Gromph liked that touch, noting that she had Mez’Barris leaning forward in her throne.
“The orcs will carry the fight to the peoples of the Silver Marches and they will be led by …”
Again she paused, holding the thought for many heartbeats. Her delay soon had Mez’Barris’s two children leaning forward eagerly.
“By the son of Barrison Del’Armgo,” the matron mother finished.
“Malagdorl?” Matron Mez’Barris incredulously replied.
“By Tos’un Armgo,” Quenthel corrected, “wielding the sword of Dantrag Baenre, marching in the name of Daermon N’a’shezbaernon, House Do’Urden. We will wreak carnage upon the Silver Marches from behind a throng of orcs. We will repay them for our defeat that century and more ago, and we will ruin the name of the apostate Drizzt, to Lolth’s glory.”
“Drizzt?” Mez’Barris echoed incredulously. “I care not for Drizzt Do’Urden!”
“But the Spider Queen does, and so you shall,” the matron mother replied. “Go and pray and seek guidance, you and Taayrul and all the priestesses of your House. You will see. We are called now, there is no doubt.”
Mez’Barris and her daughter exchanged concerned looks, but Quenthel had them, Gromph knew, and he nodded, silently congratulating his sister, who did indeed seem more like his mother.
“There is no intrigue now among us,” Matron Mother Quenthel said with a snap of finality that brooked no debate. “This is not the time.”
“And so House Baenre gains two seats on the council!” Mez’Barris reminded, a flash of anger in her red eyes.
“No,” the matron mother replied. “Sos’Umptu will not remain as Matron of House Do’Urden.”
“Then who?”
“We will know,” was all that Matron Mother Quenthel would offer.
“But still, House Do’Urden is the matron mother’s creation, and so to the matron mother’s control,” Mez’Barris reasoned.
“If the son of Barrison Del’Armgo performs well, then perhaps Matron Mez’Barris, too, will find alliance in the reconstituted House Do’Urden—if Matron Mez’Barris is wise enough to properly support the quest of Lolth, of course. Perhaps then we will both have gained a second voice on the council.”
With that tempting tidbit, the matron mother bowed and stepped through Gromph’s portal. The archmage lingered in the audience chamber for a few moments, weighing the expressions and reactions of the Armgos.
I will not forget our conspiracy, or your weakness in seeing it through to fruition, Mez’Barris warned him, using her silent handcant instead of speaking aloud in case Quenthel could hear her on the other side of that magical door.
“Go find a handmaiden and discuss the matter,” Gromph replied. “You will learn wisdom in my … weakness, and humility to temper your dangerous pride.”
He bowed and stepped through, and the magical door disappeared.
“We’ll not hold Luskan for long if you insist on keeping such a sizable force here in Menzoberranzan,” Jarlaxle dared to say to Matron Mother Quenthel when she and Gromph paid him a visit in the Do’Urden compound.
“Beniago has the city well in hand,” the matron mother replied. “Tiago is not far away, and the Xorlarrins will march to his call.”
“Tiago is on his way back here, so it is said, although he seems to be taking his time about it,” Jarlaxle replied, rather slyly, tipping his hand that he might know more than his counterparts regarding the movements of the brash young warrior.
Which he did not.
“And are the Xorlarrins not foremost in your plans to march to the east?” Jarlaxle went on. “Surely you will include Matron Zeerith’s garrison among your army.”
Jarlaxle noted Gromph’s angry scowl. The archmage, standing behind the matron mother, even offered Jarlaxle a disgusted shake of his head to warn him away from this line of questioning.
Because he had called Quenthel’s bluff, Jarlaxle realized. Keeping him and Bregan D’aerthe bottled up here at House Do’Urden would certainly leave their well-constructed network in Luskan too weak to resist any pushback from the more conventional forces up there; the other high captains would move on Ship Kurth if they thought they could be rid of Beniago, and more than that, if they thought they could grab their city back from Jarlaxle’s hold.
“I have less than four hundred soldiers,” Jarlaxle elaborated. “In total. More than a hundred are out and about the Underdark and the surface, as scouts and emissaries. You have more than two-thirds of the remaining garrison here.”
