Pharaun peered ahead into the distance and saw a large contingent of drow, some on foot, others riding lizards, moving down the road in their direction. They were fanned out across the width of the road, so there would be no way to avoid them.
“Just remain calm, and allow me to speak to them,” Faeryl whispered.
The group began walking toward the patrol, with Ryld in the back, pretending to support a limping Jeggred. Pharaun could only guess at how much the warrior hated the scheme.
No matter, he thought. We should have little difficulty getting past these sentries. We’re just drow, trying to reach a drow city. Why would we be any trouble to them?
As the groups drew close to one another, the patrol loosened weapons and slowed down, obviously preparing for trouble. One, the leader, Pharaun presumed, stepped forward a few more paces and held his hand outstretched before him, palm forward.
“Hold,” he said, gesturing for the group to slow down. “State your name and business here.”
Faeryl moved forward, past Valas, to come to a stop a few paces from the leader.
“I am Faeryl Zauvirr of House Zauvirr, Executive Negotiator for the Black Claw Mercantile.” She removed her insignia and held it out for the patrol leader to get a good look and take it, if he wanted. “These are my caravan guards.”
The sergeant or whatever he was stepped forward and took the insignia, then passed it back to an underling while he scrutinized Faeryl and the others, in turn.
“Caravan? What caravan? No goods have entered or left the city in six tendays, at least.”
Faeryl nodded and explained, “Yes, I know. We are just recently from Menzoberranzan, but we lost what few goods we had in an attack along the way.” She tossed her head back toward Ryld and Jeggred as a way of indicating her wounded companions, but with the suggestion that they weren’t really important. The drow soldier in front of her peered over her shoulder for a brief moment, then nodded and returned his attention to her. “We wish to give our report and enjoy some civilization for a few days,” she concluded, letting weariness creep into her voice.
Good, Pharaun thought. Tell them just enough of the truth to sound reasonable, without admitting anything.
“Attacked by what?” the leader asked.
The second-in-command handed the insignia back to him with a curt nod. Apparently it had passed muster, for the patrolman handed it back to Faeryl.
“What business is it of yours?” asked Quenthel sourly. “Do you always make it a practice of interrogating caravans this way?”
“Tanarukks,” Pharaun said, stepping forward and placing his hand on Quenthel’s arm. “She hates tanarukks. She’s been in a bad mood ever since. A good deepstroke will do her wonders.”
The Master of Sorcere could feel her bristle, but at least she didn’t pull away from him. Beside her, the snakes of her whip stirred, but they didn’t flail about as Pharaun feared they would.
The patrol leader glared at Quenthel for a moment but finally nodded and said, “We make it a practice when the city is—” he stopped himself from revealing more, then turned back to Faeryl— “You may pass, but good luck finding any ‘civilization’ to enjoy.”
With that last bitter comment, he turned and motioned the rest of the patrol to part, creating a gap so that the entourage could pass through.
Faeryl nodded her thanks and motioned for the rest of them to follow her, then they were past the patrol and alone on the thoroughfare once again. Pharaun could see that the envoy was troubled by the patrol leader’s words. He had to admit it was not a good sign.
“Let go of me!” Quenthel hissed, jerking her arm free, and the wizard blinked in surprise, having forgotten that he still grasped her and was steering her along.
“My apologies, Mistress,” Pharaun said, bowing slightly. “In light of the situation, I thought it prudent to try to smooth things over the best way possible. In a way, though, it was good. You drew attention away from the draegloth.”
“Fine,” she answered, still scowling. “We got through them, that’s the important thing. Now, let’s see just how bad it is inside the city.”
It wasn’t long before the group had reached the gates of the City of Shimmering Webs. Continuing their masquerade as bruised and battered merchants, they passed through the guards there and found themselves inside.
It was chaos.
chapter
five
“You’re late,” Drisinil Melarn snapped as Ssipriina Zauvirr strode into the audience chamber of House Melarn.
The matron mother of House Zauvirr forced herself to suppress the hot retort that she ached to unleash, contenting herself instead with pursed lips.
