“All right,” Drisinil said. “Just bring the antidote with you when you come to Lirdnolu’s room.”
The mistress arched an eyebrow, and Drisinil added, “Please.”
Quenthel smiled. Catching her mood, the whip vipers sighed with pleasure.
“How did you know your darkness would madden the beast?” asked Pharaun, lathering his narrow chest.
The night before, after he made way back to Pharaun, the two of them had found they had enough healing potions to cure all the wounds that either had sustained. Still, despite their restoration to full vitality, the next few hours proved exhausting, as they struggled to survive the madness of the hunt and watch out for Greyanna at the same time. At last they’d escaped the Braeryn.
Claiming that while Greyanna was seeking them in the Stench-streets, they’d be safe in pleasant, prosperous Narbondellyn, Pharaun had insisted that he and Ryld dispense with disguises and celebrate their sundry discoveries and escapes with a visit to one of Menzoberranzan’s finest public baths. The warrior had objected to what he saw as reckless bravado, but not too vehemently. Ryld supposed that he and Pharaun would climb beyond their foes’ reach soon enough. The prospect made him feel rather wistful.
Over the course of the past few minutes, he’d been enjoying the luxury of scrubbing off the sweat and grime that had accumulated on his person, sitting down, and thinking about nothing in particular. He should have known the peace and quiet couldn’t last for long. Pharaun couldn’t go long without craving conversation.
“How did you know that, shrouded in darkness or no, the foulwing wouldn’t just keep descending, guided by its other senses?” the wizard persisted.
The warrior shrugged and said, “I didn’t know, but it seemed like a good guess. The thing’s an animal, isn’t it?”
Pharaun grinned. “Not really. It’s a creature from another plane. Still, your instincts were sound.”
Ryld shrugged and replied, “I was lucky to get away from there with my life. Very lucky.”
“Fire and glare, you’re a master of Tier Breche. You’re not supposed to be modest. Are you ready to move?”
They rose from an octagonal pool set in the black marble floor, and, having completed the quotidian business of cleaning themselves, headed for a larger basin where they would luxuriate in steaming, scented mineral water. Later in the day, it would be packed, but it wasn’t fashionable to visit the baths so early in the morning. They had it to themselves, which was convenient. They could converse without fear of eavesdroppers.
Ryld walked straight down the steps and sat on the underwater ledge. The warmth felt good on his leg, mended but still a little sore, and he sighed with contentment. Pharaun made a production of immersing himself in stages, an inch at a time, as if the heat were almost more than he could bear.
“I’ve been thinking about your malaise,” the wizard said, once everything but his head was finally submerged. “I have a solution.”
“What do you mean?”
“Resign from Melee-Magthere and become the weapons master of a noble House. It will have to be one of the lesser ones, of course, you being a commoner, but that’s all right. You may see more excitement that way.”
“Why would I do that? It’s not a move up. It might not be a loss of rank, depending on the House, but still, what would be the point?”
“You’re bored, and it would be a change.”
“One that would put me under the thumb of any number of high priestesses. I’d have less autonomy than I do as an instructor.”
“I managed to pursue my own objectives while under my mother’s supervision. Still, you make a legitimate point. You might find yourself abhorring the tug of the reins. What’s the answer, then?”
“Who says there is one? Except, perhaps, further lunatic holidays with you. I admit, this one broke the tedium.”
A diminutive female gnome carried a pile of freshly laundered and folded towels out of a doorway on the far wall. Ryld wondered if she was one of the Prophet’s followers, and if she had any of the rabble-rouser’s duergar firepots stashed somewhere in the bathhouse. It felt strange to think of a humble undercreature that way—wielding stone-burning bombs against its betters.
“You speak of our errand in the past tense,” the wizard said.
