R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation

by Richard Lee Byers; Thomas M. Reid; Richard Baker

  Clicking his tongue in exasperation, Gromph passed out of the large audience chamber and into the hallway beyond, which led to her personal quarters. Arriving at the door to her suite of rooms, the archmage was greeted by a pair of stoic females, robust specimens who were well armed and apparently trained equally as well in the art of combat as divine magic.

  The pair of guards crossed their heavy maces before the door.

  “She is not to be disturbed,” one of them said, her stare flat, making it clear she would brook no argument, brother or not.

  Gromph sighed, making another mental mark to the tally of reasons he hated doing this. No matter how many times he had to push his proverbial weight around to get to see Triel in her private rooms, the matron mother’s personal guards never made it any easier on him the next time. He’d had enough of it.

  “I’m not going to stand here and argue with you about this, today. You will tell her it’s me and let me through, or I will leave you as two piles of smoking ash on her doorstep. Do I make myself clear?”

  The flat stares turned mildly baleful, but after some careful consideration, the one who spoke finally nodded curtly and slipped inside, shutting the door behind her and leaving her partner to stare icily at the archmage while he folded his arms and tapped his foot.

  Just when Gromph was seriously considering whether or not to make good on his threat, the door opened and the guard appeared again, motioning him through. Arching his eyebrow as though to say, “what else did you expect?” he pushed past her impatiently and shoved the door shut behind him.

  Triel was not in the front room, though that didn’t really surprise the wizard. Usually, if she was going to bother to be presentable for guests, she would see them in the audience chamber. He figured his odds were about even as to whether he’d discover her in the bedroom or in the baths, most likely with a lover. He tried the bedroom first, with no luck.

  Moving through into the bathroom, Gromph found his sister, alone except for a pair of attendants, eyes closed and soaking in an oddly scented oil bath. The odor permeated the room and made him cough.

  Triel opened one eye and looked at the wizard, then closed it again, making no move to greet him.

  “You really shouldn’t threaten my guards like that,” she said, a bit testily. “They’re standing there to keep the likes of you out, you know.”

  “A thousand apologies, Matron Mother,” Gromph answered. “I will be certain to avoid helping you in the future. Please do drop by sometime and I’ll be sure to keep you waiting outside my offices.”

  This time, both of Triel’s eyes opened, but instead of growing angry, she appeared worried.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Your news must be particularly unpleasant for you to behave so boorishly.”

  Gromph had to chuckle, but it was a bitter laugh.

  “You know me better than most, sister. I suppose I should give you more credit. You’re correct, though, the news is bad, and it comes from several fronts. Our patrols are telling me that traffic is picking up on the outskirts of the city. Nothing definitive, but they’re growing fearful that we’re due for some sort of aggressive act from somewhere, and soon.”

  “What sort of traffic?” Triel asked, shifting in the bath so that an attendant could begin to scrub her back with a rough cloth.

  “Hard to say. Enough species come and go as it is, but they have reported an inordinate number of troglodyte sightings the last few days.”

  Triel made a noise in her throat, and at first Gromph wondered if it was in response to the ministrations of the attendant, but he realized it was derisive when his sister said, “Troglodytes? They’ve never been able to muster any sizable threat against us. You came all the way over here and harassed my guards to tell me that? Please.”

  Gromph clicked his tongue in vexation and strode across the tiled floor to take a seat on a long bench along one wall.

  “No, of course not, but don’t be so quick to dismiss any potential threat. More than enough generals saw their last battle from underestimating the enemy. We’re vulnerable to any attack right now, and you know it.”

  “Fine, I’ll take it under advisement,” Triel said. “So, what else do you have to tell me? I’d like to enjoy the rest of my bath, but if you insist on giving me more bad news, I don’t think I shall be able to.”

  Gromph shook his head.

  “Yes, there is more bad news,” he said.

  “Oh, wonderful.”

  “I’m hearing bad things from our expedition to Ched Nasad.”

