Dissolution wotsq-1

by Ричард Ли Байерс

  Faeryl smiled and said, «You've found me out, and I have a confession to make, I don't always devote myself to the interests of Ched Nasad as a whole. Occasionally I work solely to advance the fortunes of House Zauvirr

  […Missing Text…]

  If the matron had the capacity to throw a spell, that changed the complexion of the fight considerably. Faeryl needed to end it quickly, perhaps before the first magical effect manifested. She charged her opponent, striking at her head in an all-out attack. It was a reckless move, and she suffered the consequences. The knife point jabbed painfully into her ribs. Luckily, it failed to penetrate the mail she wore beneath her silken gown. Mother's Kiss slammed into the Menzoberranyr's head and dashed her to the ground. Her hand slipped away from the amulet, and the glow faded. An instant later, a second guard burst into the room. «We've secured them all, my lady.» The warrior was a rugged-looking male with a chipped incisor and a broken nose, whom she had on occasion summoned to her bed. «Good,» Faeryl replied. «How many did you have to kill?» «Only one, but we could slaughter the rest. If I may say so, it seems more sensible and less bother than tying them up.» «It does, but I came here to promote good relations between Menzoberranzan and Ched Nasad. Even though some schemer has rendered my efforts futile, I won't exacerbate the situation by committing any more outrages than necessary. You soldiers will do as I bade you. Strip the Ousstyls, gag them, and tie them up.» Talindra groaned and groped feebly for her knife. Impressed that the matron was still conscious to any degree at all after the blow she'd suffered, Faeryl kicked the blade out of her reach. «You can't do this,» Talindra croaked, «not to House Ousstyl. We are mighty and never forget an affront.» Tense as she was, Faeryl smiled. The matron's arrogance was woefully misplaced. The Ousstyls were so insignificant they hadn't even known the ambassador had lost the good will of Triel Baenre. Otherwise, they would never have accepted an invitation to feast with such a pariah. Faeryl bashed Talindra again, this time rendering her entirely insensible, then she roamed through the castle, exhorting her minions to make haste. Soon all were wearing the clothing of the Ousstyls. For the first time, Faeryl was grateful that her household was relatively small. Otherwise, they wouldn't have had enough pilfered garments to go around.

  She and her lieutenants sported the finery of the Ousstyl dignitaries, while the common soldiers had donned piwafwis and mail, and carried the arms of Talindra's bodyguards. The outlanders stowed provisions beneath their mantles. The quantity was insufficient, for they couldn't conceal all that much. With luck, they'd be able to hunt and forage on the trail. They headed for the mansion's enclosed stable, where Talindra had left her driftdisc. Faeryl noticed that some of her retainers were sweaty and wide-eyed. Though she was careful not to show it, she still felt just as apprehensive herself. Was she mad to flout Triel Baenre's express command, especially when she and her subordinate priestesses had virtually no magic implements left? Well, no. It would be lunacy to sit on her rump and do nothing, knowing that Triel would eventually get around to ordering her arrest. Even if Faeryl weren't concerned about her own fate, with every passing hour she grew more anxious to learn what had halted all traffic from Ched Nasad, and not just because the trade was important in its own right. Absurd as it seemed, she couldn't shake the irrational fear that some misfortune had befallen the City of Shimmering Webs itself. She had to know. Any great event affecting Ched Nasad could conceivably injure House Zauvirr and diminish her own status. Moreover, though she would never admit it to another, she cared about her homeland for its own sake. Not, she assured herself, that she suffered from love, loyalty, or any other soft, un-drowlike emotion. Yet Ched Nasad had shaped her into the person she was. It was a part of her, and anything that harmed the city would trouble her as well. In any case, having assaulted and robbed her dinner guests, the die was cast. The pack and riding lizards hissed and grunted when the party entered the stable. Faeryl dearly wished she could take some of the reptiles with her, but since Talindra hadn't brought any such beasts along with her, it was out of the question. The matron's driftdisc was a round, flat stone with an ivory throne fastened on top, the whole floating about a foot above the floor. The device glowed with a soft white light tinged ever so faintly with green. Since it was Faeryl who'd appropriated Talindra's attire, she hopped up on the driftdisc, sat in the ornate cushioned chair, and mentally commanded the apparatus to levitate up to the proper dignified height. She endured a bad moment during which nothing happened, and she was sure the Ousstyl had rigged the vehicle in such a way as to keep anyone else from riding it, then the circular platform rose. It was just sluggish, about what you'd expected of the equipment of the Fifty-second House. Two of Faeryl's soldiers threw open the gates, and the party ventured out into the open, her retainers forming a proper column around her as soon as they had the room. They marched away from the luminous keep that had been their home for fourteen years, past the alleyway where Umrae had died, and onward. Faeryl couldn't see Triel's watchers, but she could feel their eyes on her. She felt all but certain they would recognize her. But maybe not. Most people saw what they expected to see. The spies had watched the Ousstyls enter the residence, and just as anticipated, the petty nobles were departing. Why would anyone bother to peer closely when he was sure he already knew what was going on? That was the theory, anyway. At the moment, it seemed a dubious notion on which to gamble her life. Her company left the immediate vicinity of the residence without anyone trying to hinder them, which proved nothing. The watchers wouldn't pop out of hiding and confront the fugitives themselves, They'd scurry away to rouse a company of warriors, who'd intercept the daughters and sons of Ched Nasad in the street. Thus, while her expression conveyed the proper mix of serenity and haughtiness, her muscles were stiff, and her mouth dry as she floated down the avenues. For the moment, she was heading for Narbondellyn, site of the Ousstyls' modest citadel. It was where the spies would expect her to go. Drow did their best to clear the way for the matron of even a minor House. She was grateful for that. Still, heavily laden carts and the like could only pull aside so quickly. The impostors' progress was necessarily and nerve-rackingly sedate. Finally, though, they passed Narbondel itself, where the magical glow had climbed three quarters of the way to the top of the great stone column. Faeryl spotted Talindra's fortress and turned her company aside. If they actually approached the place, some guard peering down from the ramparts was bound to penetrate their disguises.

