Mark Anthony - Realms of the Underdark

"Where is it?" he rasped to the darkness.

The Spider Mage had said the Dagger was not destroyed, and Zak did not doubt the wizard's words.

"Jalynfein would not lie to me. We are kindred spirits, he and I."

Yet if the relic had not been destroyed, that left only one possibility. Someone else had retrieved it. But who? And where had it been taken? The Festival of the Founding was about to commence. He did not have time to search even a fraction of the city, let alone all of it. It seemed his quest for redemption had come to a premature and bitter end.

All at once, low laughter escaped Zak's throat. What a fool he was! Of course-he had possessed the power to find the relic all along. Reaching into his neck-purse, he pulled out the spiderjewel. He set the gem on his outstretched palm. The ruby embedded in its abdomen winked to life. The arachnid spun a moment, then stopped. Zak followed the spider's orientation with his gaze. West.

There was no time to waste. Zak stepped off the pillar and into an updraft, wrapping himself in his piwafwi and letting the warm air conceal his body heat from prying eyes. He sank to the ground, vanishing into the city's streets, just as the regal procession reached the base of Narbondel.

The archmage laid his hands upon the ancient pillar. Fire welled forth. Stone glowed crimson. The Festival had begun.

Matron Malice gazed around herself, eyes glittering with satisfaction. Everything was in place for the Festival. On her orders, the servants had brought House Do'Urden's most opulent treasures into the feast hall: chairs fashioned of dwarf bones, onyx tables resting on dragon claws, crystal goblets colored crimson with a tincture of faerie blood-taken from the hated light elves in a raid on the surface world. Malice's was not the richest house in Menzoberranzan, but it could muster a remarkable display all the same. Matron Baenre could not help but be impressed.

Malice smiled, but the expression felt hollow. Despite her imminent victory, her satisfaction was marred. Something was missing. In chagrin, she realized who it was. Yet she was better off without the unruly weapons master, she told herself. She would find others to replace him, in her bed and in her heart. It was foolish to waste her thought on Zaknafein. This was to be her day of glory.

Dinin hurried into the feast hall and bowed low before her. "Forgive the intrusion, Matron Mother, but you asked me to inform you if anyone-anyone at all-came to the house's gate. A lone goblin has shown up, and it begs hospitality."

Briza let out a snort of outrage. "The brazen little worm." She gripped her snake-headed whip. "I'll take care of it, Mother."

Malice glared at her daughter. "And earn us the further disfavor of Lloth?" she sneered. "I think not. Put away your whip, Briza. You like the feel of its grip far too much. Perhaps it would do you good to remember what the other end of it feels like."

Briza stared in slack-jawed shock, then hastily coiled her whip, lest she feel its bite herself.

Malice stroked her jaw in thought. "The Spider Queen will appear somewhere in the city today, and there is no telling what form she'll take. We cannot take the risk of turning any stranger away." She turned to her son. "Dinin, bring the goblin here. Whatever it wants, it shall get."

Dinin stared in surprise, but had the sense not to question his matron mother. He returned minutes later with the goblin: a small, sniveling creature with green skin and a warty face. Malice resisted the urge to stick her dagger into the loathsome thing's throat. There were too many stories of families who had turned away some wretched creature only to learn it had been Lloth in disguise, even as they died from food turned into poison. Malice forced herself to smile.

"Welcome to House Do'Urden," she spoke. "Would you like some wine?"

The goblin nodded, rubbing gnarled hands together and baring yellow fangs in a grin. "Garn, but I love the Festival of the Founding!" it croaked.

Malice herself was bathing the goblin's crusty feet in a silver basin when the feast hall doors opened and Matron Baenre entered.

"Don't forget to wash between the toes," the ancient elf said in her rasping voice. "Goblins are not known for thoroughness in hygiene."

Malice leapt to her feet, wiping her hands against her gown. "Matron Baenre! I was only… that is, I was just trying…" Her cheeks glowed with warm embarrassment.

Baenre cackled, leaning on her staff. "Fear not, Matron Malice. I appreciate a matron mother who knows the value of tradition. But I think you have shown this goblin as much hospitality as tradition warrants this day."

The goblin looked up, eyes bulging as it realized its fun was at an end. Malice nodded to Dinin, and her son grabbed the goblin, dragging it kicking and screaming from the hall. Malice breathed a sigh of relief. Things had gotten off to an awkward start, but it seemed no harm had been done. Perhaps this was going to turn out well after all. Recovering her sense of protocol, she lowered her head in formal greeting.

"We are honored by your presence on this day of celebration, Matron Baenre."

With an impatient hand, the ancient dark elf waved the words away. "Well, of course you are. Now, where is the mushroom wine? I'm thirsty."

"This way," Malice spoke, leading Matron Baenre toward a table. "I'm sure you'll find everything to your satisfaction."

"Oh, I'll be the judge of that." Matron Baenre cackled again, and this time the sound of her laughter was not quite so congenial.

Malice clenched her teeth. Maybe this wasn't going to be so easy after all.

Zak pushed back the hood of the ragged robe he had donned over his piwafwi. He glanced in either direction down the corridor, but there was no one in sight. It had been easy enough to gain entrance to House Do'Urden by posing as a beggar. No one was turned away on the Festival of the Founding. Once inside, Zak had used his intimate knowledge of the compound to slip away. He had gone first to his old chamber, to retrieve his swords. Then he had begun his search.

Opening his hand, Zak glanced at the glowing spiderjewel. At first he had been shocked when the arachnid had led him here, to House Do'Urden. Someone here had retrieved the Dagger of Menzoberra. Zak did not know how this could be, yet it was. He could only hope the relic was not yet in Malice's hands, or he would have no chance of regaining her favor. With silent speed, he moved down the corridor.

Soon the sounds of revelry reached his ears. The feast hall was near. And by the gleaming of the spiderjewel's ruby, so was the Dagger. Zak moved through an archway and pressed himself into the concealment of a heat shadow. A figure came into view, walking down the corridor, face hidden by a tray heaped with dishes. The enchanted arachnid spun in agitation.

This is the one, Zak realized. This is the one who has taken the Dagger. He thrust the spiderjewel into his pocket and gripped the hilts of his two swords.

He waited until his quarry was near, then leapt out, tripping. With a loud crash of breaking crockery, the tray struck the floor. Zak thrust his swords down in a crossed position, thinking to trap his quarry against the floor by the neck, but the blades bit only stone, not flesh. His foe was more wily than he had guessed. In the chaos, the other had rolled to the side and was even now trying to crawl past Zak's legs. Fast as his quarry was, Zak was still a weapons master. Before his prey could wriggle away again, Zak lashed out a boot, pinning his enemy in a prone position. He lowered his sword until the tip bit into the skin of the other's neck. At this, all wriggling stopped.

"Turn over," Zak ordered. "Let me see your face. But do it slowly, or you'll lose your head in the process."