R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation (58 page)

“I think we knew that before we left Menzoberranzan,” Quenthel snapped.

The group found itself on the main thoroughfare that led into the city from the north, wondering when they would actually reach the surrounding outskirts of the city proper, the area protected by patrols. Pharaun couldn’t blame Faeryl for being apprehensive. Even after several tendays of concern for her home city, he imagined that she might have held out some hope that she would find everything in order upon finally arriving. Still, he doubted that some disaster had befallen the city. Though they hadn’t yet encountered any patrols, they were no longer alone on the road to the city.

Traffic flowing to and from Ched Nasad was a trickle of its normal self, at least according to the ambassador. Pharaun didn’t doubt it. The avenue they followed was broad, wide enough for numerous caravans to pass in either direction, but there were no such convoys out and about that day. Most of those who shared the road with the Menzoberranyr were other drow, though the occasional gray dwarf, kobold, or goblin passed them as well. Those lesser beings gave the drow a wide berth. Any pedestrians who were headed toward the city were scattered just as far apart as those leaving, and Pharaun and his companions neither passed nor were passed by anyone.

The mage made a tactful attempt to bring up the suggestion he had been contemplating. “Quenthel, if something has happened here, similar to what we’ve been experiencing back home, it might be prudent to consider a less obvious entrance into the city.”

“What do you mean?” the high priestess queried, looking sharply at Pharaun.

“Only that should we boldly approach and announce our stature and intentions, we might not receive the warm welcome we should under more ordinary circumstances.”

“Why shouldn’t they be glad to see us? Even relieved?”

It sounded as though Quenthel was growing indignant, and Pharaun struggled to find a way to explain his point in a way that wouldn’t sound insulting.

Faeryl saved him the effort.

“Because they might think we’re here to spy on them,” she said.

Pharaun had to suppress a mild chuckle. It was, after all, the exact reason Triel had claimed when she imprisoned the envoy back in Menzoberranzan. It was a reasonable argument.

“Not if we insist upon meeting with the matron mothers of the highest Houses—” Quenthel began.

“With all due respect, Mistress,” Faeryl interjected, “do you think you would react well to a high-ranking noble arriving in Menzoberranzan and insisting upon seeing you? During this time of crisis?”

Quenthel scowled and said nothing. Pharaun was relieved that the high priestess was at least willing to contemplate the idea.

“Even if they didn’t think we were spies, they certainly would consider our visit to be highly unusual and would strive to keep an eye on us,” the mage said. “We might be given the most luxurious accommodations and want for nothing, but we would also be absolutely unable to find out anything. Once we determine the state of things here, if it’s really your intention to lay claim to the goods stored in the Black Claw Mercantile storehouses and take them back to Menzoberranzan, why draw undue attention to yourself? Were you planning to ask the matron mothers for them, first?”

Quenthel scowled at Pharaun as if the very idea of asking permission to take what was rightfully hers was preposterous. It was exactly the reaction he wanted.

“Faeryl,” the wizard persisted, “even though the goods are rightfully the property of House Baenre and House Melarn, do you foresee Matron Mother Melarn—indeed, any of the other Houses—letting them out of the city?”

Faeryl smirked.

“Absolutely not,” she answered. “I’m not certain how happy my own mother will be to hear about your plan.” She smiled wanly and added, “I agree with the mage. The less you tell, the better your chances are of succeeding.”

“Your arguments may have merit,” Quenthel said. “So what else do you suggest? How do we enter unnoticed?”

“As traders, Mistress,” Faeryl suggested, “members of the Black Claw Mercantile company. Triel said herself that we were here to check on House Baenre’s financial interests, as well as to discover how widespread the problem is, so it’s the truth, from a certain point of view.”

“We don’t look very much like traders,” Valas said, trotting a little in front of the rest of them. “Perhaps Pharaun should use a spell of illusion to mask our looks.”

“No,” Faeryl replied. “Ched Nasad’s guards are equipped to watch for that. They employ detection spells and devices to notice if you’re trying sneak past them invisibly or under the guise of illusion. It’s not necessary, anyway. You’d be surprised at what kind of bodyguards a wealthy trader would hire to protect her. I am a member of a trading house. If I tell the city guards that you’re escorting me, and they get a good look at my house insignia, we shouldn’t have any trouble, but you must remove your own insignia. They’re likely to be recognized.”

