Condemnation (War of the Spider Queen #3)
Page 6Nothing more troubled them for the rest of the shadow walk, and they emerged from the Fringe not long after the nightwalker's attack, returning to the mundane world on the floor of a narrow, subterranean gorge. The walls were marked with various trail signs and messages from previous travelers who had stopped there. It was obviously a commonly used camp-site near the trade cavern. The company rested there for hours, warming up from the insidious chill of the Shadow Fringe. After resting, they left the gorge and found their way out into a long, smooth-sided tunnel that bored for miles through the dark, broken by occasional open caverns along the way.
Valas led the company, as he was familiar with their arrival point and the route they found themselves traveling. After the burning skies of the daylit surface and the miserable gloom ofthe Plane of Shadow, the routine perils of the Underdark felt like old friends. This was their world, the place where they belonged, even those of their number who had rarely jour-neyed outside their home cities.
After a march of about two miles, Valas called a brief halt and knelt down to sketch a crude map in the dust of the passage floor.
"Mantol-Derith lies not more than half a mile ahead. Remember, this is a place of trade and association with other races. We do not rule Mantol-Derith - no one does - and so it would be prudent to avoid giving offense to anyone you encounter there, unless you're looking for a fight that may waste our time and resources.
"Also, I have been considering how best to find our way from the trade cavern to the holdings of House Jaelre in the Labyrinth. From here our path must traverse the dominion of Gracklstugh, city of the gray dwarves."
"Under no circumstances will we approach Gracklstugh," Quenthel said at once. "The gray dwarves destroyed Ched Nasad. I see no reason to present myself at their doorstep for slaughter."
"We have few other options, Mistress," Valas said. "We are northeast of the duergar realm, and the Labyrinth lies several days southwest of the city. We cannot skirt the city to the south because the Darklake is in the way, and the duergar patrol its waters. Skirting the city to the north would take us at least two tendays of difficult travel through tunnels I do not know well at all."
"Why did we bother to come this way, then?" Jeggred muttered. "We might as well have returned to Menzoberranzan."
"Well, for one thing, Gracklstugh still lies between us and House Jaelre, whether we're in Mantol-Derith or Menzoberranzan," Pharaun replied. He tapped three points on Valas's crudely sketched map. "The gray dwarves must be addressed in either scenario. The question is simply whether we dare to pass through Gracklstugh, or not."
"Could you shadow walk us past the city?" Danifae asked.
Pharaun grimaced and said, "I have never traveled past Mantol-Derith in this direction, and shadow walking is best employed to reach a familiar destination. At any rate, it wouldn't surprise me to find that the duergar have defended their realm against the passage of travelers on nearby planes."
"Are we certain that the gray dwarves would object to our presence?" Ryld asked. "Merchants from Menzoberranzan journey to Gracklstugh often enough, and gray dwarf merchants bring their wares to Menzober-ranzan's bazaar. It's possible that Gracklstugh had nothing to do with the duergar mercenaries who attacked Ched Nasad."
"I have heard nothing that suggests to me that we should risk enter-ing Gracklstugh," Quenthel said. She made a curt gesture with her hand, silencing the debate. "I prefer not to gamble on the hospitality of the gray dwarves, not after the fall of Ched Nasad. We will go around the city to the north, and trust that Master Hune can find us a way through."
Halisstra glanced at Ryld and Valas. The scout chewed on his lip, worrying at the problem, while the weapons master simply lowered his eyes in resignation.
"We are only a mile or two from this cavern known as Mantol-Derith?" Halisstra asked, pointing at the sketch.
"Yes, my lady," Valas replied.
"And regardless of which course we choose, we must pass through the place?"
The Bregan D'aerthe scout simply nodded again.
"Then perhaps we should see what we can learn in the trade cavern before we make our decision," Halisstra offered. She could feel Quenthel's eyes on her, but she did not look at the Baenre. "There might be duergar merchants there who could shed some light on the question for us. If not, well, we'll have to provision ourselves there anyway before striking out into the wilds of the Underdark."
"A reasonable suggestion," Pharaun remarked. "There are a dozen mercenary companies based in the City of Blades. Is it not likely that theduergar we fought in Ched Nasad were hired by a drow House, and had no special allegiance to Gracklstugh?"
