Ричард Бейкер - Condemnation

“I hope our vessel is faster than theirs,” Ryld said.

“Not to worry,” Coalhewer called from his perch. “This be the fastest vessel on the Darklake. None of those scows can catch us.”

He snapped out another order to the hulking skeletons driving the boat, and the undead monstrosities redoubled their efforts, driving their crankshafts faster and faster, until a froth of white foam boiled at the paddle-wheels. The duergar city faded into the darkness behind them, marked by nothing more than a red glare on the cavern ceiling.

“A dire development all this,” Quenthel mused. “Menzoberranzan hardly needs a war with the duergar now.”

“Do we alter our course?” Ryld asked. “Menzoberranzan must be warned of the duergar army.”

The Mistress of Arach-Tinilith stood in thought for a moment, then said, “No. What we’re doing is more important, and if I am not mistaken Pharaun possesses the means to pass a warning to the archmage. Is that not so, wizard?”

The Master of Sorcere simply smiled and spread his hands.

Nimor’s soft footfalls echoed in corridor after empty corridor as he made his way through the crown prince’s fortress. At odd intervals he passed pairs of scowling guards in heavy armor, halberds held upright, and he wondered if they ever tired of looking at the blank stone walls in the course of their duties. Most likely not, he decided. Duergar were simply insensitive to that sort of thing.

In his hand, Nimor idly flipped a small envelope from finger to finger. The Lady Aliisza of the Sceptered One’s Court (an inventive title if Nimor had ever heard one) had invited him to join her for dinner in her chambers, observing that the gray dwarves had so far failed to invite her to any kind of banquet or dinner. Nimor didn’t expect that companionship for dinner was the only thing on her agenda.

Arriving at the rooms assigned to the Sceptered One’s envoy, he tucked his invitation back into his breast pocket, and rapped twice at the door.

“Enter,” called a soft voice.

Nimor let himself in. Aliisza waited by a table spread with quite an impressive meal, complete with a bottle of wine from the World Above and a pair of glasses already poured. She wore a flowing skirt of red silk with a tight-fitting corselet trimmed with black lace. The colors suited her, he noted, and even went well with her soft black wings.

“Lady Aliisza,” he said, offering a bow. “I am flattered. I am certain the repast before me did not come from the crown prince’s kitchens.”

“There is a limit to how much smoked rothe cheese and black spore-flour bread one can stand,” she said. She took the wine glasses in hand and moved close to extend him one. “I admit, I had my entourage scour the city to find inns and taverns willing to provide meals suited to an elf’s palate.”

Nimor took the glass and swirled it, bringing it to his nose to inhale the aroma. Not only did it allow him to appreciate the wine’s bouquet, but he could sniff the vintage for any signs of the various subtle poisons with which he was familiar. He would have proved difficult to poison in any case, but he did not detect any strange scents.

“You have my thanks, dear lady. I have been traveling of late, and have been forced to live on very plain fare indeed.”

Aliisza sipped at her own wine, and nodded at the table.

“In that case, why don’t we eat while we talk?”

Nimor took the seat opposite the half-demon, and fell to his meal. One of the consequences of his true nature was a surprising ability to eat far more than one might expect for a dark elf of his slight build, and to go for quite a long time between meals. The rothe roast with mushroom gravy was cool and rare in the middle and quite excellent, the small blind fish were somewhat saltier than he would have cared for, and the wine was dry and strong, a good match for the roast.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this occasion?” he asked between mouthfuls.

“You intrigue me, Nimor Imphraezl. I want to know more about who you are, and what interests you represent.”

“Who I am? I have given you my true name,” Nimor replied.

“That is not exactly the sort of answer I had in mind.” Aliisza leaned forward, her eyes fixed on him. “What I meant was, whom do you serve? What are you doing here?”

Nimor felt a subtle flutter at the edges of his thoughts, as if he was trying to remember something he’d momentarily misplaced. He leaned back in his chair and grinned at the alu-fiend.

“I hope you’ll forgive me, dear lady, but I recently found myself in an interview in which the other party could read my thoughts, and so I have taken steps to defend myself against such things this evening. You won’t pick your answers from my mind.”

Aliisza frowned and said, “Now I wonder what thoughts you have to guard so well, Nimor. Are you afraid that I wouldn’t like what I found there?”

“We all have our secrets.” Nimor teased his wine and admired the bouquet again. He would not give her the complete truth, of course, but what he would offer was truthful enough under the circumstances. “I belong to a minor House of Menzoberranzan with some unusual practices of which the matron mothers would not approve,” he began. “Among other things, we do not subject ourselves to the tyranny of our Lolth-worshiping female relations, and we possess old and strong ties to minor Houses with similar practices in several other cities. We masquerade as low-ranking merchants, but we keep our true nature and capabilities quite secret.”

“Capabilities?”

“We are assassins, dear lady, and we are very good at what we do.”

Aliisza leaned forward, resting her delicate chin on her fingertips as she studied Nimor with her dark, mischievous gaze.

“So what is an assassin of Menzoberranzan doing in Gracklstugh, advising Horgar Steelshadow as he musters his army for war?” she asked. “Wouldn’t that constitute the worst sort of treason?”

Nimor shrugged and replied, “We wish to see the order of things upset. We cannot defeat the great Houses of our city without an army, and Gracklstugh’s is the strongest in this corner of the Underdark. As soon as it became evident that Lolth had abandoned her priestesses, we realized that we had a golden opportunity to strike a mortal blow against the great Houses. We have been doing all that we can to help Horgar see that our opportunity is his opportunity, too.”

“Aren’t you concerned that the duergar might prove unwilling to relinquish the drow city to your care once they’ve conquered it?”

“Of course,” Nimor said, “but in all honesty, we view the fall of the Spider Queen’s Houses as a goal desirable enough to outweigh the risks of duergar perfidy. Even if Gracklstugh turned on my House and occupied Menzoberranzan for a hundred years, we would still survive, and we would reclaim the city in time.”

Aliisza stood gracefully and paced over to a narrow, slitlike window overlooking the city.

“Do you really think the Spider Queen will allow her city to fall? What becomes of the gray dwarves’ assault if the priestesses of Lolth suddenly recover their powers?”

“We are a long-lived race, dear lady. My grandfather saw with his own eyes the events of a thousand years past. We do not forget the past the way other races do. In all our legends, our lore, we have never encountered a silence so complete and long-lasting. Even if it proves to be temporary, well, it represents a chance that comes along only once every couple of thousand years, doesn’t it? How could we not choose this moment to strike?”

“Perhaps you’re right. I’ve spoken to other drow who seem to feel these are extraordinary and unprecedented times.” Aliisza glanced over her shoulder at him and added, “In fact, in Ched Nasad I encountered a mission of high-ranking Menzoberranyr who had come to the city in the hopes of discovering the causes of Lolth’s silence. Quenthel Baenre, the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith, led the company.”