Ричард Байерс - Dissolution

«That's your errand? To find some rogues? What makes it important enough to send a Master of Sorcere?» He smiled. «I have no idea. Do you know anything about it?» She shook her head. «Not much.»

«Frankly, any crumb of genuine information will put me ahead of where I am now.»

«Well, I've heard only the vaguest hints, but they suggest this isn't just a case of an unusual number of males deciding independently to elope. They all ran to the same place for the same reason, whatever that reason may be.» «I thought as much,» said Pharaun. «Otherwise, why would Gromph be interested? But it's reassuring to hear that your own agile mind has arrived at the same conclusion.» She sneered. Pharaun absently ran his fingertip along one of the swirling lines woven into his robe. «I doubt a threat would suffice to draw so many boys away from home,» he said. «Some would have the courage to defy the threatener or the sense to appeal to their kin for protection. Nor would a hypnotic charm do the trick. Aside from the natural resistance to such effects that all we dark elves possess, some of the males would have carried wards in the form of amulets and such. No, I think we have to assume the rogues sneaked away of their own volition to accomplish some positive end. But what?» «They're organizing a new merchant clan?» «I thought of that, but Gromph says no, and I'm sure he's correct. For if that were the case, then why the secrecy? Since trade is important to all Menzoberranzan, people don't generally object when a male becomes a merchant. It's one of the two or three legitimate ways to distance oneself from Mother's harsh and arbitrary hand.» He grinned. «No offense. I'm sure that in happier times, the males under your authority had no reason to complain of you.» «You can bet I would give them reason now.» «Given your more recent experiences, that's understandable. So, if the rogues aren't putting together a caravan, what are they doing? Preparing to flee Menzoberranzan for good and all? Or, goddess forbid, have they slipped away already?» «I don't think so. I can't tell you precisely where they are, but I believe they're still somewhere in the city proper, the Mantle, or conceivably our in the Bauthwaf.» «Now that truly is good news. I wasn't keen on a hunt through the wilds of the Underdark. Not only is there a general lack of amenities, the wine-makers are uncorking the new vintages the tenday after next.» Pellanistra shook her head. «You haven't changed.» «Thank you, I'll take that as a compliment. Now, let's get down to the crux of the matter, shall we? I require names. Which of your visitors dropped these 'vaguest hints' which you have so sagaciously interpreted?» She gave him a smile radiant with spite. «Alton Vandree and Vuzlyn Freth.» «Who themselves subsequently disappeared and are thus unavailable for questioning. It makes sense, I suppose, but it's unfortunate all the same.» «I've given you everything I have,» she said. «Now fulfill your end of the deal.» The wizard frowned and said, «My dear collaborator, it would devastate me to disappoint you. Yet I stipulated that you'd have to offer me information of some significance, and frankly, I'm not sure you've delivered. I really know little more than I did before.»

«Do it, or I'll tell every soul who comes into this cell that you're looking for the runaways. Perhaps that will have some 'significance' for your mission. I assume it is supposed to be a secret. Things usually are where you're involved, and you haven't mentioned a legion of assistants following you about.» Pharaun laughed. «Well played. I surrender. How shall we do this?»

«I don't care. Burn me with your magic. Stick a dagger in me. Break my neck with those long, clever fingers.» «Interesting suggestions all, but I'd just as soon that Nym didn't bill me for your demise. If we can make it look as if your heart just stopped of its own accord sometime after I look my leave, I'll have a chance.» He cast about, noticed the thick, fluffy pillow on the bed, picked it up, and experimentally gripped it at both ends. It felt good in his hands. «This ought to work,» he said. «Perhaps you could oblige me by lying down?»

Ryld sipped his chilled, tart wine with a sense of satisfaction, secure in the knowledge that the game, though technically still in progress, was already won. In three more moves, his onyx wizard and orc would trap and mate his opponent's carnelian mother.

