Ричард Байерс - Dissolution

Ryld tossed him a gold coin with the Baenre emblem stamped on it. «Here are your winnings.» The young merchant looked puzzled. Perhaps the drink was to blame. «If a player disturbs the arrangement of the board, he loses,» Ryld explained. «It's in the rules.»

«It was gratifying to come upstairs and observe you handling our confidential inquiries with your usual light touch,» Pharaun said. He paused to let a floatchest, attended by a dark elf merchant and six hulking bugbear slaves, drift across the lane. The stone box looked like a sarcophagus.

Maybe it was. In the Bazaar, a shopper could purchase nearly anything, including cadavers and mummies once embalmed with strange spices and laid to rest with mystic rites. Indeed, such wares were available either whole or by the desiccated piece. «It wasn't my fault,» Ryld replied. «I did nothing to provoke that fight.» He hesitated. «Well, perhaps I was a bit brusque when the Godeeps first stalked up to the table.» «You? Never!» «Spare me your japes. Why do we have to question people anyway?» The Master of Melee-Magthere ducked beneath the corner of a low-hanging rothe-hide awning and added, «You ought to be able to look in a scrying pool and find the runaways.» Pharaun smiled. «Where would be the fun in that? Now seriously, why did the Godeeps take exception to your no doubt impeccably subtle questions in the first place? Were they in league with the rogues?» «I don't think they knew anything. I think they were merely sympathetic to the idea of eloping and generally in a foul mood. It looked as if one of the females in House Godeep had disciplined them with her fists or a cudgel, and they only needed an excuse to try and take their resentment out on someone.» «This hypothetical priestess beat the House weapons masters as if he were a thrall, or at best, the least useful of her male kin? Doesn't that strike you as odd?» «Now that you mention it, somewhat.» «The Jewel Box was unusually crowded today as well.» Pharaun noticed a blindfolded orc juggling daggers for the amusement of the crowd and paused for a moment to watch the show. Ryld heaved a sigh, signaling his impatience at the interruption in their deliberations.

The wizard counted five sharp knives, which the slave's scarred hands caught and tossed with flawless accuracy. A laudable performance, even if it lacked a certain elan. Pharaun tossed a coin to the orc's owner, then strolled on. Ryld tramped along beside him. «So,» said the weapons master, «Tathlyn gets a thrashing, the brothel enjoys a glut of patrons, and you see a connection. What?» «What if all those boys endured a beating, or at least some sort of unpleasantness, at the hands of their female relations? What if that's the reason they flocked to their sad little sanctuary, to lie low, lick their wounds, and kick around one of Nym's captives in their turn?» Ryld frowned, pondering the notion. «You're guessing that priestesses in a diversity of Houses have grown more harsh and unreasonable. Obviously, that could provoke a spate of runaway males, but what could make the dispositions of all those priestesses curdle in unison?» «I have a hunch that when we figure that our, well be getting somewhere.» The two masters circled around a colossal snail pulling a dozen-wheeled cart. The creature's mouth opened into an O and Pharaun—who had once only narrowly survived an encounter with such a giant mollusk in the wild—nearly sacrificed his dignity by flinching, even though he knew this particular specimen had undoubtedly been divested of its ability to spew a caustic sludge. Sure enough, nothing flew from the draft creature's maw except a few clear, harmless droplets. The wagoner lashed the hostile snail with his long-handled whip. «What did you learn downstairs?» asked Ryld. «Nothing, really,» said Pharaun, «nothing we hadn't already inferred. Still, I was able to oblige an old comrade. That was pleasant in its own way.» «If neither of us discovered anything substantial, our visit to the Jewel Box was a waste of time.» «Not a bit of it. The bloodshed perked you up, didn't it? You've pretty much been smiling ever since.» «Don't be ridiculous. I admit it was an interesting little scuffle. .» Ryld began to recount the battle one action at a time, with comprehensive analysis of the alternative options and underlying strategy. Pharaun nodded and did his best to look interested.

Triel, Matron Mother of House Baenre and a diminutive ebony doll of a dark elf, marched briskly down the corridor, covering ground rapidly despite her short stride. Eight feet tall, his two goatlike legs more nimble even than most drow's, Jeggred had no difficulty keeping up with his mother. The scurrying, frazzled drow secretary, though, looked as if she was in imminent danger of dropping her armload of parchment. When Triel heard voices conversing a few yards ahead, she wanted to move faster still. Only a sense that a female in her august position ought not to compromise her dignity by running held the impulse in check. «I think it's a test,» said one soft female voice. «I worry it's a sign of disfavor,» answered the other, a hair deeper and a bit nasal. «Perhaps we've done something to offend—» Triel and her companions rounded a corner. There before them loitered a pair of her cousins. Their mouths fell open when they saw her. Triel looked up at her son's face, which, with its slightly elongated muzzle, mouthful of long, pointed fangs, slanted eyes, and pointed ears, seemed a blend of drow and wolf. That wordless glance sufficed to convey her will. Jeggred pounced, his long, coarse mane streaming out behind him. With each of his huge, clawed fighting hands, he grabbed a cousin by the throat and hoisted her up against the calcite wall. His two smaller, drow-like hands flexed as if they too wished to get in on the violence. Perhaps they did. Triel had conceived a child in a ritual coupling with the glabrezu demon Belshazu. The result was Jeggred, a half-fiend known as a draegloth, a precious gift of the Spider Queen. His mother was quite prepared to believe that cruelty and bloodlust burned in every mote and particle of his being. Only his reflexive subservience, tendered not because Triel had borne him but because she was first among the priestesses of Lolth, kept him from immediately slaughtering his prisoners, or, indeed, pretty much anyone else with whom he came in contact. Occasionally Triel's lack of height was an advantage. It didn't feel awkward or claustrophobic to step inside the circle of Jeggred's two longer arms and stand before the cousins. Up close, she could smell the sweat of their fear just as easily as she could hear the little choking sounds they were making or the thuds as their heels bumped against the carved surface behind them. «I forbade you to speak of the situation in public,» she snarled. The cousin on the left started making more noise, a tortured gargling. Perhaps she was trying to say that she and the other one had been alone. «This is a public part of the castle,» Triel said. «Anyone, any male might have come along and overheard you.» She swung her whip of fangs, aiming low to ensure she didn't accidentally lash Jeggred's hands or arms. The five writhing adders gashed their targets but not enough to satisfy their mistress. She struck again and again. Her anger rose and rose until it became a kind of rapture, a sweet simplicity in which nothing existed but the cousins' thrashing, the smell and feel of their blood spattering her face, and the pleasant exertion of her snapping arm. She never knew what brought her out of that joyous condition. Perhaps it was simply that she was winded, but when she came to her senses, the two babblers were dangling limp and silent in Jeggred's grip. Both the draegloth and the scribe were smiling. They'd thoroughly enjoyed the cousins' excruciating torture, but there were things still to be done, and she'd wasted time losing her temper. Which was bad. Matron Mother Baenre, de facto ruler of the entire city of Menzoberranzan, should be able to govern herself as well.