by Филип Этанс
Except for the gates, and there were thousands of those.
They were everywhere. In only the first few blocks Danifae saw a dozen of them. They led to every corner of the Underdark, onto the World Above, perhaps beyond to the planes and elsewhere. Some were open to the public, left there by no one remembered whom. Others were commercial ventures, offering transport to some other drow city or trade site of the lesser races for a fee. Still others were kept secret, used only by a chosen few. Gangs controlled some, merchant costers controlled more, while the clergy maintained hundreds.
On the narrow streets Danifae passed mostly other dark elves, and all of them seemed, like her, concerned entirely with their own business. They ignored her, and she did likewise. As she walked, she became increasingly aware that she was in a strange city, alone, looking for a single drow who was very likely still making every effort to hide.
House Agrach Dyrr had been part of the political landscape of Menzoberranzan for more than five thousand years. Only House Baenre was older.
For most of that time, Houses Baenre and Agrach Dyrr had maintained a close relationship. Of course there was never trust, that wasn't something that existed in any but the must tenuous and rudimentary form in the City of Spiders, but they had had certain arrangements. They shared common interests and common goals. Agrach Dyrr had fulfilled its role in the city's hierarchy. It went to war with the city, defended itself against rival Houses, destroyed a few from time to time as necessity dictated, and in all things followed the teachings and the whims of the Queen of the Demonweb Pits.
Matron Mother Yasraena Dyrr enjoyed pain. She enjoyed chaos, and she enjoyed the blessings of Lolth. When that last bit went away, things changed.
From their palace on the wide shelf of Qu'ellarz'orl, the Lichdrow Dyrr had stood with his much younger granddaughter and watched the city turn against them. Well, that wasn't entirely accurate, the lichdrow knew. He had turned against the city, and he had done it with precise and careful timing. He had made the final decision, as he always had in times of greatest peril and greatest opportunity. Yasraena did what she was told, occasionally being made to feel as if it was her idea in the first place, sometimes merely given an order.
Most days, the youthful matron mother was as much in command of the House as any of the city's matrons. When it truly counted, though, the lichdrow stepped in.
The palace of House Agrach Dyrr was a ring of nine giant stalagmites that rose from the rocky floor of Qu'ellarz'orl, surrounded by a dry moat crossed at only one point by a wide, defensible bridge. In the center of the ring of stalagmites, behind a square wall of spell-crafted stone, was the House temple. That massive cathedral was more than a symbol to the drow of House Agrach Dyrr—it was a sincere and passionate proclamation of their faith in the Spider Queen.
In the past months, though, the temple had grown as quiet as the goddess it was built to honor.
"Lolth has abandoned us," the lichdrow said.
He stood at the entrance to the temple. A hundred yards in front or him, his granddaughter kneeled before the black altar and stared silently up at an enormous, stylized representation of the goddess. The idol weighed several tons and had been shaped by divine magic out of a thousand of the most precious materials the Underdark had to offer.
"We have abandoned her," Yasraena replied.
Their voices carried through the huge chamber.
The lichdrow floated toward her, his toes almost touching the marble floor. She didn't turn around.
"Well," he said, "what could she expect?"
The matron mother let the joke hang there without comment.
"The bridge holds," Dyrr reported, sounding almost bored. "Word from agents within Sorcere is that Vorion was captured but was later killed. I'm still finding out if he broke."
"Vorion. ." the matron mother breathed.
She had taken Vorion as her consort only a few years before.
"My condolences," the lichdrow said.
"He had a few admirable qualities," the matron mother replied. "Ah well, at least he died in defense of the House."
Dyrr tired of the subject, so he changed it.
"Gromph has regained his sight."
Yasraena nodded and said, "He'll be coming for us."
"He'll be coming for me," the lichdrow corrected.