"They did Gracklstugh's work when they destroyed the city," Quenthel said darkly. She stood and set her hands on her hips, still staring at the sketch on the floor. She thought for a moment, then angrily swept it out with her foot. "We will see what we learn in Mantol-Derith, then. I suspect that time is of the essence, and if we can avoid a detour of twenty or thirty days to skirt the city, we should do so, but if we hear anything to indicate that Grackl-stugh may be closed to our kind, we strike out into the barrens."
Valas Hune nodded and said, "Very well, Mistress. I suspect we will be able to arrange passage unless the duergarare openly at war with Men-zoberranzan. I've dealt with the gray dwarves before, and there is nothing they would not sell for the right price. I will seek out a duergar guide in Mantol-Derith and see what I can learn."
"Good enough," said Quenthel. "Take us to the duergar, and we will - "
"No, Mistress, not 'we'," the scout said. He stood and brushed off his hands. "Most duergar have little liking for drow under any circumstances, less so for noble-born drow, and even less for priestesses of the Spider Queen. Your presence would only complicate things. It might be best if I handled any negotiations myself."
Quenthel frowned.
Jeggred, standing close behind her, rumbled, "I could go along to keep an eye on him, Mistress."
Pharaun barked sharp laughter at the thought and said, "If a priestess of Lolth makes a gray dwarf nervous, what do you think he'd make ofyou?"
The draegloth bridled, but Quenthel shook her head.
"No," she said, "he's right. We will find a place to wait, and perhaps see what news there is to be had, while Valas takes care of the details."
They resumed their march, and soon came to Mantol-Derith. The place was much smaller than Halisstra expected, a cavern not more than sixty or seventy feet in height and perhaps twice that in width, though it twisted and snaked for many hundreds of yards. She was used to the im-mensity of Ched Nasad's great canyon, and the stories she'd heard of other places of civilization underground usually involved tremendous caverns miles across. Mantol-Derith would have been nothing more than a side cavern in a drow city.
It was also much less crowded than she would have expected. The marketplaces in her home city had always been busy places, thronged by common drow or the slaves of nobles engaged in their various errands. The market of a drow city usually hummed with industry, energy, and activity, even if those qualities were peculiarly distorted to match the aesthetic tastes of drow society. Mantol-Derith was comparatively silent and forbidding. Here and there throughout the caverns winding length, small groups of merchants sat or squatted, their wares secured in coffers and casks behind them instead of rolled out on display. No one shouted, or haggled, or laughed. What business transpired there seemed best conducted in whis-pers and shadows.
Creatures from many different races gathered at Mantol-Derith. More than a few drow merchants held various corners of the cavern, most from Menzoberranzan if Halisstra read the blazons on their goods correctly. Mind flayers glided smoothly from place to place, mauve skin glistening damply, tentacles writhing beneath their cephalopod faces. A handful of sullen svirfneblin huddled together in one spot, eyeing the drow with unalloyed resentment. Of course the duergar were present in numbers, too. Short and broad-shouldered, the gaunt gray dwarves gath-ered together in secretive cabals, conversing with each softly in their gut-tural tongue.
Halisstra trailed close behind Pharaun, studying each group as they passed. She noticed that the wizard was trading discreet signs with Valas as they wound deeper into the marketplace.
Not many merchants here today, the wizard observed. Where are they all?
Valas glanced over his shoulder to make sure Quenthel wasn't looking, and answered, Chaos in Menzoberranzan means few buyers. Few buyers means few sellers. Anarchy seems to be bad for business.
The scout turned to eye a band of duergar nearby, and said over his shoulder to the rest of the company, "Go on ahead. You'll find an inn of sorts a little farther on. I will meet you there soon."
He quietly approached the gray dwarves, making a strange gesture of greeting with his hands folded before him, and engaged the duergar mer-chants in whispered conversation. The rest of the party moved on.
