Relentless

by R. A. Salvatore

  “I do agree,” Du’Quelve replied. She, too, was a priestess of Lolth, hoping to ascend to the rank of high priestess in the next decade or so, and to answer otherwise would have amounted to sacrilege. Not that she had to lie in response to this question, for Du’Quelve was often out of Menzoberranzan in service to Matron Arolina Hunzrin, and many of those journeys had indeed been to Ched Nesad, Menzoberranzan’s most favored trading partner.

  Not this one, however. Matron Arolina wanted to keep Iccara and her fellow priestess, Bolfae, all to herself. The Hunzrins had come upon the pair on the road to Menzoberranzan, journeying from a place they called the Arach Enclave, which they had claimed as a small but thriving Lolthian drow settlement in the deeper tunnels of the Underdark. For Arolina, for all of House Hunzrin, this place, Arach Enclave, was an entirely new discovery. Perhaps Matron Mother Baenre knew of it, or more likely, perhaps she had forgotten about it, but Matron Arolina was determined to keep the information secret.

  A heretofore unknown drow village would make a marvelous trading partner, particularly if the Hunzrins could establish themselves before some other family—or worse, that mercenary band known as Bregan D’aerthe—made inroads.

  The timing had been perfect, for this expedition had been planned barely a tenday before the chance meeting with the priestesses Iccara and Bolfae had occurred in some tunnels still well outside Menzoberranzan. All the expedition party had to do was reroute the mission to Ched Nesad, to protect their new interests, and then they could proceed to this most lucrative promise that would very possibly lead them to a more lucrative relationship.

  Before Bregan D’aerthe ever knew of the Arach Enclave.

  A group of Hunzrins called Priestess Du’Quelve away. As she passed a side corridor, unsurprisingly, Iccara’s comrade Bolfae exited that corridor and moved to join her friend.

  Bregan D’aerthe is following us, she telepathically communicated to her sister.

  Of course they are. Would you expect anything less of Jarlaxle? He knows that the Hunzrins have scored a major dealer in gemstones, one so rich with baubles that it could present a real curb on his insatiable ambitions, Iccara silently replied.

  Bolfae muttered some small talk then, in case anyone nearby was wondering why the two were so near to each other without exchanging any words or hand signals. Then, telepathically, she asked, Do you think he knows of us?

  He knows that two priestesses not of Menzoberranzan have joined with the Hunzrins.

  Drow priestesses?

  Yes, Iccara responded, but there was no hiding doubts in such telepathic communication. We must assume that to be the case.

  And if it is not?

  Iccara laughed at that. Jarlaxle is no fool. He will take whatever information he gleans straight to Matron Mother Baenre, of course, and she is also no fool. Perhaps this will shine more respect on House Hunzrin. That would be good. Menzoberranzan is such a limiting place. It is time for the Spider Queen to spread her tendrils more ambitiously from the city, and who better to do that than a rising house that typically has more nobles and commoners out in the tunnels of the wild Underdark than in the city proper?

  The same could be said of Jarlaxle and his Bregan D’aerthe band, Bolfae responded.

  He is a mere male, so that is irrelevant. Iccara quickly reverted to audible whispers as she noted the approach of Priestess Du’Quelve.

  “Good news,” the Hunzrin informed them. “The way is mostly clear and we have eyes far ahead. The journey should be swift and easy, and the most recent meeting with our contact shows him ready to deal and rich with a valuable mineral. He has to move the cache, and quickly, else his kin and kind learn of his thievery.”

  “Why would you trust such a creature?” Bolfae asked bluntly, playing her role.

  “He’s too dull-witted to be an effective liar,” Du’Quelve answered. “We know well the place and people involved.”

  “You have eyes among them?” Iccara asked, though she knew the answer.

  “Yes.”

  “The place?” Bolfae added.

  “Blingdenstone,” said Du’Quelve. “Is it known to you in the Arach Enclave?”

  “No,” Iccara lied. “But we know of these ugly little svirfneblin creatures well enough. We keep many as slaves.”

  Du’Quelve nodded her approval at that, then waved for the priestesses to follow. Soon after, the Hunzrin party broke camp, moving swiftly and silently along the tunnels of the Underdark, noticed by none.

