R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation (64 page)

“When my son managed to get into private contact with Faeryl and she was able to tell us what you were planning, we of course wasted no time in preparing for your arrival. I have to say, I am more than a little surprised that you actually expected to slip a storehouse full of goods out of the city, out from under our noses, without us noticing, but that’s really of no consequence. As my daughter indicated, House Zauvirr has put the profits to a far better use.”

Quenthel blinked in confusion.

“House Zauvirr?” she asked. “You are merely the caretakers. This company belongs to Houses Melarn and Baenre.” The high priestess turned to the other matron mother and said, “Are you permitting this? Are you content to let these deceitful, low-class
merchants
make the decisions for your investments? You are far more trusting than I.”

Drisinil Melarn didn’t say a word, though she grimaced slightly when Quenthel spoke to her. Ssipriina Zauvirr laughed, a quick, bitter sound.

“Oh, she is far from content, Quenthel Baenre, but she has little choice in the matter.”

Quenthel realized just why Matron Mother Melarn seemed so unhappy. The two drow flanking her were not escorts but guards.

“You would dare?” Quenthel asked. “You have laid hands on the matron mother of a high House of your own city and hope to get away with it? How can you expect to survive, when . . . when—”

The high priestess clamped her mouth shut, unwilling to finish the thought.

When Lolth will not grant you spells.

“Oh, not to worry,” Ssipriina said, smiling even more deeply than before. “With the funds I’ve made selling off your valuables, I have ensured that House Zauvirr will never again kneel before the likes of you two.”

Her eyes glittered red as she finished, and Quenthel saw pure hatred burning in them.

“Captain Xornbane, if you please?” Ssipriina called.

All around the drow gathering, appearing from nowhere, a horde of gray dwarves stood in a large circle, brandishing wicked-looking axes and heavy crossbows. Clearly, they had been standing there for a few moments but had simply been invisible. The duergar looked confident, ready for anything.

Quenthel felt the pit of her stomach leap into her throat, but before she could take any action she felt an invisible force seize her and hold her motionless. She couldn’t move a muscle and saw that Drisinil Melarn was in a similar condition.

“Shall we kill them now?” one of the duergar asked, stepping forward.

It’s fortunate that Valas has been here before and knows the lay of the land, Ryld thought as he pushed his way through the throngs behind his companion.

The streets were more crowded than the previous day, if that was possible, and the warrior was sure that they would have made even slower progress if they’d been negotiating the web streets without a clue as to where to go for the right kind of information or the right kind of folk.

Ryld and Valas had set off shortly after the morning meal, the scout leading the larger drow into the lower quarters of the City of Shimmering Webs. At Quenthel’s instructions, they were trying to find someone, anyone, who had supplies, equipment, and bodies available to serve them on the return trip to Menzoberranzan. Ryld still doubted the likelihood of the priestess acquiring anything worthwhile in the Black Claw storehouses, but he wasn’t one to quibble with the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith. He had seen the folly of that with Pharaun. Or rather, he had seen the difficulties. Pharaun seemed to be getting away with his insidious little remarks more and more frequently, and the warrior realized, too, that the mage had begun following his own agenda more consistently.

Ryld pushed past a cluster of illithids—illithids! Five of them standing on a street corner, and no one paying them any mind—and he followed the scout into a particularly squalid-looking taproom.

Ryld couldn’t get Pharaun off his mind. The mage seemed to be able to talk anyone around to his way of thinking, and when that didn’t work, he’d figure out a way to do what he wanted anyway and explain it all away later.

The warrior wondered how often his old friend had done the very same thing to him in order to get what he wanted.

Valas shouldered his way through the crowded bar, heading for the back of the place. It always seemed to be at the rear tables where information was brokered, and in this tavern it was no exception. Ryld took up a position to watch his companion’s back while Valas sat down across from a surly looking drow whose
piwafwi
was tattered and stained. The drow was definitely no noble, though Ryld would never hold that against him. Growing up on the streets of Menzoberranzan, the weapons master knew as well as anyone what it was like to be born a commoner.