They found the "inn" to which the scout referred in a dank warren of caves near the southern end of Mantol-Derith. There, a surly duergar woman terrorized a handful of goblin slaves, driving them mercilessly from one task to another. Several small cookfires smoldered haphazardly in the area, warming iron pots of thick stew tended by the harried cooks. Other slaves scrambled to tap casks of mushroom ale or stolen surface lagers, serving silent customers who simply gathered around the fires, sit-ting on flat boulders arranged like chairs. Sturdy doors of petrified mush-room fiber or rusted iron plate sealed off crevices in the walls nearby. Halisstra presumed that these led to the guest rooms of the gray dwarf's inn. The chambers were most likely secure behind the strong doors, but she couldn't imagine that they were at all comfortable.
"How . . . rustic," Halisstra said.
"It's even more charming than the last time I was here," Pharaun said with a forced smile. "The dwarf there is Dinnka. You'll find that this nameless wayside inn of hers constitutes the finest lodgings available in Mantol-Derith. You'll get food, fire, and shelter - three things that are hard to come by in the wilds of the Underdark - and pay a small fortune for it."
"It will be better than resting in a monster-haunted surface ruin, I suppose," Quenthel said.
She led the way as the party approached one of the cookfires. A trio of bugbears occupied the seats there, apparently mercenaries of some skill, judging by the quality of the armor they wore. The hairy creatures brooded over big leather jacks of mushroom ale, and gnawed at haunches of rothe meat. One by one the hulking warriors looked up as the five drow and Jeggred approached. Quenthel folded her arms and looked at the crea-tures with contempt.
"Well?" she said.
The bugbears growled, setting down ale and meat as their great fists dropped down to rest on axe-hafts thrust through their belts. The motion caught Halisstra's eye. Bugbears with any lick of sense would have vacated their places immediately, almost anywhere in the Underdark. They might not have been drow slaves - clearly they weren't, if they were in Mantol-Derith - but she'd ventured out into similar places near Ched Nasad enough times to understand that creatures like bugbears learned quickly to give way to the truly dangerous denizens of the Lands Below, such as noble dark elves.
"Well, what?" snarled the largest of the three. "It'll take more'n a drow sneer t'make us give up our seats."
"Think y'can just push us aroun'?" the second bugbear added. "You elfies ain't as scary as y'was, y'know. Maybe yous'll have t'start showin' off why we's oughtta do what y'says."
Quenthel waited for a moment, then said one word: "Jeggred."
The draegloth bounded forward and seized the first bugbear. With his two smaller arms he clamped down over the bugbear's hands, preventing him from drawing any of the weapons at his side. He locked one fighting talon around the creature's head, holding him tightly, and with his other fighting hand he plunged his powerful talons into the bugbear's face. The mercenary screamed something in his uncouth language and struggled against the draegloth. Jeggred grinned, knotted his claws deep in the shrieking monster's head, and yanked back hard, ripping off the front of the bugbear's skull. Blood and brain matter splattered the bugbears com-panions, who scrambled to their feet, drawing swords and axes.
Jeggred lowered the twitching body a bit and looked over it at the other two.
"Next?" he purred.
The tworemaining bugbears stumbled back, and fled in abject terror. Jeggred shook his white-furred head and tossed the corpse aside, taking a seat at the fire. He helped himself to a hunk of roast dropped by a bug-bear, and raised one of their jacks in another hand.
"Bugbears. . . ." he muttered.
"Hey, you!"
The surly duergar innkeeper - Dinnka - scuttled forward, anger plain on her face.
"Those three hadn't settled their tab yet," she complained. "Now how in all the screaming hells am I going to get my gold from them?"
Ryld stooped and removed the bugbear's belt pouch. He tossed it to Dinnka.
"Settle up with this," the weapons master said, "and start our tab with what's left. We'll want good wine, and more food."
The duergar woman caught the purse, but she did not move.
"I don't appreciate your scaring off paying customers, drow. Nor killing them, neither. Next time do your murdering at home, where it belongs."
She marched off, already barking orders at the goblin slaves underfoot.
Halisstra watched her go, then she looked back to the others and flashed,That was odd. Did you hear what the bugbear said?
"What hesaidabout the drow not being as scary as they used to be?" Ryld said, then he switched to sign. Has word of Ched Nasad's fall reached this place so quickly? It was only a couple of days ago, and Mantol-Derith is many days' travel from the City of Shimmering Webs.
