R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation (67 page)

“Nothing,” the alu replied, reaching a hand out to stroke the back of the drow’s arm with her fingers. “I have all the information I’m supposed to get. Well, except for visiting one of the matron mothers to see if she wants Kaanyr’s assistance. They have some old pact or something. I’m still here because you’re here.”

Pharaun eyed her a moment longer, then chuckled and shook his head.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” he said at last. “The matron mothers of this city are the one big thing I’d like most to avoid, and here you are, preparing to drop in on one. Somehow, that just doesn’t bode well for me.”

“Oh, stop it,” Aliisza said, arching one of her eyebrows at the mage. “I’m not about to tell any matron mother about you. I wouldn’t want word getting back to—back to you-know-who”—she smiled again “—though I don’t see how you can avoid the matron mothers, given the company you’re traveling with.”

“What, Quenthel? No, that’s not a problem. She knows House Melarn won’t be too agreeable to her plan to take the Black Claw goods back to Menzoberranzan, so—” The wizard stopped in midsentence. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. I am a sex-addled idiot.”

He stared at Aliisza intently, his red eyes glittering.

The alu-fiend stared back, but she couldn’t help but smile.

“What are you doing, considering whether to try to kill me to keep your secret safe?” she asked. Arching one eyebrow she shimmied back away from the wizard, leaning back on her elbows provocatively. “I have a better idea,” she said, feeling her voice grow husky with desire. “Teach me another magic trick instead.”

Pharaun, feeling a combination of exhilaration and dread, left Aliisza in the little house. Exhilarated from the satisfying afternoon he’d spent with the alu, he was dreading all the things he’d let slip. Though he’d repeatedly told himself to be wary, he’d stumbled several times thus far. Being with the fiend had reduced his normally sharp instinct for caution to some half-remembered sense of danger that he knew he ought to be cognizant of but wasn’t. It was just an accepted practice that a drow never opened himself up to a fiend, that he should keep his dealings strictly business, and yet here he was, sharing her bed and spilling his best-kept secrets. Still, if he had to pick a risky diversion, Aliisza was quite the prize.

Whatever his apprehensions, Pharaun found that his steps were light as he made his way back to the Serpent and Flame. He had useful information to share with the rest of the Menzoberranyr, and he also had a couple of divinations he wanted to attempt that he hoped would clarify a bit just exactly what was going on in the Abyss. Plus, he might still have time to fulfill that request of Quenthel’s. All in all, it was turning out to be a truly memorable day.

Despite his own elation, Pharaun could still feel the tension of the city buzzing in the air, and he was careful to avoid the worst of the crowds. After the experience of the previous day, he didn’t think it wise to get caught up in a chest-thumping competition with a congregation of disgruntled citizens. He made certain to spend most of his time floating from section to section, avoiding completely the calcified webbing ladders that connected different levels.

The mage stopped along the way at a dingy-looking shop called Gauralt’s Spices, a place that purported to offer hard-to-find components for spellcasting. Valas had mentioned it to him that morning before they set out on their separate errands, and Pharaun found it exactly where the scout had said it would be. Of course, getting what he needed might prove to be another matter, but Gauralt, a drow male who ran the place, was able to supply him with the four strips of ivory and the particular incense he needed, and he was on his way again in no time.

Back at the inn, none of the rest of the mage’s companions had returned. He supposed that Ryld and Valas might spend most of the day attempting to round up the needed supplies and mounts for the return journey, but he was somewhat surprised that Quenthel, Faeryl, and Jeggred had not come back from the storehouse. He couldn’t imagine what would require them to spend that much time there, but then it was just as well.

If she was here, he told himself, she’d simply find something to snipe about, anyway.

He began to make a mental checklist of the spells he wanted to cast. First, he would use his new components to try to track down who was trying to kill Quenthel.

And probably offer to help, he added, grinning.

He also planned to try again to take a peek into the Demonweb Pits.

It was a spell he had tried more than once back in Menzoberranzan, with no luck whatsoever, but he hoped it would yield more satisfying results away from the City of Spiders. The Master of Sorcere had no basis for this supposition, but he thought it was still worth an attempt.