A
sava
board rested on the table, and a game was in progress. Ryld could see that whoever had been across from this drow had played himself into a bad position and left before the inevitable conclusion. He found himself wanting to sit down and push a piece or two about, trying to stave off the endgame, but he forced himself to turn away, watching the crowded room for signs of trouble.

“We’re looking for pack lizards,” Valas began, setting a few gold coins on the table as he reached out and made a play on the
sava
board, “some supplies, and a few sellswords who can guard all of the above.”

The drow snaked a hand out from under his shredded
piwafwi
and scooped up the gold before Valas had even completed his move, one that was not really of much help to his position, Ryld noted.

Better to let the fellow continue winning, the weapons master surmised.

“You and just about everyone else in the city,” the drow chuckled, flashing a crooked smile that revealed several missing teeth. “Those kinds of things require more gold than the two of you are bound to have,” he added, giving Valas and Ryld an appraising look.

“Don’t worry about the coin,” the scout replied while Ryld returned his attention to the room. “Just point us in the right direction.”

“Well, then,” the informant said, “I know a gray dwarf who might still have a few lizards available—for the right price, mind you—that would serve you well enough. How about buying a round of drinks while I get someone who can take you to him?”

Ryld pursed his lips in consternation. He had hoped this would be a quick affair, but of course it was not to be.

The drow slid out from the table, clapped Ryld on the shoulder, and said, “My, you’re a healthy one, aren’t you?” before pushing through the crowd.

Ryld stole a glance down at Valas, who seemed to be studying the
sava
board. The scout made no move to lure a serving boy over.

“Are you going to order those drinks, or should I do it?” the weapons master asked his companion.

“Don’t worry about it,” Valas answered, looking up. “When the wretch returns, I’ll tell him I couldn’t get anyone’s attention in so crowded a place.”

Ryld nodded and turned back to wait.

It didn’t take long for the filthy drow to return, and he had not one, but four big half-ogres in tow. Ryld’s eyes narrowed at the sight of them clearing a path through the crowd none too gently.

“We may have trouble,” he muttered at Valas, who craned his neck to peer past the warrior.

“Let me out,” Valas insisted, pushing Ryld forward enough to slip out from behind the table.

The scout stood next to the warrior, and Ryld noticed that Valas had his kukris in his hands, though he kept them down at his sides where they weren’t easily seen.

“These are the fellows I was telling you about,” the drow informant said to the biggest of the half-ogres. “They’re the ones that’s got lots of coin.”

Ryld groaned inwardly as the half-ogre, who stood a good head taller than the drow, grinned ominously.

“We were just about to go fetch a round of drinks, as you suggested,” Valas said, making as if to step past the half-ogre, who was blocking their way. “I guess we’ll need a couple extra. Ryld, why don’t you come help me carry them all? Then we can talk business with you boys.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” the half-ogre said, his voice deep and rumbling. “Why don’t you sit down and tell us just how much gold you actually have? Then we’ll decide if you can leave or not.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Valas said, his voice steely cold. “We’ll just take our business elsewhere.”

“I suppose a half-ogre would be stupid enough,” Ryld said to the scout, “to think that just because Lolth has gone quiet, we’ve forgotten how to fight.”

The half-ogre smiled and said, “That’s a pretty good joke, dark elf.”

Then the creature lunged.

In the end, it was the most straightforward approach, Pharaun decided, that would grant him entry into one of the wizardly institutes. He knew all too well from his working knowledge of Sorcere’s defenses that most forms of arcane stealth would likely be detected, however careful he might be. It was the nature of mages to be distrustful of other mages, and he had discovered that with a handful of different academies, schools, and research organizations to choose from in Ched Nasad, the local spellcasters were even more wary of one another.