  The matron mother rolled over and sat up, shooing away the attendant. She seemed unconcerned that her upper body was exposed to him, though Gromph ignored that fact.

  “What kind of bad things?” she asked, her tone grave.

  “The last communication I received reported that riots were beginning. I haven’t heard anything since, and the next reports are overdue.”

  “How long?”

  “Two days. I already relayed that information to you.”

  “Do you have a means of contacting him?” Triel asked. “Yes, but not for a while, and not really for the kind of conversation I suspect you’d like for me to have with him. Even with what I can do, I’ll have to make preparations to use the appropriate magic.”

  “Fine, do that. In the meantime, what are your thoughts?”

  Gromph considered the question then said, “Do I believe they are alive? Let’s give them some credit. They are an enterprising lot, and I have no doubt that they can take care of themselves. That’s half the reason you sent them away, isn’t it?”

  Triel’s eyes narrowed slightly as she stood and let the oil cascade from her body.

  “I do want them to succeed,” she said. “It aids us nothing for them to perish, regardless of whatever benefits we both receive for having a few specific ones out of the way.”

  She motioned for the attendant to bring her a towel and had it wrapped around herself.

  Gromph’s stare was carefully neutral.

  “I want them to succeed, too,” he said. “My issues aside, this crisis affects every aspect of my studies and pursuits. My point was, if they were ingenious enough to be considered a threat here, I think they can take care of themselves in Ched Nasad.”

  “Find them,” the matron mother commanded, “and let me know when you do.”

  “Even if I have to threaten your guards again?”

  “Even if you have to leave them as piles of ash on my doorstep.”

  Gromph nodded and turned away as Triel began to dress with help from the two attendants. The archmage stopped and turned back to face his sister.

  “Oh, and one more thing.”

  Triel looked over at her brother and asked, “Yes?”

  “Will you please remind the other matron mothers of the importance of timely response to threats inside the city? I asked for reinforcements for several specific sections three hours ago, and they were still not in place when I came to visit.”

  “Again?” Triel sighed. “Yes, of course I will speak to them again.”

  “You know,” Gromph added, almost as an afterthought. “It would probably help if House Baenre spared some extra soldiers for the cause. A show of good faith and all that.”

  “Really? Do you think we can afford to spare them?”

  “I know of two right outside this door who could be put to far better use,” the archmage replied, giving his sister a last, meaningful stare.

  “Explain to me again what you think I have to gain by trusting you,” Quenthel said, gnawing at a strip of dried rothé meat.

  The seven of them were hiding in a mess hall in an unused wing of House Melarn. Only Jeggred was no longer hungry, having sated himself back in the dungeon.

  It certainly took Faeryl a long time to die, Pharaun thought, shuddering, as he sat watching the draegloth lick himself clean. The wizard was having a hard time blocking out the image of the drow, still moving, still watching, even as the fiend had begun to feast.
>
  Ryld and Valas stood guard near the door, both of them obviously anxious to be on their way. The rumbles from beyond the walls had ceased for the moment, and Pharaun wasn’t sure whether that boded well or ill for them. If the fighting had been quashed that quickly, it was only a matter of time before Ssipriina began searching for them again. He was eager to be away, too.

  As Quenthel continued to inhale the food, Halisstra pursed her lips and tried again to defend her usefulness to the Menzoberranyr.

  “I can get you out of the House without notice,” she said. “I know the best routes to take. If we encounter any of Ssipriina’s guards along the way, I might be able to dismiss them without incident. Until you’re safely out of the city, having the two of us accompany you is to your benefit.”

  Quenthel nodded as she ate.

  “Perhaps,” she said, pausing to sip from a waterskin. “Or perhaps you would simply like to lead us into ruin in your own way, maybe by lulling us into trusting you so that you can betray us to Ssipriina. For all I know, you still hold me responsible for the death of your mother, or are at the very least angry about my intentions.”

  Halisstra rolled her eyes where Quenthel could not see, and Pharaun had to quell a bemused smirk.