“Well, once you tell the archmage the runaways are in the Braeryn fomenting a pitiful little goblin uprising, it’ll be over, won’t it? Gromph will pardon your transgressions. The Council, having failed to stop our inquiries, will, I trust, see no point in continuing to try to kill us. It’ll be more to their advantage to let us go on training wizards and soldiers to serve them.”
“You’re very certain the insurrection will be pitiful. Is it because Greyanna’s followers exterminated so many undercreatures last night?”
Ryld scooped up a handful of hot water and splashed it on his neck, which had gotten a little stiff from his exertions.
“No,” he said. “The hunters killed plenty of goblins, but they were only a fraction of a fraction of the creatures jammed into every nook and cranny of the district—you saw the interior of Smylla’s home. Trust me, you still don’t really understand.”
“I understand that many other such specimens inhabit the rest of the city as well. Why, then, do you doubt their ability to do some appreciable damage? It can’t be for want of spirit. The underfolk are in an excellent humor, enflamed by their Prophet’s oratory, painting their racial emblems hither and yon, and murdering potential informers and unbelievers.”
“They still lack martial training and proper weapons.”
“Some were warriors before the slavers captured them. Some are thrall soldiers still. As for the arms, well, when visiting the World Above, did you ever see a city burn? I did. I had to torch one myself to complete a mission. The destruction and loss of life were impressive, even though the inhabitants knew their buildings could catch fire and had procedures for dealing with it.”
“Whereas we don’t? Surely you wizards …?”
Pharaun shrugged. “Not really. Why would it occur to us? Perhaps we could improvise something, but if we didn’t catch the conflagration early, it might not be entirely effective.”
“But you would catch it early. The undercreatures won’t rebel all at once, and that will make it possible to quash each little uprising as it begins.”
“You’re assuming ‘the Call,’ whatever it is, will pass by word of mouth, or at any rate, that it won’t be disseminated rapidly. You could be right. The noise baffles may hinder it, but what if the Prophet has some arcane means of rousing every goblin and bugbear at the exact same instant?”
“Do you know of such a magic?”
“No.”
“And you’re a Master of Sorcere. So it’s reasonable to assume no such power exists.”
Pharaun arched an eyebrow. “Indeed? Thank you for your expert opinion.”
Ryld made a spitting sound and said, “Look. You think a rebellion could amount to something. I disagree, but say you’re right. Isn’t that all the more reason to report to Gromph immediately?”
The wizard waved to a goblin slave who was sauntering by. “The difficulty is that I have yet to succeed.”
“What?”
“My assignment is to find the runaways. I glimpsed two of them for a matter of minutes, then lost them. Do you think the Baenre will deem that satisfactory?”
Frowning, Ryld said, “Considering that we did uncover something of interest …”
“Remember, our great and glorious archmage doesn’t hold me in high esteem. He sent me out as a decoy, a target for the priestesses to harass. Knowing him as I do, I’m sure that if I fulfill the letter of our agreement, he’ll swallow his dislike and keep his end, but should I fall the least bit short, it will be a different matter.”
“You can at least tell him the rogues are in the Braeryn.”
“Can I? We sifted through the Stenchstreets as well as any outsiders could. We didn’t find the house where the
runaways hang their cloaks, and we actually have only the flimsiest of reasons for assuming it’s in the Braeryn at all.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Of course. When am I not? Now, here’s what I intend to do: Find the rogues’ hiding place. Discover who the Prophet is and how his wizardry—or whatever it is—works. Learn where the firepots came from, where they’re cached around the city, and the master plan for the rebellion. And most importantly of all, determine what the fugitives know about the clergy losing its magic.”
“In hopes of coming out of this affair more powerful than you ever were before.”
Pharaun grinned. “More powerful than we ever were before. That might dispel your boredom for good and all.”
“And those are the real reasons you aren’t ready to go back to Tier Breche.”
“All my motives are genuine, including my wariness of Gromph. I take it you are in a frantic hurry to return?”
Ryld sighed. “I’m in no rush. Our excursion has been interesting, and I like to finish what I start, but what if the orcs rebel before we get around to warning our fellow drow?”
