Relentless

by R. A. Salvatore

  Beniago shrugged, not denying the point. “Matron Mother Baenre allows me my service to you with a price,” he reminded. “A price to both of us.”

  “I have heard nothing, but it wouldn’t surprise me,” Jarlaxle replied honestly.

  “Have you ever known Matron Malice to be so silent as she neared a move?”

  “I’ve never known Matron Malice to attack a Ruling House before,” Jarlaxle answered. “There is no house ranked below House Do’Urden threatening them, surely, particularly not at this time with House Hunzrin still in disarray, or at least in transition. If Matron Malice is plotting a war, it will be one that sits her on the Ruling Council. I would not expect her to signal that, no. Those eight matrons ranked above her sit together often. Who knows what tendrils they have tied to each other? Who knows their alliances? I don’t doubt that Matron Malice is planning her move, but I wonder if she even knows at this time who she will move against. I would expect that she will announce her move when she next speaks with Matron Mother Baenre, seeking hints as to which of the eight houses would be considered the least costly loss.”

  Beniago was no child, and surely not sheltered within the luxury of his house. He understood the reasoning, of course.

  “You said it yourself,” Jarlaxle offered. “She is building the music, the favor of Lolth. This will be an eventful year.”

  “Indeed,” Beniago answered, wearing a grin Jarlaxle could not quite decipher.

  “Do tell,” he prompted.

  “Perhaps Lolth’s favor does not shine on House Do’Urden as brightly as Matron Malice believes,” he said. “And so, perhaps another house will be the one initiating the events of the coming months.”

  “What do you know?” Jarlaxle demanded, trying not to give away just how surprised he was at that news.

  “Less than you believe and more than I can tell,” Beniago replied.

  Jarlaxle had no answer to that, and no follow-up question. Beniago was a soldier in his band, but Beniago was also a Baenre, after all.

  Another piece of the strange puzzle fell to Jarlaxle not long after, when Dab’nay came to him yet again, this time to inform him that Zak’s mood had shifted once more.

  “Happy?” Jarlaxle asked incredulously, after Dab’nay had reported the abrupt shift from the weapon master.

  “As happy as I have ever seen him.”

  Jarlaxle searched for some answer to this unexpected turn. When Dab’nay came to him this day, he had almost expected her to tell him that Zak had murdered his son, or that the weapon master had fled House Do’Urden and Menzoberranzan altogether.

  But no, he was still there, and Drizzt was very much alive, battling svirfneblin-summoned elementals in the corridors of the Underdark, or on whatever new adventure Malice had sent her sons.

  Had the news of Drizzt’s ethical failure completely broken his friend? Had Zak simply gone mad?

  “He gave you no clue as to why?” Jarlaxle asked.

  “He only said that he was no longer alone,” she replied. “He has found an ally and a friend.”

  “Who?”

  Dab’nay shrugged and held up her hands helplessly.

  Jarlaxle thought back to his conversation with Beniago. The pieces almost fit, but Jarlaxle knew that he was missing something here, something important.

  Something that would probably get some drow killed.

  Jarlaxle dropped his face into his hand, shaking his head. On one level, he was sorry his curiosity had led him to the chambers of Triel Baenre. Jarlaxle hated coming here—Triel was among the most dangerous and intelligent of the drow priestesses he dealt with. She was very short, less than five feet, shorter even than most men, and perhaps because of that, she always operated as if she was determined to stand atop anyone who dealt with her. With the Baenre imprimatur behind her every move and her own tremendous divine powers, she was usually successful in her attempts.

  “You know what Matron Malice will do, of course,” she said, only to twist the knife and cause more pain. Triel had just informed Jarlaxle of Drizzt’s betrayal, or cowardice, during the surface raid on the darthiir clan.

  “Matron Malice knows?”

  “She does. She had an unfortunate encounter with a handmaiden, and there learned that D’aermon N’a’chezbaernon was not in Lolth’s favor. Matron Malice is no fool—I give her that much. She looked, and looked hard, and so she discovered the truth. Her prized son did not kill the elven child. Quite the opposite. He covered the child in her mother’s blood and thus saved it from the blades of those who had accompanied him on the raid. An amazing betrayal.”

