“Sil’zet, Vadalma,” she hissed. “We are not alone.”
The two girls halted at once, still stretched out on the cold stone floor. They glanced about warily. Ghenni stood carefully, reaching for a wand at her belt.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “Who dares intrude on our devotions?”
Nimor made no answer but glided closer. The matron mother didn’t see him, he was certain of that, but just as he drew within sword reach, he felt a presence coalesce in the room. An unseen demonic force took shape in the air near the top of the dome.
“Beware, Matron,” a cold voice hissed. “An assassin approaches you unseen.”
To her credit, the Matron Mother of House Faen Tlabbar did not quail. As her daughters scrambled to their feet, Ghenni took two steps back and quickly gestured with her wand, snapping out a word of command. A sphere of roiling blackness hurled forth from the wand and burst behind Nimor in an inky blot of frigid shadows that lashed out like living things hungry for prey. The assassin ignored the spell, as he was already leaping forward. With a precise thrust, he ran the Faen Tlabbar through with his rapier. The blade was as black as night, a long stiletto of intangible shadowstuff that simply glided through the matron mother’s mail shirt as if the armor wasn’t even there. Its effect on the priestess was as lethal as one might expect. He twisted the blade in her heart and grinned, though she still could not see him.
“Greetings, Matron Mother,” he hissed aloud. “Perhaps you will find the answers you were seeking when you reach Lolth’s black hells.”
Ghenni gasped once and coughed blood. She staggered back, clutching at the blade in her heart, and her eyes rolled up in her head and she toppled to the floor. Nimor withdrew his rapier and whirled on the daughter on the left, Sil’zet, while the demon took shape over Ghenni’s body. It was a skeletal creature wrapped in green flames, armed with a black-glowing scimitar of pale bone.
The demon evidently could see him perfectly, for it set on Nimor at once. It aimed a ferocious cut at his head, which he simply ducked, but the creature reversed its blade with surprising speed and backhanded a second cut waist high. Nimor scowled and skipped back, momentarily thwarted. Behind the demon, he saw Sil’zet unrolling a scroll to read, while Vadalma held her ground, stooping to retrieve her mother’s wand while guarding herself with a dagger.
“You will not escape this room with your life, assassin,” Vadalma cried. “Guards! To me!”
Nimor heard the guards outside fumbling at the chapel door. He ducked and darted, keeping away from the bone demon, but unwilling to engage it. Slaying a guardian demon was pointless, after all. He had only a few moments more, and he wanted to make the most of them. The assassin took one quick step and rolled beneath the demon’s guard, coming up beside Sil’zet as she declaimed the words of her scroll. He rammed his dagger into the small of her back while parrying the bone demon’s scimitar with his own black rapier. Sil’zet shrieked in agony and wrenched away, but Nimor tripped her expertly. She sprawled to the ground and writhed. Nimor followed her and sank the point of his rapier into the notch of her collarbone.
This time, the demon made him pay for ignoring it. Screeching in rage, it flailed at him with its bone sword, cutting a long, burning gash across his shoulder blade as he tried to spin out of the way. Nimor gritted his teeth against the pain and rolled away before the creature could cut him in two.
Vadalma barked out the command word for her mother’s wand and blasted blindly with the shadow sphere in Nimor’s direction, flaying the assassin’s flesh with ebon tendrils as cold and as sharp as razors.
The door guards burst in with blades bared, their faces cold and expressionless. They closed with uncanny swiftness, sword points weaving as they groped closer to Nimor, following him with quick jerks of their heads as if the scuffle of his boots and panting of his breath betrayed him.
I’ve done what I came for, Nimor decided.
Ghenni was dead, and Sil’zet clearly dying. Her heels drummed on the marble floor as she drowned in her own blood. He would have liked to have killed Vadalma as well, but the demon and the door guards—whatever they actually were—simply complicated matters beyond practical resolution.
