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

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

  “What d’ye want?” one growled.

  “Thummud,” Coalhewer replied. “Got a business proposition for him.”

  “Stay here,” the first guard said.

  He ducked through a ragged curtain in the doorway, and returned a moment later.

  “Thummud’ll see ye, but the drow’ll have t’leave their weapons at the door. Don’t trust ’em.”

  Ryld looked at Valas and signed, Are we worried about an ambush?

  The scout replied, Coalhewer knows there are five more in our party, including a capable wizard and a draegloth. I don’t think he’d lead us into a trap—but watch your back anyway.

  “Enough finger-talk,” the guard snarled. “Talk so’s we can understand ye, if ye’ve got anything to say.”

  “Always,” Ryld said aloud to Valas.

  He gave the duergar a hard look, but shrugged Splitter from his shoulder and set the greatsword against one wall. He unbuckled his short sword from its sheath at his hip and set it nearby.

  “There’s a curse on the big blade,” he said. “You won’t like what happens if you try to handle it.”

  Valas set down his shortbow and arrows, then dropped his kukris to the ground. The duergar guards checked the two dark elves for concealed weapons, then ushered them into the gloomy shelter. The place was an office of sorts, with ledgers and records scattered about. By a large standing clerk’s desk stood one of the fattest gray dwarfs Ryld had ever seen, a round-bodied fellow with thick arms and heavy shoulders. Duergar tended to run toward a gaunt, broad-shouldered build despite their short, powerful stature, but the brewmaster Thummud was as round as one of his kegs.

  “Coalhewer,” he said by way of a greeting. “What can you do for me?”

  “I’ve got a party of dark elves as need a writ o’ business from Muzgardt,” Coalhewer said. “They’d prefer not to wait on a royal permit.”

  “What sort of business?”

  “We deal in gemstones, mostly,” Valas said. “We’re looking into setting up transport through the Deepkingdom. We need to be able to move around and talk to a lot of people, and as Coalhewer said, we don’t want to wait for months to get a royal license.”

  “Ye’re stupid or ye’re lying, then. Ye’ll pay ten times the cost of a royal license to get a writ from our clan laird. Most merchants I know wouldn’t do such a thing.”

  Valas glanced up at Ryld, then looked back to Thummud and said, “All right, then. We’ve got some rivals from back home that are doing a fine business here, and we want to sound out their suppliers to see if they can’t be encouraged to sell to us instead of the others. A royal license wouldn’t really extend that far, would it?”

  Thummud snorted, “No, I suppose not.”

  “Can ye help me clients, or not?” Coalhewer asked. “Or do I have to go see Ironhead, or maybe Anvilthew?”

  “Clan Muzgardt might be able to help ye,” Thummud said after a long moment. “We’ll want two hundred pieces of gold for each body on the writ, and ye can’t have it today.”

  Coalhewer glanced up at the dark elves. Ryld nodded to him.

  “They’ll pay the laird’s fee,” the duergar sailor said, “but they want to get started right quick.”

  “Doesn’t matter what yer clients want,” Thummud replied with a shrug. “I’ll have to take up the matter with the clan laird before I write you a pass.”

  “Ye never had to before!”

  The fat dwarf folded his arms and set his jaw stubbornly. He glared at Coalhewer and the dark elves.

  “Be that as it may, the crown prince’s soldiers have been checking our writs and passes too closely of late. Horgar’s let it be known that he wants to know who’s in the Deepkingdom and why, and he’s leaning on the clan lairds to withhold their writs. We’ll be able to get yer clients theirs, I think, but I’ll have to gain Muzgardt’s blessing first. Come back tomorrow, or the day after.”

  Coalhewer muttered into his beard, but he didn’t bother to argue the point any further. He jerked his head toward the curtain, and led Ryld and Valas outside. The dark elves picked up their arms, and in a moment they’d left the brewery behind them.

  “Now, what should we make of that?” Valas wondered aloud. “Do you know another clan that might help out, Coalhewer?”

  “Maybe, but if Horgar’s cracking down on informal passes and such things, ye’ll have trouble anywhere ye go.” The dwarf scratched at his beard. “I’ll have to ask some questions, and I don’t think ye’d best be with me.”

