She swung her whip of fangs, aiming low to ensure she didn’t accidentally lash Jeggred’s hands or arms. The five writhing adders gashed their targets but not enough to satisfy their mistress. She struck again and again. Her anger rose and rose until it became a kind of rapture, a sweet simplicity in which nothing existed but the cousins’ thrashing, the smell and feel of their blood spattering her face, and the pleasant exertion of her snapping arm.
She never knew what brought her out of that joyous condition. Perhaps it was simply that she was winded, but when she came to her senses, the two babblers were dangling limp and silent in Jeggred’s grip.
Both the draegloth and the scribe were smiling. They’d thoroughly enjoyed the cousins’ excruciating torture, but there were things still to be done, and she’d wasted time losing her temper.
Which was bad. Matron Mother Baenre, de facto ruler of the entire city of Menzoberranzan, should be able to govern herself as well.
Triel’s emotional volatility was of comparatively recent origin. She’d been calm and competent all the while she served as Mistress of Arach-Tinilith. That role, arguably second only to her mother’s in prestige, had suited her well, and she’d never aspired to anything more.
Nor had she truly believed that more was even possible. Her mother seemed immortal. Indestructible. But then, suddenly, she was gone, and the ambition that at one time or another goaded every dark elf awoke in Triel’s breast. How could she not strive to ascend to her mother’s throne? How could she let Quenthel or one of her other kin climb over her head to order her about forever after?
She managed to claim the title of Matron Mother, and though she soon came to feel somewhat overwhelmed by the scope and intricacies of the position, at first it wasn’t so bad. Things were relatively normal and didn’t require some dramatic intervention from on high to set them right.
Moreover, she had Quenthel and Gromph to advise her. True, her sister and brother invariably disagreed, but Triel could review their competing proposals and pick the one that suited her. It was considerably easier than having to come up with the ideas herself.
But she had a crisis to manage, perhaps the greatest crisis in the long history of the dark elves, and apparently she would have to do it alone. She obviously couldn’t confide in Gromph, and insolent Quenthel claimed she had to attend to the security of Tier Breche before she could focus on anything else.
Triel gave her head a shake, trying to dislodge her doubts and worries.
“Let them down.”
Jeggred obeyed, and she turned to the secretary.
“When you get a chance,” she said, raising her voice over the choking gasps of the two cousins, “have somebody haul them out to Arach-Tinilith to be patched back together, and have someone wash away the blood. But for now, we’d best get moving. I think we’re late.”
The trio moved on. A final turn brought them to the door. Behind it was the dais overlooking the largest audience chamber in House Baenre. A pair of sentries guarded the entry to ensure that no one would sneak through to stab the matron mother in the back. They snapped to attention when they saw her coming.
Triel swept on through the entry with Jeggred and the clerk in tow. The hall on the other side glowed with soft magical light to facilitate the examination of documents. A sweet perfume scented the air, and a fresco of Lolth adorned the ceiling. The guards along the walls—dark elves near the dais, ogre and minotaur slaves farther down—saluted, while the supplicants and petitioners made the obeisance proper to their stations, anything from a dignified inclination of the head and spreading of the hands to an abject grovel flat on the floor.
Looking down on them from the elevated platform, Triel reflected that it was astonishing just how many such folk turned up each and every tenday. She’d thought people were always demanding her attention when she ruled the Academy, but she’d had no conception of the hordes of idiots who constantly sought Matron Baenre’s ear, often to resolve trivial if not nonsensical concerns.
She sat down on her mother’s throne, an empress’s ransom in gold with a flaring back shaped to resemble an arc of spiderweb. Her predecessor had been a relatively large female, and her successor always felt a bit childlike and lost in the chair. She had enough of a sense of irony to comprehend the accidental symbolism.
She surveyed the waiting throng and discovered Faeryl Zauvirr at the very front with some long, bulky rolled papers tucked under her arm. The matron mother smiled, for at least she knew how to deal with this one particular petitioner. For a blessed change, Waerva, one of the lesser females of her House, had made herself useful. She’d come up with some significant information and a sensible idea of what to do about it.