With a grimace of resignation, Nimor backed off several steps and blinked away with the power of his ring, emerging an instant later near the balcony where he had first entered the castle. The forbidding kept him from escaping in a single dimensional leap, but the assassin simply seized the body of the Tlabbar wizard he’d left by the door and darted outside again. The cut across his shoulders burned abominably, and his legs ached where the icy tendrils of the sphere had lashed him, but Nimor drew in a deep breath and allowed himself a feral grin of triumph.
“Fortunate fellows,” he said to the dead males at his feet. “When the Tlabbars determine that you guarded the door through which I came, you will be glad that you are dead.”
The bodies made no response, of course. They never did.
He glanced out at the faerielight glimmering over the battlements of the castle, listening to the alarms and cries of dismay rising from within. He would have liked to savor the sounds for a long time, but pursuit could not be far behind. With a sigh, he clenched his fist around his black ring and willed himself away.
chapter
four
Halisstra and Ryld played two games, using a small traveling board the weapons master kept in a pouch at his belt. Ryld Argith won both games, though Halisstra pressed him hard in both. She’d always had a knack for sava, though she could tell early on that she was playing a master. Long, silent hours passed in the darkness, with no sign that the lamias had discovered their hiding place.
I can’t believe they haven’t followed us, Halisstra remarked at the end of the second game.
We slew many of their favorite thralls, I guess. The lamias were careless of the lives of their slaves, and perhaps do not have enough left to do a proper job of searching the city for us. Ryld smiled coldly. For that matter, we slew a few lamias, too. Perhaps they’re not very anxious to find us.
As long as they leave us be, Halisstra replied.
With the sava game no longer holding her interest, she realized that she was dreadfully hungry. They’d eaten a thin breakfast before sunrise from the few supplies they’d brought from Ched Nasad, but Halisstra was certain that the day was drawing down. Drow could stand privation better than most, but hard combat followed by hours of vigilance had left her physically exhausted.
I’m starving, she flashed at Ryld. Things seem quiet. I’m going to slip back to the camp and break out some stores. Stay alert.
The weapons master nodded, and whispered, “Hurry back.”
Halisstra rose and wrapped her piwafwi close around her. The hall was still and dark, as it had been for hours. She stole quietly back to the chamber where the others waited for Pharaun to ready his spells, using all the stealth she could muster. She could hear soft voices ahead, Quenthel and Danifae conversing quietly in the ruined gallery.
A dark shadow flitted across Halisstra’s heart. When she thought about it, there were few things she wished Danifae and Quenthel to speak about.
I should not have left them alone, she chided herself. I let Quenthel order me about like a male!
Deliberately, she crept closer, a silent shadow in the darkness. She could see Pharaun sitting wrapped in a blanket, deep in Reverie as he leaned against the wall, his eyes heavy and half-lidded. Quenthel and Danifae sat close together, turned a little away from the wizard, which brought them close to the passage in which Halisstra stood.
“What do you think you will do when we return to Menzoberranzan, girl? Do you think some high station awaits your mistress there?” Quenthel said, her whispers scornful and acidic.
“I do not know, Mistress,” Danifae said after a long time. “I have not thought that far ahead.”
“Orcswill. You have been thinking hard from the moment I laid eyes on you in the audience hall of House Melarn. In fact, I’ll e
ven hazard a guess as to what must occupy your thoughts. You are wondering how you can bring about your return to House Yauntyrr in Eryndlyn, with Halisstra Melarn as your battle captive.”
“I dare not entertain such a thought—”
Quenthel laughed cruelly and said, “Save your innocent protests for someone more gullible, girl. You still have not answered my question. Why should I take you and your mistress back to Menzoberranzan?”
“It would be my hope,” Danifae said in a faltering voice, “that I might have an opportunity to demonstrate my usefulness to you, so that you might choose to give me the opportunity to serve.”
“I see you do not presume to answer for your mistress this time,” Quenthel snorted. “So I should reward your faithless insolence by shielding you in House Baenre, when I know that you are nothing more than an opportunistic viper who will abandon her mistress as soon as the mood strikes her?”
“You misjudge me,” Danifae said. “The tradition of adopting the best and most useful nobles of a defeated house is a way of life among our people. My mistress and I—”
The vipers of Quenthel’s whip hissed and cracked close by Danifae’s face, silencing her.