Apparently, competition between the associations for luring new talent inside their halls was fierce, and the prestige garnered from successful recruiting paramount. True to drow nature, the societies weren’t above using any method, however violent and underhanded, to shift the balance of power. What better way to get inside, Pharaun reasoned, than to pose as a prospective new member? All that it required was doffing his House insignia and asking at the front gates for the opportunity to speak with someone who could give him a tour, expound upon the amenities and responsibilities, and so on. He could easily pass himself off as a wayward wizard in need of a home without revealing his true level of expertise or the means by which he had acquired it.

The first place Pharaun visited was the imposing halls of the Disciples of Phelthong, run by the Archmage of Ched Nasad himself, Ildibane Nasadra. Pharaun figured that being the largest and best endowed of the various schools, it would have what he sought. However, he was careful to explain to the minor official who was sent to escort him that his interest, his area of specialty, lay in the study of creatures. It would be paramount for the facility to have a vast menagerie on hand if he was to feel truly at home. When he discovered that the Disciples did not maintain such a zoo, he politely declined to take a tour.

The second place Pharaun chose to investigate was known as the Arcanist Conservatory. It was neither the most impressive nor the least, but he picked it on a hunch. The drow who met with him after he’d explained himself to the sentries at the front of the edifice was an enchanter by the name of Kraszmyl Claddath of House Claddath, a short, surprisingly stocky fellow with slightly yellowing hair and bad teeth. Pharaun feigned skills of a middling nature as he introduced himself, and Kraszmyl seemed genuinely delighted to escort his guest through the premises.

“Tell me, Master Claddath, does the conservatory maintain a collection of live specimens on site?”

“Well, if you mean the best menagerie of creatures from both the World Above and the Underdark, properly housed and cared for, then yes.”

“Oh, how delightful!” Pharaun didn’t have to fake his excitement. “This sounds like the right place for me.”

“Tell me, Master Pharaun, what is your particular expertise with this area of study?”

“Well, my last assignment was for a merchant who wanted me to study various breeding effects on rothé herds,” the mage lied, “but I have a special interest in a new field. I am most curious to learn more about chitines and choldriths.”

“Really?” Kraszmyl seemed nonplussed at the idea as he led Pharaun deeper into the confines of the conservatory. “Why in the world would you find such base creatures of interest?”

“Oh, they are tremendously fascinating!” Pharaun gushed. “While we find them to be nothing more than simple hunting sport, they actually have a unique culture and religious focus that in several ways mirrors our own.”

“Oh, I see,” Master Claddath said woodenly. “I hope you’re not one of those odd cretins who actually thinks we should cease our hunting.”

Pharaun laughed. “Certainly not,” he said, “but imagine the possibilities if I could make them more of a challenge?”

“Yes, I could see the value in that. Well, here we are,” the guide said, ushering Pharaun into a wing of the facilities that contained countless cages, cells, and holding pens.

Pharaun had never seen such a collection of species before, and he was more than impressed.

“It is spectacular!” he said.

“Yes, it is, Master Pharaun, but I have concluded by your reaction that you have seen nothing of the sort before. Now, why don’t you tell me the real reason for your visit to our little conservatory today?”

Pharaun carefully reached into a pocket of his
piwafwi,
extracted a fragment of glass, and turned to look at the other wizard, who was shielded by a number of protections. He held a wand in his hand that he pointed at the visiting wizard, and Pharaun knew that the drow had already used it. Some sort of enchantment magic, he guessed.

Trying to charm me into explaining myself.

“Is this the way you greet all of your prospective new members?” Pharaun asked, smiling.

Kraszmyl looked mildly surprised, then tucked the wand away.

“No, just those wizards who show up out of nowhere, claiming to want to join our ranks.”

The other wizard produced a second wand and aimed it at Pharaun.

“Especially those foolish enough to claim—”

Kraszmyl Claddath’s words hung in the air, unfinished, as he transformed into glass. Of course, his
piwafwi,
the wand, and several other trinkets that adorned his body remained intact, but the flesh itself was pure, clear crystal.

Sighing in satisfaction, Pharaun pocketed the fragment of glass.

“If you hadn’t been so busy expounding on my foolishness, you might have heard the words to my spell,” he said to the inert figure, moving closer.