“Nor do I, really. It doesn’t appear to make sense. Still, would you agree that the intent, like the act of eloping itself, reflects an antipathy to the established order?”
“Possibly.”
“Then let’s assume the Prophet or some other ringleader lured the males away from their homes because he knew they were more than ordinarily resentful of their places in the world.”
“It’s possible. Where does the notion lead?”
The wizard grinned and said, “If we demonstrate that we share their distemper, the rogues may recruit us as well.”
“How can we do that? We may not be clerics, but we’re Masters of the Academy. We’re pillars of the hierarchy, and more to the point, we have a pleasanter lot and thus less reason for discontent than most.”
“That doesn’t seem to slow you down.”
“Even so.”
“Here’s what you’re overlooking. Thanks to my misadventure with the Sarthos demon, I’m a disgraced master, likely in line for some ghastly punishment. Whereas you with your dour demeanor and dwarven armor are clearly an iconoclast and malcontent. Moreover, we’ve been asking everywhere for news of the runaways. They must know of it, even though they didn’t see fit to make contact. During that same time, a high priestess from House Mizzrym has tried to murder us. They surely have some cognizance of that as well.”
“Yet they still didn’t approach us. Why would they do it now?”
Pharaun smiled. “Because we’ll provide proof that we do in fact share their perspective.”
“How?”
“The priestesses lead regular patrols through the Bazaar. We’ll destroy one, repair to the Braeryn, boast of the deed, and await developments. The rogues will seek us out. How can they not? Whatever their ultimate objective, I’m sure they can use the services of two such talented fellows.”
“No doubt, but back up. You want to murder a patrol?”
“In as showy a manner as possible. With a bit of planning, it should be easy enough. They won’t be as numerous as Greyanna’s hunters and they won’t be expecting that sort of trouble.”
“What happened to not killing anybody, especially clerics, unless we absolutely have to?”
“We do absolutely have to. We’re in a race against time, remember, and this is the speediest route to our objective.”
“Maybe, but what happens afterward? Won’t any number of folk want to punish us for our impudence?”
“We won’t confide our involvement to those likely to prove unsympathetic.”
“The priestesses will figure it out.”
“Ah, but snug and safe in the lair of our friend the Prophet, we won’t care. Besides, the Council has already authorized our annihilation, so we really have nothing to lose.”
“Perhaps the crime can’t worsen our current situation, but what about the long term?”
“In the long term,” Pharaun said, “it won’t matter. As you yourself observed mere moments ago, we Menzoberranyr are a pragmatic lot. People forgive whatever outrages I committed yesterday if I make myself useful today.”
“Greyanna didn’t.”
The wizard laughed and replied, “Well, of course, we’re likewise prone to grudges, vendettas, and blood feuds. It’s one of the paradoxes central to our natures. With luck, though, no one of importance will take our little massacre personally. I doubt we’ll be murdering any princesses, or anyone of genuine significance to her family.”
“I think it’s crazy,” Ryld said, shaking his head. “You don’t know that the rogues will contact us, or if they’ll like what they see if they do.”
“Then we’ll simply hatch another scheme.”
Ryld scowled and shook his head again.
“You’re mad,” the weapons master said, “but I’m with you.”
“Splendid! We must toast our homicidal designs with something stronger than juice.” Pharaun looked about and spotted the goblin. “May we see the wine list, please?”
Ryld said, “It’s the very beginning of the morning.”
“Don’t be misled by superficial appearances,” Pharaun replied. “As neither of us has enjoyed a moment of repose, it must still be night. Do you think they have any of that ’53 Barrison Del’Armgo heartwine?”
chapter
fourteen
Until someone murdered her, Lirdnolu had taught her classes in a sort of indoor amphitheater, one of many architectural oddities scattered through Arach-Tinilith, and as the conspirators slunk in, they seated themselves on the C-shaped tiers.