“I think,” said Quenthel, “that I misjudge nothing at all. You are a simpering fawn of a girl who lacked the strength to keep herself from being taken as another’s slave. You are nothing more than a useless ornament to me—or you are a very patient and very clever little sycophant, in which case bringing you into my home is not very useful, either.” She sat back, sneering at Danifae. “Perhaps I should simply advise Halisstra of this conversation. I doubt your mistress would be pleased to know how much you presume in her behalf. It is most unbecoming in a handmaiden, after all.”
“It is your prerogative, Mistress,” Danifae said, bowing her head. “You may do as you please with me. I can only place myself at your convenience.” She looked up again from her submissive pose, and licked her lips. “In captivity I have come to understand something of the nature of power, what it means to hold absolute power over someone else. If I am not to wield that kind of power myself, then all that remains is to place myself into the care of a female who understands these things, too. Halisstra Melarn is my mistress, but only at your pleasure. When the time comes that you choose to consider the matter, I pray you will allow me to demonstrate my more useful qualities and earn the chance to live as your slave. You, more so than my mistress, understand the exercise of power.”
“Cease your meaningless flattery, girl,” Quenthel said. She stood smoothly and stepped close, looming menacingly above the kneeling girl with a smile on her lips. “I told you once that I can see past your pretty face. Besides, an appreciation for the uses of silence is only one of the virtues I find endearing in those I take under my gentle guidance.”
“I beg you, Mistress,” Danifae murmured. She leaned forward to nuzzle her face against Quenthel’s thighs, eyes closed, entwining her arms around the Baenre’s knees. “I would do anything to earn your favor. I beg you.”
Quenthel’s snake-headed scourge curled and teased Danifae’s silver hair. The Mistress of the Academy stood in silence, the same cold smile on her face. When she reached down and gently raised Danifae’s chin with one hand, she bent down to look closely into her eyes.
“Understand this,” Quenthel said in a low voice. “I know exactly what you’re doing, and you will not win this game. The women of House Baenre are made of sterner stuff than the weaklings of House Melarn. Savor every heartbeat, foolish girl, because in the instant you no longer amuse me, your life ends.”
Quenthel disentangled herself and walked away, resuming her restless pacing across the dusty chamber. Danifae rose and moved to the same spot in which Halisstra had left her, kneeling gracefully and composing herself to wait.
Halisstra exhaled quietly in the shadowed passageway, forcing her knotted limbs to relax. She had not realized how tense she had become.
Now, what shall I make of that? she thought.
More than once in the girl’s long years as her servant she had used Danifae’s beauty to secure favors. If she called Danifae to account for presuming to address Quenthel in Halisstra’s absence, she was certain that she knew how the girl would respond. Danifae would claim that she was simply exploring Quenthel’s regard for Halisstra by feigning the attenuation of her loyalty to House Melarn, a plausible excuse to approach Quenthel under the circumstances. Under such a scenario, Danifae could claim that she was simply telling Quenthel what she wanted to hear, in order to measure whether there was a place for her and her mistress in the powerful priestess’s House. She would most likely finish with submissive apologies, and ask Halisstra to take her life if her actions had somehow displeased her noble mistress.
On the other hand, did it not seem equally likely that Danifae’s approach to Quenthel was unfeigned? If the maidservant found a way to escape the magical binding that held her captive, she would need Quenthel’s approval, or else her freedom might come at the cost of her life. It was quite possible that nothing more than the deadly capriciousness of a highborn priestess prevented Danifae from seeking release from her bondage. After all, if Danifae claimed her freedom and looked to Quenthel to guarantee it, the Baenre might choose to destroy the girl for her presumption. Any drow would delight in encouraging the dreams of a slave, only to dash them to pieces for nothing more than an instant’s dark pleasure.
Only a day before, Halisstra would have described Danifae as one of her most prized possessions. She was not only held to an unbreakable loyalty, but she served also as a confidante, perhaps even something of a friend—even if her faithfulness was magically compelled. They had shared many diversions and plotted many intrigues together. Danifae had been eager to follow her into her self-imposed exile, volunteering to share her trials and continue her servitude. Of course she would have paid a terrible price had she remained in House Melarn after Halisstra’s flight, but had she been too eager, perhaps?