Triel decided she might as well start out feeling dominant and shrewd. Perhaps it would set the tone for the rest of the session. She waited for the herald to conclude the ceremonials and the crowd to rise. Then, still spattered with blood, and with Jeggred looming reassuringly behind her throne, she motioned for Faeryl to step forward.
chapter
six
Faeryl was pleased to be chosen first. In retrospect, she thought the same thing would have occurred even if she hadn’t made sure of a position immediately in front of the dais. The haughty Menzoberranyr often feigned disinterest in their client city, but she knew they understood the importance of Ched Nasad.
It was hard not to hurry, but she forced herself to approach the throne with a stately tread consonant with the dignity of her position, the stature of her House, and the grandeur of her homeland. It was also difficult to offer a second graceful obeisance without dropping her roll of maps, but she accomplished that as well.
“Ambassador,” said Triel without any extraordinary warmth.
Perhaps she considered Faeryl’s presence inappropriate. “Matron Mother,” Faeryl replied. Tall, broad-shouldered and thick-waisted by the standards of her slender race, she would have dwarfed the Baenre had the two of them been standing side by side. “I know we sometimes meet in private, but after tendays of deliberation I arrived at a conclusion, one that compelled me to confer with you at the earliest opportunity.”
“What conclusion?” Triel asked.
She still seemed unconcerned if not downright cold. Perhaps she was preoccupied with her affliction.
Faeryl had of course fallen prey to the same malaise, but to her own surprise, she’d discovered she was at least as worried about something else: the well-being of House Zauvirr and the magnificent city in which it amassed its wealth, fought its covert battles, and worked its magic.
“I keep track of the caravans arriving from Ched Nasad,” the ambassador said. “For the past six tendays, none has. None. As the Matron Mother is undoubtedly aware, several major trade routes converge in the City of Shimmering Webs, which then funnels the merchants on to Menzoberranzan. At least half the goods that reach your cavern come through us. Except that now, they aren’t reaching you. The steady flow has dried up. Except in time of war, that’s unprecedented.”
“It’s an odd coincidence, certainly, all the merchant clansmen choosing other destinations, but I’m sure they’ll decide to head for Menzoberranzan next trip, or the trip after that.”
Faeryl had to make a conscious effort to compose her features. Otherwise she would have scowled. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought Triel was being deliberately obtuse.
“I suspect it may be more than a coincidence,” the ambassador said. “A thousand thousand dangers haunt the Underdark, and the philosophers tell us new ones are spawning all the time. What if something has cut the route between Menzoberranzan and Ched Nasad? What if it’s killing everyone who tries to pass through?”
“More than one tunnel connects the cities,” rumbled the draegloth unexpectedly, and despite the perfume wafting through the air, Faeryl caught a whiff of the creature’s putrid breath. “Is that not so?”
“Exactly!” Triel reached back around the edge of her golden chair and gave the half-fiend an approving
pat on the leg. “Your theory doesn’t stand up, Ambassador.”
Not for the first time, Faeryl wished that Triel’s mother was still leading House Baenre. The greedy, vicious old autocrat could be hard to contend with, but though she would have cherished a draegloth as a mark of Lolth’s approval and delighted in the demidemon’s gift for slaughter, she wouldn’t have tolerated it speaking unbidden at a formal conference, any more than she would have borne such disrespect from anyone else.
“If the threat consists of more than one beast,” the emissary said, “or more than one manifestation of a phenomenon, it could cut more than one passage.”
Triel shrugged. “If you say so.”
“I hesitate to mention it,” said Faeryl, “lest I be thought an alarmist, but it’s even possible that some misfortune has befallen Ched Nasad itself.”
“A misfortune so abrupt and all-encompassing that your folk never even had a chance to dispatch a messenger to Menzoberranzan?” Triel replied. “Nonsense. Even Golothaer, home of our ancestors, didn’t perish in an hour. Besides, I am personally aware of several communiqués having reached here from Ched Nasad in only the past few days.”
