Homeland (8 page)

A moment later, though, the younger drow reappeared, and Alton remembered that he was in no position to make such judgments.

“This is mine,” Masoj demanded, showing Alton a small black object: a remarkably detailed onyx figurine of a hunting panther. “A gift from a denizen of the lower planes for some help I gave to him.”

“You aided such a creature?” Alton had to ask, finding it difficult to believe that a mere apprentice had the resources necessary to even survive an encounter with such an unpredictable and mighty foe.

“The Faceless One—” Masoj kicked the corpse again—”took the credit and the statue, but they are mine! Everything else in here will go to you, of course. I know the magical dweomers of most and will show you what is what.”

Brightening at the hope that he would indeed survive this dreadful day, Alton cared little about the figurine at that moment. All he wanted was to be freed of the webs so that he could find out the truth of his house’s fate. Then Masoj, ever a confusing young drow, turned suddenly and started away.

“Where are you going?” Alton asked.

“To get the acid.”

“Acid?” Alton hid his panic well, though he had a terrible feeling that he understood what Masoj meant to do.

“You want the disguise to appear authentic,” Masoj explained matter-of-factly. “Otherwise, it would not be much of a disguise. We should take advantage of the web while it lasts. It will hold you still.”

“No,” Alton started to protest, but Masoj wheeled on him, the evil grin wide on his face.

“It does seem a bit of pain, and a lot of trouble to go through,” Masoj admitted. “You have no family and will find no allies in Sorcere, since the Faceless One was so despised by the other masters.” He brought the crossbow up level with Alton’s eyes and fitted another poisoned dart. “Perhaps you would prefer death.”

“Get the acid!” Alton cried.

“To what end?” Masoj teased, waving the crossbow. “What have you to live for, Alton DeVir of No House Worth Mentioning?”

“Revenge,” Alton sneered, the sheer wrath of his tone setting the confident Masoj on his heels. “You have not learned this yet— though you will, my young student—but nothing in life gives more purpose than the hunger for revenge!”

Masoj lowered the bow and eyed the trapped drow with respect, almost fear. Still, the apprentice Hun’ett could not appreciate the gravity of Alton’s proclamation until Alton reiterated, this time with an eager smile on his face, “Get the acid.”

our cycles of Narbondel—four days—later, a glowing blue disk floated up the mushroom-lined stone path to the spider-covered gate of House Do’Urden. The sentries watched it from the windows of the two outer towers and from the compound as it hovered patiently three feet off the ground. Word came to the ruling family only seconds later.

“What can it be?” Briza asked Zaknafein when she, the weapons master, Dinin, and Maya assembled on the balcony of the upper level.

“A summons?” Zak asked as much as answered. “We will not know until we investigate.” He stepped up on the railing and out into the empty air, then levitated down to the compound floor. Briza motioned to Maya, and the youngest Do’Urden daughter followed Zak.

“It bears the standard of House Baenre,” Zak called up after he had moved closer. He and Maya opened the large gates, and the disk slipped in, showing no hostile movements.

“Baenre,” Briza repeated over her shoulder, down the house’s corridor to where Matron Malice and Rizzen waited.

“It seems that you are requested in audience, Matron Mother,” Dinin put in nervously.

Malice moved out to the balcony, and her husband obediently followed.

“Do they know of our attack?” Briza asked in the silent code, and every member of House Do’Urden, noble and commoner alike, shared that unpleasant thought. House DeVir had been eliminated only a few days before, and a calling card from the First Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan could hardly be viewed as a coincidence.

“Every house knows,” Malice replied aloud, not believing the silence to be a necessary precaution within the boundaries of her own complex. “Is the evidence against us so overwhelming that the ruling council will be forced to action?” She stared hard at Briza, her dark eyes alternating between the red glow of infravision and the deep green they showed in the aura of normal light. “That is the question we must ask.” Malice stepped up onto the balcony, but Briza grabbed the back of her heavy black robe to stay her.

“You do not mean to go with the thing?” Briza asked.

Malice’s answering look showed even more startlement. “Of course,” she replied. “Matron Baenre would not openly call upon me if she meant me harm. Even her power is not so great that she can ignore the tenets of the city.”