“Then we’ll make sure never to tell anyone we knew it was coming.” The wizard grinned and added, “Actually, the awareness that we race to avert a calamity will make our exploits all the more stimulating.”
“And should we lose the race, maybe the rebellion won’t kill anyone who matters to the two of us. I suppose I agree. We’ll keep on searching.”
“Excellent!”
Bearing a silver tray, the goblin bustled to the side of the pool. Bending the knees of his splayed, bristly legs, he brought the salver low enough for the dark elves to take the goblets on top of it.
Pharaun gave the thrall a smile and a wave, dismissing him, then lifted his cup.
“To mystery and glory!”
Ryld sipped from his own cup, acknowledging the toast. The drink was red morel juice, sweet and very cold, a pleasant contrast to the heat of the water.
“So I guess it’s back to looking like orcs,” said the weapons master.
“I grieve to disappoint you, but the time for that sort of deception has passed.”
“What do you mean? If we don’t look like undercreatures, how are we going to get into another one of those secret meetings?”
“We don’t know that the Prophet will hold another assembly. He’s already explained his strategy and distributed his secret weapon. Even if he does, it might not be for several days, during which we’ll have Greyanna seeking us relentlessly. We’ve evaded her so far, but we must acknowledge the possibility that our luck could sour eventually.”
“You’re right about that.”
“Therefore, we need to find the rogues quickly, which means a change of tactics is in order. Why are the boys trying to instigate a goblin revolt?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nor do I, really. It doesn’t appear to make sense. Still, would you agree that the intent, like the act of eloping itself, reflects an antipathy to the established order?”
“Possibly.”
“Then let’s assume the Prophet or some other ringleader lured the males away from their homes because he knew they were more than ordinarily resentful of their places in the world.”
“It’s possible. Where does the notion lead?”
The wizard grinned and said, “If we demonstrate that we share their distemper, the rogues may recruit us as well.”
“How can we do that? We may not be clerics, but we’re Masters of the Academy. We’re pillars of the hierarchy, and more to the point, we have a pleasanter lot and thus less reason for discontent than most.”
“That doesn’t seem to slow you down.”
“Even so.”
“Here’s what you’re overlooking. Thanks to my misadventure with the Sarthos demon, I’m a disgraced master, likely in line for some ghastly punishment. Whereas you with your dour demeanor and dwarven armor are clearly an iconoclast and malcontent. Moreover, we’ve been asking everywhere for news of the runaways. They must know of it, even though they didn’t see fit to make contact. During that same time, a high priestess from House Mizzrym has tried to murder us. They surely have some cognizance of that as well.”
“Yet they still didn’t approach us. Why would they do it now?”
Pharaun smiled. “Because we’ll provide proof that we do in fact share their perspective.”
“How?”
“The priestesses lead regular patrols through the Bazaar. We’ll destroy one, repair to the Braeryn, boast of the deed, and await developments. The rogues will seek us out. How can they not? Whatever their ultimate objective, I’m sure they can use the services of two such talented fellows.”
“No doubt, but back up. You want to murder a patrol?”
“In as showy a manner as possible. With a bit of planning, it should be easy enough. They won’t be as numerous as Greyanna’s hunters and they won’t be expecting that sort of trouble.”
“What happened to not killing anybody, especially clerics, unless we absolutely have to?”
“We do absolutely have to. We’re in a race against time, remember, and this is the speediest route to our objective.”
“Maybe, but what happens afterward? Won’t any number of folk want to punish us for our impudence?”
“We won’t confide our involvement to those likely to prove unsympathetic.”
“The priestesses will figure it out.”
“Ah, but snug and safe in the lair of our friend the Prophet, we won’t care. Besides, the Council has already authorized our annihilation, so we really have nothing to lose.”
“Perhaps the crime can’t worsen our current situation, but what about the long term?”