Drisinil wondered what to say to them, how to stall until Quenthel arrived to confront them. The novice’s mind was a blank, but she knew she’d have to think of something. Her mouth was dry and tasted of metal. Her armpits were clammy with sweat, and her accelerated pulse pounded in the stumps of her severed fingers. The poison was obviously well on its way to killing her, and she had to please Quenthel Baenre sufficiently to earn the antidote.
Wrinkled old Vlondril Tuin’Tarl leered at Drisinil as if she knew of the student’s distress, but all she said was, “I believe most everyone’s here. Let’s get this done before our colleagues start missing us.”
“Uh, yes,” Drisinil said, gazing up at the rows of faces staring back down at her. “Well, mothers, sisters, we all know what happened last night. The vipers in the mistress’s whip detected the drugs—”
“So they did,” said Quenthel.
Startled, Drisinil spun around. A figure shrouded in a cowled piwafwi rose from the first row. She lifted her head, pushed the hood back, and stood revealed as the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith. Somehow she’d entered the room without her enemies realizing her identity.
Quenthel pushed back one wing of her cloak, freeing the arm that held her whip. She sauntered to the center of the room. It occurred to Drisinil that at that moment the plotters could have fallen on their target en masse, but they didn’t. The mistress cowed them with her unexpected appearance, her contemptuous demeanor, and the simple fact that she was a Baenre princess.
The mistress smiled at Drisinil and said, “You’ve done well, novice, except for one detail. It’s traditional for priestesses to conduct their affairs by candlelight. That’s all right, I’ve taken care of it.” She turned toward the door. “Come.”
Two teachers marched in carrying silver candelabra. After a moment, Drisinil, squinting, saw they weren’t alone. Many of the residents of Arach-Tinilith filed in after them, all well armed and wearing mail.
Quenthel beckoned to the plotters.
“Move down to the lower seats, why don’t you? The latecomers won’t mind climbing to the top.” She waited a beat, then said, “That wasn’t a suggestion.”
The conspirators hesitated a moment longer, and the show of force convinced them to obey.
“Thank you,” Quenthel said, then waited until everyone had taken a seat and the plotters all had armed loyalists at their backs. “Now, let’s discuss the matter that concerns you so.”
“I don’t know what my niece told you about this gathering,” said Drisinil’s Aunt Molvayas, clad in a gown of a dark and shimmering green that matched her eyes, “but I assure you, its purpose is entirely innocent.”
“Its purpose is to contrive your death, Mistress,” Vlondril called out. “I know. I’ve been in on it from the start.”
Quenthel nodded to the mad priestess.
“Thank you, Holy Mother. Your candor helps move things along.” The Baenre surveyed her enemies and said, “I understand that your excuse for seeking to depose me was the supposition that the goddess desires it. You postulate that she so abhors my rule of Arach-Tinilith that she renounces all Menzoberranzan.”
Molvayas drew a deep breath, evidently screwing up her courage. “We do. Do you deny it’s possible?”
“Of course,” Quenthel replied. “It’s a ludicrous notion unsupported by a single shred of evidence . . . though I’m sure it seems plausible to the lieutenant who covets my position.”
Drisinil noticed that while the
Baenre appeared perfectly at ease, the twisting whip serpents were keeping watch in all directions.
“What of the demons? They reflect the attributes of Lolth—”
“And they come for me. Because one of my mortal enemies sends them in guises intended to stimulate your imaginations.”
“What enemy?” Molvayas demanded.
“That has yet to be determined.”
“In other words,” said Quenthel’s second-in-command, “you don’t know what’s going on any more than we do.”
“At least I know what isn’t happening.”
“Do you? What makes your one opinion superior to all of ours?”
“The answer to that is readily apparent to those with some smattering of intelligence.”
“Insults won’t resolve this matter, Mistress, but I can think of a test that might. Step down for a year, and we’ll see what happens.”
Quenthel laughed.
“Meekly surrender the Academy to you, Barrison Del’Armgo? Not likely. As it happens, I too have conceived a test to determine who truly enjoys Lolth’s favor, your sad little cabal or me.”
“What do you mean?” Molvayas asked, wariness in her eyes.
“My test is simplicity itself. We simply ask Lolth whom she prefers, and await her answer.”