“You are certain that you will be safe?” Rizzen asked, truly concerned. If Malice was killed, Briza would take over the house, and Rizzen doubted that the eldest daughter would want any male by her side. Even if the vicious female did desire a patron, Rizzen would not want to be the one in that position. He was not Briza’s father, was not even as old as Briza. Clearly, the present patron of the house had a lot at stake in Matron Malice’s continued good health.

“Your concern touches me,” Malice replied, knowing her husband’s true fears. She pulled out of Briza’s grasp and stepped off the railing, straightening her robes as she slowly descended. Briza shook her head disdainfully and motioned Rizzen to follow her back inside the house, not thinking it wise that the bulk of the family be so exposed to unfriendly eyes.

“Do you want an escort?” Zak asked as Malice sat on the disk.

“I am certain that I will find one as soon as I am beyond the perimeter of our compound,” Malice replied. “Matron Baenre would not risk exposing me to any danger while I am in the care of her house.”

“Agreed,” said Zak, “but do you want an escort from House Do’Urden?”

“If one was wanted, two disks would have floated in,” Malice said in a tone of finality. The matron was beginning to find the concerns of those around her stifling. She was the matron mother, after all, the strongest, the oldest, and the wisest, and did not appreciate others second-guessing her. To the disk, Malice said, “Execute your appointed task, and let us be done with it!”

Zak nearly snickered at Malice’s choice of words.

“Matron Malice Do’Urden,” came a magical voice from the disk, “Matron Baenre offers her greetings. Too long has it been since last you two have sat in audience.”

“Never,” Malice signaled to Zak. “Then take me to House Baenre!” Malice demanded. “I do not wish to waste my time conversing with a magical mouth!”

Apparently, Matron Baenre had anticipated Malice’s impatience, for without another word, the disk floated back out of the Do’Urden compound.

Zak shut the gate as it left, then quickly signaled his soldiers into motion. Malice did not want any open company, but the Do’Urden spy network would covertly track every movement of the Baenre sled, to the very gates of the ruling house’s grand compound.

Malice’s guess about an escort was correct. As soon as the disk swept down from the pathway to the Do’Urden compound, twenty soldiers of House Baenre, all female, moved out from concealment along the sides of the boulevard. They formed a defensive diamond around the guest matron mother. The guard at each point of the formation wore black robes emblazoned on the back with a large purple-and-red spider design—the robes of a high priestess.

“Baenre’s own daughters,” Malice mused, for only the daughters of a noble could attain such a rank. How careful the First Matron Mother had been to ensure Malice’s safety on the trip!

Slaves and drow commoners tripped over themselves in a frantic effort to get far out of the way of the approaching entourage as the group made its way through the curving streets toward the mushroom grove. The soldiers of House Baenre alone wore their house insignia in open view, and no one wanted to invoke the anger of Matron Baenre in any way.

Malice just rolled her eyes in disbelief and hoped that she might know such power before she died.

She rolled her eyes again a few minutes later, when the group approached the ruling house. House Baenre encompassed twenty tall and majestic stalagmites, all interconnected with gracefully sweeping and arching bridges and parapets. Magic and faerie fire glowed from a thousand separate sculptures and a hundred regally adorned guardsmen paced about in perfect formations.

Even more striking were the inverse structures, the thirty smaller stalactites of House Baenre. They hung down from the ceiling of the cavern, their roots lost in the high darkness. Some of them connected tip-to-tip with the stalagmite mounds, while others hung freely like poised spears. Ringing balconies, curving up like the edging of a screw, had been built along the length of all of these, glowing with an overabundance of magic and highlighted design.

Magic, too, was the fence that connected the bases of the outer stalagmites, encircling the whole of the compound. It was a giant web, silver against the general blue of the rest of the outer compound. Some said it had been a gift from Lolth herself, with iron-strong strands as thick as a drow elf’s arm. Anything touching Baenre’s fence, even the sharpest of drow weapons, would simply stick fast until the matron mother willed the fence to let it free.

Malice and her escorts moved straight toward a symmetrical and circular section of this fence, between the tallest of the outer towers. As they neared, the gate spiraled and wound out, leaving a gap large enough for the caravan to step through.