  None except for Nav Rayan Dyrr.

  Chapter 15

  Conspiracy

  “Gracklstugh?” Beniago asked, more than stated, an older scout named Binnefein, one scarred in a long-ago battle where he had been saved by Zaknafein himself, back in the days when both Binnefein and Zaknafein wore the surname of Simfray.

  “Duergar?” Zaknafein asked.

  “By the Nine Hells, I hope that’s not the case,” Beniago answered. “I do so loathe those ugly little dwarves. But if it is so, then spread the word to the others that Duergar are fast to anger and more formidable than is often believed.”

  “Were we bound for Gracklstugh, the Hunzrins missed the most direct passage,” Binnefein explained.

  “So we can shortcut the route and arrive ahead of them?” asked Beniago.

  The scout considered it for a moment, then shook his head. “I would not recommend such a course. None know the tunnels of this area better than the Hunzrins—except, perhaps, the two newcomer priestesses we’ve spied among them. If they are avoiding the direct route, there must be a reason.”

  “If Gracklstugh is even the destination,” Zaknafein said.

  “True enough,” Beniago agreed. “Continue the scouting. Tell Dyrr that I want a new count if he can get close enough to the Hunzrin party.”

  “Seven men, two priestesses, plus these other two who are not, we believe, Hunzrin. And of course, their slaves, somewhere in the order of a score of bugbear porters and lesser goblinkin.”

  “Exact count,” Beniago clarified.

  “They are slaves; the count is fluid,” Binnefein reminded him. “Already on at least two occasions since our departure from Menzoberranzan, the Hunzrins have captured and added some goblinkin, and we’ve found one bugbear dead on the trail, cut by drow blades.”

  “If only the brutes would accept their place and learn to listen,” Beniago said with a sigh. “Keep eyes on them. Very near.”

  With a half bow, Binnefein rushed away.

  “I hope it is Gracklstugh,” Beniago said when he and Zaknafein were alone once more.

  “You just said the opposite.”

  “Because I suspect the alternative, and fear it, particularly with Zaknafein in my party.”

  Zaknafein arched his white eyebrows at that curious response.

  “The alternative is a small and hidden gnomish outpost struck out from Blingdenstone,” Beniago explained.

  “Blingdenstone?”

  “A svirfneblin city not far afield of Menzoberranzan. It is no secret among the matrons, but rarely discussed because it is of no importance and poses no threat. If we are bound for that outpost, I expect there may be a fight, and I do not want one with the Hunzrins, and particularly not with two priestesses whose house we do not know among them.”

  “Particularly with Zaknafein among your ranks,” Zaknafein echoed.

  “Your feelings about priestesses of Lolth are well known, as are your . . . generosities, to those who are not drow.”

  Zak considered Beniago’s statement and shrugged, unable to deny it. “Deep gnomes? I did not know . . .”

  “That’s the whole point. Few know, and it is better kept that way. The city of Blingdenstone is but a few miles from Menzoberranzan as the thoqqua tunnels, though it would take a difficult roundabout route to get near to them.”

  “We are near that city?”

  Beniago shook his head. “We are near the outpost. Some gnomes have come out of their fortified home. Perhaps the veins there run thin now, or
perhaps they have found more valuable riches—and they must be valuable indeed for the svirfneblin to dare to venture into the open Underdark.”

  Zaknafein shook his head, at a loss.

  “You did not know because there was no need for Matron Malice or anyone else to tell you,” Beniago explained.

  “I would not expect the matrons to suffer them to live.”

  “The costs of rooting them out would be great. Svirfneblin are cunning little beasts, and quite adept at rigging entire tunnels to collapse. There is no gain in destroying them, particularly at that hefty price.”

  Zaknafein considered that for a long while, trying to make some sense of it all. When was gain ever the only motive for the drow to strike out and slaughter anyone who was not drow?

  “Svirfneblin are not warlike,” Beniago said, as if reading Zak’s mind.

  “Ah,” Zak said, figuring it out. “You do business with them.”

  “I do nothing,” said Beniago.