It's possible that magical scrying or spells of communication might have spread the word already, Halisstra said. Or . . . perhaps he meant something else. Perhaps something of our unusual difficulties is known here.
That, thought Halisstra, was a very disturbing scenario. Gray dwarves and mind flayers were competent foes, creatures who knew many secrets of sorcery. If they had discerned the drow's weakness, it would not be unduly surprising, but if common bugbear mercenaries were aware of matters in Ched Nasad or Menzoberranzan, it must be widely known indeed.
Goblin slaves returned to their fire, laden with somewhat better fare than the bugbears had enjoyed, and flagons of cool wine from some sur-face vineyard. The small slaves gathered up the hulking body of the fallen bugbear and dragged it off into the darkness. The dark elves paid them scant attention. Goblin slaves were so far beneath their notice that they might as well have not existed. The party ate and drank in silence, occu-pied with their own thoughts.
After a time, Valas joined them, accompanied by another gray dwarf. This one was a male, with a short beard of iron grey and not a single hair on his head above his eyebrows. The duergar wore a shirt of chain mail and carried a wicked hand axe at his side. His visage was maimed by a set of three great furrowed scars that had taken off one ear and twisted the right side of his face into a nightmarish map of old pain. He might have been a merchant, a mercenary, or a miner - his dour attire offered few hints as to his trade.
"This is Ghevel Coalhewer," the scout said. "He owns a boat moored nearby, on the Darklake. He will take us to Gracklstugh tomorrow."
"I'll want me payment in advance," the gray dwarf warned. "And I'll have ye know I've a contract o' redress with me guild back home. If ye think to slit me throat and dump me over the side out on the lake, ye'll be hunted down for it."
"A trusting soul," Pharaun said with a smile. "We've no interest in rob-bing you, Master Coalhewer."
"I'll take me precautions, just the same." The duergar looked at Valas and asked, "Ye know where the boat is. Pay me now, and ye can meet me there tomorrow early."
"How do we know you won't rob us, dwarf?" rumbled Jeggred.
"It's usually bad business to rob drow, not unless ye be sure to get away with it," the dwarf replied. " 'Course, that may be changing, but no' so fast that I'll chance it today."
Valas jingled a pouch in front of the duergar and dropped it into his hand. The dwarf immediately poured out its contents into his big, weath-ered palm, appraising the gemstones there before scooping them back into the pouch.
"Ye must be in a rush, or yer man here might've struck a better bar-gain. Ah, well, ye drow don't appreciate a good gemstone, anyway."
He turned and stumped away into the darkness.
"That's the last you'll see of him," Jeggred said. "You should have waited to pay him."
"He insisted on it," Valas said. "He said something about wanting to make sure we didn't kill him to recover the fare." The scout looked after the duergar, and shrugged. "I don't think he would cheat us. If he was that kind of duergar, well, he wouldn't last long in Mantol-Derith. People here don't take kindly to being cheated."
Valas spread his hands and replied, "We'll have to carry some kind of documents or letters, which Coalhewer can arrange for us. I think it's some kind of mercantile license."
"We're carrying no goods," Pharaun observed dryly. "Doesn't that ex-planation seem a little thin?"
"I told him that Lady Quenthel's family has business holdings in Eryndlyn she wishes to check on, and that if she finds things in order, she might be interested in negotiating for the services of duergar teamsters to transport her goods across Gracklstugh's territory. I also implied that Coal-hewer might do well to make himself a part of the arrangement."
Pharaun didn't have time to reply before the cavern echoed softly with the stealthy padding of numerous feet. The dark elves glanced up from the fire to see a large band of bugbear warriors approaching, led by the two mercenaries who had fled a few minutes before. At least a dozen of their fellows followed close behind them, axes and spiked flails dangling from hairy paws, murder in their eyes. The other patrons of Dinnka's inn began to slip away from their places, seeking safer envi-rons. The hulking humanoids muttered and growled to each other in their own tongue.
"Tell me," said Valas, "did someone happen to kill, maim, or humili-ate a bugbear when I was talking with Coalhewer?" The scout glanced back at the others, and at Jeggred, who shrugged. He sighed. "Was I un-clear when I advised against starting fights here?"