The matron mother sighed. She must have known he was right. The priestess, bereft of her connection to Lolth, was still a force to be reckoned with. She was experienced, cruel, strong, and she had access to the House's stores of magical items, artifacts, and scrolls, but against the Archmage of Menzoberranzan, she would be little more than a nuisance. If Gromph was coming, he was coming for the lichdrow, and if Agrach Dyrr was to survive, it would be the lichdrow who would have to save it.
"I don't suppose you can count on your new friends," the matron mother said.
"My 'new friends' have problems of their own," Dyrr replied. "They lay siege to the city, but Baenre and the others Houses have done a surprisingly good job of holding the entrances to the Dark Dominion."
"They have us bottled in our palace like rats in a trap," said the matron mother.
Dyrr laughed, the sound muffled and strained from under his mask. The lichdrow almost never allowed anyone to see his face. Yasraena was one of the few to whom he would reveal himself, but even then, not often. Though she wasn't looking at him, he maintained the affectation of leaning on his staff. The outward illusion of advanced age and physical weakness had become second nature to him, and he'd begun to maintain that attitude even when no one was looking. His body, free of the demands of life for a millennia, was as responsive as it had been the day he died and was resurrected.
"Don't begin to believe our own ruse, granddaughter," Dyrr said. "Not everything has gone strictly to plan, but all is far from lost, and we are far from trapped. We were meant to be in the city, and here we are. The two of us are in our own temple, unmolested. We have lost troops and the odd consort and cousin, but we live, and our assets are largely intact. Our 'new friends' as you call them, have the city hard under siege, and many of the Houses refuse to join the fight—join it in any real way, at least. All we have to do is keep pressing, keep pressing, keep pressing, and we will win the day. I grant you that it is an inconvenience that Gromph escaped my little snare. I do wonder how he managed it. But I assure you it will be the last time I underestimate the Archmage of Menzoberranzan."
"Did you underestimate him," she asked, "or did he beat you?"
There was a moment of silence between them as Yasraena stared up at the idol of Lolth, and Dyrr waited in mute protest.
"This assassin. . " she said at last.
"Nimor," Dyrr provided.
"I know you don't trust him," she said.
"Of course not," the lichdrow replied with a dry chuckle. "He is committed to his cause, though."
"And that cause?" asked the matron mother. "The downfall of Menzoberranzan? The destruction of the matriarchy? The wholesale abandonment of the worship of Lolth?"
"Lolth is gone, Yasraena," Dyrr said. "The matriarchy has functioned, but as with all things past it too may not survive the Spider Queen's demise. The city, of course, will endure. It will endure under my steady, immortal hand."
"Yours," she asked, "or Nimor's?"
"Mine," the lichdrow replied with perfect finality.
"He should be in the city," Yasraena added before there could be too significant a pause. "Nimor and his duergar friends should be here. Every day that goes by, Baenre and Xorlarrin wear us down. Little by little, granted, but little by little for long enough and. ."
She let the thought hang there, and Dyrr only shrugged in response.
"If you expected to do this without Gromph on their side," Yasraena asked, "what now that he's back?"
"As I said," the lichdrow replied, "I will kill him. He will come for me, and I will be ready. When the time comes, I will meet him."
"Alone?" she asked, concern plain in her voice.
>
The lichdrow didn't answer. Neither of them moved, and the temple was silent for a long time.
He had come for a little food and a few minor incidentals. They could drink the water from the Lake of Shadows but could use a few more skins to carry it in. Under normal circumstances nothing could be easier for someone as well traveled as Valas Hune.
Normal circumstances.
The words had lost all meaning.
"Hey," the gnoll grumbled, hefting its heavy war-axe so Valas could see it. "You wait line, drow."
Valas looked the gnoll in the eyes, but it didn't back down.
"Everybody wait line," the guard growled.
Valas took a deep breath, left his hands at his side, and said, "Is Firritz here?"
The gnoll blinked at him, surprised.
