Condemnation (33 page)

“What if I show you that you’re wrong?” she said softly. “Tomorrow night we dance in the forest for Eilistraee’s delight. I will bring you there, and you will see for yourself what our goddess demands of us.”

“I will have no part of it,” Halisstra snapped, finally irritated enough to forget her resolve to feign a grudging conversion to the surface dwellers’ vapid beliefs.

“Your faith in your Spider Queen is so weak you can’t bear to watch us dance?” Seyll asked. “Listen, watch, and judge for yourself. That’s all I ask.”

The endless black gale that shrieked up through the vertical streets of ruined Chaulssin welcomed Nimor’s return with a barrage of gusts so powerful that even he was momentarily rocked on his feet. His white hair whipping around his head like a wild halo, the Anointed Blade paused a moment in his steps to allow the blast to die away.

He could not remain long in the City of Wyrmshadows, not while Menzoberranzan’s army marched and the Agrach Dyrr contingent tramped along without him, but he wasn’t in such a hurry that he couldn’t tarry a moment in the hidden citadel of his secret House. Nimor Imphraezl was a prince of Chaulssin, after all, and the magnificent ruin, the hell-carved citadel, was his domain. He had not been born there, of course, nor had he spent his childhood years in the shadow-haunted city. The place was too perilous for the young, so the Jaezred Chaulssin fostered their princes in a dozen minor Houses in as many cities throughout the Underdark. From the time he reached adulthood and came into his ancient birthright, though, Nimor had regarded the windswept ruin as his own palace.

The gust passed, at least as much as any blast of wind ever did in the black chasm yawning around the city, and the assassin continued on his way. Menzoberranzan was little more than an hour distant through the Plane of Shadow, and so it was fairly easy for Nimor to manufacture an excuse to absent himself from the marching column to tend to some “personal matters.” Even if Andzrel Baenre summoned the House captains to a sudden council of war during Nimor’s absence, he took little risk in leaving for a short time. The army moved quickly, as armies go, but no one would find it overly suspicious for a noble to tarry in the city for a short time before riding out to catch up to the column.

He reached the great, spiraling stair cut through the heart of Chaulssin’s stone mountain and ascended quickly, taking the steps two at a time. In the great hall at the top, he found the patron fathers assembled again, clustered together in twos and threes as they traded news and fomented plots to advance the House during their time of remarkable opportunity. Grandfather Mauzzkyl turned to level his fearsome glare upon Nimor as the assassin entered.

“Once again you keep us waiting,” he said.

“I beg your forgiveness, Revered Grandfather,” Nimor replied. He drew up into the circle with the others and made a small bow. The winds outside the chamber moaned eerily in the distance. “I was summoned to a council of war that I did not think it wise to miss.”

“One might say the same of this gathering,” observed Patron Father Tomphael.

Nimor forced a smile and replied, “I have been working for some time to cultivate a particular identity and level of responsibility among Menzoberranzan’s defenders, Tomphael. That sort of effort is not to be lightly thrown aside. Until the revered grandfather instructs me otherwise, I will keep you waiting when it is necessary to protect our plots against the Spider Queen’s favored—”

“Enough, Nimor,” Mauzzkyl rumbled. “How do things proceed in Menzoberranzan?”

“Very well, Revered Grandfather. Crown Prince Horgar Steelshadow of Gracklstugh marches an army of nearly five thousand duergar on Menzoberranzan. The matron mothers have decided to meet the duergar in the field instead of awaiting a siege, since they fear the belligerence of other Underdark realms. I have, however, arranged for the crown prince’s army to steal a march on the Menzoberranyr, and I also have command of a contingent of troops who can be turned at the right moment to help assure the outcome we desire. Finally, I have convinced the cambion warlord Kaanyr Vhok to bring his army of tanarukks against Menzoberranzan as well, though I am less certain of the Scoured Legion. Vhok may or may not show, and if he does, he has little allegiance to our cause.”

“You intend to destroy the forces of Menzoberranzan in detail, then,” Patron Xorthaul observed. The black-armored priest stroked his chin. “What if the Menzoberranyr prove more resilient than you expect, and defeat the duergar instead? Or Kaanyr Vhok proves unfaithful? It might have been better to lure a smaller force into your trap, Anointed Blade. Your first play is too risky.”