"There was a misunderstanding over the seating arrangements," Quenthel explained.
Ryld stood, threw his cloak over his shoulder toclear his arms for fighting, and said, "Should've guessed there might be more of them nearby."
"Time to remind these stupid creatures of the order of things," Halis-stra remarked.
Quenthel stood and drew her five-headed whip, eyeing the approach-ing warriors with a wry smile.
"Jeggred?" she said.
Gromph Baenre stood on a balcony high above Menzoberranzan, studying the dim faerielights of the drow city. He had been waiting for nearly an hour, and his patience was almost exhausted. Under most cir-cumstances an hour here or an hour there would have meant nothing to a dark elf with centuries of life behind him, but this was different. The archmage waited in fear, dreading the arrival of the one who had summoned him to this clandestine encounter. It was not a sensation Gromph was accustomed to, and he found that he did not care for it at all. He had, of course, taken extreme steps to protect his person, girding himself with an array of formidable defensive spells and a carefully considered selec-tion of protective magical devices. The archmage was not entirely confi-dent that those precautions would deter the one who came to meet him in that lonely, windswept spot.
"Gromph Baenre," a voice, cold and rasping, greeted him. Before the archmage even began to turn, he felt the presence of the other, an icy chill that somehow managed to sink past his defenses, the smell of great and terrible magic. "How good of you to accept my invitation. It has been a long time, has it not?"
The ancient sorcerer Dyrr approached from the shadows at the back of the balcony, leaning on his great staff, his feet seeming not to move at all as he glided forward in a rustle of robes no quicker than an old man's shuffle.
Among the ambitious drow of his own House, it suited Dyrr to wear the shape of a venerable old dark elf of fantastic age, but Gromph's arcane sight pierced the guise to the truth behind it. Dyrr was dead, dead these many centuries. Nothing remained of the ancient mage but dusty bones clothed in tattered shreds of mummified flesh.His hands were the claws of a skeleton, his robes were faded and threadbare, and his face was a hideous grinning skull, the black eye sockets alight with the bright green flame of his powerful spirit.
"I see that my poor guise does not deceive you," the lich rasped. "In truth, I would have been disappointed if you were so easily beguiled, Archmage."
"Lord Dyrr," said Gromph, a cautious greeting. He inclined his head without taking his eyes off the lichdrow. "In truth, I am surprised to find that you are still among us. I have heard whispers that you still lived - er, so to speak - secluded in your house. I thought from time to time that I detected an old and canny hand guiding the affairs of Agrach Dyrr, but I have not met anyone who claims to have seen you in almost two hundred years, and it's been almost twice that since last we spoke."
"I value my privacy, and encourage my descendants to value my pri-vacy as well. It's best for all involved if my hand remains hidden. We wouldn't want to make the matron mothers nervous now, would we?"
"Indeed. In my experience they react poorly to surprises."
The lich laughed, a horrible sound that chilled the blood. He moved closer, gliding forward to stand by Gromph's side and look out over the city. The archmage found himself more than a little unsettled by the un-natural presence of the undead creature - again, a sensation he did not experience often at all.
What secrets does this walking ghost hold in its empty skull? Gromph wondered. What does he know about this city that no one else remembers? What lonely and terrible heights of lore has he scaled alone in the dreary centuries of his deathless existence?
The questions troubled Gromph, but he decided to put such specula-tion behind him for the moment.
"Well, Lord Dyrr, you requested this meeting. What shall we talk about?"
"You were always admirably direct, young Baenre," the lich said. "It's a refreshing quality among our kind. To get swiftly to the point, what do you think of the recent difficulties that have beset our fair city? More specifically, what do you think should be done about the powerlessness that has descended upon our ruling caste of priestesses?"
"What should be done?" Gromph replied. "That's hard to say, when the question would seem to be what can be done? It is hardly within my power to entreat the Queen of the Demonweb Pits to restore her favor to her priestesses. Lolth will do as she will."
"As ever. I do not mean to imply that you could do otherwise." The lich paused, the green fire of its gaze locked on the archmage. "What do you see when you look out over Menzoberranzan today, Gromph?"
