“I quite agree,” the wizard said. “Of course, others have opted for a merchant House, the Academy, or Bregan D’aerthe.”
Houndaer made a spitting sound. “Those are just places to hide from the matrons. This is a fortress for males who want to turn Menzoberranzan upside down and put ourselves on top. Why not? Aren’t our mages and even our warriors as powerful as the clergy?”
Pharaun grinned and said, “They certainly are now that the priestesses have mislaid their magic.”
Houndaer blinked. “You know about that?”
“I’ve inferred it. You obviously know as well. Otherwise, you wouldn’t run about breaking spiderwebs simply for the fun of it, to say nothing of putting your master plan into motion. I’d be curious to hear how you found out and if you know why.”
“We don’t know why,” Houndaer said, shaking his head. “We started to figure it out after a couple of us saw priestesses die fighting gricks out in the Bauthwaf. The bitches should’ve used spells to save themselves, but they didn’t, and we guessed it was because they couldn’t. After that, we kept our eyes open and waylaid a few clerics to see what they’d do to defend themselves. Everything we learned supported our theory.”
Pharaun sighed and said, “Then you aren’t in touch with some chatty informant in the realms of the divine. Like me, you merely observed and deduced. What a pity. Aren’t you, in your ignorance, apprehensive that Lolth will rekindle the priestesses’ magic just when it’s least convenient?”
“Maybe the goddess turned against the clergy because it’s our turn to rule,” said the commoner. “Who’s to say? In any case, this is our chance, and we’re taking it.”
“Your chance to do what?” asked Ryld. “You talk as if you intend to revolt, but instead you’re inciting the slaves into an uprising.”
Houndaer cursed. “You know that, too?”
“We stumbled on it while looking for you,” Pharaun explained. He brushed a stray strand of his coiffure back into place. His white hair shone like ghost flesh in the soft light shining from the carvings. “As Master Argith noted, on first inspection, whipping the undercreatures into a lather would seem irrelevant to your objective.”
“Look deeper,” the noble said. “We’re canny enough to know we can’t topple the matriarchy all at once. Even without their spells, our mothers and sisters are too powerful. They have too many talismans, fortresses, and, most importantly, troops and vassals serving out of fear.”
“I begin to comprehend, and I apologize for not giving you sufficient credit,” Pharaun said. “This is merely the opening gambit in a sava game that will last a number of years.”
“When fighting engulfs Menzoberranzan,” Houndaer said, “and the clerics cast no spells to put down the revolt, their weakness will become apparent to everyone. Meanwhile, our brotherhood will take advantage of the chaos to assassinate those females who pose the greatest obstacles to our ambitions. With luck, the orcs will account for a few more. At the end of the day, our gender’s position in the scheme of things will be considerably stronger, and every male in the city will start aspiring to supremacy.
“In the years to come, our cabal will do whatever we can to diminish the females and put ourselves in their place. One day soon, we’ll see a noble House commanded by a male and eventually, a master in every House.”
He smiled and added, “Needless to say, a master who belongs to this fraternity. I’ll enjoy ruling over House Tuin’Tarl, and I imagine that you, Brother of Sorcere, wouldn’t say no to primacy over your own family.”
Pharaun nodded and said, “You’re far too canny to have forgotten we’ve all gone rogue. . . .”
“Our kin will welcome us back once we’ve weakened them to the point where they’re desperate for reinforcements. We’ll concoct tales of travels to the far ends of the Underdark, or something. It won’t matter to them when they’re desperate enough.”
“Indeed, you’ve plotted everything out so shrewdly that I only see one potential pitfall, Pharaun said. “What if the goblins and gnolls should actually succeed in slaughtering us all, or at least inflicting such damage on our city that the devastation breaks our hearts?”
Houndaer stared at the mage for a moment, then laughed. “For a moment, I almost thought you serious.”
Pharaun grinned. “Forgive me. I have a perverse fondness for japes at inappropriate moments, as Master Argith will attest.”
Houndaer smiled at Ryld and said, “I’d just as soon hear him attest that I mastered all those lessons on strategy he pounded into my skull.”