  At least I’m not the only one who finds her unbelievably irrational at times, he thought.

  “Yes, all of that could be true, certainly,” Halisstra said, “but then I wouldn’t have had much to gain by helping to rescue you when Ssipriina already had you in her clutches, don’t you think?”

  “Hmm,” Quenthel said doubtfully, another bite of food in her mouth. She finished chewing and looked over at Pharaun. “What’s your opinion?”

  The Master of Sorcere sat up straighter, surprised that she was seeking his counsel.

  I suppose that when you’re surrounded by the bigger enemy, he mused, the smaller enemy seems a friend.

  “Well, thus far they’ve given us no reason to doubt them,” he answered. “Except, of course, their heritage itself. Regardless of whether you’re inclined to trust a dark elf you’ve never met—a dark elf of a House that you so recently intended to betray, at that—our options seem severely limited without their company. I don’t suppose we’d be all that worse off, anyway, should they decide to turn on us at an inopportune time.”

  Quenthel made a face at the wizard.

  “Are you thinking with the right part of your body?” she asked sarcastically, nodding in the direction of Danifae, who sat on a couch off to one side, listening to the discussion.

  When she became a part of it, she lowered her eyes demurely and folded her hands into her lap.

  Pharaun smirked.

  “Oh, absolutely, Mistress Baenre,” he said dryly. “Nothing would please me more than to have additional females along on this trip, all with a ready suggestion on how something should be handled or a friendly comment on ways I might improve my demeanor for the benefit of everyone around me.”

  Halisstra’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and the wizard remembered again that she was unaccustomed to his manner with Quenthel.

  For that matter, he thought, noting the high priestess’s scowl, Quenthel herself is unaccustomed to my manner.

  Taking a slightly more conciliatory tone, Pharaun added, “With all due respect, regardless of which part of my body I’m currently using to contemplate this matter, it seems undeniable that we stand much to gain and little to lose by trusting them, at least for the moment. Ask me again in half an hour, and my answer might be markedly different.”

  Quenthel chewed her rothé thoughtfully, though whether she was mulling his point or whether she was considering whether or not to allow Jeggred to dismember him, Pharaun wasn’t sure.

  “In any event,” he finished, “we can ensure ourselves some degree of protection by keeping them close, under our scrutiny. If they lead us into a trap, we might yet negotiate with Ssipriina Zauvirr . . . turn them over in exchange for our own freedom. Only if we don’t tell the matron mother what happened to Faeryl, of course,” he added with a grin.

  Halisstra’s flat stare told Pharaun that she found both his humor and his insurance plan distasteful, but Quenthel seemed convinced.

  The Mistress of Arach-Tinilith nodded after tossing back the last bit of water in the skin.

  “Very well,” she said to Halisstra. “You will serve as our guide out of this accursed House, and if you serve us well, you will be rewarded with your lives. Do I make myself clear?”

  Halisstra swallowed once, but she finally nodded.

  “I think at least for the time being that your weapons and magical trinkets will stay safe and sound in our possession. If you behave yourselves, you may earn them back.”

  Both of the other drow nodded their acquiescence.

  “Good, then let’s be on our way,” the high priestess announced, dusting off her hands after finishing the dried meat.

  “Before we go,” Pharaun said. “there is the matter of ‘where’ to discuss.”

  Quenthel looked at the mage.

  “We are returning to Menzoberranzan,” she said. “The expedition was a failure. Universally, Lolth speaks to no one, and the goods I had hoped to bring back with me to help us defend ourselves do not exist. We have nothing to show for the journey.”

  “Exactly,” Pharaun countered. “We have nothing definitive to bring back with us—yet. I say we push ahead, continue to try to determine what is happening.”

  “But we have nothing to pursue,” Quenthel argued. “We know little more about the Dark Mother’s absence than we did before we left.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” Pharaun said. “As I mentioned before, the goddess’s absence is not limited merely to our race. Regardless, I have an idea. While we may not be able to discern any more information directly, we could enlist the aid of someone who can.”