Valas could feel other eyes on him. Drow, duergar, and representatives of a few more lesser races looked his way. Though they would be angry, impatient at having to wait in line while Valas presumed to bypass it, none of them spoke.
"Firritz," Valas repeated. "Is he here?"
"How you. .?" the gnoll muttered, eyes like slits. "How you know Firritz?"
Valas waited for the gnoll to understand that he wasn't going to say any more. It took seven heartbeats.
With a glance at the increasingly restless line, the gnoll said, "Follow."
Valas didn't smile, speak, or look at the others. He followed the gnoll in silence the full length of the line then through a mildewed curtain into a very large room with an uncomfortably low ceiling. The space was so crowded with sacks and crates and barrels that in the first few seconds after entering, Valas saw at least one of everything he'd come for.
A single, stooped old drow sat at a table in the center of the storehouse. A dozen different types of coins were arranged in neat stacks on the table in front of him. The gnoll nodded toward him, and Valas stepped closer to the merchant.
"Firritz," the scout said, his voice echoing.
The old drow didn't turn to look at him. Instead, he slowly counted a stack of gold coins then wrote the total on a piece of parchment on the table in front of him. Valas waited.
Perhaps ten minutes went by, and in that time the gnoll left the room and came back three times. Each time he came back, he seemed a bit more perplexed. Valas hadn't moved a muscle.
Finally, when the gnoll had left the room again, Firritz looked up from his counting and glanced at Valas.
"That's about how long you would have waited in line," the old drow said, his voice reedy and forced. "Now, what can I do for you?"
"Remember that you kept Bregan D'aerthe waiting," Valas said.
"Don't threaten me, Valas Hune," Firritz said. "Menzo's reputation has become a bit less impressive of late. Gray dwarves, I heard. Why aren't you there to defend the motherland?"
"I go where the coin leads me," said the scout. "Just like you."
"The coin doesn't lead to Menzoberranzan anymore, does it?"
"Bregan D'aerthe's credit is still good here," Valas said. "I need supplies."
"Credit?" said Firritz. "That word implies that your master at some point intends to pay his debt. I run up a tab, more and more, year after year, and see nothing for it. Maybe things have changed enough that that isn't necessary anymore, eh?"
"Take a deep breath," Valas said.
The old drow looked up at him. They stayed like that for a bit, but finally Firritz drew in a deep breath then exhaled slowly.
"That's what you see for it," Valas finished, "and its necessary I get a few supplies."
Firritz frowned and said, "Nothing magical. Everyone's been buying up the magic bits—and for twice, even thrice the market value."
"I need food," the scout replied, "waterskins, a few odds and ends."
"You have a pack lizard?"
"No," Valas said with a smile and a tip of his head, "so I'll need something to carry it in. Something magical."
Firritz swept his arm across the table, scattering the coins onto the floor with a thousand echoing clatters.
"Food, Firritz," Valas said. "Time has become an issue for me."
Chapter Eight
Danifae could feel the Binding, and she could feel Halisstra. No matter how many thousands of feet of rock separated them, they were connected.
Danifae's skin crawled.
The farther from the center of the city she walked, the higher the mix of non-drow she passed on the streets. It was with no little relief, and after enduring lewd remarks from a trio of hobgoblins that she came to her destination.
She had never been to Sschindylryn before and had never seen that one particular structure, but she had gone straight to it. She'd made no wrong turns and asked for no directions.
Danifae stood in front of a complex jumble of mud bricks and flagstones arranged into what looked like some kind of hive or termite hill. Over the wide door—wide enough to accommodate a pack lizard and a decent-sized wagon—hung a slab of black stone into which was carved an elaborate sigil. The symbol contained unmistakable traces of the Yauntyrr crest but somehow turned in on itself, imploded, perverted.
Danifae reminded herself that no matter what happened, House Yauntyrr was gone. The integrity of its heraldry was of no concern to her, nor, she was sure, to anyone else.
She stepped inside.