“In the long term,” Pharaun said, “it won’t matter. As you yourself observed mere moments ago, we Menzoberranyr are a pragmatic lot. People forgive whatever outrages I committed yesterday if I make myself useful today.”
“Greyanna didn’t.”
The wizard laughed and replied, “Well, of course, we’re likewise prone to grudges, vendettas, and blood feuds. It’s one of the paradoxes central to our natures. With luck, though, no one of importance will take our little massacre personally. I doubt we’ll be murdering any princesses, or anyone of genuine significance to her family.”
“I think it’s crazy,” Ryld said, shaking his head. “You don’t know that the rogues will contact us, or if they’ll like what they see if they do.”
“Then we’ll simply hatch another scheme.”
Ryld scowled and shook his head again.
“You’re mad,” the weapons master said, “but I’m with you.”
“Splendid! We must toast our homicidal designs with something stronger than juice.” Pharaun looked about and spotted the goblin. “May we see the wine list, please?”
Ryld said, “It’s the very beginning of the morning.”
“Don’t be misled by superficial appearances,” Pharaun replied. “As neither of us has enjoyed a moment of repose, it must still be night. Do you think they have any of that ’53 Barrison Del’Armgo heartwine?”
chapter
FOURTEEN
Until someone murdered her, Lirdnolu had taught her classes in a sort of indoor amphitheater, one of many architectural oddities scattered through Arach-Tinilith, and as the conspirators slunk in, they seated themselves on the C-shaped tiers.
Drisinil wondered what to say to them, how to stall until Quenthel arrived to confront them. The novice’s mind was a blank, but she knew she’d have to think of something. Her mouth was dry and tasted of metal. Her armpits were clammy with sweat, and her accelerated pulse pounded in the stumps of her severed fingers. The poison was obviously well on its way to killing her, and she had to please Quenthel Baenre sufficiently to earn the antidote.
Wrinkled old Vlondril Tuin’Tarl leered at Drisinil as if she knew of the student’s distress, but all she said was, “I believe most everyone’s here. Let’s get this done befor
e our colleagues start missing us.”
“Uh, yes,” Drisinil said, gazing up at the rows of faces staring back down at her. “Well, mothers, sisters, we all know what happened last night. The vipers in the mistress’s whip detected the drugs—”
“So they did,” said Quenthel.
Startled, Drisinil spun around. A figure shrouded in a cowled piwafwi rose from the first row. She lifted her head, pushed the hood back, and stood revealed as the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith. Somehow she’d entered the room without her enemies realizing her identity.
Quenthel pushed back one wing of her cloak, freeing the arm that held her whip. She sauntered to the center of the room. It occurred to Drisinil that at that moment the plotters could have fallen on their target en masse, but they didn’t. The mistress cowed them with her unexpected appearance, her contemptuous demeanor, and the simple fact that she was a Baenre princess.
The mistress smiled at Drisinil and said, “You’ve done well, novice, except for one detail. It’s traditional for priestesses to conduct their affairs by candlelight. That’s all right, I’ve taken care of it.” She turned toward the door. “Come.”
Two teachers marched in carrying silver candelabra. After a moment, Drisinil, squinting, saw they weren’t alone. Many of the residents of Arach-Tinilith filed in after them, all well armed and wearing mail.
Quenthel beckoned to the plotters.
“Move down to the lower seats, why don’t you? The latecomers won’t mind climbing to the top.” She waited a beat, then said, “That wasn’t a suggestion.”
The conspirators hesitated a moment longer, and the show of force convinced them to obey.
“Thank you,” Quenthel said, then waited until everyone had taken a seat and the plotters all had armed loyalists at their backs. “Now, let’s discuss the matter that concerns you so.”
“I don’t know what my niece told you about this gathering,” said Drisinil’s Aunt Molvayas, clad in a gown of a dark and shimmering green that matched her eyes, “but I assure you, its purpose is entirely innocent.”
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