chair, then adjusting his eyepatch simply to feel the magical item, which protected him from the kind of possession to which Hazaufein had just alluded.
“What do you wish of me?” Hazaufein asked impatiently.
“I am only curious if you have heard any rumors. Of war, perhaps?”
“Why would I be foolish enough to speak openly of any such thing?”
“Because you value my friendship,” said Jarlaxle. “You wish to be granted a title of savant at Sorcere. I may be in a position to help you acquire that.”
“What is the price?”
“Just the answer to my question.”
“There is a rumor that a band of rogues are trying to start a minor house, perhaps by defeating the city’s least house,” Hazaufein said after a moment of reflection.
“That rumor is ten tendays old, and more, and it is one I sta
rted,” came the dry reply. “I speak of House DeVir.”
“Then you speak alone,” Hazaufein sternly replied.
“The name angers you.”
“House DeVir is the fourth house. House Oblodra the third. Any such rumors are dangerous.”
“More so because House DeVir has quietly allied with House Barrison Del’Armgo,” Jarlaxle replied, taking a chance on a hunch here.
“No one allies with Matron Mez’Barris Armgo,” the Oblodran wizard answered unconvincingly.
In the uncomfortable silence that followed, Jarlaxle noticed that Hazaufein wasn’t even asking him what rumors of House DeVir he might have heard—rumors that would certainly affect House Oblodra. To Jarlaxle, that unasked question might be the most important information of all.
“Is there anything else?” Hazaufein asked.
Jarlaxle shook his head.
“I expect payment.”
“Of course. I will speak to Archmage Gromph,” Jarlaxle assured him.
Hazaufein abruptly rose and departed the tavern.
Jarlaxle watched him go, then turned to see Dab’nay staring at him, shaking her head, clearly at a loss.
“What?” she asked. “What did I just witness?”
“DeVir is stirring,” Jarlaxle told her.
“I thought Do’Urden was stirring.”
“They are, but only because House DeVir has done something that has shaken Matron Ginafae DeVir’s standing with the Spider Queen.”
“You think she meant to move against House Oblodra? Wouldn’t that please Lolth, since Matron K’yorl is hardly devout?”
“Yes, you would think that,” Jarlaxle replied, a smile curling on his face as it all began to become clear to him. Yes, DeVir had meant to move on House Oblodra, but something had stopped them. Matron Ginafae would not have even considered a move against the strange and strangely powerful third house without the blessing of either Matron Mother Baenre or Mez’Barris Armgo, the unpredictable matron of the audacious second-ranked house.
It had to be Barrison Del’Armgo, the mercenary decided, for that explained why Matron Mother Baenre had taken more than a passing interest in the expected fight, and why she had allowed the intervention of the Faceless One with the coveted and rare birth magic spell.
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