“I am sincerely apologetic,” Ssipriina lied, bowing low to the other matron mother, knowing she mocked the other drow simply through the use of such formal comments and antics. “It could not be helped. I had urgent business matters to attend to, issues that keep your coffers full, Matron Mother.”
Ssipriina liked the dangerous glitter she was creating in Drisinil’s hot eyes. It would be hard for the head of House Melarn to chastise her minion for working so diligently to keep her wealthy, and Ssipriina knew that. That’s what made these subtle jibes all the more fun.
“Still, I sped here with as much haste as dignity would permit,” Ssipriina added, “for I have good news. They have entered the city.”
“You’re sure?” the matron mother asked. “Do you have any indication that they’ve changed their plans?”
“Yes, I am sure of it,” Ssipriina replied. “My male made contact with Faeryl only a few hours ago, and she informed him that they were headed toward the Fracture Gate in the lowest quarters of the city. Apparently, Mistress Baenre is still bent on stealing your goods. My spies saw them enter the city just a moment ago.”
Drisinil sat in thought for a few moments, leaving Ssipriina standing expectantly. Finally, the matron mother stirred.
“They don’t suspect that we know, do they?”
“I don’t believe so. I have instructed Faeryl to be as agreeable as she can to whatever Quenthel is planning, and I have my spies set to keep track of them, wherever they go. They won’t know a thing until it’s too late.”
“And you want to let them go through with it?”
“Well, not exactly, Matron Mother. I am suggesting that we let them get to the storehouse and get inside. We’ll be there to catch them in the act. We’ll have the proof, then, and we can present it to the other matron mothers.”
“Hmm, yes, I like that,” Drisinil Melarn said, shifting her considerable weight atop her throne. Her face held a look of determination. “I very much want to see Quenthel Baenre’s face when she realizes she’s not getting a single scrap of my wealth. I want her to realize she’s just crossed the wrong House.”
Truer words were never spoken, Ssipriina thought.
“Yes, of course. I will make plans for us to be there before they arrive at the storehouse. I trust that you wish for me to utilize House Melarn guards?”
“Absolutely,” Drisinil said. “She needs to see just who she is trifling with. I want a strong presence there, Ssipriina, and when this crisis is over and the council lifts the ban on exportations, I’ll make sure you’re rewarded for your patience and diligence.”
“Of course,” Ssipriina said, bowing. “I will see to this matter personally.”
Ched Nasad was a bustling city filled with drow, duergar, and even the occasional illithid during normal times, but Valas found it suffocating. The scout was certain three times as many creatures occupied the place than was usual. It was brimming with desperate, starving masses who pushed and shoved their way along the thoroughfares, raising a deafening rumble and a pungent odor.
The gate through which the Menzoberranyr had entered was near the bottom of the City of Shimmering Webs, a metropolis filling a huge, V-shaped trench in the Underdark. The entirety of the city was crisscrossed with massive calcified webs set aglow with magic, a hundred or more
layers of pathways that ran every direction and supported the population. Thousands of rounded, amorphous structures clung to these huge webs like egg-sacs or cocooned prey, thrusting up or dangling below and housing the citizens, guests, slaves, and their businesses. Right now, it looked like a writhing colony of ants swarmed over the webs, for as far as Valas could see overhead, the streets literally vibrated with the masses of humanoids taking refuge there.
The scout would normally have been in the lead of the entourage, but it was nearly impossible to move, so crowded were the streets. Instead, Quenthel had ordered Jeggred to run point, and the towering fiend was pushing his way slowly through the throngs. Valas stayed close behind the draegloth, and the rest of the group pressed in close behind the scout, fearful of getting cut off in the madness and winding up lost. Valas noted that time and again sullen-looking faces glowered at Jeggred while he growled and rumbled at everyone to stand aside. They all did, intimidated by the formidable creature.
There were few drow low in the city, but just about every other race was present. Many of the slave races, as well as representatives of the other major Underdark nations, clamored with one another, shouting, pushing, bartering, or just milling about. The Menzoberranyr stood out, and it was plain that they were being sized up by the populace. Sooner or later, there was going to be a problem.