  “Cowardice, as you said,” Jarlaxle quickly added, trying to shape the opinion of this very powerful priestess. If Drizzt had failed because of cowardice, he would be punished, of course, but cowardice was something that could be corrected.

  Blasphemy was not.

  “The weapon master, your friend and sometimes associate, knows the truth, as well,” Triel told him.

  Jarlaxle was not surprised by that as the pieces began to fall into line, all perfectly explaining the dramatic shifts Dab’nay had been describing in Zaknafein’s mood.

  “Drizzt told him,” Triel went on. “And Matron Malice had invisible ears.”

  Invisible ears, a phrase priestesses often reserved for Lolth and her handmaidens. “If you behave badly,” every drow was taught from her or his earliest days, “Lady Lolth will know. Her ears are all about you, invisible, hovering, waiting to catch your transgressions.”

  Malice had magically spied on Zak and Drizzt.

  “That evidence is weak,” Jarlaxle said, and he knew he was flailing here, but he had to do something. He had to try. “Perhaps Drizzt was simply telling the weapon master what he thought Zaknafein wanted to hear.”

  “Lady Lolth’s disfavor clouded House Do’Urden before the secondboy told the weapon master,” Triel reminded him, before Jarlaxle could find any wiggle room in whatever wild theory he might concoct to throw her down a different path.

  “The disfavor was not from Drizzt’s words, but from his actions during that raid.” Triel’s obvious glee had Jarlaxle grinding his teeth. “You know what Matron Malice will do, of course,” she said again, openly smiling—and more about Jarlaxle’s discomfort than any feelings regarding Drizzt or Zaknafein or House Do’Urden she might hold. It was all just a game to her, to all of them, and now her play was bringing pain to Jarlaxle.

  Which she enjoyed immensely.

  Jarlaxle did know what Malice would do, what she had to do. She would sacrifice Drizzt to Lolth. However much she prized her promising secondboy, however much she thought Drizzt might bring to House Do’Urden, none of it was possible—in fact, quite the opposite—if Malice and her family were under the cloud of Lolth’s disfavor.

  One of the houses ranked behind Do’Urden could use this to ascend, or more likely and more devastating to House Do’Urden, any of the eight Ruling Houses who saw the ninth house as a threat could use this to eliminate that threat with finality.

  Jarlaxle played it out further in his thoughts. It wouldn’t end with Drizzt, he realized. Malice would be rid of the boy, though she didn’t want to, and then Malice would have to deal with the person Drizzt had told of his crime, a person who had certainly not gone to her with the news of Drizzt’s admission of guilt.

  Zak’s mood swings filled in all the holes for Jarlaxle.

  Zak, too, was surely doomed. Not right away, of course. Vicious Malice would make him suffer the pain of losing Drizzt for a while—perhaps she would even allow Zaknafein some chance at redemption, since she might well need his blades in upcoming struggles.

  But he wouldn’t take it. Jarlaxle knew that.

  He wondered if he might somehow extract Zak then, perhaps even find a way to pull Drizzt from Malice’s grasp.

  He dismissed the notion immediately, particularly given the woman standing before him. The Baenres knew the truth. The Matron Mother herself knew the truth.

  Jarlaxle and Bregan D�
�aerthe would never get close to Zak or Drizzt at this time, and this time was all the time they—Drizzt, at least—had left.

  “You do not much like the die that have been rolled out before you,” Triel remarked, drawing him from his contemplations.

  “I find the whole incident unfortunate and sad,” he admitted. “A tremendous waste of great talent and promise.”

  “Of course it is,” the first priestess agreed. “And what does Jarlaxle do when he does not like the die roll but cannot change the numbers? How does Jarlaxle mitigate his losses?”

  “My losses?”

  Triel laughed at him.

  Jarlaxle had never felt more naked.

  “What does Jarlaxle do?” she asked again.

  Jarlaxle just looked at her.

  “You don’t know,” Triel said. “It does my heart good to see Jarlaxle at a loss. Here, I will offer just a bit more: this will be a momentous night, I expect.”

  She stopped there, and Jarlaxle had to consciously keep himself from leaning toward her.

  “How so?”