“Would you hire the likes of him?” Quenthel asked, pointing to Jeggred.

Faeryl frowned and said, “He could be a problem.”

“Leave that to me,” Pharaun said. “I have a couple of tricks up my sleeve that should aid us nicely. I can use them to get the draegloth past the patrols and into the city without them noticing him. As long as he cooperates, anyway.”

Quenthel looked at Jeggred and asked, “Can you stay quiet and not try to tear the throat out of anyone?”

Jeggred regarded the high priestess askance but nodded.

“I am capable of subtlety when it is necessary, Mistress,” he rumbled.

Sure you are, Pharaun thought.

“Very well,” Quenthel said after a moment’s deliberation. “We will enter the city incognito. Remove your insignia and try to look . . . common.”

Everyone except Faeryl doffed their House brooches and began to stow as many of their finer accoutrements as possible.

“Pharaun,” Quenthel said, nodding at Jeggred, “do what you must.”

“First, I’m going to reduce you slightly in size, so that you aren’t so, um . . . obvious,” the wizard said, looking up at the eight-foottall creature. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Jeggred grunted and glowered at the mage, but at a subtle gesture from Quenthel, he nodded acquiescence.

“Good,” Pharaun continued. “Then, I’ll cloak you with a spell designed to misdirect those divinations the patrols are likely to be using, and if you will don your
piwafwi,
pull the hood up, and stay in the back, we should get past them just fine.”

“Yes, that should do nicely,” Faeryl agreed.

“All right, then, here we go,” Pharaun said, pulling a pinch of powdered iron from one of his many pockets and gesturing.

The draegloth began to shrink until he was no taller than any of the drow.

“Good,” the wizard said, beginning the second spell.

When he was finished, he stepped back and said, “Now, draw that
piwafwi
around you to hide as much of you as possible.”

“Yes, and lean on Ryld as though you’re injured,” Quenthel commanded. “Keep your head down like you’re tired.”

“Yes, good idea,” Pharaun agreed, genuinely impressed. “We’re all just road-weary merchants, ready for a hot bath and comfortable bed.”

“Not a moment too soon,” Valas said, his voice low. “I see a patrol up ahead.”

Pharaun peered ahead into the distance and saw a large contingent of drow, some on foot, others riding lizards, moving down the road in their direction. They were fanned out across the width of the road, so there would be no way to avoid them.

“Just remain calm, and allow me to speak to them,” Faeryl whispered.

The group began walking toward the patrol, with Ryld in the back, pretending to support a limping Jeggred. Pharaun could only guess at how much the warrior hated the scheme.

No matter, he thought. We should have little difficulty getting past these sentries. We’re just drow, trying to reach a drow city. Why would we be any trouble to them?

As the groups drew close to one another, the patrol loosened weapons and slowed down, obviously preparing for trouble. One, the leader, Pharaun presumed, stepped forward a few more paces and held his hand outstretched before him, palm forward.

“Hold,” he said, gesturing for the group to slow down. “State your name and business here.”

Faeryl moved forward, past Valas, to come to a stop a few paces from the leader.

“I am Faeryl Zauvirr of House Zauvirr, Executive Negotiator for the Black Claw Mercantile.” She removed her insignia and held it out for the patrol leader to get a good look and take it, if he wanted. “These are my caravan guards.”

The sergeant or whatever he was stepped forward and took the insignia, then passed it back to an underling while he scrutinized Faeryl and the others, in turn.

“Caravan? What caravan? No goods have entered or left the city in six tendays, at least.”

Faeryl nodded and explained, “Yes, I know. We are just recently from Menzoberranzan, but we lost what few goods we had in an attack along the way.” She tossed her head back toward Ryld and Jeggred as a way of indicating her wounded companions, but with the suggestion that they weren’t really important. The drow soldier in front of her peered over her shoulder for a brief moment, then nodded and returned his attention to her. “We wish to give our report and enjoy some civilization for a few days,” she concluded, letting weariness creep into her voice.

Good, Pharaun thought. Tell them just enough of the truth to sound reasonable, without admitting anything.