Malice sat through it all, trying to appear unimpressed.

Hundreds of curious soldiers watched the procession as it made its way to the central structure of House Baenre, the great purple-glowing chapel dome. The common soldiers left the entourage, leaving only the four high priestesses to escort Matron Malice inside.

The sights beyond the great doors to the chapel did not disappoint her. A central altar dominated the place with a row of benches spiraling out in several dozen circuits to the perimeter of the great hall. Two thousand drow could sit there with room to stretch. Statues and idols too numerous to count stood all about the place, glowing in a quiet black light. In the air high above the altar loomed a gigantic glowing image, a red-and-black illusion that slowly and continually shifted between the forms of a spider and a beautiful drow female.

“A work of Gromph, my principal wizard,” Matron Baenre explained from her perch on the altar, guessing that Malice, like everyone else who ever came to Chapel Baenre, was awestruck by the sight. “Even wizards have their place.”

“As long as they remember their place,” Malice replied, slipping down from the now stationary disk.

“Agreed,” said Matron Baenre. “Males can get so presumptuous at times, especially wizards! Still, I wish that I had Gromph at my side more often these days. He has been appointed Archmage of Menzoberranzan, you know, and seems always at work on Narbondel or some other such tasks.”

Malice just nodded and held her tongue. Of course, she knew that Baenre’s son was the city’s chief wizard. Everybody knew. Everybody knew, too, that Baenre’s daughter Triel was the Matron Mistress of the Academy, a position of honor in Menzoberranzan second only to the title of matron mother of an individual family. Malice had little doubt that Matron Baenre would somehow work that fact into the conversation before too long.

Before Malice took a step toward the stairs to the altar, her newest escort stepped out from the shadows. Malice scowled openly when she saw the thing, a creature known as an illithid, a mind flayer. It stood about six feet tall, fully a foot taller than Malice, most of the difference being the result of the creature’s enormous head. Glistening with slime, the head resembled an octopus with pupil-less, milky white eyes.

Malice composed herself quickly. Mind flayers were not unknown in Menzoberranzan, and rumors said that one had befriended Matron Baenre. These creatures, though, more intelligent and more evil than even the drow, almost always inspired shudders of revulsion.

“You may call him Methil,” Matron Baenre explained. “His true name is beyond my pronunciation. He is a friend.”

Before Malice could reply, Baenre added, “Of course, Methil gives me the advantage in our discussion, and you are not accustomed to illithids.” Then, as Malice’s mouth drooped open in disbelief, Matron Baenre dismissed the illithid.

“You read my thought,” Malice protested. Few could insinuate themselves through the mental barriers of a high priestess well enough to read her thoughts, and the practice was a crime of the highest order in drow society.

“No!” Matron Baenre explained, immediately on the defensive.

“Your pardon, Matron Malice. Methil reads thoughts, even the thoughts of a high priestess, as easily as you or I hear words. He communicates telepathically. On my word, I did not even realize that you had not yet spoken your thoughts.”

Malice waited to watch the creature depart the great hall, then walked up the steps to the altar. In spite of her efforts against the action, she could not help peeking up at the transforming spider-and-drow image every now and.

“How fares House Do’Urden?” Matron Baenre asked, feigning politeness.

“Well enough,” replied Malice, more interested at that moment in studying her counterpart than in conversing. They were alone atop the altar, though no doubt a dozen or so clerics wandered through the shadows of the great hall, keeping a watchful eye on the situation.

Malice had all that she could handle in hiding her contempt for Matron Baenre. Malice was old, nearly five hundred, but Matron Baenre was ancient. Her eyes had seen the rise and fall of a millennium, by some accounts, though drow rarely lived past their seventh—and certainly not their eighth—century. While drow normally did not show their age—Malice was as beautiful and vibrant now as she had been on her one-hundredth birthday—Matron Baenre was withered and worn. The wrinkles surrounding her mouth resembled a spider’s web, and she could hardly keep the heavy lids of her eyes from dropping altogether. Matron Baenre should be dead, Malice noted, but still she lives.