“If Tiago is alive, then he’s after Drizzt, and so will not be far afield of Bruenor’s march,” Jarlaxle explained. “I have Athrogate and Amber already in place among Bruenor’s entourage. Use your psionic energies to see through the eyes of those the dwarves march past and we will find Tiago, and so you can deliver to Gromph that which he desires.”
Kimmuriel nodded and left, and Jarlaxle leaned back against the wall, considering the whole of that encounter. Something was going on that was beyond his understanding. Something with Kimmuriel, probably perpetrated by Kimmuriel, and likely involving Gromph. He wasn’t afraid that Kimmuriel was trying to be rid of him to claim sole leadership of Bregan D’aerthe. Quite the contrary—Kimmuriel wanted Jarlaxle around so he did not have to assume the mundane burdens of such a role.
No, it was something else, Jarlaxle figured, something extraneous to him, something beyond the scope of, and purview of, Bregan D’aerthe even.
SEVEN DWARVES LED the vast procession of the Silver Marches army from the Surbrin Bridge, marching in ranks of two, three, and two. King Bruenor Battlehammer centered the leading formation in the second rank, flanked by Bungalow Thump and Connerad Brawnanvil, with Amber Gristle O’Maul and Athrogate close behind as his personal bodyguards.
Two other bodyguards had joined Bruenor’s personal entourage at the beginning of the march, gifts given to him by King Emerus Warcrown in his last declaration as leader of Citadel Felbarr. And to be sure, the dwarf lasses Fist and Fury—Mallabritches and Tannabritches Fellhammer—could not have been more thrilled at their permanent assignment, especially when their old friend Bruenor positioned them right in front of him.
Right in front of all of them, leading the march!
CHAPTER 4
The Physical Manifestation of Chaos
MATRON MOTHER MEZ’BARRIS ARMGO OF THE SECOND HOUSE OF Menzoberranzan tried not to look shocked when, yet again, major demons entered the chamber of the Ruling Council.
“Is this to be the new normal, Matron Mother?” she dared to ask a very smug Quenthel Baenre when Nalfeshnee—a most horrid beast with a great rounded belly and leathery wings too small to support its great girth—wobbled out of the room, mercifully taking its stench with it. The ridiculousness of the bulky creature’s appearance somehow added to the menace of the beast, as if Nalfeshnee and other demons of his type were intentionally mocking conventions of beauty. “Are we to be entertained by the antics of demons with each meeting, instead of discussing the very real problems we now face in the wake of the disaster in the Silver Marches?” Mez’Barris continued.
“Disaster?” the matron mother replied incredulously. “We scarred the land, sacked a great human city, and left the kingdoms of Luruar in disarray. And all for the cost of a few drow lives. Disaster? Do you think Lady Lolth would agree with, or appreciate, your description, Matron Mother Mez’Barris?”
“I think we gained nothing, nor did the dragons.”
“That is your opinion. To my eyes, our journey to the World Above was well worth the effort and the cost of a few warriors, mostly males.” She paused there and smiled wickedly at Matron Mother Mez’Barris. “And only a very few noble drow.”
Only two, actually, they both knew, and both those fallen from House Barrison Del’Armgo, if the rumors of Tiago’s survival proved true.
“Do the demons trouble you?” Matron Mother Baenre asked. “They are servants of the Spider Queen, are they not? The physical manifestation of chaos itself. We should consider ourselves blessed that so many have chosen to haunt our city.”
Even Matron Mother Baenre’s allies on the Ruling Council bristled a bit at that—except for Sos’Umptu, of course, who sat with the same smug expression as her sister the matron mother, and Matron Darthiir Do’Urden, the surface elf named Dahlia, who sat with the same blank stare that she always brought to council. The demons were growing unmanageably thick about the city, and bringing havoc to every House, even those of the Ruling Council.
Even House Baenre.
In that light, the others all understood that the only one benefitting from the presence of so many demons was probably Quenthel Baenre herself, her position growing more secure with the ever-present troubles distracting any who might plot against her.
But since they were all coming to understand this new reality …
“They are glorious creatures, gifts of the Spider Queen to us, the priestesses who have the knowledge and power to summon them,” Matron Mother Baenre declared.