“Attacked by what?” the leader asked.

The second-in-command handed the insignia back to him with a curt nod. Apparently it had passed muster, for the patrolman handed it back to Faeryl.

“What business is it of yours?” asked Quenthel sourly. “Do you always make it a practice of interrogating caravans this way?”

“Tanarukks,” Pharaun said, stepping forward and placing his hand on Quenthel’s arm. “She hates tanarukks. She’s been in a bad mood ever since. A good deepstroke will do her wonders.”

The Master of Sorcere could feel her bristle, but at least she didn’t pull away from him. Beside her, the snakes of her whip stirred, but they didn’t flail about as Pharaun feared they would.

The patrol leader glared at Quenthel for a moment but finally nodded and said, “We make it a practice when the city is—” he stopped himself from revealing more, then turned back to Faeryl— “You may pass, but good luck finding any ‘civilization’ to enjoy.”

With that last bitter comment, he turned and motioned the rest of the patrol to part, creating a gap so that the entourage could pass through.

Faeryl nodded her thanks and motioned for the rest of them to follow her, then they were past the patrol and alone on the thoroughfare once again. Pharaun could see that the envoy was troubled by the patrol leader’s words. He had to admit it was not a good sign.

“Let go of me!” Quenthel hissed, jerking her arm free, and the wizard blinked in surprise, having forgotten that he still grasped her and was steering her along.

“My apologies, Mistress,” Pharaun said, bowing slightly. “In light of the situation, I thought it prudent to try to smooth things over the best way possible. In a way, though, it was good. You drew attention away from the draegloth.”

“Fine,” she answered, still scowling. “We got through them, that’s the important thing. Now, let’s see just how bad it is inside the city.”

It wasn’t long before the group had reached the gates of the City of Shimmering Webs. Continuing their masquerade as bruised and battered merchants, they passed through the guards there and found themselves inside.

It was chaos.

“You’re late,” Drisinil Melarn snapped as Ssipriina Zauvirr strode into the audience chamber of House Melarn.

The matron mother of House Zauvirr forced herself to suppress the hot retort that she ached to unleash, contenting herself instead with pursed lips.

“I am sincerely apologetic,” Ssipriina lied, bowing low to the other matron mother, knowing she mocked the other drow simply through the use of such formal comments and antics. “It could not be helped. I had urgent business matters to attend to, issues that keep your coffers full, Matron Mother.”

Ssipriina liked the dangerous glitter she was creating in Drisinil’s hot eyes. It would be hard for the head of House Melarn to chastise her minion for working so diligently to keep her wealthy, and Ssipriina knew that. That’s what made these subtle jibes all the more fun.

“Still, I sped here with as much haste as dignity would permit,” Ssipriina added, “for I have good news. They have entered the city.”

“You’re sure?” the matron mother asked. “Do you have any indication that they’ve changed their plans?”

“Yes, I am sure of it,” Ssipriina replied. “My male made contact with Faeryl only a few hours ago, and she informed him that they were headed toward the Fracture Gate in the lowest quarters of the city. Apparently, Mistress Baenre is still bent on stealing your goods. My spies saw them enter the city just a moment ago.”

Drisinil sat in thought for a few moments, leaving Ssipriina standing expectantly. Finally, the matron mother stirred.

“They don’t suspect that we know, do they?”

“I don’t believe so. I have instructed Faeryl to be as agreeable as she can to whatever Quenthel is planning, and I have my spies set to keep track of them, wherever they go. They won’t know a thing until it’s too late.”

“And you want to let them go through with it?”

“Well, not exactly, Matron Mother. I am suggesting that we let them get to the storehouse and get inside. We’ll be there to catch them in the act. We’ll have the proof, then, and we can present it to the other matron mothers.”

“Hmm, yes, I like that,” Drisinil Melarn said, shifting her considerable weight atop her throne. Her face held a look of determination. “I very much want to see Quenthel Baenre’s face when she realizes she’s not getting a single scrap of my wealth. I want her to realize she’s just crossed the wrong House.”

Truer words were never spoken, Ssipriina thought.

“Yes, of course. I will make plans for us to be there before they arrive at the storehouse. I trust that you wish for me to utilize House Melarn guards?”