  They marched south, still without interference. If someone was chasing them, the ambassador was sure it would have become apparent by then. Faeryl took a deep breath, told herself her ruse had succeeded, and tried to relax. She couldn't, quite. Perhaps when she reached the Bauthwaf, or better still, escaped Menzoberranyr territory altogether. . The outlanders' route carried them to the west of the elevation that was Qu'ellarz'orl, its slopes thick with enormous mushrooms. Then, at last, they reached one of the city's hundred gates to the tunnels beyond. The Menzoberranyr defended all of them, but this one at least was a minor exit. It boasted fewer guards than most. The fugitives approached boldly, as if they had every legitimate expectation of the sentries ushering them through. The guards must have wondered why a high priestess would wear an elegant cloak and gown and ride her ceremonial transport for an excursion into the dirty, dangerous caves beyond the city, but a matron's whim was law in Menzoberranzan. They offered her obeisance, then set about the cumbersome process of unbarring the granite-and-adamantine valves—or most of them did. One officer eyed Faeryl thoughtfully. He had a foxy, humorous face and was smaller than most males, which apparently didn't hinder him when wielding the heavy broadsword hanging from his baldric. Though he carried the blade of a warrior, he'd eschewed mail—which could disrupt arcane spells—for a cloak and jerkin possessed of the countless telltale pockets of a wizard. Evidently he was fighter and wizard both. When she gazed directly at him, he respectfully lowered his head but resumed his scrutiny as soon as she turned her head. She pivoted around to face him and as
ked, «Captain, is it?» The small male gave her a smart salute. «Captain Filifar, my lady, at your service.» «Please, come here.» Filifar obeyed. If he betrayed any wariness, it was only in his eyes. The two gigantic spiders graven in the leaves of the gate stirred ever so slightly. Faeryl realized they would emerge from the carving and fight for him if commanded. «You have the look of an intelligent male,» she said, gazing down at him from atop the driftdisc. «Thank you, my lady.» «Perhaps you received orders,» she continued, «to refuse passage to the delegation from Ched Nasad.» «No, my lady.»

  Fillfar's hand twitched ever so slightly. It wanted to reach for either the hilt of his sword or the spell components in one of his pockets. «Your subordinates were content to receive their instructions and let it go at that, but not a sharp boy like you. Somehow you contrived to find out what the ambassador looks like, thus making sure you'd be able to recognize her if she came this way.» Filifar's mouth tightened. «My lady,» he said, «my company is well armed and well trained. You may also have observed the spiders graven—»

  She raised her hand. «Don't agitate yourself, Captain. I mean you no harm. We're just two Menzoberranyr idly chatting, passing the time it takes your fellows to open the gate.» «I regret, my lady, that now that I've seen you up close, I can't allow them to do that.» He took two careful steps back, retreating beyond her reach, then pivoted to shout the order. Faeryl stopped him dead by displaying a gaudy ruby brooch, formerly Talindra's property.