Zinnirit's gatehouse, not unlike the larger gatehouse they'd entered the city through, was mostly open space on the street level. There looked to be room for another floor or even two above—likely Zinnirit's private residence—but the heart of the establishment was in that single cavernous chamber.
There were three gates, each a circle of elaborately interconnected stones easily thirty feet in diameter. No seething magical light pulsed through them. All three were inactive, dark.
"Zinnirit!" Danifae called.
Her voice echoed in the empty space. There was no immediate reply. Danifae had lost track of time quite a while before, and as she called the former House Mage's name again, she realized she might have dropped in on the wizard in the middle of his Reverie.
She didn't care.
"Zinnirit!"
A quiet, slow shuffling of feet answered Danifae's third entreaty. The sound was unmistakable but difficult to trace in the huge, echoing space. Despite the echoes, Danifae got the distinct impression that there was more than one set of feet. She couldn't count exactly how many—maybe half a dozen—and they were getting closer.
Danifae drew her morningstar and set it swinging at her right side.
"Zinnirit," she called. "Show yourself, you old fool."
Again, the only answer was that same echoing set of shuffling footsteps.
A shadow bobbed back and forth at the edge of her peripheral vision from deeper into the gatehouse. Danifae reacted with a thought, calling without question or hesitation on an ability bred into all highborn drow.
Five figures blazed to life with shimmering purple light. The faerie fire ringed their bodies and outlined them against the dull gloom behind them. The figures slowly shambled toward her and took no notice of the faerie fire.
The realization of what they were hit her half a second after the foul smell did.
They were zombies: walking dead of what looked to be mostly humans, though Danifae wasn't interested in conducting a thorough physical examination.
"Zinnirit. ." she breathed, irritated.
One of the zombies reached out for her, and a quiet, painful-sounding groan escaped its rotting, tattered lips.
In answer, Danifae stood straight, arched one delicate eyebrow, held out one slim-fingered hand, and said, "Stop."
The zombies stopped.
"That will be all," she said, her voice a perfect, level calm.
The zombies, all still aglow in purple, turned clumsily, bumping into each other, and shambled away from the battle-captive. They were moving a bit faster away from her than they had come at her.
"Well," a firm male voice said, the single word echoing a thousandfold in the
gatehouse chamber.
Danifae put her hand down, let it rest on her hip.
"You shouldn't have been able to do that," the voice said, quieter but closer.
Danifae followed that echo back to its source and saw another drow-shaped shadow at the edge of the gloom.
"No need for faerie fire," he said and stepped close enough for Danifae to see him.
"Zinnirit," she said, pasting a broad grin on her face. "How lovely it is to see you, my old friend."
The aged drow moved a few steps closer to her but still kept a respectful—no, suspicious—distance from Danifae.
"You were taken to Ched Nasad," the wizard said. "I heard that Ched Nasad fell apart."
"It did," Danifae answered.
"I honor Lolth as much as any drow," the wizard said, "but you can keep buildings made of web, thank you very much."
"That wasn't the problem," Danifae replied. "Of course, you don't give the south end of a northbound rothe what happened to Ched Nasad."
"You know me too well still," he said.
"As you know me."
"It isn't easy, you know," the old wizard said, taking a few steps closer. "What you want done. It's not something you simply. . dispel."
Zinnirit looked different. Danifae was amazed at how stooped he was, how thin, how wizened. He looked like a human, or a goblin. He looked bad.
"You've adopted the fashions of your new home, I see," Danifae remarked, nodding at the wizard's outlandish dress.
"Yes, I have," he replied. "Good for business, you know. Doesn't frighten the neighbors as much as the old spiky armor."
"You know why I'm here," said Danifae, "and I know you knew I was coming. Were the zombies meant to scare me?"
"Another bit of showmanship, actually," the mage explained. "Drow and lesser races alike are attracted to the odd bit of necromancy. Makes me seem more serious, I suppose."