“You did,” said Ryld, and perhaps it was true. His instincts told him that this scheme, outlandish as it seemed, might work, and he abruptly realized he didn’t know how he felt about the possibility.
He and Pharaun had infiltrated the rogues to betray them, to placate the archmage, and because the Mizzrym wizard had some vague notion that they’d achieve greater status and power and thus a permanent cure for Ryld’s formless dissatisfaction, thereby. Yet now the conspirators were offering high rank and a role in a grand adventure. Perhaps, then, the teachers should become in truth the rebels they were pretending to be.
The warrior glanced over at Pharaun. With a flick of his fingers so subtle that no one else would notice, the wizard signed one word in the silent language: Persevere.
Ryld took it to mean that his friend, with his usual acuity, had divined what he was thinking and was urging him to hold to their original intent. He gave a tiny nod of assent. He didn’t know if Pharaun was making a wise choice, but he did realize he wouldn’t even be here listening to this apocalyptic talk if his friend hadn’t asked for his aid. When all was said and done, Ryld had descended from Melee-Magthere to help the wizard achieve his ends, and that was what he was going to do.
Pharaun turned to Tsabrak and said, “I assume the driders have allied themselves with the conspiracy because the boys promised you a place of honor in the splendid Menzoberranzan to come. Perhaps they even pledged to find a way to transform you back into a drow.”
“Something like that,” Tsabrak sneered. “Mainly, though, those of us who joined did it for the chance to kill lots and lots of priestesses.”
“I can’t say I blame you,” Pharaun said. “Well, gentlemen, your plans are inspiring to say the least. I’m glad we sought you out.”
“So am I,” said Ryld.
“The only things I’m still hazy on,” the mage continued, “are Syrzan and the Prophet. One and the same? I see by your expressions that they are. Who is . . . it really, and what power does it use to so enthrall the goblins?”
“I think you’re about to find out,” Houndaer said.
An instant later, something droned through the air, almost like a noise, but not. Actually, the sensation existed solely within the mind. Pharaun turned, and Tsabrak scuttled aside to reveal the robed figure in the doorway. Ryld felt a jolt of dismay. Afraid it was already too late, he sprang up from the bench.
chapter
eighteen
Off to Faeryl’s left stood an iron maiden cast in the form of a tubby jester in cap and bells. The bells looked real, and would evidently jingle while a victim writhed inside. The device was open just a crack, not enough to expose the spikes inside.
Straight ahead, a chain and hook dangled from their pulley, fishing for a prisoner to hoist, and a rack waited to stretch one. To the left, a brazier of coals threw off dazzling heat, and a collection of probes, knives, pincers, and pears hung on their pegs. Her nemesis, the small male with all the ugly baubles, lounged in that vicinity in an iron chair with shackles attached to the armrests.
That was about as much as the envoy could see while roped naked to a molded calcite post.
She was hungry, thirsty, and sore from standing for hours in one position. Her bonds chafed her, and her head ached. However, she had yet to endure one of the genuine agonies this stuffy cellar provided, and she thought she knew why. Some messenger had instructed the torturers to wait for Triel to arri
ve before commencing the festivities.
Faeryl had already attempted to converse with the little male and her jailers and failed to elicit a response from either. She had nothing else to do but struggle to govern her thoughts. She didn’t want to imagine all the things the Baenre might do to her, but she herself had presided over enough excruciations that it was difficult not to envision the possibilities. She didn’t want to dwell on the massacre of her followers, either, but the memories kept welling up inside her.
Surrounded and outnumbered, the daughters and sons of Ched Nasad had perished one by one. As Faeryl watched the slaughter, her eyes ached with the tears she refused to shed. Naturally, she didn’t “love” her minions, but she was used to them, even fond of a few, and she knew that without a retinue she was nothing, just a fallen priestess in a land of enemies, bereft of goddess and home alike.
Then the small male confronted her and used his magic to confound her and knock her out. She woke tied to the stone stake.
A door creaked, and voices murmured. Faeryl’s instincts warned her that Triel had come at last. The ambassador closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, composing herself. She wouldn’t show fear. Dignity was all she had left—for a little while longer anyway, until her captors lashed and burned it out of her.