More than once, Valas felt the brush of a hand or finger as someone in the milling crowd deftly attempted to pilfer a trinket from one of his pockets. He had already snatched two hands away from the charms pinned to the front of his shirt, leaving each with a nasty gash across the palm from one of his kukris.
Valas turned and glanced over his shoulder. Faeryl and Quenthel were both right behind him, the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith threatening bystanders with her horrid whip. Behind the two priestesses, Pharaun held his piwafwi closed and kept his head bowed, protecting himself from the press of the crowd. Ryld brought up the rear, using his bulk to shield the wizard in front of him.
This is ridiculous, the scout thought, shaking his head. We’ve got to get out of this part of town.
He started to lean over and tell Quenthel when a disturbance in front of Jeggred interrupted him. Valas turned back in time to see the draegloth pounce on an ogre armed with a greatsword that was blocking the path. A second ogre stood beside him, hefting a spiked club and glaring.
Jeggred leaped forward like a coiled spring, raking one of his razor-sharp claws across the front of the first ogre. The attack was so sudden, the creature didn’t even have time to react. It stared down at its stomach as blood sprayed. Several screams erupted from the crowd as some struggled to get out of the way and others pushed and shoved to get a better view—or a chance to scavenge the bodies. The first ogre opened its mouth to scream, sinking down to one knee and holding its hands across its midsection, as Jeggred slashed again, ripping the humanoid’s throat out. The ogre gurgled and flailed, wide-eyed with fear.
The second ogre snarled and swung its club at Jeggred, slamming the spiked weapon into the draegloth’s shoulder. The fiend spun with the blow, his mane of white hair flowing behind him. The twist avoided the worst of the damage and brought Jeggred back to face his enemy from a crouched position.
At that moment, Valas was knocked sideways by a lunging goblin, teeth bared and daggers drawn. Before the scout could kick the wretch away from him, Quenthel lashed out with her whip. Several pairs of fangs sank into the goblin’s flesh, and it fell to the ground, writhing and frothing at the mouth. Valas lurched back to his feet before more of the throng could surge over him. He put his back to Quenthel and openly brandished his kukris, holding back several shouting, cursing gray dwarves.
The entourage had formed a defensive circle, Valas realized. Ryld had Splitter out, and the wizard’s magical rapier danced in the air before him, while Pharaun himself held a small wand of some sort, eyeing the increasingly angry crowd. Even Faeryl held her hammer in her hands, swinging it back and forth experimentally. Only Jeggred wasn’t a part of the defensive formation, having moved a few feet off, finishing his bloody work with the two ogres. Out of the corner of his eye, Valas could see the fiend biting his foe, ripping chunks of the ogre’s face off.
“We’ve got to get higher!” Valas yelled at Quenthel over his shoulder. When the high priestess didn’t seem to hear him, he repeated himself. “Mistress Quenthel, we need to get to a higher section of the city. This is not working!”
Next to him, Pharaun jerked as a crossbow bolt snapped against his piwafwi. Someone was taking potshots from the crowd.
“What do you suggest?” Quenthel called back, extending her whip and flailing at an unfortunate kobold that had squeezed to the front of the gathering and was shoved forward from behind.
“Follow me!” Faeryl cried, and she began to lift from the ground, rising up into the air. “We must get to the mercantile district, and this is the fastest way.”
“No,” Valas groaned, eyes widening. “I can’t—! I have no way to stay with you!”
But it was too late. The other drow had began to follow the ambassador’s example and were lifting from the ground. Valas backed into the center of what had once been their circle, warily eyeing the crowd around him.
“Ryld!” he shouted. “Wait!”
Valas saw the warrior look down at him, but before the other drow could take action, Valas was grabbed from behind. He tried to spin around and slash out with his kukri, but the grip on him was powerful, and he couldn’t get a clean swing in. A heartbeat later, he was glad, for Jeggred was the one who had a hold of him. Coated in blood that matted the fiend’s fur, the draegloth held tightly to the scout as he left the ground. A couple of bold gray dwarves stormed forward, intent on getting in a parting swipe with their war axes at Valas’s feet, but Jeggred still had a large, clawed hand free and slashed out at them, forcing the pair of duergar to leap back to safety.