“I have received some of those sendings myself, Matron Mother, and find their excuses suspicious at best. In any case, the dearth of traffic from Ched Nasad warrants investigation, and as my city’s representative in Menzoberranzan, the task is my responsibility.”
“No one has charged you with it.”
“Then I take it upon myself. Yet I’m reluctant to venture across the Underdark with merely my own little entourage for protection. Traders guard their caravans very well. Anything that could destroy all those merchant trains would likely put a quick end to me, too, in which case, Matron Mother, the priestesses of Menzoberranzan would know no more about the new menace beyond their borders than they do now. Accordingly, I ask you to provide me with a sizable escort. I’ll march it to Ched Nasad and back again and see what befalls me along the way.”
“You have an enterprising nature,” said Triel “It does you credit. Alas, Menzoberranzan can’t spare any troops. Not at this time. Our forces are engaged in training exercises.”
Faeryl fancied she knew the real reason the Baenre was at present reluctant to divest herself of any portion of her military strength. Her caution made perfect sense on its own terms, but surely it must yield to the gravity of the envoy’s concerns!
“Matron Mother, if trade with Ched Nasad does not resume, the people of Menzoberranzan will find themselves bereft of countless amenities. Some of your craftsmen will lack the raw materials they need for their work. Your own merchant clans will endeavor to send caravans to my city, and those expeditions will probably not return.”
“I imagine some clever male will import the same goods via a different route if he can reap a profit thereby.”
Faeryl was beginning to feel as if she were mired in some lunatic dream.
“Matron, you can’t be serious. Ched Nasad is the single greatest source of wealth your people possess.”
Demons of the Web, it was in fact half again as populous as Menzoberranzan itself. The two realms had long been equals, and it was only a comparatively recent happenstance that had reduced the once independent City of Shimmering Webs to vassalage.
Triel spread her dainty, obsidian hands in a gesture of helpless resignation and said, “Wealth that is as much ours when stored in our trading costers in Ched Nasad as in our own vaults here.”
Faeryl didn’t know what else to say. No argument, however cogent, seemed capable of piercing Triel’s shield of bland, almost mocking complacency.
“Very well,” the ambassador said through gritted teeth, struggling to keep a grip on her temper. “If I must, I’ll manage without your help. It will exhaust my purse, but perhaps I can hire some of the sellswords of Bregan D’aerthe.”
Triel smiled. “No, my dear, that won’t be necessary.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I cannot give you leave to depart so precipitously. Who then would speak on behalf of your people? Even more importantly, I believe you may be right. Some new peril may be lurking in the Underdark and massacring drow left and right. I don’t want it to kill you as well. I hold you in too high an esteem, and I certainly wouldn’t want the other nobles of Ched Nasad to think that I blithely sent you to your doom. They might infer that I have little regard for even the most exalted officers of your splendid city, when of course, nothing could be farther from the truth.”
“You honor me. Yet considering what’s at stake—”
“Nothing is more important than your safety. Anything could happen if you attempt to traverse the tunnels at this unsettled time. You might not even make it out of Bauthwaf. Why, one of Menzoberranzan’s own patrols, weary from too much duty, imagining a dwarf crouched behind every stalagmite, might mistake your band for a hostile force and loose a volley of poison darts at you. You might die an agonizing death at the hands of your own friends, in which case I would never forgive myself.”
A chill crept up Faeryl’s spine, because she understood what Triel had really said. The matron mother had just forbidden her to leave the city, on pain of death.
But why? What accounted for Matron Baenre’s sudden hostility? Faeryl had no idea until she happened to glance up at the draegloth’s face. Somehow the half-fiend’s leer suggested an explanation.
Triel had decided Faeryl was less diplomat than spy, an agent for some power inimical to Menzoberranzan, who’d concocted this business of missing traders to provide herself with a good excuse to leave the city and report to her superiors.