“If I had presented the duergar as less of a threat, the matron mothers would have been sorely tempted to ignore them altogether. As matters stand, one of three results may come of the battle between Gracklstugh and Menzoberranzan. The duergar might win, it could be in effect a draw, or the drow could prevail. We’re doing what we can to deliver Menzoberranzan’s army into the crown prince’s hands, but even if he fails to destroy the Lolthites outright, there is an excellent chance the duergar will badly maul the Menzoberranyr—in which case, the duergar may weaken our enemies so badly we can overthrow them ourselves. At the worst, if Gracklstugh is routed, well… other than the failure of our plan, we lose little.”

“Remember, Patron Xorthaul, our strategy against Menzoberranzan is a strategy of attrition,” Mauzzkyl said. “The city is too strong to take in one stroke, so we must bleed it to death with a dozen cuts.”

“Menzoberranzan’s wizards will certainly divine the existence of such a great army so close to their city,” Patron Tomphael, himself a wizard, observed. “The matron mothers will recall their force, or reverse your ambush on the duergar instead.”

“Our allies in Agrach Dyrr have helped us with this,” said Nimor. “Gromph Baenre has vanished. The Masters of Sorcere are quite naturally testing each other’s resolve and resources to determine who shall be the next archmage.”

“There are many powerful wizards serving the city’s Houses, Nimor,” Tomphael replied. “They will not be distracted by an opportunity at Sorcere.”

Nimor permitted himself a rueful nod and said, “True, but as we well know, House wizards tend to spend a lot of their time spying out the weaknesses of other Houses. So far, no one seems to have come forward to dispute the version of events I advanced to the Council.”

“It would be no more than the better part of wisdom to set your plans with the assumption that your plots will be unmasked at the most inconvenient time possible,” Patron Xorthaul said. “What will you do if some raw apprentice in some second-rate House happens to scry the approach of the crown prince’s army, and the matron mothers recall theirs? They might stand a siege forever.”

“Now you understand,” Nimor said patiently, “why I went so far as to approach Agrach Dyrr with an open offer of alliance, and decided to risk bringing Kaanyr Vhok into the equation. We need the Fifth House against that very possibility, to admit Horgar’s army—or the Scoured Legion—into the city, if it comes to that.”

Mauzzkyl folded his arms and lowered his fiery gaze.

“In either case, we shall have them,” the revered grandfather said, a smile of dark satisfaction twisting his features. “If Kaanyr Vhok betrays you, you still have Agrach Dyrr. If Agrach Dyrr betrays you, you have the cambion. I presume that Dyrr and Vhok know nothing of each other?”

Nimor said, “I thought it best to reserve at least one surprise against each of my ostensible allies, Revered Grandfather. It seemed wise to me to make certain that I would have as many options as possible, for as long as possible, in developing the attack on the city.”

“Excellent. What assistance might we provide you?”

The Anointed Blade considered the question. He was sorely tempted to say none at all, and claim all the glory of the victory to come, but the time was coming when his ability to move from place to place would be limited by the role he played at the head of Menzoberranzan’s army, and he needed help in handling Kaanyr Vhok. Besides, if the Sceptered One proved unfaithful, he could blame whomever had been sent to the warlord.

“We should gather our strength and be ready to strike when our allies play their part in reducing Menzoberranzan’s defenses,” he said.

“We do not have any great force at arms, Anointed Blade,” Mauzzkyl said. “I will not commit the Jaezred Chaulssin to a pitched battle.”

“I understand, Revered Grandfather.” If they gathered all their strength in one place, the secret House would hardly amount to the numbers of a single minor House of Menzoberranzan—though the Jaezred Chaulssin could have an impact out of all proportion to their numbers. “I need one of my brothers to go to Kaanyr Vhok’s Scoured Legion and steer the warlord in the right direction. My responsibilities in Menzoberranzan’s army and my efforts to guide Horgar Steelshadow and the renegade Agrach Dyrr do not permit me sufficient time to look after Kaanyr Vhok as well as I would like.”

Mauzzkyl nodded and said, “Very well. Zammzt, there is nothing left for you to do at Ched Nasad. I want you to go to Kaanyr Vhok and serve as our voice in his camp. Do whatever you must in order to keep his army aligned against Menzoberranzan, but you will answer to Nimor.”

The plain-faced assassin replied, “Of course, Revered Grandfather.”