Gromph held his breath, as if he expected their sister to lash out at Jarlaxle, the mercenary leader realized, but Quenthel took a long pause and seemed to be seriously considering Jarlaxle’s words.
“That leaves Beniago with less than a hundred to hold our place among a city of thousands—and thousands of veteran pirates and scalawags,” Jarlaxle said.
“It is said that one drow warrior is worth a hundred enemies,” Quenthel replied.
“Many things are said. Few are true,” Jarlaxle dared to press. “Whatever the demands of Lady Lolth in the east, it would not be wise to lose Luskan in our pursuit of her favor. This is our trade route to the surface, and has already brought great wealth and power to Menzoberranzan, including strange and mighty artifacts from the Empire of Netheril. And it is a trade route, though going straight through Q’Xorlarrin, which is solidly controlled by House Baenre.”
“Neither you nor Beniago seem eager to claim that family name,” Quenthel reminded him.
“Would you have us do so?” Jarlaxle asked innocently, knowing the answer, and Quenthel had to concede the point. “Through Luskan, through my organization, you will track the trading, and ultimately control the power, of Q’Xorlarrin.”
“You overestimate your importance to me.”
“Matron Shakti Hunzrin would disagree,” Jarlaxle replied without hesitation, referring to the Matron of the Eleventh House. Even though she was not on the Ruling Council, Shakti Hunzrin carried an inordinate amount of power, because House Hunzrin was among the greatest economic forces in the city, thanks to an elaborate trade network spidering out far beyond Menzoberranzan’s borders.
Matron Mother Quenthel turned and glanced at Gromph, who shrugged almost apologetically before nodding his agreement with Jarlaxle.
“You have secured the alliance with House Barrison Del’Armgo,” Gromph reasoned. “Matron Mez’Barris is fully within your web. Given our stated alliance to House Do’Urden, none will dare move on House Do’Urden at this time without Barrison Del’Armgo’s nod, which Matron Mez’Barris will not dare give.”
Quenthel settled comfortably then, mulling it over.
“May I return to Luskan?” Jarlaxle asked after a short silence.
“No,” the matron mother sharply replied, and then more calmly, “No, but you may return half your foot soldiers from House Do’Urden back to Beniago’s command.”
“I am to join in the procession to the east, then,” Jarlaxle said with enough of a sigh to show that he would consider that a tedious task indeed.
“No,” Quenthel said flatly.
Her answer surprised the mercenary. From everything she had said, and everything he had heard elsewhere, the work in the east would be that of diplomacy more than combat, after all. And who better for that task than Jarlaxle?
“It will not be a large force that we send to the east,” the matron mother explained, but perceptive Jarlaxle heard something else in her dodge, something personal regarding him, he suspected. “Our posture there is as advisors, directing the orc thousands. I’ll not repeat Yvonnel’s mistake. Win or lose in the Silver Marches, the price will not be high to Menzoberranzan.”
“You are stirring a wasp’s nest,” Jarlaxle warned.
“And letting the wasps bite where they may,” Quenthel agreed.
Jarlaxle mulled that over for a bit. The idea that Menzoberranzan would start a war and care so little about the outcome did not seem correct to him. Not at all.
br /> He considered his surroundings, and considered the target. He spent a long while studying Quenthel.
Was this about Drizzt? Drizzt had once killed Quenthel, after all, and quite painfully.
“House Do’Urden will lead the fight in the east, but you will remain right here, by my side and at my call,” Quenthel said flatly.
Because of his relationship with Drizzt, Jarlaxle understood, but did not dare say.
The mercenary bowed, recognizing the meeting to be at its end.
“So the march against the Silver Marches will be led by Tos’un, the Patron of House Do’Urden,” Gromph said to Quenthel when they were back in his quarters at House Baenre. “And by Tiago, Weapons Master of House Baenre.”
“Well reasoned,” Quenthel replied. “And where is the prideful whelp?”