As usual, he had accomplished his victory without recourse to the dice. Truth to tell, those clattering ivory cubes with the magically warmed images incised on the faces were the one aspect of sava he didn't like. They interjected blind luck into what should be a contest of pure cunning. Ryld's adversary, a scrawny young merchant clansman with an uncouth habit of letting drops of liquor slide from the corners of his mouth as he guzzled, had thrown the dice early on and gloated when chance allowed him to eliminate one of the older male's priestesses. Shoulders hunched, brow sweaty, he stared at the board as if the fate of his soul were being decided thereupon. A truly competent player would have recognized almost instantly that there was only one move he could make. Indeed, he would have foreseen the inevitable mate just three moves hence and resigned. Mindful of his true purpose for visiting the Jewel Box, Ryld, doing his best to sound only casually interested, took up the thread of the conversation that he and the slightly tipsy trader had been carrying on in fits and starts. «Did your cousin give you any warning that he was going to run away?” «No,» the clansman answered curtly. «Why would he? We despised each other. Now shut up! You're trying to break my concentration.» Ryld sighed and settled back in his spindly, flimsy-looking limestone chair. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed something that made him sit up straighter, double-check the precise position of Splitter leaning against. the wall, and stealthily loosen his short sword in its oiled sheath on his belt. He himself didn't quite know what had alerted him. These weren't the first circle of revelers he'd watched rise from their seats and draw their weapons, either to play at fencing or to settle a quarrel that had nothing at all to do with the hooded male defeating all comers at sava. Indeed, within the confines of the Jewel Box, blades rasped from their scabbards with a certain regularity. Superficially, this new quartet was no different, but somehow Ryld knew that they were. Sure enough, they stalked straight toward him and his oblivious opponent through the fragrant haze of incense. Other patrons, likewise sensing the swordsmen's intent, made haste to clear the way. A blade with a glowing redness—an imprisoned spirit perhaps—oozing inside the adamantine, flicked in a horizontal sweep at the tabletop. Ryld caught the weapon and pushed it away before it could upset the sava pieces or his neatly stacked winnings. The long sword was as sharp as only an enchanted weapon could be, but he managed the grab without cutting his hand. Finally startled from his reverie, the scrawny boy looked wildly about. «May we help you?» asked Ryld. «We've been listening to you,» said the owner of the long sword. Though not so big as Ryld, he was nonetheless husky and tall for a drow male, and the points of his prominent ears seemed to reach above the top of his head like a bat's. He was the best dressed and plainly the leader of the foursome, even though his broad, sullen face bore the mottled bruises of a beating. The weapons master assumed that some noble female must have seen fit to give the male a pummeling. His companions would think none the less of him for that. Especially since, Ryld noted, two of them were hurt as well, moving a trifle stiffly or slightly favoring one leg. Perhaps they were all kinsmen, and one of the priestesses in their House had gone on a regular tear. «You've been asking a lot of questions about runaways,» the swordsman continued in a threatening drawl. «Have I?» Ryld replied. He reflected that it was too bad the three musicians had left the stage a few minutes back. He doubted that anyone had managed to eavesdrop on his conversations while the longhorn was shrilling away. The other male scowled and asked, «Why?» «Just making conversation. Do you know something about the rogues?» «No, but I know that in the Jewel Box we don't like it when people are too curious. We don't like them hunting runaways. We don't like them listening to every private thing we say and reporting back to the Mothers.» «I'm not a spy.» Maybe he was, but he had no intention of confessing it to this fool. «Ha!» the swordsman scoffed. «If you were, you wouldn't admit it.» «Be that as it may, I suggest you and your friends return to your table and let this boy and I finish our game.» The male with the red sword swelled like an inflated bladder on the verge of bursting. «You're trying to dismiss me like a servant? Do you have any idea who I am?» «Of course, Tathlyn Godeep. I trained you. Do you remember me?» Ryld pushed back his cowl, exposing his hitherto shadowed features. Tathlyn and his friends goggled at their former teacher as if he had just revealed himself to be some ancient and legendary dragon. «I see you do. So I'll bid you good day.» Tathlyn looked as if he was groping for a comment that would allow him to terminate this confrontation with his dignity intact, but the onlookers started to laugh. His fear less compelling than his pride, he screwed the sneer back onto his face. «Yes,» he said, his voice raised to cut through the laughter, «I know you, Master Argith, but you don't know me, not the person I have become. Today I am the weapons master of House Godeep.» House Godeep was one of the petty Houses of Narbondellyn, whose frantic rivalries on the very bottom rungs of the ladder of status were almost beneath the notice of the nobles farther up. Ryld doubted the Godeeps would rise much higher with Tathlyn leading their warriors. During his training, the boy had learned to swing a sword with reasonable skill, but he had always demonstrated extraordinary recklessness and general poor judgment when placed in command of a squad. «Congratulations,» said Ryld. «Perhaps if you'd known I would rise to such an eminence, you wouldn't have taken such delight in smashing my knuckles and beating my shoulder to pulp.» «I didn't do it for sport. It was to teach you to close the outside line and to stand up straight. I tried simply telling you to make the adjustments, but you didn't heed me.» «Now,» Ryld continued, «I've explained I have no intention of tattling to the matrons about anything I might happen to learn in this place. Is my word good enough for you? If so, we should have no quarrel.» «That's what you say.» «Lad—excuse me.. Weapons Master, pause, breathe, and reflect. I sense you're feeling angry over your aches and bruises. Perhaps you want to take it out on someone, but I'm not the person who administered the beating.» Tathlyn stood silent for an instant, then he said, «No, you're not, and I suppose all the punishment during training was for my own good. No hard feelings, Weapons Master. Enjoy your match.» He started to turn away, then whirled back around. The point of the red long sword streaked at Ryld's neck. Before the four companions had even reached the sava table, Ryld had inconspicuously centered his weight and planted his feet in a manner that would allow him to get out of his chair quickly. He simultaneously sprang up and brushed the blade aside with a sweep of his arm, but he didn't strike it at quite the proper angle. The wicked edge of the red sword drew a little blood. Ryld realized that this was his first real fight in the better part of a year.