  “Jarlaxle, then.”

  “Sometimes,” the Baenre warrior admitted. “But they are not eager trading partners. If the Hunzrins have made inroads with them, if indeed they have set up some arrangements with one or another of their gem and mineral merchants, then I expect trouble.” He looked Zak directly in the eye as he added, “And if there is trouble, I expect Zaknafein to know which side of that trouble he is on.”

  “What does that mean?” an indignant Zaknafein returned.

  “Think of gnomes as halflings,” Beniago replied.

  Zaknafein didn’t miss the reference, particularly given the smarmy tone from the Baenre warrior. Also, they had just come from the cave a couple tendays earlier where the incident had occurred.

  “I do not pretend to understand why you would do such a thing for the sake of a few slaves,” Beniago bluntly added. “But know this, Zaknafein: if the Hunzrins are indeed heading to Blingdenstone or an outpost of deep gnomes, any mercy you decide upon had better not endanger any of the Bregan D’aerthe soldiers under my command. They have come out here in the wilds of the Underdark trusting me, and I’ll not have that threatened by a commoner warrior whose heart is too big for his brain.”

  “I do what needs to be done,” Zaknafein retorted. “And I do it well.”

  “That is all that is expected of you,” Beniago replied. “For some reason I cannot fathom, that is all Jarlaxle expects of you.”

  “What else is there?”

  “Indeed,” Beniago said with an eye roll, and he moved away.

  Zak’s right hand slid down to his hip to clench the hilt of the sword sheathed there. He did not shy from a fight, and was more capable than almost any other in Menzoberranzan at winning one. But now he understood that those around him didn’t trust him.

  “The halfling slaves from Ched Nesad were no threat,” he said to Beniago’s back. “They were helpless and caught, and they knew it. There was no fight to be had, just a slaughter.”

  Beniago turned about. “And Zaknafein did not think that a worthy sport?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “Why?” Beniago asked. “Why would you put any value at all on the miserable lives of surface-dwellers? Why would you suffer one who does not follow Lolth to live?”

  “Does Jarlaxle follow Lolth?” Zaknafein retorted. “Does Bregan D’aerthe? The Oblodran, Kimmuriel, who would prefer the company of illithids? Does Beniago?”

  “Take care, Zaknafein. I am the nephew of Matron Mother Baenre, who is as near an avatar of the Spider Queen as might be found in Faerun.”

  “And your loyalty, Beniago Kurth? To Matron Mother Baenre or to Jarlaxle?”

  “Jarlaxle understands and approves of the role I play. It has been many years since you have been a formal part of Bregan D’aerthe. Perhaps it would serve you well to speak less and listen more.”

  “Perhaps. But I can’t listen when you have not answered my question. Does Jarlaxle follow Lolth?”

  “He . . . does not fight against her.”

  “Nor did the halflings.”

  “Only because they were helpless, as you just said. Do you think if the situation had been reversed, the vile little men would have stayed their blades?”

  It was a good question, one for which Zak had no easy answer. He thought that if those halflings had known what was in his heart, then perhaps they would have let him go free, as he did them. He couldn’t be sure, though.

  “That is what I thought,” Beniago said against Zak’s silence, and he went on his way.

  Zaknafein remained in the small side chamber alone for a long while, fending off the weight of the world. In these moments of uncertainty, it felt to the weapon master as if the tons and tons of stone above him were too heavy suffocating him, trapping him. Nearly three centuries had passed since the incident with Jarlaxle. It had all seemed a minor thing to him back then—Jarlaxle never mentioned it afterward, and indeed, he and Zak had grown closer subsequently.

  Clearly, though, Zaknafein’s mercy had been seen differently by others in the band, and likely, given that Beniago Kurth had been the one to deliver the revelation, it had been viewed much less favorably in other shadowy corners of Menzoberranzan.

  Now he had to be on his guard, that much was clear, and if the fighting started with these svirfneblin gnomes, Zak understood that he would be judged carefully and with a cynical eye.

  The weapon master shook his head at the realization.