  “I have much to do, many prayers yet to recite,” came the answer, one delivered with that wicked smile. “I will be here for many hours. You know the way in, so please, do come and tell me what you mean to do. In fact, I insist upon it.”

  Jarlaxle left House Baenre then, making for the Clawrift and House Oblodra, thinking that Kimmuriel might help him sort things out more clearly in this desperate time. He changed his mind, though, and went instead to the Oozing Myconid, and soon after that, he sat in a room upstairs at the tavern, across the table from Dab’nay Tr’arach.

  The woman waited patiently for Jarlaxle to tell her why he had summoned her. Jarlaxle saw that clearly but simply wasn’t sure how much to divulge.

  “Drizzt Do’Urden did not kill the elven child,” Jarlaxle said finally. “He protected her.”

  Dab’nay gave an audible gasp.

  “Mali—Matron Malice knows,” Jarlaxle went on. “And she knows that Zaknafein knows.”

  “Zaknafein knows?”

  “Why do you think his mood brightened?”

  Even as Jarlaxle asked that question, though, Dab’nay seemed to catch on, sighing at her own question, which seemed ridiculous in the face of this evidence.

  Jarlaxle stood up and began pacing. “What will Matron Malice do?” he asked, as much to himself as to Dab’nay.

  “She’ll give Drizzt to the Spider Queen at the end of her sacrificial dagger,” Dab’nay answered without hesitation. “Would any matron do differently?”

  “But what will Zak do?”

  Dab’nay held up her hands. “What does Zaknafein always do? He will fight, and take pleasure in killing every priestess in House Do’Ur—”

  “No,” Jarlaxle interrupted. “No. Malice knows him better than any of us.”

  “Matron Malice,” Dab’nay corrected, but Jarlaxle brushed it off.

  “She knows how dangerous he is, better than any of us. He’ll never get the chance. He is cornered and caught.”

  “She’ll kill him, too,” Dab’nay whispered in horror.

  “Eventually. She’ll make him suffer the loss of Drizzt first. She’ll blame it on him, make his heart heavy with guilt. That is her evil way, like all of them.”

  He looked to Dab’nay, expecting her to scold him, but she had nothing to say.

  “She’ll blame the disfavor of Lolth on Zaknafein to make it worse!” Jarlaxle said with flair, and his own words stopped him cold.

  “The disfavor of Lolth,” he whispered again.

  “Where are you going?” Dab’nay asked, when Jarlaxle headed for the door.

  “To play the die that have been rolled out before me,” he answered.

  There was no bravado in his reply or in his heart. There was nothing good to be found here, but perhaps, just perhaps, he had found something less bad.

  He was back with First Priestess Triel Baenre soon after.

  “You interrupt my prayers,” the diminutive woman greeted him sourly.

  “Do not pretend that you’re not enjoying this as much as any prayer you’ve ever uttered,” Jarlaxle replied.

  Triel laughed, and it was one full of joy, wicked and evil joy.

  “The disfavor of Lolth on House Do’Urden isn’t just because of what Drizzt did,” Jarlaxle told her, eliciting a curious look.

  “Zaknafein, too, has erred, years ago, in the tunnels outside of the city.”

  Triel’s expression did not change.

  “The details are not important,” Jarlaxle added. “But tell me this one thing: would Lolth’s disfavor be mitigated if Matron Malice claimed only one sacrifice?”

  “If she sacrificed the weapon master instead of the secondboy?”

  “Can you discern the answer?”

  “Are you asking me to convince Matron Malice to sacrifice your friend, Jarlaxle?”

  “No!” he said reflexively, fighting revulsion. “I am asking if that would be enough.”

  “That the secondboy might be saved and redeemed?”

  That is not how I would put it, Jarlaxle thought, but did not say, and it didn’t matter anyway, for certainly Triel understood that her own version and “redeemed” would never align with Jarlaxle’s understanding of the word.

  A moment later, Triel laughed again. “I see,” she replied. “Matron Malice will kill them both, you fear.”

  “It wouldn’t matter,” Jarlaxle admitted. “I know Zaknafein Do’Urden well. When Matron Malice gives her secondboy to Lolth, it will destroy him, and he will fight her.”

  “Do you not understand that I might enjoy such a spectacle as that?”