Several more crossbow bolts whizzed by, and one sank into the draegloth’s flank next to Valas, but Jeggred only grunted and spun away, levitating upward to where the other drow had gone. Valas looked back down where they had been standing only moments before. Even as the webbed street receded, the scout saw the mob swarm over the dead ogres, ripping items of value from the bodies.
Savages, he thought.
Above, Faeryl had stopped on a smaller side street several levels higher than where the drow had been previously, in a quiet space between rows of vendors. In the main thoroughfare, the crowds were less dense than below, but only slightly. Valas knew they were still relatively low in the city, for the glimmering glow of spectral light that emanated from the mesh of stone webs still dazzled his sight when he looked up, twinkling far into the distance overhead. He knew that the higher they got, the better the neighborhoods would be. Near the top of the cavern, where the trench-shaped chamber was at its widest, the nobles had constructed their sprawling Houses sufficiently beyond the stench and noise of the common folk far below. The Menzoberranyr had quite a ways to go before they would be in that vicinity.
“Is it always that . . . revolting down there?” Quenthel asked as the group settled to the stone avenue, huddling together and keeping their voices low. “Why do the matron mothers tolerate that rabble?”
Jeggred released Valas, who straightened and turned to look at the draegloth, wondering how much of the blood on the fiend was his enemies’ and how much was his own. Much of Jeggred’s fur was matted with the hot, sticky fluid, but other than the crossbow bolt in his hip, the beast didn’t seem to bear any wounds. The scout examined his own clothing and noted sullenly that he was sticky with ogre blood, too.
“The lesser races are not permitted to wander so freely in the higher sections of the city without special permission,” Faeryl explained. “It’ll get better once we get a little higher.”
“I doubt it,” the high priestess said, sniffing. “I doubt the matron mothers would suffer such an embarrassment lightly. Likely they’re dealing with more urgent problems, and I think we
all know what those urgent problems are.”
Over Quenthel’s shoulder, Valas could see a trio of female drow who had stopped and were staring at Jeggred as the fiend yanked the crossbow bolt free with a grunt of pain. One of the dark elves whispered something to her companions, and the three of them scurried away.
Pharaun was making a point of dusting his piwafwi clean and straightening the garment so that he was looking stylish and well groomed again.
“You are most likely correct,” the Master of Sorcere said, nodding in acquiescence. “Still, it would not hurt for us to find a place to stay for the night, gathering our wits and perhaps some more information, too. I’m sure that between the six of us, we can find out a little more about why the city is in this condition.”
“Finding a place to stay may prove difficult,” Ryld commented. “I wonder if there’s a vacant room to be had in all of Ched Nasad.”
Valas frowned, imagining the looks they would receive as they inquired after accommodations.
“If we can,” the scout said, “your bodyguard will attract substantial attention. Even now, we are drawing looks. We should not stay out in the open for much longer.”
Quenthel dug in her pack of supplies and produced a wand. Moving closer to Jeggred, she aimed the magical device at the draegloth’s bleeding puncture wound and uttered a few words. The bleeding stopped, and the hole began to close.
“Be more careful,” the high priestess admonished her nephew as she stored the wand once more. “Healing magic is limited.”
“Even as overcrowded as the city is,” Faeryl said, “the higher levels will not be that bad. I know of a place where we may be able to get rooms.”
“Perhaps we need to rethink this,” Quenthel countered. “It seems obvious to me that there are troubles here. I think it would be wiser to pay House Zauvirr and House Melarn a visit. We would be assured of accommodations there.”
“No,” Pharaun said, and Quenthel’s eyes widened in surprise. The mage continued quickly, before the high priestess could lash out at him. “You may be right, but even so, you don’t want to lose the opportunity to move about freely, do you? If we have any hope of staking a claim to the stock of goods and coin for your House, we must be able to avoid the matron mothers’ notice.”
R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation Page 46