  «I said you were an intelligent lad, Captain Filifar, but I don't believe you're a prosperous one. You wear no jewelry, and your clothing is made of common stuff.» «You're right, milady. Fortune hasn't favored me.» «It can.» Faeryl brought out one ornament after another, the jewels her retainers had stolen from the Ousstyls and her own legitimate treasure as well. She filled her lap with them and laid the surplus on the pale, luminous rim of the drift-disc. «Here's enough wealth to improve your luck and that of your minions as well.» Filifar hesitated before saying, «My lady, I was told that Matron Triel herself wishes you detained. It's no light matter to cross the Baenre.» «Just say the Zauvirr didn't pass through this gate, or if they did, you didn't recognize them. No one will know any different.» He jerked his head in a nod. «Right. Why not, curse it?»

  He removed his piwafwi to use as a makeshift bag arid swept the jewelry in. Some of the soldiers noticed what their captain was doing and scurried over to investigate. Once the gate was well behind her, Faeryl abandoned the driftdisc. The stately conveyance was just too slow. She and her party quick-marched on through the mostly unimproved passages at the fringe of Menzoberranyr territory, past hunters' outposts and adamantine mines, making for the genuine wilderness beyond. Faeryl realized she was grinning. It was absurd, really. She'd just surrendered a queen's ransom in gems, Triel would send troops after her, and she was all but certain some dire peril lay ahead, but somehow, for the moment, none of it mattered. Faeryl had outwitted her foes and finally, after fourteen years, she was going home. The fugitives rounded a bend, and dark figures seemed to flow from the tunnel walls just ahead. The Zauvirr turned to run. Somehow, the shadows were behind them as well.

  On the fringe of Menzoberranyr territory, Valas Hune could sense the genuine wilderness beyond. He could feel its vast and labyrinthine spaces and hear its pregnant silences. He could smell and taste its variations of rock and imagined himself simply slipping away into that limitless world. As fancies went, his wasn't entirely absurd. Most dark elves feared to travel the Underdark except in armed convoys, and with good reason. They, however, lacked the abilities he'd spent decades developing, survival skills that made him one of the finest scouts in Menzoberranzan. Indeed, the small, wiry male in the rugged outdoorsman's garb liked traversing the subterranean world alone. He relished the wonders, the quiet, and the freedom. Sometimes, when he'd idled in camp too long, he felt he preferred it to the striving, conniving existence of his fellow drow, the luxuries of Menzoberranzan notwithstanding. He yearned for an errand that would take him out into the wilderness, and played with the notion of simply running away.

  He heard the Zauvirr coming and put the dream aside. Like it or not, his mission this day wasn't to explore the wild. It was to direct his company, fellow mercenaries of Bregan D'aerthe, in the taking of Faeryl Zauvirr and her retainers. That was the theory, anyway. In point of fact, he didn't have to give any more orders. No doubt the warriors of Ched Nasad were competent fighters in their own right, but when the sellswords swarmed out of hiding, they caught them entirely by surprise, then proceeded to cut them down with murderous efficiency. Once Valas was certain his band would be victorious, he started searching for Faeryl herself. His smallness and natural agility enabled him to thread his way through the fury of battle without harm. He found the princess at the center of the carnage. She'd just finished killing one of his command. The dead male's brains and bloody hair adhered to one end of her basalt-headed warhammer. «Ambassador,» Valas called. «I have orders to take you alive, if possible.» She answered with a curse. He didn't blame her for that. In her place, he wouldn't want to be delivered alive to Matron Baenre, either. He hefted one of his matched pair of kukris—vicious curved daggers—and fingered a little brass ovoid, one of many trinkets adorning his tunic and cloak. He'd collected the amulets and brooches from races and civilizations across the Underdark. Fashioned according to alien aesthetics, most of the ornaments were ugly and uncouth to dark elf eyes, but he hadn't acquired them for their appearance, nor were they merely souvenirs. Each contained a different enchantment. Three images, exact facsimiles of himself, flickered into existence around him. He edged toward Faeryl, and the phantoms came with him.