"Disorder. Peril. Denial."
"And, perhaps, opportunity?"
Gromph hesitated a moment, then said, "Yes, of course."
"You hesitated. You do not agree with me?"
"No, it is not that."
The archmage frowned, and chose his words with care. He did not wish to give offense to the powerful apparition. Dyrr seemed civil enough, but the mind did not always stand up well to ages of undeath. He had to assume that there was nothing the lich was not capable of.
"Lord Dyrr," he said, "surely you have observed that there is no end to the wiles of the Spider Queen. The only certainty of our existence is that Lolth is a capricious and demanding deity, a goddess who delights in teach-ing very harsh lessons indeed. What if her silence is a ruse to test her faith-ful? Isn't it likely, even probable, that Lolth withholds her favor from her priestesses to see how they respond? Or - worse yet - to see whether the en-emies of her clerics might be emboldened to creep out from the shadows and assault her minions directly? If that is the case, what then becomes of anyone foolish enough to defy the Queen of Spiders when she tires of her test and restores her full favor to her priestesses, just as abruptly as she with-drew it? I would not care to be caught out by such a ploy. Not at all."
"Your logic is sound enough, though I think you have perhaps allowed the habit of caution to hobble your thoughts," Dyrr said. "I could almost agree with you, dear boy, except for this one fact. In the more than two thousand years that I have walked this world,I have never seen this happen before. Oh, I can recall several occasions when Lolth denied her clerics spells for a few days, and many instances in which she arbitrarily decided to stop favoring this priestess or that House all together, casting them down to their enemies, but never has she abandoned our entire race for month after month." The lich glanced up in a reflective manner. "It seems a poor way to treat one's worshipers. Should I ever attain godhood, I think I will try to do a better job of it."
"What precisely do you propose, then, Lord Dyrr?"
"I propose nothing yet, but I do consider, young Baenre, whether powerless clerics should be trusted with the rule of this city for very much longer at all. You and I, we still command great and terrible powers, do we not? The mystic secrets of our Art have not abandoned us, nor are they likely to at any point in the future. Perhaps it is time to look to the security of our civilization, the defense of our city, by taking up the reins of governance the matron mothers are no longer strong enough to hold. Our city's peril grows with every hour. We have rivals outside the Dark Dominion, after all, other races and realms that threaten us."
"And that is precisely why I am hesitant to turn drow wizards against drow priestesses," Gromph replied. "The only thing that could possibly increase our current vulnerability would be to start a civil war. To spare ourselves the fate of Ched Nasad, we must shore up the existing order until the crisis has passed."
"And what thanks do you think you will earn, from the priestesses or from the Spider Queen herself, for that blind loyalty?" Dyrrturned back to Gromph and tapped one skeletal forefinger in the center of the archmage's chest. Gromph could not restrain a shudder. "You have poten-tial, young Gromph. You are not without talent, and you see past House Baenre to Menzoberranzan itself. Put those qualities to work and consider carefully the course you choose in the next few days. Events are coming that will provide you with an opportunity for greatness, or failure. Do not make the wrong choice."
Gromph took a cautious step backward, moving out over the vast gulf of the cavern and hovering in the air.
The burning green gaze of the lichdrow followed Gromph down into the darkness as he fell softly toward the city below. He would indeed think long and hard about the lich's words. He might stall Dyrr once with civility and caution, but he wouldnot be able to do so indefinitely. Gromph didn't doubt the lich would expect a different answer when next they spoke.
The Darklake was a strange and terrible place. A blackness greater than any Halisstra had ever known enveloped her and her companions, a space so vast that its unseen recesses gnawed at the mind. The great cav-erns of the drow were often miles across, tremendous places harboring cities of many thousands, but - if Coalhewer did not exaggerate - the Darklake occupied a cavern well over one hundred miles from side to side, and thousands of feet in height. Great island columns the size of moun-tains held up the mighty roof, creating fanglike archipelagos in the dark-ness. The waters of the lake virtually filled the immense space. As they sailed across its surface the ceilingwas often less than a spearcast above them, leaving many hundreds, or even thousands of feet of black mystery below their feet. It was an unsettling sensation.
