R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation (63 page)

“Do tell,” she said.

“Quenthel and the others have reached Ched Nasad,” the archmage said. “Pharaun Mizzrym reports that the city is in an uproar. Apparently, Menzoberranzan is not the only city afflicted with Lolth’s disfavor.”

“We don’t know that it is disfavor!” Triel snapped. “There may be another explanation.”

Gromph inclined his head slightly in apology.

“Afflicted with her absence,” he corrected himself. “But the matron mothers there have done a poor job of keeping the situation quiet.”

“How bad is it?”

“I gathered that trouble could be brewing . . . major trouble.”

Triel sighed. As much of a relief as it was to find out Menzoberranzan was not being singled out for some sort of punishment, the news didn’t get them any closer to discovering why the Dark Mother had chosen to disappear. Triel was at a loss as to the next step.

“Did he say what they were planning to do?” she asked her brother.

“Quenthel seems intent on following through with your instructions to bring back goods from Black Claw,” Gromph replied.

The idea of more magical supplies lifted Triel’s spirits slightly, but only slightly.

“Then I suppose they’ll be returning within a few tendays,” she said. “We are really no closer to an answer than we were when they left. It is only a matter of time before Menzoberranzan is in the same difficulties as her sister city.”

“Unfortunately, you may be more correct than you understand.”

“What other dire news do you have to report?”

If this was the way her mornings were going to start out, Triel considered remaining in Reverie until the midday meal a preferable alternative to actually rising and dealing with the issues at hand.

“I have received reports that our patrols are encountering a lot more activity around the perimeter of the city.”

“What kind of activity?”

“Exactly what you might expect,” Gromph said. “Though nothing has actually happened, no skirmishes breaking out, our patrols have spotted what looks to be scouting parties surveying our situation. Duergar, deep gnomes, and even kuo-toans have been spotted in greater-than-normal numbers.”

“They know. They can tell that things aren’t right.”

“Perhaps. Or, they could simply be passing by . . . traveling to somewhere else, and we’ve simply grown more sensitive to their presence.”

“I doubt it,” she replied. “This can’t last. We’re going to have to confront the situation soon. I will bring this up at the next council meeting.”

“Of course,” Gromph said and made a move to withdraw.

Triel motioned that her brother was dismissed and told herself that it was time to get on with her day, but she continued to brood atop her throne for some time after that.

Quenthel was thankful she had Jeggred along for the trip from the Flame and Serpent to the storehouse district. The mood of the city had grown worse since even the previous day, and the drow received more than a few menacing looks and jostles as they moved through the streets. Fortunately, the trio didn’t have to travel far to get to where they needed to go, and much of the journey was made by way of levitation. Faeryl was in a sullen mood, despite the fact that she seemed more than eager to aid the Menzoberranyr. Perhaps she was still displeased with Quenthel’s lack of trust, or maybe she simply couldn’t abide Jeggred’s presence. The high priestess couldn’t blame her. The draegloth took such delight in tormenting Faeryl, Quenthel almost felt sorry for the younger drow. Almost.

Quenthel had sent the males to procure transportation for the return trip to Menzoberranzan. She wasn’t about to haul her own provisions on her back again, whether they managed to locate a stockpile of goods or not, and if they did they would need sufficient pack lizards and guards to ensure the materials arrived safely.

Valas had warned the high priestess that anyone worth his salt was going to command an exorbitant price, if he could be convinced to work at all, but Quenthel didn’t care and told the scout so.

Why is it, Quenthel thought as they approached Black Claw’s storehouses from a back street, where there were fewer folk milling about, that with males you always have to explain things to them in exacting detail? Why can’t they just do as they’re told and be done with it?

Pharaun was the worst, she decided. Quenthel had no doubt that the wizard was off doing his own little tasks, completely ignoring her instructions to him to help Valas and Ryld. He had an infuriating habit of ignoring her wishes, and she would have to do something about that—when they got back to Menzoberranzan, of course. She needed his talents too much until then.

“Now, remember,” Quenthel warned Faeryl as they neared the office side of the storehouse. “Tell them only what I instructed you. If I’m not happy with this little encounter, Jeggred will make sure it’s not a problem in the future.”