Sure enough, Triel and her draegloth son emerged from the doorway that apparently led to more salubrious precincts of the Great Mound. The Baenre matron was smiling. Fangs bared in a grin, Jeggred bounded along on his caprine legs.
The little male rose and offered obeisance.
“Valas,” said Triel. “Well done. Did the Zauvirr give you any trouble?”
“They tried to sneak away in disguise,” the male replied. “It almost fooled the lookout, but once he figured out what was what, everything went as planned.”
The Baenre proffered a fat pouch that looked too big and heavy for her tiny hand.
“I’ll send word when I need Bregan D’aerthe again,” she said.
Valas took the pouch, then bowed low. He withdrew, and Triel and her monstrous son turned toward the prisoner.
“Good evening, Matron,” Faeryl said, “or is it morning now?”
Fighting hands outstretched, talons at the ready, jaws agape, Jeggred lunged at the prisoner. Despite herself, Faeryl flinched. Both the claws and the pointed teeth stopped less than an inch from her flesh. The draegloth loomed over her, pressing close, almost seeming to embrace her like a lover. He ran a pointed nail across her cheek, then lifted it to his bestial muzzle. He sucked, and a bit of warm, viscous drool, mixed, perhaps, with a trace of her blood, dripped onto her forehead.
“Have a care,” the ambassador said with as much nonchalance as she could muster. “If your son kills me quickly, won’t that spoil the fun?”
Jeggred made a low, grinding sound. Faeryl couldn’t tell if he was growling or laughing.
Triel said, “You underestimate him. True, I’ve watched him butcher eight prisoners in as many heartbeats, but I’ve also seen him spend days picking one little faerie child apart a mote of flesh at a time. It depends on his humor, and, needless to say, my instructions.”
“Of course,” Faeryl said. The shallow gash in her cheek began to sting. Jeggred traced the edges of her lips with his claw, not quite cutting, not yet. “I hope the traitor whelp appreciated the honor.”
“It was hard to tell,” she said. “What about you? Will you savor it?”
“Alas, Exalted Mother,” Faeryl said, “your daughter can take no pleasure in an honor she didn’t earn.”
Still stroking the prisoner’s features with the claw, Jeggred lifted one of the smaller hands that, save for their dusting of fine hair, looked no different than those of an ordinary dark elf. He caught hold of Faeryl’s ear and twisted it, and she gasped at the brutal stab of pain. When he finally let go, the organ kept on throbbing and ringing. She wondered if the draegloth had inflicted permanent damage, though it really didn’t matter. In the hours to come, deafness would be the least of her problems.
“I wish you wouldn’t deny your guilt,” sighed the dainty little Baenre matriarch. “I always find that dull.”
“Even when it’s true?” Faeryl felt a fresh cut bleeding under her eye. Apparently, when Jeggred had abused her ear, she’d bucked against his claw.
“Don’t be tiresome,” Triel said. “You were fleeing, and that confirms your guilt.”
“All it confirms is my certainty that someone has poisoned your mind against me,” Faeryl retorted. Jeggred caught hold of a lock of her hair and gave it a vicious tug. “My aversion to being condemned unjustly.”
“Did you think to escape by running back to Ched Nasad?” Triel asked. “My word is law there, too.”
“How do you know?” Faeryl asked.
Jeggred slapped her with one of his enormous fighting hands, bashing her head sideways. For a moment, the shock froze her mind. When her senses returned, she tasted blood in her mouth.
The draegloth crouched, placing his bestial face directly in front of her own, and growled, “Respect the chosen of Lolth.”
“I mean no disrespect,” Faeryl said. “I’m just saying that for all we know, anything could be happening in Ched Nasad. Cloakers could have overrun the city, or it may have drowned in tides of lava. I doubt it, I pray not, but we don’t know. We need to find out, and that’s why I was sneaking away. Not to betray the weakness of Menzoberranzan’s clergy to some enemy or other. Mother of Lusts, it’s my weakness too! To gather intelligence, to reestablish communication—”
“I told you I have been in communication with Ched Nasad,” Triel said.