He glanced over at Nimor, but did not allow his thoughts to show on his face.

“I approached the warlord through his consort, Aliisza,” Nimor told Zammzt. “She is an alu-fiend and a sorceress of no small skill. She knows that I represent a society or order of some kind, so she should not be surprised to receive another of us.”

Though I doubt she’ll extend you the same welcome she gave to me, he told himself.

“When do you expect the Menzoberranyr to first encounter Horgar’s army?” Mauzzkyl asked.

“Four days, I think.”

“Do what you can to sow dissent and uncertainty, Anointed Blade,” Mauzzkyl said. “The time for subterfuge and stealth is ending. The Jaezred Chaulssin leave the shadows and take the field. Destroy the matron mothers’ army and bring your duergar allies to Menzoberranzan as quickly as possible. We will meet you there, and we will see if the Masked Lord favors us or not.”

Nimor bowed again, then turned and strode away from the assembled patron fathers. Something would go amiss in his plan—something had to. One could not create such an elaborate collision of so many disparate forces without some of the components falling by the wayside. As best he could tell, though, the Jaezred Chaulssin were prepared. The longer he could keep secret the deadly maneuverings of his allies and his House, the better his chances for success.

Perhaps I will encourage Andzrel to appoint me chief of the expedition’s scouts, Nimor thought. No need to trouble the Baenre with irrelevant reports of armies on the move, after all.

The dark elves of House Jaelre proved to be suspicious and ungracious hosts. Ryld had expected to be shown into an audience room of some kind, where they would meet a clan matriarch and bribe, threaten, or persuade her into allowing them to consult with the priest Tzirik. However, nothing like that occurred. Since they refused to surrender their weapons, the Jaelre drow ushered the company into a small, disused guardroom that had once warded the ruined castle’s main gate.

“You will wait here until Tzirik chooses to receive you,” the female commanding the watch told them. “If you attempt to leave this room, we will take that as a sign of hostile intent and fall on you at once.”

“We are a high embassy from a powerful city,” Quenthel said in response. “You mistreat us at your peril.”

“You are slaves of the Spider Queen, and most likely spies and saboteurs,” the captain replied. “Lolth holds no sway here, spider-kissing bitch.”

She closed and locked the iron door before Quenthel could summon a suitable retort, though the fierce agitation of her snake-headed whip certainly hinted at the depths of her anger.

“Do we intend to remain confined here, like rabble locked up in a debtors’ gaol?” Jeggred snarled. “I have half a mind to—”

“Not yet, Jeggred,” Quenthel countered.

She paced back and forth angrily, her mouth working in silent fury. Pure ire fueled Quenthel with relentless energy. Confinement in a small room with her pent-up anger would be difficult for all of them.

Danifae watched her, then restrained Quenthel’s agitated pacing with a gentle hand on the Baenre’s arm.

“What is it, slave?” the priestess snapped.

“Your zeal is admirable, Mistress,” Danifae said, “but, please, we must be patient now.” She shielded her hands as best she could and added, Remember, we may be watched.

“She has a point, dear Quenthel,” Pharaun said. “You don’t want to start a fight against the very people we came to see. Your hard words and proud manner play better at Arach-Tinilith than on another god’s doorstep.”

Quenthel turned a look of such icy hatred on the wizard that Danifae put up a hand to steady her. Danifae herself shot Pharaun a venomous look, contempt twisting her beautiful features.

“Silence, Pharaun,” the battle captive snapped. “Your smug arrogance and endless baiting play better at Sorcere. At least the Mistress has the strength of her convictions—all you have is cynicism.”

Danifae studied Quenthel’s face and offered her a shy smile.

“Save your anger for later, Mistress,” the battle captive said softly. “Surely the goddess will be more pleased if you exact an accounting of the faithless after you’ve wrung the usefulness from them than if you destroy the tools required to serve her.”

Quenthel allowed herself to relax. She drew a deep breath, and took a seat at a barren wood table on which a flagon of water stood.

“Fine, then,” Quenthel breathed. “We will see what happens.”

That, Ryld guessed, was about as close as Quenthel would ever come to admitting that she had been wrong about something. With little else to do, the company settled down to endure whatever wait the Jaelre chose to test them with.

Long hours passed. The night faded into an overcast morning, which then gave way to a gray, rain-soaked afternoon.