“They are summoning their own now,” Matron Miz’ri remarked.
“Minor minions,” said the matron mother.
“A pack of glabrezu marched past my gate this very day,” Matron Mother Byrtyn Fey argued. “A pack! A score of the brutes. They alone could likely topple some of the lesser Houses.”
“They are too undisciplined to so organize,” Sos’Umptu Baenre said from the back of the room. “You need not fear.”
“I do not fear!” Matron Mother Byrtyn Fey retorted angrily, standing and pounding her small fist on the spider-shaped council chamber in a most unexpected and very out-of-character display. She turned to stare hard at the matron mother. “My priestesses ask Lolth for the permission to begin banishing the demons, and the moment the Spider Queen gives her assent, I will make it my duty to cleanse Menzoberranzan of any Abyssal creatures who are not willing to submit to the will of the Ruling Council. Enough, Matron Mother, I beg!”
Quenthel stared impassively at Matron Mother Byrtyn Fey. She leaned forward in her chair, just a bit, and brought her hands up onto the table in front of her, interlocking the fingers. She didn’t lash out, and she didn’t blink, her posture and poise screaming at Byrtyn Fey to continue—and at the same time, warning the diminutive fool that she probably would be much better off doing no such thing.
Byrtyn Fey, who had witnessed the incarnation of Lolth’s avatar at her Feast of the Founding, who had lost her House’s high priestess, her daughter Minolin, to the favored Quenthel and House Baenre, was wise enough not to continue. She quietly slipped back down to her chair.
The matron mother was pleased at that. Quenthel had tightened her grip on the city and the council once again. Even her allies were none too happy. But they were paralyzed, all of them, by the threat of so many demons wandering Menzoberranzan. They were all, even Mez’Barris Armgo, so consumed by trying to keep their compounds secure and their nobles and other notables alive, that they had no opportunity to organize against House Baenre.
Because they knew.
The demons were Quenthel’s doing, mostly, though now the creatures had indeed taken to gating in other creatures from the Abyss on their own.
And if they were Quenthel’s doing, then she had done so with the blessing of Lady Lolth.
They knew.
Quenthel couldn’t suppress her wicked smile.
MALAGDORL DEL’ARMGO, WEAPONS master of Barrison Del’Armgo, cut a striking figure among the downtrodden of the Braeryn, the poorest and most crowded district of Menzoberranzan, a place so full of offal, living and not, that it was commonly referred to as Quis’kenblum, the Stenchstreets.
“Uthegental!” one sickly drow male said from a decrepit doorway, and when the weapons master spun on him, he fell away with a cry and gasp.
But in truth, the weapons master of Barrison Del’Armgo smiled upon hearing the name, the name of his great uncle, who, by Malagdorl’s estimation, was the greatest weapons master to ever serve in Menzoberranzan. That very morning, under the guidance of Matron Mother Mez’Barris, Malagdorl had shaved the sides of his head and spiked the short top hair in a thick row, like a line of white teeth running from his forehead over his crown and to the base of his skull.
Matron Mother Mez’Barris herself had cooked the rothé udders to fashion the thick hair gel, and had added a bit of enchantment to it, Malagdorl believed, for she had chanted quietly when she had thickly applied it. Subsequently, he knew that it was more than pride that had swelled his already considerable mus
cles as the unguent had settled on his dark skin.
So, too, had enchantments been placed upon the other baubles given the weapons master of House Barrison Del’Armgo this day, the mithral ring piercing his nose and the gold pins stuck through his cheeks. These were not the same ones that had decorated the face of Uthegental, as those had been lost in the war with the dwarves in Mithral Hall, but Malagdorl didn’t doubt the powers imbued in these replacements. One pin would close his wounds, while the other afforded great biting power to his square jaw, and magical volume to his battle cries.
Matron Mother Mez’Barris had been cryptic about the powers of the nose ring, but Malagdorl held faith that they were considerable indeed. She had promised him that it would prove the most valuable item of all if ever he found himself in dire trouble.