  “Who?”

  “A priest of Vhaeraun.”

  Quenthel rose from the chair where she had been sitting, fury plain on her face.

  “You speak blasphemous words, wizard. We will do no such thing.”

  Even Halisstra had recoiled at the suggestion, Pharaun noted.

  He raised his hands in supplication and pleaded, “I know it’s unconventional, but hear me out before you dismiss the idea.”

  Quenthel began to pace, and Pharaun knew she was at least intrigued, if not happy, with the notion. Her desire to claim the glory of discovery in this matter rivaled his own, he supposed.

  “Just what is it you think a priest of Vhaeraun—” Quenthel formed the god’s name with a grimace—“could do for us? And where would we find one who could—or even would—aid us?”

  Pharaun leaned forward eagerly.

  “We struggle to see inside the Demonweb Pits,” he explained, “but perhaps another god would not suffer the same difficulty. In this instance, with the proper sacrifices and deferential behavior, we might just be able to ask for a little audience in order to find out.”

  “Few of his ilk would even consider helping us,” Quenthel said, waving her hand in dismissal, “and we know of none to even ask.”

  As Quenthel turned her back on him during her pacing, Pharaun looked over at Valas and nodded in encouragement.

  Tell her, he signed.

  Taking a deep breath and nodding, Valas said, “I know one.”

  Quenthel turned to face the diminutive scout.

  “What?”

  “I know a priest of Vhaeraun,” Valas replied. “An old acquaintance of mine, Tzirik Jaelre. I think he would be willing.”

  “Really,” Quenthel said, eyeing Pharaun and Valas alike, as though suspecting that the two were collaborating. “What makes you think he would help us?”

  The mage carefully studied the tabletop in front of him.

  She is too clever for her own good, he thought, knowing that if he admitted his foreknowledge, Quenthel was as likely as not to dismiss the whole idea just to spite him.

  “He owes me a favor,” Valas replied. “At
the very least, he owes me enough to hear us out, even if he refuses. I don’t think he’ll refuse.”

  “How convenient. Pharaun?”

  The wizard looked up, pretending to be thinking about something else.

  “Hmm? Oh, yes. Well, it is very convenient that Valas knows someone who fits the bill. I wish you’d said something earlier,” he said to the scout, “but I guess we can’t all conceive of these flashes of brilliance. If Valas vouches for his friend then I say, what do we have to lose?”

  Quenthel opened her mouth, possibly to retort, by the look on her face, but she never got the words out. A shock wave far stronger than any they had felt previously coursed through the House, knocking them and most of the furniture over.

  “By the Dark Mother!” Halisstra screamed, stumbling against a wall. “The whole House is coming down!”

  chapter

  fourteen

  Ssipriina Zauvirr and several guests stood atop an observation tower overlooking House Zauvirr. Leaning against the balustrade, she stared out over Ched Nasad. Her abode was not far from House Melarn, but in that direction, the matron mothers could see very little but thick smoke. Despite the obscuring clouds, the fighting around House Melarn still raged, and the sound of it reached the matron mothers even high on the tower.

  “This has gotten out of control,” Umrae D’Dgttu said grimly, standing beside Ssipriina. “Your agent said nothing of this stoneburning fire when we agreed to this plan.”

  “Yes,” Ulviirala Rilynt chimed in, pacing back and forth behind them, her numerous bracelets, rings, and necklaces clanking with each step. “I dislike the idea of so much destruction, especially right now.”

  “Nonsense,” Nedylene Zinard scolded, also leaning against the railing very casually but with her back to the unfolding scene of ruin. She seemed more interested in her lacquered fingernails than in the activity around her. “We knew going into this that we might have to be aggressive. If we are to remake this city to our liking, now is the time to act, and we can let nothing stand in our way. Not the other Houses and not our own misgivings. Sometimes you have to break a few lizard eggs to make an omelet. Sometimes you have to kill a few slaves to win the day.”