“Here I stand, afraid to confront or discipline my own handmaid,” Halisstra breathed. “Lolth has cast me low, indeed.”
With her coldness locked away in her heart, Halisstra carefully retraced her steps. She wasn’t hungry anymore, but it was necessary to allay suspicions. She turned around, and advanced more openly toward the party’s hiding place, allowing a slight scuff of her boot soles against the sand-covered stones to whisper through the dead, still air of the chamber. She would let Quenthel and Danifae believe she had heard nothing, but she would watch both of them closely from that point forward.
Nimor Imphraezl made his way among the grand palaces and jagged stalagmites of the Qu’ellarz’orl, draped in a hooded piwafwi. He wore a merchant’s insignia, posing as a well-to-do commoner with business on the high plateau of Menzoberranzan’s haughtiest noble Houses. It was a thin disguise, as anyone taking note of his confident step and rakish manner would not mistake him for anything other than a noble drow himself. The costume was not uncommon among highborn males who wished to move about incognito. Certain spells at his command might have sufficed to offer him almost any appearance he could think of, but Nimor had discovered long ago that the simplest disguises were often the best. Most drow houses were guarded by defenders who would note the approach of someone veiled in webs of illusion, but spotting a common disguise required a mundane vigilance that some dark elves had forgotten.
He passed a pair of Baenre armsmen, walking in the opposite direction. The noble lads eyed him with open curiosity and not a little suspicion. Nimor bowed deeply and offered an empty pleasantry. The young rakes glanced back over their shoulders at him once or twice, but continued on their business. Baenre boys had become hesitant to start trouble unless they were certain of themselves. Nimor took an extra turn or two on his way to his destination anyway, just to make sure they hadn’t taken it into their heads to follow him. With one last double-back to clear his trail, he turned to a high walled palace near the center of the plateau and approached the fortresslike gate.
<
br /> House Agrach Dyrr, the Fifth House of Menzoberranzan, clambered in and around nine needle-like towers of rock within the bounds of a great dry moat. Each fang of rock had been joined to its neighbor by a graceful wall of adamantine-reinforced stone, impossibly slender and strong. Flying buttresses, bladelike and beautiful, linked the natural towers to those wrought by drow, a narrow cluster of minarets and spires in the center of the compound that rose hundreds of feet above the plateau floor. A railless bridge spanned in a single elegant arch the sheer chasm surrounding the structure.
Nimor climbed the bridge and approached openly. Near the far end he was challenged by several swordsmen and a pair of competent-looking wizards.
“Hold,” called the gate captain. “Who are you, and what is your business with Agrach Dyrr?”
The assassin halted with a smile. He could sense the myriad instruments of death trained upon him, as if he might suddenly take it into his head to utter some truly inappropriate answer.
“I am Reethk Vaszune, a purveyor of magical ingredients and reagents,” he said, bowing and spreading his arms. “I have been summoned by the Old Dyrr to discuss the sale of my goods.”
The gate captain relaxed and said, “The master told us to expect you, Reethk Vaszune. Come this way.”
Nimor followed the captain through several grand reception halls and high, echoing chambers in the great heart of the Agrach Dyrr castle. The captain showed him to a small sitting room, elaborately furnished in exotic corals and limestone rendered in the motifs of the kuo-toa, the fish creatures who dwelled in some of the Underdark’s subterranean seas. Exotic enough to bespeak the House’s wealth and taste, the room radiated arrogance.
“I am informed that Master Dyrr will join us shortly,” the guard captain said.
A moment later, a hidden door in the opposite wall slid smoothly open, and Old Dyrr appeared. The ancient wizard was decrepit indeed, a rare sight for any elf, let alone a drow. He leaned on a great staff of black wood, and his ebon skin seemed as thin and delicate as parchment. A bright, cold spark burned in the old wizard’s eye, hinting at reserves of ambition and vitality that had not yet been tapped completely despite his great age.
R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation Page 80