“That’s insane. The Spider Queen no longer speaks to us.”
“Perhaps if we petition, she will at least condescend to give us a sign. Are you willing to try?”
“Perhaps,” Molvayas said, no doubt aware that with blades at her back, she actually had little choice. “Do you propose to perform some sort of ritual?”
“As we’ve lost our magic, what would that accomplish? My idea is simpler. We all bide in this room, engaged in silent prayer and meditation, until the Dark Mother reveals her will.”
Vlondril snorted. “What if she chooses to ignore us?”
Quenthel shrugged. “I don’t believe she’s truly abandoned her chosen people or her chosen ministers. My faith is too strong to credit such a calamity. How strong is yours, Barrison Del’Armgo?”
“Strong enough that I have no fear of the goddess preferring you to me,” Molvayas spat back. “I just don’t see the point of your scheme. Lolth will speak when she wishes, not when we desire it.”
“It’s not a waste of time if it’s keeping you alive. I could have had my loyal followers kill you the moment they entered the chamber. Instead, I’m proposing an honest inquiry into your concerns, for the sake of all the temple. Under the circumstances, what could be more magnanimous than that?”
“All right,” Molvayas said. “We’ll remain for a time, but if nothing happens, my comrades and I go free. You can’t chastise us if the results of the test are inconclusive. That wouldn’t be an honest inquiry.”
“Agreed,” the mistress said.
Drisinil was bewildered and appalled. This strange, passive procedure sounded as if it could take hours. She needed the antidote before her thundering heart tore itself apart, but she could do nothing to speed things along.
Though plainly just as puzzled as she, the company obediently fell quiet. Meditation was a familiar practice to all of them, though frustrating and futile since Lolth had receded beyond their ken.
For what seemed a long while, nothing happened, except that a muscle under Drisinil’s eye twitched uncontrollably, and some of those whom she’d betrayed surreptitiously glared at her, wordlessly vowing revenge. A tiny something scurried across the floor. Or perhaps it did. By the time she tried to focus on it, it was gone.
Long moments crawled by. Cloth whispered as someone shifted position. Later, somebody else smothered a little sneeze. Drisinil realized she could just barely smell the ghost of the funereal incense Lirdnolu had burned when teaching necromancy.
Another mite scuttled along. Drisinil saw that this one was a spider. Nothing unusual in that. Arach-Tinilith was full of the sacred creatures. Still, something about this particular specimen tugged at her despite her sickness and terror. She stared until she discerned that it had a blue shell with red markings.
That was a little odd. This particular species generally spent its time lurking in webs, not roaming about. Still, she didn’t see why the anomaly should trigger a twinge of alarm. It must be the poison clawing at her nerves.
Time dragged on. A priestess on the lowest tier sang a hymn under her breath. She was flat. Another novice with mutilated hands surreptitiously checked the knife strapped under her sleeve, making sure the weapon was loose in the sheath. And, Drisinil noticed, more black dots were creeping on the walls and floor. More than were normal for a disused part of the temple? She thought so, and she glanced over at Quenthel, seeking some sign to confirm her formless suspicions. The Baenre stood motionless with head bowed, the very picture of a mystic absorbed in her devotions.
A novice with a gold earring cried out in pain. She dragged on her shirt, baring her right shoulder, and found the spider that was biting her. Her frantic efforts to remove the arachnid without hurting it should have been comical but Drisinil couldn’t laugh. Frazzled, addled by the poison, she could only stare at the dark flecks swarming thickly on every side. Some of the other conspirators had started to notice as well. They whispered to one another, and their eyes grew wide.
Something brushed Drisinil’s arm. She cried out and spun around. It was one of the Quenthel’s vipers that had touched her.
“Stay close,” the mistress said.
Once again, the spiders increased in number. Somehow hordes of them were scuttling over the bodies of the conspirators, biting, crawling under their clothing, freckling their skins like the sores of some hideous plague. Shrieking, no longer caring that the creatures were sacrosanct, their victims struggled to crush them and brush them off, but they couldn’t get them all. A few of the traitors retained the presence of mind to activate protective talismans, only to discover that the magic didn’t help, either.