“To reestablish trustworthy communication . . .” Faeryl persisted, “to make myself useful and so demonstrate I’m your loyal vassal, never a traitor.”
Triel made a spitting sound, then said, “My loyal servants obey me.”
Faeryl wanted to weep, not from fear, though she was experiencing plenty of that, but from sheer frustration. Jeggred ran his claw along her carotid artery.
“Matron,” the Zauvirr said, “I beg you. Let me confront the person who traduced me. Give me that one chance to prove my fidelity. Is it so hard to imagine someone telling you a lie? Don’t your courtiers slander one another all the time as a means of vying for your favor? Is it impossible that someone or something in Ched Nasad is lying to you even now—telling you all is well while days, then tendays, then months go by without a single caravan?”
Triel hesitated, and Faeryl felt a thrill of hope. Then the ruler of Menzoberranzan said, “You’re the liar, and it will do you no good. If you want me to show any mercy at all, tell me whose creature you are. The svirfneblin? The aboleths? Another drow city?”
“I serve only you, Sacred Mother.”
Faeryl said the words without hope, for she saw that she would never convince the Baenre of her innocence. It was too hard for Triel to measure up to her predecessor, too hard to rule in these desperate times, too hard to make decisions. She wasn’t about to rethink one of the few she’d managed to squeeze out, no matter how foolish it was.
Jeggred slapped Faeryl and kept on slapping until she lost count of the blows. Finally time seemed to skip somehow, and he wasn’t hitting her anymore. Why should he bother? He’d already battered all the strength out of her. She would have fallen if not for the ropes holding her up. A broken tooth had lodged under her tongue, and it was all she could do just to spit it out.
“I told you,” the draegloth snarled, “respect!”
“I am respectful,” Faeryl wheezed. “That’s why I give the truth even when it might be easier to lie.”
Triel peered up at her son and said, “Princess Zauvirr will not distract you from your duties.”
Jeggred inclined his head. “No, Mother.”
“But at such times as I do not require you,” the matron continued, “you may use the spy as you see fit. If she tells you anything of interest, pass it along, but the point of your efforts is chastisement, not interrog
ation. I doubt she has anything all that important to confide. We already know who our enemies are.”
“Yes, Mother.” The half-demon crouched, leered into Faeryl’s face, and said, “I can make the fun last. You’ll see.”
He stuck out his long, pointed tongue and licked blood from her face. The member was as rough as a beast’s.
The figure in the chapel doorway had a bulbous head with huge, protruding eyes, dry, wrinkled hide, and four wriggling tentacles surrounding and obscuring the mouth. It had gnarled three-fingered hands, a body with contours and proportions different than those of a drow, and an assortment of talismans and amulets burning with strange enchantments.
Syrzan, Pharaun had no doubt, was a member of the psionically gifted species called illithids. Specifically, it was one of the few such creatures to follow the path of wizardry and ultimately transform itself into an undead entity known as an alhoon. The thing was surely prodigiously powerful, immune to the ravages of time, and still entirely capable of reading the masters’ minds and discerning the treachery therein.
Like Pharaun, Ryld had sprung up from his bench. The hulking warrior flung himself at Houndaer, no doubt in an attempt to get his weapons back. Pharaun, who thought he needed his spell components just as badly, scrambled after his friend.
The weapons master threw a punch, knocked Houndaer backward off his bench, and snatched up Splitter. He whirled, looking for the next threat, and almost whacked his fellow teacher with the blade.
Pharaun reached for his cloak, then realized Houndaer’s unassuming companion was singing a wordless arpeggio.
Had Pharaun already been wearing the piwafwi with all its protective enchantments, he might have resisted the song, but instead its power stabbed into his mind. He laughed convulsively, uncontrollably, and staggered backward. Finally, he fell to his knees, his stomach muscles clenching and aching.
He’d suspected the nondescript little male was more than he’d seemed, a formidable combatant employing a bland appearance to throw his adversaries off guard, and he’d been right. The “craftsman” was in reality a bard, a spellcaster who worked his wonders through the medium of music.
R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation Page 29