  Ryld looked to Valas, who thought carefully before agreeing, and even then the weapons master didn’t think his fellow Menzoberranyr looked sufficiently confident in their guide’s loyalty.

  chapter

  seven

  When Halisstra and Danifae returned to the Cold Foundry, they found that Quenthel had rented one of the inn’s larger wings, a freestanding structure with its own small common room and eight private chambers on two floors. The whole wing seemed to be built and decorated to a duergar’s conception of drow comfort. Its furnishings were proportioned for drow-sized guests, not dwarves, it was richly appointed with tapestries and lavish rugs, and all the doors had locks. Dark elves didn’t require endless hours of sleep in the same manner as lesser races, but few drow felt safe or comfortable in a deep, dreaming Reverie unless they were taking their ease behind a locked door.

  The rest of the company, with the exception of Pharaun, reclined on the rugs or sat at the common room’s table, partaking of a bountiful meal accompanied by silver ewers of wine. Armor and packs lay stacked against the walls, but weapons remained within easy reach.

  Halisstra raised an eyebrow, eyeing the banquet spread out on the sideboard. A large roast of rothé, several wheels of finely molded cheeses, and steaming platters of braised mushrooms reminded her how long she’d been without a decent, hot meal.

  “The food’s safe?” she asked.

  Quenthel snorted. “Do you think we’re stupid? Of course we checked it. The innkeeper sent us a cask of drugged wine the first time around, but we complained to the management”—Jeggred looked up and smiled with a mouthful of fangs at that, and Halisstra guessed she knew what form that complaint had taken—“so the banquet is complimentary. Enjoy.”

  Halisstra performed her own examination of the table anyway, relying on a magic ring she wore for just that purpose. Poisons were too commonplace among highborn drow to take any meal for granted. Satisfied, she helped herself and sat down by the table. Danifae took some food as well, and took a place, reclining on a low lounge near Quenthel.

  “I see the wizard has not yet returned. Have you had any luck?” Halisstra asked Valas as she ate.

  The scout sat cross-legged beside the door, his knife belt loosened but still around his narrow hips. He sipped at a mug of mulled wine, and chewed thoughtfully on a piece of bread.

  “After a fashion,” he said. “The weapons master and I encountered no overt hostility, but we didn’t get as far as I would have liked, despite our efforts to impress upon the duergar the importance of time.” He jingled the pouch of coins at his belt. “I don’t know if this is a sign that something unusual is happening, but Coalhewer didn’t like it.”

  “Where is the dwarf?” asked Danifae.

  “He wanted to see if he could obtain a writ through other channels.”

  “You trust him to do that?”

  “Not entirely, but it’s something we could not easily do ourselves.” The scout grimaced and said, “It’s one thing to deal with the duergar clans in a reasonably forthright fashion. If I was caught looking into forging our passes, I would look very much like a spy, wouldn’t I? And so would all of you, by association.”

  “Real spies would approach Gracklstugh in much the same manner we have,” Ryld said from one corner, where Splitter leaned against the wall, within easy reach.

  “True, but remember that Coalhewer is something of a smuggler himself. He’s hardly anxious to bring us to the attention of the crown prince,” V
alas replied. “Still, the weapons master and I settled for replenishing our provisions, so we’re ready to leave whenever Coalhewer obtains our pass.”

  “It seems we’ve done all we can for now,” Halisstra observed. “I, for one, am tired of blinding deserts, soul-bleaching shadowlands, and bare cavern floors. If we’re soon to return to the bleak and comfortless wilds, I’ll enjoy what civilization I can.”

  Halisstra held up her cup for Danifae to fill. The battle captive rose sinuously and refilled her mistress’s goblet.

  “Drink if you like, but don’t let your wits become too sodden,” Quenthel warned from her couch. “We’re hardly among friends in this filthy city.”

  “When are any of us truly among friends?” Ryld asked with a snort.

  Halisstra laughed softly and said, “Indeed, Ryld, but tonight we can rest in comfort, confident in the knowledge that we none of us trust each other and that not too far away lurk grim enemies who would destroy us if they could. Would we have it any other way?”