The one place free of spiders was the upper tiers. Once they realized the creatures weren’t going climb up and attack them, the loyalists mocked and jeered at the plight of the traitors. Whenever one of the plotters tried to grope her way into their safe space, a loyalist would knock her back with a casual swat from a mace or whip. Some even shot down with hand crossbows any conspirator who attempted to stagger for the door.
Drisinil did remain at Quenthel’s side, and the spiders crawled over her feet but otherwise took no notice of her. They didn’t avoid the Baenre, however. They climbed all over her body without biting, and, laughing, she stooped, picked up more, and poured them over her head until the creatures virtually encrusted her. Her bright red eyes shone from a pebbled, squirming mask.
Finally the shrieking stopped, uncovering the sound of Vlondril ecstatically chanting one of the litanies as the spiders destroyed her. After another moment, that noise ceased as well. Drisinil noticed her aunt’s corpse slumped among the carnage, though she only recognized it by the jade gown. Molvayas’s face was swollen and bloodied beyond recognition.
Quenthel gazed up at the living and called, “We asked Lolth for a sign, and she gave us one. My foes are dead and I remain, robed in the goddess’s sacred spiders. I am the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith, and my minions will question my leadership no more or else die in agony for their effrontery.”
The surviving priestesses and novices hastily paid her obeisance.
“Good,” the Baenre said. “You are wise, and so I make you a vow. We will put an end to these nightly attacks. We will regain our magic. We will hear Lolth’s voice again. We will make our order and our temple greater than ever before. Now, clear away this mess.”
The spiders began to disappear, from the room and Quenthel’s person as well. Drisinil couldn’t quite tell if they were simply scuttling away or teleporting out.
“I did it,” the student said. “I brought the traitors together for you. Now, please give me the antidote.”
Quenthel smiled and said, “There is none.”
“W
hat?”
“I didn’t poison you. The liquid was simply a stimulant to combat drowsiness. I gave you enough to make the effect alarming, but it’ll wear off.”
“You’re lying! Playing with me!”
“I would have administered a slow poison had I been carrying one, but as I was not, I had to improvise.”
Drisinil felt a surge of bitter humiliation and a need to demonstrate she wasn’t entirely a fool.
“Well,” she blurted, “then, you’ve tricked everyone all the way around. I know Lolth didn’t control those spiders. You did. You read a scroll or used some sort of charm before you entered the room.”
“If so, does it matter?” A yellow arachnid crawled out of Quenthel’s snowy hair and onto her shoulder. She paid it no mind. “Lolth teaches that the cunning and strong must master the foolish and weak. However you look at it, this outcome is in accordance with her will. Now, let’s talk about your future.”
Drisinil swallowed. “You promised to spare me.”
“I did, didn’t I?” a smiling Quenthel replied. “Unlike some, we Baenre generally keep our word. A reputation for fair dealing facilitates certain transactions. However, I never promised not to punish you.”
“I understand. Of course I’ll take a flogging or whatever you think appropriate.”
“That’s quite agreeable of you. How about this, then? We’ll nip off the other eight fingers and cut out your tongue as well.”
For a moment, Drisinil thought she hadn’t heard correctly.
“Now you’re joking.”
“Oh, no. I firmly believe you engineered the plot against me, and I intend to make sure you don’t get up to any more mischief. Ever. If you can’t communicate, work magic, or grip a weapon, that should take care of it. Obviously, it won’t be possible for you to continue at Arach-Tinilith, and I wouldn’t count on the warmest of welcomes when you return home. I doubt Mez’Barris Armgo will have much interest in a grotesquely crippled and thoroughly useless daughter. She may even consider you an embarrassment to be killed or locked away.”
Enraged, panicked, Drisinil lunged, but never landed a blow. Powerful hands grabbed her from behind, hauled her back, and something hard and heavy bashed her over the head. Her legs folded beneath her. She would have fallen if not for her captors holding her up.
R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation Page 23