Ричард Бейкер - Condemnation

Halisstra and Ryld played two games, using a small traveling board the weapons master kept in a pouch at his belt. Ryld Argith won both games, though Halisstra pressed him hard in both. She’d always had a knack for sava, though she could tell early on that she was playing a master. Long, silent hours passed in the darkness, with no sign that the lamias had discovered their hiding place. I can’t believe they haven’t followed us, Halisstra remarked at the end of the second game.

We slew many of their favorite thralls, I guess. The lamias were careless of the lives of their slaves, and perhaps do not have enough left to do a proper job of searching the city for us. Ryld smiled coldly. For that matter, we slew a few lamias, too. Perhaps they’re not very anxious to find us.

As long as they leave us be, Halisstra replied.

With the sava game no longer holding her interest, she realized that she was dreadfully hungry. They’d eaten a thin breakfast before sunrise from the few supplies they’d brought from Ched Nasad, but Halisstra was certain that the day was drawing down. Drow could stand privation better than most, but hard combat followed by hours of vigilance had left her physically exhausted.

I’m starving, she flashed at Ryld. Things seem quiet. I’m going to slip back to the camp and break out some stores. Stay alert.

The weapons master nodded, and whispered, “Hurry back.”

Halisstra rose and wrapped her piwafwi close around her. The hall was still and dark, as it had been for hours. She stole quietly back to the chamber where the others waited for Pharaun to ready his spells, using all the stealth she could muster. She could hear soft voices ahead, Quenthel and Danifae conversing quietly in the ruined gallery.

A dark shadow flitted across Halisstra’s heart. When she thought about it, there were few things she wished Danifae and Quenthel to speak about.

I should not have left them alone, she chided herself. I let Quenthel order me about like a male!

Deliberately, she crept closer, a silent shadow in the darkness. She could see Pharaun sitting wrapped in a blanket, deep in Reverie as he leaned against the wall, his eyes heavy and half-lidded. Quenthel and Danifae sat close together, turned a little away from the wizard, which brought them close to the passage in which Halisstra stood.

“What do you think you will do when we return to Menzoberranzan, girl? Do you think some high station awaits your mistress there?” Quenthel said, her whispers scornful and acidic.

“I do not know, Mistress,” Danifae said after a long time. “I have not thought that far ahead.”

“Orcswill. You have been thinking hard from the moment I laid eyes on you in the audience hall of House Melarn. In fact, I’ll even hazard a guess as to what must occupy your thoughts. You are wondering how you can bring about your return to House Yauntyrr in Eryndlyn, with Halisstra Melarn as your battle captive.”

“I dare not entertain such a thought—”

Quenthel laughed cruelly and said, “Save your innocent protests for someone more gullible, girl. You still have not answered my question. Why should I take you and your mistress back to Menzoberranzan?”

“It would be my hope,” Danifae said in a faltering voice, “that I might have an opportunity to demonstrate my usefulness to you, so that you might choose to give me the opportunity to serve.”

“I see you do not presume to answer for your mistress this time,” Quenthel snorted. “So I should reward your faithless insolence by shielding you in House Baenre, when I know that you are nothing more than an opportunistic viper who will abandon her mistress as soon as the mood strikes her?”

“You misjudge me,” Danifae said. “The tradition of adopting the best and most useful nobles of a defeated house is a way of life among our people. My mistress and I—”

The vipers of Quenthel’s whip hissed and cracked close by Danifae’s face, silencing her.

“I think,” said Quenthel, “that I misjudge nothing at all. You are a simpering fawn of a girl who lacked the strength to keep herself from being taken as another’s slave. You are nothing more than a useless ornament to me—or you are a very patient and very clever little sycophant, in which case bringing you into my home is not very useful, either.” She sat back, sneering at Danifae. “Perhaps I should simply advise Halisstra of this conversation. I doubt your mistress would be pleased to know how much you presume in her behalf. It is most unbecoming in a handmaiden, after all.”

“It is your prerogative, Mistress,” Danifae said, bowing her head. “You may do as you please with me. I can only place myself at your convenience.” She looked up again from her submissive pose, and licked her lips. “In captivity I have come to understand something of the nature of power, what it means to hold absolute power over someone else. If I am not to wield that kind of power myself, then all that remains is to place myself into the care of a female who understands these things, too. Halisstra Melarn is my mistress, but only at your pleasure. When the time comes that you choose to consider the matter, I pray you will allow me to demonstrate my more useful qualities and earn the chance to live as your slave. You, more so than my mistress, understand the exercise of power.”

“Cease your meaningless flattery, girl,” Quenthel said. She stood smoothly and stepped close, looming menacingly above the kneeling girl with a smile on her lips. “I told you once that I can see past your pretty face. Besides, an appreciation for the uses of silence is only one of the virtues I find endearing in those I take under my gentle guidance.”

“I beg you, Mistress,” Danifae murmured. She leaned forward to nuzzle her face against Quenthel’s thighs, eyes closed, entwining her arms around the Baenre’s knees. “I would do anything to earn your favor. I beg you.”

Quenthel’s snake-headed scourge curled and teased Danifae’s silver hair. The Mistress of the Academy stood in silence, the same cold smile on her face. When she reached down and gently raised Danifae’s chin with one hand, she bent down to look closely into her eyes.

“Understand this,” Quenthel said in a low voice. “I know exactly what you’re doing, and you will not win this game. The women of House Baenre are made of sterner stuff than the weaklings of House Melarn. Savor every heartbeat, foolish girl, because in the instant you no longer amuse me, your life ends.”

Quenthel disentangled herself and walked away, resuming her restless pacing across the dusty chamber. Danifae rose and moved to the same spot in which Halisstra had left her, kneeling gracefully and composing herself to wait. Halisstra exhaled quietly in the shadowed passageway, forcing her knotted limbs to relax. She had not realized how tense she had become.

Now, what shall I make of that? she thought.

More than once in the girl’s long years as her servant she had used Danifae’s beauty to secure favors. If she called Danifae to account for presuming to address Quenthel in Halisstra’s absence, she was certain that she knew how the girl would respond. Danifae would claim that she was simply exploring Quenthel’s regard for Halisstra by feigning the attenuation of her loyalty to House Melarn, a plausible excuse to approach Quenthel under the circumstances. Under such a scenario, Danifae could claim that she was simply telling Quenthel what she wanted to hear, in order to measure whether there was a place for her and her mistress in the powerful priestess’s House. She would most likely finish with submissive apologies, and ask Halisstra to take her life if her actions had somehow displeased her noble mistress.

On the other hand, did it not seem equally likely that Danifae’s approach to Quenthel was unfeigned? If the maidservant found a way to escape the magical binding that held her captive, she would need Quenthel’s approval, or else her freedom might come at the cost of her life. It was quite possible that nothing more than the deadly capriciousness of a highborn priestess prevented Danifae from seeking release from her bondage. After all, if Danifae claimed her freedom and looked to Quenthel to guarantee it, the Baenre might choose to destroy the girl for her presumption. Any drow would delight in encouraging the dreams of a slave, only to dash them to pieces for nothing more than an instant’s dark pleasure.