No replacement pieces were needed for the black plate armor and great trident Malagdorl carried this day, for these were the very armor and weapons wielded by Uthegental. How shocked had the young weapons master been the previous night when his matron mother had revealed to him the great prizes. How she had obtained them, how they had ever been recovered after a century or more, he could not begin to guess.
Nor did he much care. He was Malagdorl Del’Armgo now, not merely Malagdorl Armgo, granted the full surname by the matron mother of the House, in accordance with the honors given to Uthegental. Outfitted now with powerful items, he would carry on the tradition and live up to the savage reputation of Barrison Del’Armgo weapons masters.
He reached over the side of his subterranean lizard mount, his great trident held upright, and tapped the butt of the weapon on the floor, signaling for the others to halt.
The six elite guards did, dismounting efficiently and drawing their weapons as they fanned out wide about the weapons master.
Malagdorl commanded a garrison of a thousand well trained and magnificently armed and armored warriors, and among that regiment, these six were among the finest, all handpicked by Malagdorl himself.
He slipped off the side of his disciplined lizard mount and motioned to the drow warrior nearest the door where the sickly male had been.
That Armgo warrior rushed into the hovel, returning just a few heartbeats later with a terrified male, and with another couple of drow, male and female, as well. He herded them over to stand in front of the imposing figure of Malagdorl.
And it was an imposing figure. Uthegental’s armor had not needed alteration to fit this huge and powerful dark elf. Malagdorl stood above six feet tall, and though not quite as thick as Uthegental—yet—he was near to two hundred pounds, almost all of it muscle.
“There are demons about, I am told,” he said to the sickly looking drow who had named him as Uthegental from the doorway.
The poor fellow seemed confused, as did his companions, and he wagged his head about, scanning, then pointing to a chasme demon, like a huge and ugly rot fly, buzzing the rooftops along a nearby lane.
“Something bigger and more formidable!” Malagdorl scolded, and the drow shrank away from him.
Malagdorl started to reach out, thinking to throttle the Houseless fool, but a shriek from nearby stayed his hand and saved the sickly drow weakling. All seven of Malagdorl’s troupe turned as one to regard a large structure in the midst of the rundown region.
The door banged open and out staggered another Houseless drow rogue, stumbling to the hitching post set in front of the inn, tumbling over it to lie twitching on the stone boulevard, thrashing from some internal agony, likely poison.
The sounds of swordplay rolled out of the open door, and more dark elves appeared, stumbling and scrambling to get away.
Malagdorl grinned and nodded at the door, and his troupe set off as one, ready to make their mark, for the glory of House Barrison Del’Armgo.
“A marilith,” Malagdorl whispered as they neared the door and noted the demon wreaking havoc inside, with six arms swinging deadly weapons and that serpentine body slithering about.
Malagdorl reached his left hand into his belt pouch and brought forth fingers dripping with red dye, which he streaked across the left side of his face. He flipped his magnificent trident to the other hand and similarly dipped his right hand into a second pouch, this time bringing it forth dripping with yellow dye.
To the drow around him, all older veterans, he looked even more like the reincarnation of Uthegental. And so they followed him into the inn, into the waiting embrace of the six-armed demon.
QUENTHEL BAENRE GLIDED through the corridors of House Baenre with her chin up and shoulders back, feeling no weight whatsoever from the myriad complaints rolling in at her and about her from the other noble Houses. They could only complain with a modicum of volume, for they all knew that Matron Mother Baenre acted in accordance with the demands of the Spider Queen.
Still, for all her resolve, the matron mother couldn’t begin to manage a smile as she passed the servants and minor nobles. All bowed before her, many even prostrating themselves on the floor as she passed. Her dour mood, though, was not due to the demons but rather the child she now sought.
She moved into Gromph’s private quarters, fearing no wards or glyphs, for he had given her permission to enter at her convenience—she was the matron mother, after all, and if one of Gromph’s wards injured her, the retribution upon the archmage would be swift and deadly. Lolth had demanded no less from him, and as troublesome as Gromph Baenre could be, he would not, Quenthel knew, go directly against the Demon Queen of Spiders, particularly not in this place, House Baenre, where any transgressions would be fast relayed to Lolth’s ears.