Coalhewer's boat was less than comforting itself. It was an asymmet-rical vessel made mostly of planks sawn from the woody stems of a partic-ular type of gigantic Underdark mushroom, and treated with lacquers for strength and rigidity. The zurkhwood formed a broad platform, which floated on a cluster of soft air bladders taken from some aquatic species of giant fungus. The whole thing was riveted together with the excellent met-alwork of the gray dwarves.
Four hulking skeletons - ogres in life, perhaps, or maybe trolls - crouched in a well-like area in the boat's center, endlessly turning two large cranks that drove a pair of zurkhwood waterwheels. The mindless undead never tired, never complained, never even slowed their pace unless Coalhewer ordered them to, driving the boat onward with no sound but the soft rush of water over the wheels and the faint clicking and scraping of their bones in motion. The gray dwarf stood near the stern on a small, elevated bridge, high enough to see over the waterwheels. He peered ahead into the darkness, arms folded across his thick chest, keeping his thoughts to himself.
The passengers crouched on the cold, uncomfortable deck or paced back and forth, staying a little ways back from the railless edge of the plat-form. The journey from Mantol-Derith was not extremely swift, as the vessel was not quick, and Coalhewer had to carefully thread his way around places where the cavern roof dropped so low there wasn't enough room for the boat.
Valas spent most of his time standing on the bridge beside the dwarf, keeping a careful eye on the course he steered. Pharaun sat cross-legged at the base of the structure, deep in Reverie, while Ryld and Jeggred kept a sharp watch on the port and starboard sides respectively, making sure that none of the lake's denizens approached undetected. The priestesses kept to themselves, wrapped in Reveries of their own or staring out over the lightless waters, lost in thought.
They passed almost two full days in that manner, pausing only briefly for austere meals or to let the duergar captain rest. Coalhewer was ex-traordinarily cautious about showing any kind of light and made them build their cookfires in a small, secluded fire-box that shielded the flames from view.
"There's too many things as are drawn by the light," he muttered. "Even this much may be dangerous."
After their third such meal, late on their second day of travel, Halis-stra retired to the bow of the boat so that she could look out over the waters and not find herself staring at one or another of her companions. In the furious battle to escape Hlaungadath, and the walk through the Plane of Shadow, she had had little time to embrace and understand her new circumstances. Empty hours of listening to the soft murmur of water and the insectlike clicking and scraping of the boat's skeletal engine had unfortunately failed to immerse her in activity, leaving her with the opportunity to replay the fall of Ched Nasad over and over again in her head.
What became of my House? she wondered. Did any of our servants and soldiers survive by escaping Ched Nasad? Are they together, and who leads them? Or did they all die amid the flame and ruin?
Matron Mother Melarn's death left Halisstra as the head of the House - presuming that none of her younger cousins had managed to claim leadership. If one of them had, Halisstra was certain she could wrest it away from her kinswoman. She had always been the most favored of the Melarn daughters, the oldest, the strongest, and she knew her cousins could not deny her her birthright.
But it seemed very likely indeed that her birthright was nothing more than ash and rubble at the floor of Ched Nasad's great chasm. Even if some part of her household had escaped, would she want to seek them out and join them in a miserable, squalid, and dangerous exile in the Underdark?
This was not how it was supposed to be, she thought. I was to ascend to my mother's place in time, and wield the power that had been hers and her mother's before her. The thousand strands of Ched Nasad would have met at my feet. My least desire I might have fulfilled with a word, a look, a simple frown. Instead, I am a rootless wanderer.
Why, Lolth? she cried out in her mind. Why? What offense did we give you? What weakness did we show?
Once Halisstra had heard the dark whispers of the Spider Queen in her heart, but that place was empty. Lolth chose not to answer. She did not even choose to punish Halisstra for the temerity of demanding an answer.