  Any fear of, or longing for, the judgment of the others would not change his actions in any fight. He would do what he had to do to protect himself and his fellow rogues. But if the battle was ended, prisoners taken, he would not now, as he had not then, be a party to murder.

  “It’s Symvyn,” Maltzabloc Riffenhammer told the burrow warden. “Got to be.”

  “Quite a claim, mate,” Burrow Warden Belwar Dissengulp replied. “Symvyn’s no rogue, and not young enough to be that stupid.”

  “Not many knew of the arandur,” Maltzabloc reminded him.

  Belwar considered that honestly. The precious metal was quite rare and much in demand, sought after for the beauty of its refined silver-blue appearance and the resistances such armor provided against lightning and fire and even acid. Blingdenstone was thick still with sparkling gemstones and other metals, but the arandur veins there had long been exhausted. Until a new source had recently been found.

  “Cursed arandur,” Belwar muttered under his breath, for like platinum and mithral, the precious mineral was known to tempt even the strong. Belwar considered his own climb over his burrow warden brothers to get King Schnicktick to choose him for this dangerous mission, all for arandur. Would he have done that for gold or jewels?

  Yes, Belwar had fought hard to lead the expedition to find the vein, and had caught a few fortunate breaks when several more senior burrow wardens had deferred. Which meant that Belwar Dissengulp held a lot of responsibility for the safety of his community here, and his heretofore stellar reputation would take a seriously negative turn if they could not make a go of it.

  But Symvyn? Symvyn Rivenstone? There weren’t ten svirfnebli in all the kingdom Belwar would have chosen above the clever fellow for such an expedition as this. Symvyn had distinguished himself many times in the tumultuous decades. When an umber hulk had run roughshod over half the kingdom, Symvyn had been the one to get an enchanted quarrel into its backside, allowing the svirfnebli diviners to easily track it the next time it went underground, swimming through the stone to try to catch other gnomes unprepared in another part of the many-chambered city.

  Surely Symvyn was not one Belwar would have thought a thief and traitor.

  “So you know for certain, or your thinking has led you to Symvyn?” Belwar demanded.

  Maltzabloc hesitated. “Few know of the treasure we seek.”

  “Few know that we know of it,” Belwar corrected. “Many wag their tongues when they’ve a bit of myconid squeezings in them. Aye, many roll their eyes, seeing things that aren’t even there, after but a few sh
ots of the potent juice. We told few, aye, but I’d be guessing that all out here know well of the mineral.”

  Maltzabloc conceded the point with a shrug.

  “Can’t be Symvyn,” Belwar said. “Look harder.”

  With a nod, the younger gnome bowed and rushed away, leaving Belwar with too many unsettling thoughts. It was dangerous enough just being out here away from Blingdenstone, with its multiple escape tunnels and rooms crafted for ease in summoning earth elementals to help in the defense of the city. The last thing they needed was one of their own cutting deals with the treacherous dark elves, or worse, the duergar, for the gray dwarves could mine almost as well as the svirfnebli, and would probably consider a new vein of arandur worth going to war over. They had never mastered refining the stuff—only the svirfnebli could take the blue-green metal and give it that beautiful silver-blue sheen—but even raw, the metal would bring a fine price.

  Even as he went through that thought process, Belwar couldn’t find any sense to it. Blingdenstone used the wealth of their trading for all, and no svirfneblin in the city wasn’t given a fine life. The best wine, the best food, superb clothing, comfortable bedding—all of it—was provided by King Schnicktick to every one of his subjects. How might one of his comrades out here in the wilds be tempted to steal from the others or, worse, betray them to dark elves or duergar, when they would reap the benefits anyway?

  The burrow warden could only sigh. He had seen this before, of course. Every city had moldy mushrooms ruining the barrel, but Belwar had handpicked this adventuring troupe.

  It made no sense.

  Symvyn? That made less sense, still, but Belwar knew Maltzabloc well and had never known that one to be overly suspicious or conspiracy-minded.

  It was all an added weight on the shoulders of Burrow Warden Belwar. He was in command here, out here, in the wilds, surrounded by lethal enemies, and with an important task in hand. That would be difficult enough without betrayals!

  With such treachery among this small group, the entire mission seemed impossible.