Pharaun retrieved the four strips of ivory he’d acquired, along with the incense, and sat down to perform the spell. Casting it would leave him weary and low on spells, but if the knowledge he gained from it was useful, he would count the cost worthwhile.

The mage arranged the four strips of ivory into a rectangle upon the carpeting, lit the incense, and closed his eyes. It was not a spell he cast often, and it required a careful application of chanting and specific questions. He couldn’t stumble at any point, for he didn’t know when the next opportunity to try it would arise.

With the incense burning and the spell begun, Pharaun asked his question, beseeching the elemental forces of magic and the planes of existence to grant him a meaningful answer.

“Reveal to me the enemy of Quenthel Baenre of House Baenre in Menzoberranzan, the enemy who seeks to destroy her, who calls forth demons to slay her in the very temple where she reigns.”

The burning incense flared, and smoke filled the room. After a moment, a message formed in Pharaun’s mind, words uttered by the wind, or perhaps the Weave itself. However it was delivered, the message that Pharaun received was clear.

The one who seeks the high priestess’s death shares her blood and her ambition. Quenthel’s enemy sprang from the same womb but is not of the womb.

Pharaun blinked, his red eyes taking in the darkened room as the last remnants of the incense burned out and turned to ash.

Sprang from the same womb but not of the womb. A sibling, but not a female. A male? A brother? Gromph! It had to be. . . .

Pharaun was surprised, not so much that the Archmage of Menzoberranzan would wish his sister dead but by the fact that he hadn’t see it before then. Gromph had much to gain by eliminating the only real rival for Triel’s ear. The archmage could not have designs on the throne of House Baenre itself, but he could be the puppet master, pulling the strings behind the scenes. Quenthel disagreed with everything her brother said, and vice versa, so she was an obvious and powerful impediment to any ambitions he might have.

Adding to that was the fact that Gromph had the knowledge of the Academy’s defenses and had the capability to summon forth the fiends used in the attacks. It was a talent few others possessed, at least few others with the interest to do so. There were other powerful wizards within the halls of Sorcere, and Pharaun supposed that some of them would like to see someone replace Quenthel as the Mistress of the Academy, but Gromph was the one who stood to gain the most.

Though he knew the answer, Pharaun wasn’t sure what to do with it.

On the one hand, he considered, I’m here with Quenthel. Does telling her aid me more? Or do I simply seal my fate upon returning to Sorcere? If I tell Gromph that Quenthel is trying to find out who’s after her, even do him a favor by misleading her— or eliminating her, a small part of his mind suggested—does my standing at Sorcere improve, or will he be unable to protect me from Triel’s wrath?

Of course, Pharaun knew that most of his decisions hinged on the eventuality of returning to Menzoberranzan, and he was planning to argue with Quenthel against that course of action. There were still too many variables, too many possible outcomes, before he would know which side of the siblings’ conflict to join. He could stall Quenthel for a while. She wouldn’t know what might be involved in his quest for her information. For all she knew, he could be working through a spell that actually took days to complete or negotiating with an elemental of some sort, making a bargain to exchange some commodity for a casting of a spell he himself did not know. There were a number of lies he could tell her to keep her waiting.

For the time being, then, he decided he would stay mute on his findings and see which way the rothé herd roamed. When the time was right, he would play it to his advantage. Either outcome, and he would improve his station within the Academy.

Pharaun rested a few moments longer on the floor, recovering from the exertions of the spell then began packing up his paraphernalia, stowing the strips of ivory away in a pocket of his
piwafwi.

Next, Pharaun removed a small mirror from his haversack. He briefly wondered if using the same spell he had just employed to find Quenthel’s enemy would work better in these circumstances, but he couldn’t cast it again without resting for a few hours then studying his spellbooks. Firming his resolve, the wizard began chanting the words needed to activate the magical scrying.