  She stared fiercely, obviously trying to pick out the real Valas from the false. It didn't help. When she swung, she struck at the image on his left. The illusion vanished on contact, and at the same instant, he sprang. She couldn't come back on guard in time to fend him off. He hooked a leg behind her and threw her to the ground, then kicked her repeatedly in the head until she went limp.

  SIXTEEN

  Laughter echoed through the candlelit corridors of Arach-Tinilith. Quenthel frowned. She'd been expecting something to happen, eagerly anticipating it, in fact. What she wasn't expecting was an explosion of mirth, and she couldn't guess what it meant. She strode forward, and her patrol followed behind. They seemed edgy, but not quite as reluctant as they had the night before. The fate of Drisinil, Molvayas, and the rest of the plotters had convinced the survivors that Quenthel still enjoyed the favor of Lolth, at least to the same dubious extent as the rest of the stricken clergy. The laughter rang on and on until at last the searchers found the source. Hunched over, her shoulders shaking, a novice knelt before one of the smaller altars of the goddess. Steady despite the paroxysms of glee, her index finger painted lines of graceful calligraphy on the floor. Quenthel couldn't make out what the girl was using for pigment until she lifted her hand to her face like an artist dipping a brush in a paint pot. She'd gouged her eyes out, another seeming handicap that didn't impair her writing. The mistress stepped close enough to inspect the lines of blood. For all her erudition, she couldn't read the characters, hut she could feel the power in them. They pulled at her and repelled her at the same time, as if they might yank her spirit, or a piece of it, out of her body. She wrenched her eyes away from the symbols and swung her whip. The vipers cracked into the eyeless female's back, their venomous fangs tore into her, and she collapsed, dead or merely insensible. Quenthel didn't particularly care which. «What was she writing, Mistress?» Jyslin asked. «I don't know,» Quenthel admitted, smearing the glyphs with her toe, «something in one of the secret tongues of the Abyss. Scribing it may have been a way of casting a spell, so I made sure she wouldn't finish.» «What was wrong with her?» Minolin asked. Quenthel was still surprised that the Fey-Branche had not, as expected, turned out to be one of the traitors. «I don't know that, either,» said the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith. She actually did have an idea, but wasn't sure
of it yet. «Let's move on.» Fifteen minutes later, a runner, dispatched from a squad stationed in the third leg of the spider, found Quenthel to report that one of her comrades had gone mad. Quenthel went to see for herself, half expecting more gouged eyes and bloody writing. But the new dementia took a somewhat different form. The victim had taken shelter, if that was the right word for it, in a small library devoted, for the most part, to musty treatises on warfare in all its aspects. She sat on the floor in the corner defined by two tall sandstone bookshelves, rocking and whimpering to herself. Quenthel stooped, jammed her fist under the girl's chin and forced up her head. «Rilrae Zolond! What ails you? What happened?»

  Rilrae's face was blank and seemingly devoid of comprehension. Tears flowed down her checks. She smelled of mucus, and the breath snuffled in her nose. She didn't answer Quenthel's question, just made a feeble, ineffectual effort to turn her face away. The mistress sighed and let her go. She'd seen cases like Rilrae before, generally in some dungeon or torture chamber. The junior priestess had experienced something sufficiently unpleasant to drive her deep inside her own mind. Had Quenthel still possessed her Lolth-granted powers, or been carrying the proper equipment, she might have been able to shake Rilrae out of her delirium, but as matters stood, the useless creature wouldn't be providing any information. Annoyed, the mistress nearly vented her frustration by giving Rilrae a stroke from her whip, but she didn't want to appear rattled or upset in the eyes of her followers. She led the patrol on and eventually found a suicide sprawled in the corridor with froth on her lips and an empty poison bottle still clutched in her hand. One of the second-year students reeled from a doorway a few yards farther down. Glaring and twitching, she unrolled a parchment, possibly one Quenthel herself had dispensed from the temple armory, and began shouting the words. The Baenre recognized the trigger phrase of a spell intended to summon a certain type of plague demon. She snatched out her hand crossbow and pulled the trigger. Others did the same. The flurry of poisoned darts punctured the scroll and the novice as well. She fell onto her back, cracking her head against the calcite floor. The spell, still a syllable or two from activation, dissipated its power in a harmless sizzle of red light.