  Danifae carried the ewer to Quenthel. Ignoring the subtle writhing of the priestess’s serpent whip, she lowered her eyes and leaned forward to refill the high priestess’s cup.

  “We must seize what pleasures we can when the opportunity arises,” Danifae added. “Is that not the purpose of power?”

  Halisstra sipped her wine and watched the scene. Danifae had neglected to don an arming-coat beneath her mail, as she had found the black mithral shirt without its leather padding. Of course, Halisstra had already offered Danifae a spare coat of her own, and she had no doubt that in the morning Danifae would accept it. In the meantime, the girl’s perfect dark skin gleamed through the metal mesh, and her full, round breasts swayed enticingly beneath the steel as she stooped to pour Quenthel’s wine. The males in the room could not take their eyes from her, try as they might. Even Jeggred, four-armed hulking beast that he was, seemed entranced by the girl’s grace and beauty. Valas frowned and busied himself with oiling his kukris, obviously sensing the peril of the moment and recoiling with his usual caution. Ryld, on the other hand. . . .

  Ryld was looking at her. Halisstra carefully kept the surprise from her face as she met the weapons master’s gaze. Their eyes locked. His expression seemed avid, intense, and Halisstra knew that Danifae’s posturing could not have escaped his notice, but instead of gaping at the girl in her armor of metal mesh, the weapons master turned that gaze on her.

  Ryld offered a slight smile and made a soft gesture with his hand: An interesting play.

  I do not follow your meaning, Halisstra replied, though she could see easily enough that the weapons master knew perfectly well that she did.

  She returned her attention to Danifae as the girl kneeled close beside Quenthel, sipping her own wine. The company grew quiet, and Ryld pulled out his traveling sava set to play a game against Valas while the others contented themselves with savoring a moment’s respite from danger.

  Pharaun returned eventually, a handful of scrolls tucked under one arm. He retired to his chamber after a couple of halfhearted jibes at the weapons master to break his concentration. Ryld won anyway, though the Bregan D’aerthe scout gave a good account of himself.

  “It has been a long day,” Quenthel said. “I shall retire to my chambers. Jeggred, Valas, split the watch tonight. Two others will watch tomorrow.”

  She stood and stretched, and turned her eyes on Danifae before gliding out of the room.

  “I think I’ll do the same,” Danifae said.

  The battle captive glanced at Halisstra, offered a coy smile, and went quickly after Quenthel. Ryld put away his sava board and headed up to his room, while Valas and Jeggred tossed a coin for first watch. Halisstra stood, gathered her piwafwi around her, and went up to her own room. She paused briefly by Quenthel’s door and listened, just long enough to hear what might have been a soft gasp or a rustle of clothing, then she moved on. Quenthel’s serpents would likely report an eavesdropper at her door.

  Clever girl, Halisstra thought. Quenthel was an astute and daring move indeed.

  In Ched Nasad Halisstra had sent Danifae to seduce a rival on more than one occasion. Even the most pragmatic priestess had her favorite pets, and sometimes an otherwise cold and calculating female might be manipulated through her secret pleasures. Halisstra doubted that Danifae could succeed in establishing any real influence over Quenthel, but at the worst, she was providing the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith with a reason not to abandon Halisstra and her handmaid on a whim. Of course, if Danifae’s services proved too valuable to Quenthel, the Baenre might be inclined to claim the captive as her own, but that was a risk Halisstra was willing to take.

  Even if Danifae continued to encourage the Baenre to do just that, Halisstra thought of the silver locket around the girl’s neck, and allowed herself a smile. Unless Danifae managed to free herself of the binding spell, she couldn’t take the smallest step in that direction, as Halisstra’s death would precipitate her own. For the moment Halisstra felt she could rely on Danifae’s loyalty.

  Halisstra found her room and undressed for bed, setting her armor on a chest in the small room and leaving her mace where she could reach it quickly.

  She drifted into Reverie thinking about Quenthel and Danifae together.