Matron Baenre couldn’t allow it, couldn’t permit a spy to pass along the tale of Menzoberranzan’s newfound weakness. She didn’t dare, because it was entirely possible that not all dark elf enclaves had suffered the same calamity, and even if they had, perhaps the dwarves, duergar, deep gnomes, and illithids had not.
What remained unclear was why Triel believed as she did. Who had put the idea in her head, and what did that person have to gain by holding Faeryl in the city?
Jaw tight, the emissary stifled the impulse to confront Triel about the latter’s true concerns. She knew she wouldn’t be able to draw the Baenre into an genuine consideration of the allegations against her. Taking a malicious pleasure in the play-acting, Triel would simply feign shock that Faeryl doubted her trust and good will.
Indeed, if Faeryl wanted to avoid further humiliation, all she could do was go along with the pretense.
She smiled and said, “As I said before, Matron Mother, your concern honors me, and I will of course obey you. I’ll remain in the City of Spiders and savor its many delights.”
“Good,” said Triel, and Faeryl imagined the words that remained unspoken: We’ll know where to find you when it’s time for your arrest.
“May I have your permission to withdraw? I see there are many others seeking the benefit of your wisdom.”
“Go, with my blessing.”
Faeryl offered her obeisance, exited the hall, and walked through the great mound that was the Baenre citadel until she found herself alone and unobserved in a short connecting passageway. She took the rolled maps of the Underdark, the charts she had imagined that she and Triel might consult together, from beneath her arm. Teeth bared in a snarl, she smashed them repeatedly against the wall until the stiff parchment cylinder flopped limp and battered in her hands.
Gromph and Quenthel strolled about the plateau watching the apprentices and masters of Sorcere perform the rituals. The sound of chanting and the pungent scent of incense filled the air, along with various conjured phenomena: flashes of light, dancing shadows, demonic faces appearing and disappearing, moaning and crackling. All to lay a new set of wards about Tier Breche.
Gromph was mildly impressed. By and large, his minions were doing a good job of it, though they weren’t laying any enchantments he couldn’t pierce. In fact, since he was supervising them at their labors, getting past the wards would be easy.
“I wonder if all this will actually protect us,” said Quenthel, scowling, her long skirt rippling in the stray breeze kicked up by someone’s incantation.
Gromph was surprised that even after Beradax’s attack, she hadn’t donned a suit of mail. Perhaps she thought her frightened novices and priestesses required a show of confidence.
“It didn’t protect us before,” hissed one of the annoyingly vocal snakes comprising the whip on her belt.
Four of them were twisting this way and that, watching for danger. The fifth kept its cold eyes staring at Gromph, not, the archmage was convinced, because his sister suspected him of trying to murder her. Or rather she did, but not specifically. She simply had too many viable suspects. There were subordinates who aspired to be Mistress of Arach-Tinilith, and the myriad foes of House Baenre. Perhaps it was even Triel seeking to forestall the all but inevitable day when Quenthel would challenge her for preeminence.
“Enchantments can attenuate with time,” said Gromph, honestly enough. “The new ones will be stronger. Strong enough, I trust, to keep you safe in Arach-Tinilith.”
“It isn’t just the temple at risk,” Quenthel snapped. “Next time, a demon could attack Sorcere or Melee-Magthere.”
Don’t count on it, Gromph thought, but he said, “I understand.”
“I’ve seen enough for now,” said the mistress, her scowl deepening. “Don’t let your males slack off. I want the defenses complete before you leave to cast your spell into Narbondel.”
“Consider it done.”
Quenthel turned and walked back toward Arach-Tinilith. The primary entrance to the imposing spider-shaped temple had become merely an odd-looking hole. The artisans hadn’t yet finished repairing the crumpled adamantine leaves of the gate. Gromph smiled to think how that must annoy his sister. Knowing her as he did, he was fairly certain the unfortunate metalworkers had already felt the weight of her displeasure.
Well, perhaps they wouldn’t have to bear it for much longer. He fingered a small ornament, a black stone clasped in a silver claw dangling over his heart.
R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation Page 9