The draegloth was strolling along behind the two priestesses, and Faeryl stole a quick glance over her shoulder at him. Quenthel noticed her faint shudder and smiled to herself. It turned out to be quite useful that Triel had set Jeggred upon the girl back in Menzoberranzan. It had made her so . . . compliant.

“Yes, Mistress Quenthel,” Faeryl replied. “I understand.”

The three of them were at the door to the storehouse, where a contingent of six House Zauvirr guards barred the entrance. Faeryl approached boldly, even as the males goggled at the sight of the towering draegloth behind her.

“We must inspect the stores,” Faeryl said in what Quenthel thought was a surprisingly commanding voice. “Stand aside and let us enter.”

The male who appeared to be the leader managed to pull his gaze away from Jeggred long enough to look at her quizzically.

“I don’t know you,” he said. “What is your business?”

Faeryl stepped closer, standing a little taller so that he was forced to peer up at her scowling face. She grasped the House insignia that was pinned to her
piwafwi
and thrust it into his view.

“You know this, don’t you?” she snapped, shaking the insignia. “You’re here to keep out the riffraff, stupid boy, not bother a personal envoy of Matron Mothers Zauvirr and Melarn.”

Quenthel noted with satisfaction that the lad gulped, visibly shaken as he moved with haste to the side, allowing Faeryl access to the door. The ambassador stepped inside, with the high priestess and Jeggred right behind her. As Quenthel strolled past, she smiled sweetly at one of the males, who still gaped at the draegloth, his eyes wide.

Inside the storehouse, which appeared to have been spun from webbing and hardened to stone, Faeryl led the way through an office area, through a large door, and into a cavernous chamber that had been subdivided into storage areas by low walls. Her footsteps echoing in the vast storeroom, Faeryl walked across the stone floor, hurrying past row after row of shelves and bins. Quenthel followed her, figuring the ambassador knew the way to the most valuable hoards of magic.

Quenthel supposed there was a secure section of the storehouse, and she began to worry. Any magic of value would likely be warded.

I should have brought that fop Mizzrym along, after all, she chided herself.

“Mistress!” Yngoth hissed, rising up from the whip. “We are in danger!”

Quenthel spun around, looking for signs of a threat, but she could see nothing.

“What danger?” she demanded. “Where?”

“A force is here . . . drow,” Zinda answered, and all five of the snakes were agitating against her hip.

“Drow and others,” Zinda added.

Someone’s hiding, the high priestess realized. What have you done, insolent child?

A heartbeat later, a small host of drow appeared from behind a low wall, soldiers with swords and hand crossbows at the ready, and a handful of House wizards, too. They were all from House Zauvirr. Quenthel recognized two of the dark elves as matron mothers. It was obvious simply by their demeanor and bearing. One bore the insignia of House Zauvirr, and she was smiling coldly. The other, a rather plump drow, was most definitely not smiling and in fact looked quite distressed.

“By the Dark Mother,” one of the males standing near Faeryl breathed, raising his crossbow and sighting down it at the fiend.

“He’s dangerous,” Faeryl called out, but several of the House wizards were already in action, casting spells even as the draegloth sprang forward, his teeth bared and his claws out, ready to shred anyone and everyone to ribbons. Faeryl took an involuntary step back, shuddering. Jeggred remained still, crouching as though he would spring again, snarling in fury, but unmoving otherwise.

“That will hold him,” one of the wizards claimed.

Quenthel gasped in surprise, looking back and forth between Jeggred and Faeryl.

“Yes, Quenthel,” Faeryl called out. “He has been rendered helpless. He cannot extract you from this.”

Quenthel returned her glare to Faeryl as the soldiers fanned out, moving to surround her but staying well back. Many of the males aimed crossbows at her, and the wizards and priestesses all seemed ready to invoke various spells, should the Mistress of the Academy decide to bolt or attack. The snakes of Quenthel’s whip writhed in agitation, snapping at anyone who stepped too close.

“You insolent little whelp of a drow,” Quenthel snarled, shaking in fury as she looked at Faeryl, who only smiled sweetly in return. “All that time being so agreeable, and it was a lie. I knew you were being too accommodating. I should have let Jeggred have his way with you back in the wilds. I will see you flayed for this.”