If Lolth had truly abandoned her, what would become of her if she fol-lowed her House down into death? All of her life, Halisstra had believed that her faithful service as a priestess and abae'qeshel to the Queen of the Demonweb Pits would earn her a high place in Lolth's domain after her death, but what would become of her now? Would her rootless spirit be interred with the other unfortunate souls no god claimed in the afterlife, fated to dissipate and die the real and eternal death in the gray voids reserved for the faithless? Halisstra shivered in horror. Lolth's faith was hard, and weak-lings had no place in it, but a priestess could expect that she would be re-warded in death for her service in life. If that was no longer true . . .
Danifae approached with sinuous grace and knelt beside her. She looked into Halisstra's face boldly, and did not lower her eyes.
"Grief is a sweet wine, Mistress Melarn. If you drink but a little, you are tempted to drink more, and things are never improved by over-indulging in either."
Halisstra looked away to compose herself. She did not care to share her secret horror with Danifae.
"Grief is not enough of a word for what is in my heart," she said. "I have thought of little else since we began this interminable voyage. Ched Nasad was more than a city, Danifae. It was a dream, a dark and glorious dream of the Spider Queen. Graceful castles, soaring webs, Houses full of wealth and pride and ambition, all burned to ashes in a few short hours. The city, its matrons and daughters, the beautiful web-spun palaces, all lost now, and for what reason?" She closed her eyes and battled the hot ache in the hollow of her breast. "The dwarves did not destroy us. We de-stroyed ourselves."
"I will not mourn the passing of Ched Nasad," Danifae said. Halisstra looked up sharply, cut more by the girl's dispassionate tone than her words. "It was a city full of enemies, most of whom are dead, while others flee as paupers into the wilds of the Underdark. No, I will not mourn Ched Nasad. Who, besides the few Ched Nasadans who survive, will?"
Halisstra did not choose to answer. No one would grieve for a city of drow, not even other dark elves. That was the way of the drow. The strong endured, and the weak fell by the wayside, as the Spider Queen demanded. Danifae waited for a long time before she spoke again.
"Have you given thought to what we will do next?"
Halisstra glanced at her and said, "Our lot is already cast with the Menzoberranyr, is it not?"
"For today, yes, but tomorrow will your purposes and theirs coincide? What will you do if Lolth's favor returns tomorrow? Where would you go?"
"Does it matter?" Halisstra said. "Return to Ched Nasad, I suppose, and gather together what survivors I can. It will be a hard task, more than I likely could hope to accomplish evenin a lifetime, but with the Spider Queen's blessing House Melarn may yet rise again."
"Do you think Quenthel would permit such a thing?"
"Why should she care what I do with the rest of my life? Especially if I spend it raising a wretched fragment of a House over the smoking ruins of my city?" Halisstra said bitterly.
Danifae merely spread her hands. Halisstra understood. What reason would a Baenre need to do anything at all, really? The Menzoberranyr might have been their saviors from the wreck of Ched Nasad, but at a word from Quenthel they might become their captors, or their killers. The girl glanced back to where the others meditated or stood their watches, and changed to signs, carefully hidden from the rest of the company.
Perhaps it might be wise to consider exactly how we can make ourselves indispensable to the Menzoberranyr, she motioned. The hour will come when we will no longer wish to rely on Quenthel Baenre's benevolence, such as it is.
"Careful," Halisstra cautioned.
She sat up straight and deliberately controlled her own impulse to look over her shoulder. Danifae had an uncanny instinct for manipulation, but if Quenthel suspected that Halisstra and Danifae planned to under-mine her authority - or even impose limits on her freedom of action - Halisstra didn't doubt that the Baenre would take quick and drastic steps to remove a perceived challenge.
It is a dangerous thing you suggest, Danifae. Quenthel would not hesitate to kill a challenger, and if I were killed -
I would not survive, Danifae finished for her. I understand the condi-tions of my captivity quite well, Mistress Melarn. Still, inaction in the face of our danger is every bit as risky as what I am about to propose. Hear me out, and you can decide what you wish me to do.
Halisstra measured the girl, studying her perfect features, her alluring figure. She thought of the conversation between Quenthel and Danifae she had overheard in the catacombs of Hlaungadath. She could put a halt to Danifae's scheming with a word, of course. She could even compel it through the magic of the locket - but then she wouldn't know what Dan-ifae plotted, would she?
"Very well," she said. Tell me what you have in mind.