Inside the room, she found High Priestess Minolin Fey Baenre, standing at the ready, a spider-shaped dagger in her hand, a look of anguish on her pretty face.
She wasn’t moving. She didn’t even seem to be breathing. She just stood there, the knife held at the ready in an overhand grip, her legs anchored as if she had been moving with speed and intent, but had then been simply locked in place.
A spell of holding, the matron mother surmised.
And there was the child, Yvonnel, sitting on the floor and playing casually nearby, as if nothing were amiss. The sight disturbed Quenthel profoundly, for she knew the true identity of this child. This was Yvonnel, her niece, but so, too, was it Yvonnel, her mother. The illithid had gone to the child in the womb and had imparted the memories and insights of Yvonnel the Eternal, much as Methil had given the same to Quenthel.
Quenthel suspected that Methil’s work with the baby had been more comprehensive than that which the illithid had given to her.
She stared at the baby playing casually on the floor while a high priestess with clear murderous intent stood frozen in place, helpless against the power the child could wield.
A high priestess!
But no, Quenthel soon realized, Minolin Fey’s enchanted state was not the handiwork of the toddler, for within an antechamber, the matron mother noted some movement, and recognized, too, the source of that movement: a handmaiden of Lolth.
“Well met, daughter of Gromph,” Quenthel greeted the child, who slowly turned to regard her.
“We have met many times, Quenthel,” the child said, and Quenthel had to remind herself to suppress her anger at the lack of respect and the familiarity shown her. This was no ordinary child, no mere niece to the latest Matron Mother Baenre.
“Both in this life, and in mine past,” the child said, and she went back to playing with the rothé bones.
“Your guardian?” Quenthel asked, motioning to the antechamber.
“Minolin Fey’s, more likely,” said the child, never looking up from her game. “Had the priestess continued her stalking of me, I would have obliterated her. Still, I feel for the poor, confused Minolin Fey. I can hardly blame her for her frustration, even her murderous intent. Alas, but I have robbed her of her attempt at motherhood, so it would seem.”
Quenthel’s jaw hung open as she tried futilely to digest that ridiculous speech—especially ridiculous when she considered that this
was the virtual reincarnation of Yvonnel sitting on the floor in front of her.
Sympathy? Mercy?
It was all for her, Quenthel realized, all to let her know how comfortably in control this matron mother in toddler’s clothing truly was. Allowing Minolin Fey to live, given her clear treachery, was simply a reminder from this seemingly helpless baby that she was in complete control—at least in her own room. If not for Quenthel’s approach, Yvonnel or her pet yochlol would have very likely destroyed Minolin Fey for her treachery.
Minolin Fey was alive now only because she served as a reminder.
Quenthel stared at the child, who didn’t bother to look back.
But the matron mother continued to stare at her, hating her, wanting nothing more than to throttle the little creature. But she could not, of course, not with a yochlol in the other room, watching carefully.
And where did Gromph fit in to all of this subterfuge? He had once, not long ago, hated Quenthel profoundly, and had even conspired against her. She knew that, and it had been confirmed to her when the avatar of Lolth had shown up at House Fey-Branche in the Festival of the Founding.
But Gromph had been the one to bring Quenthel to Methil. In obedience to Lolth, Gromph had granted her such insight and power—would he have done any such thing if he was still plotting against her?
Now this, though, this little creature sitting on the floor … Gromph’s child, and one the archmage no doubt hoped would supplant Quenthel as Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan sooner rather than later.
Would the archmage help facilitate that usurpation? No doubt, she realized, if the Spider Queen desired it, and no doubt even if the Spider Queen was not actively opposed to it.
Doubts began to swim in Quenthel’s thoughts. This plan, this infant daughter imbued from the womb with the memories of Matron Mother Yvonnel the Eternal, seemed suddenly far beyond her, and far above her.
Was there any precedent for her abdicating the throne of Menzoberranzan to one more worthy? Of doing so without being murdered, or turned into a drider? Could she become again a high priestess of House Baenre under the leadership of this newest Yvonnel?