  “I ask you to do me a favor,” Jarlaxle explained. “I will be in your debt and will repay it many times over.”

  “This is important to you,” Triel said.

  “And profitable to you.”

  “Name it, but take great care before you utter a request I might find blasphemous.”

  “Get word to Matron Malice that the sacrifice of Zaknafein alone would suffice in this, alleviating the cloud that hovers about House Do’Urden. If that is the truth, of course. If that sacrifice would make proper amends.”

  “It will be easy enough for me to discern from a handmaiden,” Triel replied.

  “You know of Zaknafein’s transgression?”

  “I speak to handmaidens all the time, foolish man,” said Triel. “Of course I know. Of course we all know.”

  “We were out in the tunnels in service to Matron Mother Baenre those many years ago,” Jarlaxle felt he had to remind her.

  “Which is the only reason Zaknafein survived the ramifications of his actions.”

  Jarlaxle shut up then, his lips going tight. They knew everything. They always knew everything. They saw the fall, they anticipated the fall, they relished the fall.

  He wanted to stab Triel in the eye, then and there. He felt like Zaknafein, he realized, and never before had he so appreciated the unrelenting rage of his friend.

  “Go home, Jarlaxle,” Triel told him. “Go to your tavern or to the Clawrift and do nothing more this night or in the days to come. Do nothing more regarding this at all. That is not my advice, it is my warning to you, and one that comes with no caveats at all.”

  The walk across the city was long and terrible for Jarlaxle. He opted for the Clawrift, not the Oozing Myconid. He didn’t want to talk to Dab’nay or Kimmuriel. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. The die had been rolled before him and he had made his play.

  He tried to envision the unfolding scene in the Do’Urden compound in the West Wall of the city. Malice would tell Zaknafein that Drizzt’s life was forfeit, and Zak would be helpless, so utterly helpless.

  Zak had only one play, and Jarlaxle was confident that he’d take it.

  He’d offer himself in his son’s stead.

  It had to play that way, the only way.

  Many times in that long walk did Jarlaxle consider alternative courses he might take. He could assault House
Do’Urden with Bregan D’aerthe and extract both Zak and his son!

  But no, of course he could not.

  The Baenres would crush him if Malice did not. They would destroy him and Zak and Drizzt and anything and everything Jarlaxle had ever built with his mercenary band. For to interfere in this instance would put Jarlaxle against Lolth, openly.

  There was nothing more he could do.

  He felt helpless, indeed, but he knew that dear Zak would likely soon know a helplessness and despair beyond anything Jarlaxle had ever experienced.

  It happened that very night, as Triel had predicted, and happened as Jarlaxle had anticipated, except that he didn’t know that Drizzt Do’Urden was not in House Do’Urden that night, but was instead out in the city, settling a score.

  Triel had performed her favor and Malice had accepted Zaknafein’s offer.

  Jarlaxle’s friend was dead, given to Lolth, whom he hated above all others.

  Jarlaxle could only hope that Zak went to his grave with hope that his action would save his son.

  What Zak hadn’t known, however, and Jarlaxle only then the next day discovered, was that Drizzt was gone, from House Do’Urden and from Menzoberranzan altogether.

  The young fool, outraged by the death of Zaknafein, had cursed his matron and fled into the wilds of the Underdark, by all reports Jarlaxle could gather over the next few days.

  That left Jarlaxle in roiling turmoil, wondering if he should go and try to help Drizzt.

  But soon after, Drizzt was openly declared an apostate, leaving Jarlaxle helpless yet again.

  He sat on the roof of the Oozing Myconid one night soon after, staring in the direction of the northern exit of Menzoberranzan, thinking of Zak’s son, a true blade master, a young man cut from the cloth of Zaknafein in so many ways.

  That Zak hadn’t failed in raising his son to his own image brought comfort to Jarlaxle, whatever fate Drizzt might find out there (which Jarlaxle presumed would be an early death).

  For Drizzt had done what Zak had always wanted to do. Drizzt had seen the corruption, the evilness, the ugly weight of Lolthian edicts, and Drizzt had rejected it more fully than Zaknafein had ever found the courage to do, more fully than Jarlaxle had ever found the courage to do.