“That might prove difficult,
Mistress
Quenthel,” Faeryl said, putting as much sarcasm as possible into her tone when she came to the honorific. “If you give this situation just a moment’s thought, you will see, I’m sure, that you are overmatched. It really would be better if you surrendered this foolish standoff.”

Quenthel blinked, weighing the ambassador’s words. Finally, reluctantly, she realized that she was overmatched and nodded.

“Excellent, Mistress,” Faeryl said. “Now, I think it would be a wise idea for you to lay down your arms and all of those wonderful trinkets I know you carry about yourself.”

Quenthel’s glare deepened, but she carefully set the whip down at her feet.

“Come on, Quenthel,” Faeryl admonished. “I’ve been traveling with you for several tendays now. I know about the ring and the rod and all the other things. Don’t make this more difficult.”

Sighing, Quenthel began to remove the various items, and when Faeryl seemed satisfied that the high priestess could no longer be a significant threat, she ordered her to step away from the pile of goods.

As others swooped in and gathered up Quenthel’s possessions, Faeryl stepped closer to Quenthel, smiling again.

“I am sorry it had to be this way, Quenthel,” she said, “but I’m sure you understand.”

Quenthel, who had regained some of her composure, smiled right back.

“Oh, I quite understand, Ambassador. My sister will be highly disappointed when she learns what you have done, but I wouldn’t worry too much about that. It’s a shame though . . . if there’s one thing Triel will miss more than her sister, it would have to be her beloved son.”

Faeryl didn’t let her smile falter, but Quenthel thought the ambassador might have swallowed just a little nervously at the thought of the Matron Mother of House Baenre hearing the news that her draegloth had been destroyed.

Faeryl shrugged and said, “That’s a worry for another time, Mistress. Now, if you will be so kind as to walk with me, I’ll introduce Matron Mother Drisinil Melarn and my own mother, Mistress Ssipriina Zauvirr. They are most interested in hearing more about how you planned to steal our provisions and take them back to Menzoberranzan with you.”

“Those goods belong in Menzoberranzan. They are ours by right,” Quenthel said, angry all over again.

In the back of her mind, a part of her told herself that she really did need to learn to control her anger better, but she didn’t want to listen.

Faeryl laughed cynically. “You didn’t actually think I was going to let you steal from my House, did you?” she said. “From my city? You are mad!” Taking a calming breath, the ambassador continued, ice dripping from her voice, “Look around you, Mistress Baenre. This is what’s left of your precious stores of goods.”

For the first time, Quenthel realized that the rows and rows of shelves and bins were mostly empty. There was nothing in there to take. She had been thoroughly tricked, from the beginning of the journey, perhaps, played for the fool that she was. The betrayal was not unexpected, and Quenthel knew that had the roles been reversed, House Baenre would have carried the situation to the same conclusion. What galled her was that whatever foolish Baenre whelp had been responsible for the logistics of the deal had never bothered to put enough troops loyal to the House in place to ensure that nothing like this ever happened. Quenthel suspected that whatever loyal forces had been here had been summarily rounded up and executed when the crisis grew. The fact that no one was there now was a testament to that.

“What have you done with it?” Quenthel demanded, half interested in the answer and half stalling for time so she could assess the situation better.

Though there were a number of drow troops there, there was still a chance she could escape—though it would require leaving Jeggred behind.

Faeryl laughed, “Oh, don’t worry. Black Claw made a tidy profit recently. The stock has been put to a far better use than what you intended, Mistress.”

The mockery in the girl’s tone was unmistakable.

“That’s enough, Faeryl,” Ssipriina Zauvirr said, taking a couple of steps forward. “There’s no need to ruin the surprise we have in store for our guests.”

As Faeryl lowered her head slightly in deference to her mother, she made her face stony smooth, but Quenthel knew that behind that facade, the Zauvirr daughter was delighted to have thwarted her.

Matron Mother Melarn also stepped forward—or rather, two heavily armed drow stepped forward, escorting her between them. She still frowned deeply, but she said nothing.

Ssipriina Zauvirr strolled halfway toward Quenthel and stopped.