“He will be along,” Gromph assured her. “Will you send Sos’Umptu to the east?” he asked, eager to change the subject, for he did not want to fill the volatile Quenthel in on Tiago’s excursion to Icewind Dale.
“Mez’Barris already asked as much.”
“Tell me personally,” Gromph bade her.
“No,” she answered after pausing for a moment to take a close measure of Gromph. “Priestess Saribel will serve.”
“How many of our House will go?”
“Few,” Quenthel replied. “The city will send perhaps a hundred warriors in total, with a score of that number from House Barrison Del’Armgo and the rest of the ranks filled with weapons masters of lesser Houses, eager to make their reputation. The contingent of priestesses, again from lesser Houses, will serve Saribel, and Q’Xorlarrin will supply the contingent of wizards—all of them, save one.”
“Me,” the archmage remarked, and he made sure he didn’t sound enthusiastic about the possibility.
“Nay, your lackey,” Quenthel corrected to his surprise and delight. “Whoever you decide that to be. Your duty is simple, my Archmage: You keep a direct line open to Tiago’s fortress in the east, wherever he makes it. We would converse with him regularly on the prosecution of the war, and we will go to him with a sizable force if necessary, or recall him if prudent. I’ll not lose Tiago in this excursion.”
“Because he will help House Do’Urden rise to legitimate promise, affording you a second vote on the Ruling Council at your will,” Gromph replied.
“After our glory in the east, House Do’Urden will ascend in rank, favored by Lolth,” Quenthel agreed, and Gromph understood then that Quenthel was determined about two things in the east: that Tiago would not fall and that Tos’un Armgo would.
He saluted his clever sister with a bow.
CHAPTER 24
THE FIGHTER BESIDE YOU
IN LIFE, STEALTH HAD NEVER BEEN THIBBLEDORF PWENT’S GREATEST strength. Quite the contrary, the ferocious battlerager usually took great pride in announcing his presence to his enemies long before battle was joined, even if that meant a few arrows or spears flying his way during his inevitable charge.
Not so in death, however, for Pwent’s vampirism afforded him a congruence with the shadows that he could use as a great advantage, along with a lightness to his step enhanced by his coexistence within two forms, solid and gaseous, and two planes of existence. He was hunting among and against the dark elves, the masters of darkness, the silent killers, whose domain was the eternal night of the Underdark, and so the vampire had honed his craft to perfection now, so he believed. He wove around the drow and the goblins and the half-drow, half-spider abominations with impunity. They couldn’t find him, couldn’t begin to even sense him, save the shivers that coursed their spines from the chill of his proximity or the tiny hairs standing along their arms or at the back of their necks as he passed just below their conscious senses.
Pwent had murdered a score of drow, and taken nearly half of those as undead minions, and he had feasted liberally on the blood of goblin slaves many times.
Yes, this was his domain now, for none alive knew the ways of Gauntlgrym better than he. Every corridor, every broken crack, both from the sheer age of the complex and from the volcanic eruption when the primordial had found a decade of freedom, was known to him.
Never was he out of place here, for this was his place. He fancied himself the Steward of Gauntlgrym, the protector of the dwarven homeland.
He knew that to be half of his existence, at least, even while he hated the other half, the darker half, the half that could turn him against even Bruenor, his king of old.
He wanted to suppress that darkness now, he reminded himself as he crouched at the corner of a four-way intersection. His king was close, he knew, along with the others, and they, too, were friends of Gauntlgrym, though he knew not how or why or where he had once known them, if he had at all.
“Me king,” he silently mouthed, but he ended with a sneer, and it was all he could do to stop that twisted scowl from becoming an audible, feral snarl.
He couldn’t take a deep breath, of course, since he no longer drew breath, but Pwent settled himself more comfortably on his feet, as if allowing the gaseous aspects of his form to solidify. He eagerly rolled his fingers together, his ridged and spiked gauntlets squeaking slightly with the rub.
He knew where they were and understood where he could set an ambush with his dead drow minions.
“Me king,” he mouthed again, pointedly reminding himself that he didn’t want to set an ambush.
Or did he?