The Master of Sorcere knew the spell was dangerous. Attempting to look in on a deity without permission could have disastrous ramifications. Still, he was intent on trying, if only to discern more of what was going on in the wake of the goddess’s absence. Drawing on the memories he had of his strange visit to the Demonweb Pits those decades past, he finished the spell and peered into the mirror, which was reflecting a cloudy image of elsewhere rather than his own dark-skinned face.

Pharaun gazed into the magical window for a while, waiting and hoping that he might recognize something in its murky depths. There was nothing. He willed the spectral eye that he knew was on the other end of his spell to glide forward, remotely peering this way and that, trying to catch a glimpse of something, anything solid in the formless fog.

The mage felt a tingle, a warning in the back of his mind. He mentally scrambled to release the spell, to sever the connection with the eye at the far side of oblivion, and he almost succeeded, but not quite. A backlash of energy slammed into him, hurtled outward through the mirror like a punch, while at the same time Pharaun sensed a wall of force sliding down, cutting him off from his magical eye.

As his senses returned, Pharaun realized he was sprawled on his back, blinking as his eyes tried to focus on the ceiling. He groaned and sat up, seeing that he had been hurtled backward from the mirror more than ten feet. He rose onto wobbly legs and staggered back over to the mirror. It was cracked, its glass surface spider-webbed into hundreds of fissures. He stared at the ruined mirror for a moment, wondering if the pattern was representative of something or merely a coincidence.

Well, that answers that question, Pharaun thought. A mere mortal cannot penetrate the veil that has settled over the sixty-sixth layer of the Abyss, but perhaps a higher being can.

The Master of Sorcere shook his head and sighed as he gingerly gathered the fragmented remains of the mirror.

Why do I go through this trouble? he thought as he tried to figure out where he should discard the ruined thing. Everything I do for everyone, and all I get is grief in return. I’ll bet other folk don’t go through this much trouble to track down their deities, he thought wryly. I’m sure they just look them up anytime—

The wizard froze in the middle of the room, the beginnings of an idea forming. He almost smacked himself in the head.

Of course! he thought. I’ve been going about this all wrong. Why didn’t I think of this before? We’re asking the wrong . . .

Tossing the mirror down in a tinkle of glass, Pharaun began to pace, mulling his idea over more carefully. A plan was beginning to form, one that was getting him excited. The hardest part, he realized, would be figuring out how to convince Quenthel.

It was not long after that that Ryld and Valas returned from their own excursions.

The wizard took one look at the pair of them and quickly surmised that their endeavors had not only ended unsatisfactorily but violently. Both drow were glum as well as bloodied and bruised. Valas walked with a slight limp, and Ryld seemed unable to lift his left arm above his waist. Almost as one, they dropped their gear on the floor and dropped down onto their Reverie couches.

“I gather that things did not go well today,” Pharaun commented. “No chance to haul Quenthel’s supplies out of here?”

“Three places,” Valas muttered. “We tried three places and got into two scuffles for our troubles.”

“There just isn’t a pack lizard to be had, it seems,” Ryld added, rubbing his eyes with his good hand. “If there is, no one is ready to sell it to outsiders.”

“I don’t find that hard to believe,” Pharaun replied, “considering that no caravans have entered or left the city in such a long while. Everyone is holding tight to what they have, riding the crisis out.”

Pharaun busied himself straightening his own things while the other two males sat still.

“I’ll wager with you for who has to tell her,” Ryld said to Valas. “Rock, knife, and parchment?”

The scout shook his head.

“Let’s just make the wizard tell her,” he said, pointing to Pharaun. “He seems to delight so in tormenting her, anyway, so what’s one more bit of bad news out of his mouth?”

Ryld nodded, and Pharaun found himself smiling.

“Well, we all have a reprieve, at least for the moment,” the mage said. “She and the other two haven’t returned from the storehouse.”

“Really?” Valas asked, sitting up. “I would have thought they’d return before us for sure.”

Pharaun shrugged and said, “As would I, but none of them are here.”

“That’s fine by me,” Ryld said, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes. “The less I have to see of that damned draegloth, the better off I am.”

Pharaun pursed his lips, realizing that what he was going to suggest next might not set well with either the weapons master or the scout.