R. Salvatore: Charon's claw

House Xorlarrin was the most magical, from an arcane and not divine standpoint, of any House in Menzoberranzan. Xorlarrin put more students into Sorcere than any other House, even Baenre, and many times the number of any House other than Baenre. And the Master of Sorcere was the Archmage of Menzoberranzan, Gromph Baenre.

No one, not Ravel, not Jearth, not even Matron Mother Zeerith, doubted that Gromph Baenre had spies within House Xorlarrin. To Ravel, this was no great issue. He had been a favored student of Gromph and the archmage would not likely move against him for such a transgression as a bit of spying.

But Jearth was a warrior and no wizard, and merciless Gromph would likely show no such deference to any swordsman.

“You will take Brack’thal, as well,” Zeerith instructed.

“Subservient to me?” Ravel asked, and Zeerith grinned wickedly.

“And of your sisters, only Saribel and Berellip are available for the journey,” Zeerith explained.

Ravel tightened at that, but quickly hid it, for Saribel was the youngest, the weakest, and, as far as he could tell, by far the stupidest, of the House priestesses, and Berellip, though older and more powerful, often looked upon him with open scorn and had made no secret of her dismay that House Xorlarrin allowed males so prestigious a status among the nobles. Fanatical in her devotion to Lolth, Berellip showed indifference, at best, to the arcane spellspinners, and had, on occasion, issued open threats to the upstart Ravel.

“You will argue?” Zeerith asked, and coincidentally, at that moment, Brack’thal let loose the most agonized scream of all.

Ravel swallowed hard. “Harnessing a primordial…” he said, shaking his head and letting his voice trail off ominously. “Has it ever been accomplished?”

“Redirect its powers, perhaps?” Zeerith asked. “You understand what we need.”

Ravel bit back his next argument and considered the words carefully. What did House Xorlarrin truly need?

Room to breathe, most of all, he understood. If they could establish a fledgling city in this ancient dwarven land and have time to get their considerable magical wards in place, would the other Houses of Menzoberranzan think it worth the cost to assault them?

If this new drow city could open avenues to expanded trade, or serve as a warning post against any potential Underdark excursions by the wretched surface dwellers, would that not be a boon to Menzoberranzan?

“Ched Nasad has never been replaced,” Ravel dared to remark, referring to Menzoberranzan’s former sister city, a beauty of web bridges and sweeping arches, which had been destroyed in the War of the Spider Queen a century before.

“Berellip will inform you of your budget for mercenaries,” Zeerith said with a dismissive wave. “Assemble your team and be away.”

Ravel bowed quickly and spun around, just in time to see Brack’thal staggering back into the audience chamber, his shirt tattered and bloody, his jaw clenched and eyes bulging from the painful poison of snake-headed whips. Despite that obvious inner struggle, the Elderboy managed to control his facial muscles just long enough to toss Ravel a hateful glare.

For an instant, Ravel thought of appealing Zeerith’s decision that he take his brother along, but he let it go. Brack’thal could not defeat him in single combat, after all, and they both knew it. Brack’thal wouldn’t make a move against him personally. And since Ravel had been given the power to determine the composition of the expeditionary force, he’d make sure that none of Brack’thal’s associates would go along.

Not that the fallen wizard had many associates, in any case.

“They are not rogues-” Ravel started to say, but Jearth stopped him short with an upraised hand.

Quietly! the weapons master insisted, flashing the word with his fingers through use of the intricate drow sign language. As he did that, Jearth brought his cloak up with his other hand to shield the signing hand from view, which the secretive drow often referred to as his “visual cone of silence.”

Ravel glanced around, then brought one hand in close so that it was shielded by his own voluminous robes. They are not Houseless rogues, his fingers signed.

Many are.

Not all. I recognize a soldier of House Baenre. Their weapons master’s assistant, no less!

Many are commoners of lower Houses.

But with a Baenre, Ravel insisted.

At least three, at my last count, Jearth signalled.

Ravel recoiled, a look of horror on his handsome black-skinned features.

Did you believe that we could assemble a force of nearly a hundred skilled drow and march out of Menzoberranzan without attracting the attention of Baenre? Of any of the great Houses? Jearth countered, his hand moving as a blur, so fast that Ravel could barely keep up.

Matron Mother Zeerith will not be pleased.

She will understand, Jearth signed. She knows well the ever-present eyes of Baenre and Barrison Del’Armgo. She knows that I invited Tiago Baenre, who serves as first assistant to Andzrel Baenre, weapons master of the First House.

Ravel looked at him doubtfully.

Tiago is a friend, Jearth explained.

Disloyal to Baenre?

Hardly, Jearth admitted. Our entire plan depends upon our success of securing the powers of Gauntlgrym quickly, that the other Houses will see our fledgling city as a boon and not a rival, or at least, that they will think it not worth the cost of coming after us. In that regard, Tiago will be loyal to his House and useful to our cause if we succeed.

You will do well to embrace Tiago when we are away, Jearth added. Allow him a position of leadership among our expedition. Doing so will afford us a longer time period before exhausting the patience of House Baenre.

Keep our enemies close, Ravel’s fingers signaled.

“Potential enemies,” Jearth replied aloud. “And only if that potential is not realized will House Xorlarrin succeed.”

You doubt the power of Matron Mother Zeerith and House Xorlarrin? Ravel flashed indignantly.

I know the power of Baenre.

Ravel started to argue the point, but he didn’t get far, his fingers barely forming a letter. He had tutored under Gromph Baenre. He had often accompanied Gromph to the archmage’s private chambers within the compound of the First House of Menzoberranzan. Ravel was a proud Xorlarrin noble, but even the blindness wrought of loyalty had its limits.

He realized that he could not argue Jearth’s point; if it came to blows, House Baenre would obliterate them.

“Would you like an introduction to Tiago Baenre?” Jearth asked aloud.

Ravel smiled at him, a clear sign of surrender, and nodded.

Young, handsome, and supremely confident, Tiago Baenre guided his lizard along the wall of an Underdark corridor. Even with his saddle perpendicular to the floor, the agile Tiago sat easy, his core muscles locked tightly, keeping him straight and settled. He wasn’t leading the march of a hundred drow, double that number of goblin shock troops, and a score of driders-nay, Ravel had sent two-score goblins up ahead to make sure the way was clear of monsters-but as the leagues wore on, it became apparent to all that Tiago was guiding the pace.

His sticky-footed subterranean lizard, Byok, was a champion, bred for speed and stamina, and with, so it was rumored, a bit of magical enhancement.

He thinks us his lessers, Ravel flashed to Jearth at one juncture.

He is Baenre, Jearth replied with a shrug, as if that explained everything, because indeed it did.

The clacking of exoskeleton scrabbling across the floor drew their attention, and Ravel pulled up his own mount and turned sidelong to greet the newcomer.

“A goblin stabbed at my consort, Flavvar,” said the creature. Half gigantic spider, half drow, the speaker’s voice came through with a timbre that was as much insect as it was the melodic sound of a drow voice. Once this creature had been a drow, but he had run afoul of the priestesses of Lolth. Far afoul, obviously, for they had transformed him into this abomination.