He glanced back, thinking how clever it would be to summon his undead drow minions, and he noted movement as he turned just slightly, just out of the corner of his eye, and so close that he knew he could be struck before he could react.
How had the dark elves gotten so close? What scout was this?
He turned around to face the would-be assassin and allowed a growl to escape his lips, and moved as if to pounce.
But he did not, for Drizzt Do’Urden stepped out before him.
Pwent eyed him carefully, shocked that he had gotten so close so easily, so invisibly, so silently. The dark elf ranger hadn’t drawn his scimitars, the magical blades resting comfortably at his hips.
The vampire’s roving eye met Drizzt’s gaze and Pwent let another soft growl escape his lips.
“I left you in a cave,” Drizzt said. “As a friend. In trust.”
“Then yerself’s a fool,” the dwarf replied.
“Am I? The Thibbledorf Pwent I once knew was no coward.”
As the insult registered, Pwent threw himself at the drow.
Out came Drizzt’s blades in a flash, cutting and stabbing, it seemed, before they had even lifted from their respective scabbards. Despite his rage, despite his condition, Pwent surely felt the bite, and that sting slowed him, but only for a moment as he reset his feet, roared, and leaped ahead.
But leaped to the side of his intended target, he realized to his surprise, and it took him a moment to understand that his aim had indeed been true, but that Drizzt had moved aside, so quickly and effortlessly.
The scimitars slashed hard at Pwent as he tried to slow and turn, driving him along. He stumbled as he disengaged, and swung around, ready to lower his head and charge back to impale the fool, but Drizzt was already there with him, beside him, hacking away, driving Pwent back down to the side.
His defensive movements couldn’t catch up to the barrage; everywhere he managed a swing, Drizzt was already gone, the scimitars ringing in against him from another angle.
Finally, the vampire leaped and twirled around, roaring and landing solidly, feet wide apart, arms swinging in left and right.
But Drizzt was already far away from him, standing comfortably, blades swinging easily.
“Must it be like this, my old friend?” Drizzt asked.
Pwent turned half-gaseous, leaving a trail of swirling fog, so swift was his sudden charge in that curious ghost step of the greater undead. But Drizzt had seen it before, both from Pwent and from Ebonsoul, and the drow appropriately dodged aside and even managed to meet Pwent’s return to his
full corporeal form with another stinging stab of a curving blade.
Then off Drizzt scampered, to the side once more, and an angry Pwent turned to face him.
“Ye’re not hurtin’ me, elf,” the vampire growled. “And yerself’s sure to get tired, but not for me, no.” He wore a wicked grin and came forward menacingly.
“I never knew you to be a coward,” Drizzt stated flatly.
Pwent pulled up short. “Eh?”
“I left you in a cave, awaiting the sun,” Drizzt explained. “I trusted that you, that the Thibbledorf Pwent I knew, would prove strong enough and courageous enough to meet his better fate with his eyes open. But no, you disappoint me, my old friend. In death, you are nowhere near the dwarf you were in life.”
“Bah, but what’re ye knowin’?” Pwent snapped back. “I found me way and found me place.”
“A place to agree with the principles of who and what you once were?”
“Aye.”
“Protector of Gauntlgrym, then?” asked Drizzt.
“Aye!” Pwent said with great exuberance. “Steward!”
“And defender of the grave of King Bruenor?”
“Aye, and ye’re knowin’ as much!”
“And so you attack me? An ally to your beloved king?”
“Get out!” Pwent roared and took another step forward.
“Because you’re hungry,” Drizzt said, and he sheathed his scimitars.
That motion froze Pwent in place once more and he stared at the drow, clearly at a loss. “I’m tryin’, elf,” he managed to mouth.
“We’re going for Entreri and the others.”
“Lots o’ drow,” the dwarf vampire warned. “But there are ways to get in.”
“You know these ways?”
“Aye.”
“Then help us,” Drizzt offered.
Pwent trembled; his face twitched and twisted, upper lip raising in a snarl to reveal his long canine teeth. “I … meself … I, I can’t be with ye, or near ye,” he said in a pleading tone. “The smell …”