  Aliisza rode in an iron palanquin through the streets of Gracklstugh, carried by four ogres and escorted by a dozen tanarukk warriors. The tanarukks wore armor of burnished iron and carried wickedly hooked greatswords. One fellow carried a yellow banner emblazoned with Kaanyr Vhok’s assumed symbol—a scepter clasped in a gauntleted hand. Twice their number of gray dwarf warriors escorted the embassy along, suspicious glares fixed rigidly on the black palanquin and its occupant. The alu-fiend preened just a little beneath the attention. She would have moved much quicker on her own, of course, but making a grand entrance into the city of the gray dwarves might encourage the duergar to take her seriously. Besides, it was fun.

  The journey from the halls of old Ammarindar had not been particularly swift or easy. Aliisza and her warriors had pressed hard at their best possible speed for five days along ancient dwarven highways to reach the shores of the Darklake, and it had taken three days more to obtain a duergar boat to cross it. She was growing tired of dashing this way and that through the Underdark at Kaanyr Vhok’s command. On the other hand, it continued to demonstrate her usefulness to the demonspawned warlord, and perhaps it wasn’t a bad thing that circumstances gave her reasons to leave his side from time to time. It whetted his appetite for her return, and sometimes gave her the opportunity to indulge her taste for . . . variety.

  Gracklstugh seemed to be one great smithy, a city of roaring forges and reeking smoke. It struck Aliisza as not unlike the foundry hall in the ruins of Ammarindar, except Kaanyr Vhok’s forge was only a fraction of the size of the gray dwarf realm.

  What an ugly place, Aliisza thought. Still, the sheer scale of the work that went on around her was staggering. More than once, she spotted components of siege engines of enormous size being assembled in their workshops. Ched Nasad might have been far more graceful and insidious, but Gracklstugh was strong. Dwarven skill and single-mindedness seemed almost a match for drow magic and cruelty.

  The gray dwarves turned her escort toward a great fortress delved into a mighty stalagmite. Ramparts of stone and turrets of iron guarded the sloping sides of the duergar castle. As the ogres carried her into the open gate of the king’s palace, Aliisza could not check her impulse to glance up at the mighty portcullis and deadly devices poised to crush any attack. She had several ways to escape if she needed to, but none of her warriors would get out of the palace alive if the gray dwarves decided not to let them leave.

  The procession came to a halt in a large, cheerless hall whose floor was made of polished stone slabs.

  “It seems that I am here,” Aliisza said to herself.

  She tapped on the palanquin’s side, and the ogres lowered the carriage carefully to the floor. The alu-fiend waited for the seat
to settle, then let herself out, straightening and stretching her wings.

  A duergar officer wearing a plain black surcoat over his armor approached her.

  “You said you wished to see the crown prince,” he stated.

  “At his earliest convenience,” Aliisza replied. She’d had the same conversation several times that day with various gray dwarf lieutenants and captains.

  “Who are you, again?”

  “I am Aliisza, an envoy from Kaanyr Vhok, the Sceptered One, Lord of Ammarindar and Master of Hellgate Keep. I believe your crown prince will find my lord’s message worth listening to.”

  The officer scowled doubtfully.

  “They stay here,” he said, nodding at Aliisza’s entourage. “Follow me.”

  Aliisza glanced at the leader of her escort, a battered old tanarukk champion with a missing tusk, and said, “You and your warriors wait here. I might be a while.”

  She followed the duergar captain deeper into the fortress, flanked by another half-dozen gray dwarf soldiers. She decided to think of them as an honor guard.

  They climbed a wide, sweeping stairway that might have been impressive if the gray dwarves had taken a single step toward decorating the place, and finally came to a throne room with huge, stone columns supporting a vaulted ceiling high overhead.

  At the far end of the chamber stood a knot of gray dwarves. By the way they moved, and the cold regard in their eyes, Aliisza guessed that they were the high advisors and nobles of the realm, but their garb displayed no such ostentation. In their midst stood the only gray dwarf she’d seen yet with any kind of ornamentation, a burly fellow who wore a hauberk of gleaming chain mail beneath an embroidered surcoat of black and gold. A circlet of gold rested atop his bare head, and rings of gold gathered the braids of his beard.

  The captain escorting Aliisza motioned for her to halt and went closer to whisper in the ear of the crown prince. The gray dwarf ruler glared at Aliisza, then stepped forward, thick arms folded across his chest.