Ричард Байерс - Dissolution

«I'd bet your left eye on it, but he's in the same cart as the high priestesses. He posits that the fugitives might know even more.» Ryld nodded. «In a war, or any crisis, you have to cover every possibility.» «The notion of the Silence even explains why the Jewel Box was so crowded, and why some of the patrons were in a belligerent humor or even bruised and battered. Females divested of their magic might well feel weak and vulnerable.

Consciously or otherwise, they'd worry about losing control of the folk in their household and compensate by instituting a harsher discipline than usual.» «I see that,» said Ryld. «Of course you do. As I said, the one hypothesis accounts for every anomaly. That's why we can be confident the idea is valid.» «How does it account for the relative paucity of goods in the Bazaar?» Pharaun blinked, narrowed his eyes in thought, and finally laughed. «You know, it's difficult for genius to soar in the face of these carping little irrelevancies. Actually, you're right. At first glance, the Silence doesn't explain the marketplace, but it explains so much else that I still believe the idea correct. Have I persuaded you?»

«I… maybe. You do make a kind of twisted sense. It's just that its a hard idea to take in. The one truth our people have never questioned is that Menzoberranzan belongs to Lolth. Everything in the cavern is as it is because she willed it so, and the might of her priestesses is the primary force maintaining all that we have and are. If she's turned her face from the entire city, or is lost to us in some other way. .» Ryld spread his hands. «It is unsettling, but perhaps, just perhaps, it affords us an opportunity as well.» Ryld extended a telescoping metal probe, attached a cloth to the hook on the end, and started swamping out the blood-clogged scabbard. The warrior asked, «What do you mean?» «Just for fun, let's make the same leap of faith—or fear—that Gromph and the Council did. Assume the rogue males can explain the cessation of Lolth's beneficence. Assume you and I will find them and extract the information. Finally, assume we can somehow employ it to restore the status quo.» «That's a lot of assuming.» «It is. Obviously, I'm letting my imagination run amok. Yet I have a hunch—only a hunch, but still—that if two masters of the Academy could accomplish such a triumph, they might thereby win enough power to make my friend the Sarthos demon look like small beer. You wanted to find something to our advantage, as I recall.» «Your sister may find us first. She tracked us once. Do you still think we shouldn't kill her, or her vassals either?» «That's a good question,» Pharaun sighed. «They're attacking us with potent magic. I suspect that leather bag holds nine sets of servant creatures, each deadlier than the one before.» «In that case, why didn't she chuck them all at us?» «Perhaps, in the absence of her innate powers, she was trying to conserve her other resources. Alas, she may not be so parsimonious next time.» «So what do we do?» «Well, you know, I truly do want to kill Greyanna. I always have, but I suppose the prudent course is to avoid our hunters if possible. If not, we'll do what we must to survive. I may at least make a point of disposing of Relonor. I suspect he located us with divinatory magic. He was always good at that.» «Can you shield us?» «Perhaps. I intend to try. Stay right where you are, and don't speak.»

Pharaun rose and reached into one of his pockets. Out in the lake, something big jumped. Noticing the splash, an orc on a raft grunted to his fellows, and they readied their barb-headed lances.

As Drisinil took hold of the door handle, the stump of her little finger throbbed beneath its dressing. The novice still found it difficult to believe that, after fighting for her life against the demon spider, Mistress Quenthel had immediately returned to the matter of the would-be truants and their self-inflicted punishment. It bespoke a calm and meticulous nature. Drisinil admired those qualities, but it didn't make her hate their exemplar any less. She took a final glance around the deserted corridor. No one was about, and no one was supposed to be, not in that length of that particular wing of Arach-Tinilith at that hour of the night. She slipped through the sandstone door and pulled it shut behind her. Unlike much of the temple, no lamps, torches, or candles burned in the room beyond the threshold. That was by design, to keep a telltale gleam from leaking out under the door. Drisinil's sister conspirators awaited her. Some were novices with bandaged hands, just like herself. Others were instructors. Those high priestesses, hampered by their dignity, were having some difficulty making themselves comfortable among the haphazardly stacked boxes and tangles of furniture littering the half-forgotten storeroom. Of course, it didn't help that they hesitated to clear away the shrouds of filthy cobwebs dangling everywhere for fear a living spider remained within. Drisinil wondered if that particular prohibition made sense any longer. Perhaps spiders were no longer sacred. Then, angry at herself, she pushed the blasphemous thought away. Lolth abided, beyond any question, and was likely to chastise those who even for a moment imagined otherwise. Once she wrenched her mind back to immediate concerns, Drisinil was momentarily nonplussed to find the company regarding her expectantly, Did they expect her to preside over the meeting? But then again, why not? She might be a novice, but she was Barrison Del'Armgo as well, and breeding mattered, perhaps more than ever when even the most powerful priestesses were running out of magic. Besides, the secret gathering had been her idea. «Good evening,» she said. «Thank you all for attending," — she smiled wryly—"and for not reporting me to Quenthel Baenre.»

«We still could,» said Vlondril Tuin'Tarl, a strange smile on her wrinkled lips. «Your task is to convince us we shouldn't.» The teacher was so old that she had begun to wither like a human crone. Most folk believed her mystical contemplations of ultimate chaos had left her a little mad. No one, not even another instructor, had opted to sit in her immediate vicinity. «With respect, Holy Mother,» Drisinil said, «isn't that self-evident? The goddess, who nurtured and exalted our city since its founding, has turned her back on us.» Once again, Drisinil couldn't help thinking of other possibilities, but even if she'd seen a point to it, she wouldn't have dared to mention them. No one would, not in her present company. «And Quenthel is to blame,» added Molvayas Barrison Del'Armgo. Though stockier and shorter than Drisinil, her aunt had the same sort of sharp nose and uncommon green eyes. Richly clad, the elder scion of the House carried an enemy's soul imprisoned in a jade ring, and at quiet moments one could occasionally hear the spirit weeping and pleading for release. Second to Quenthel as Barrison Del'Armgo was ever second to Baenre, Molvayas had helped her niece pass word of the meeting, and her support lent it a certain credibility. «How do you know that?» asked T'risstree T'orgh. Deceptively slender, a fully trained warrior as well as a priestess, she was notorious for carrying a naked falchion about in preference to the usual mace or whip of fangs, and gashing the exposed flesh of any student who displeased her with a fast but precisely controlled cut to the face. The short, curved blade lay across her knees. Drisinil waited a beat to make sure Molvayas intended her to answer the question. Apparently she did, and rightly so, since it was the younger female who had actually conceived the argument. «When Triel was mistress here,» said the novice, «all was well. Shortly after Quenthel assumed the office, Lolth rejected us.»» 'Shortly' being a relative term,» said a sardonic voice from somewhere in the back of the room. «Shortly enough,» Drisinil retorted. «Perhaps the goddess gave us time to rectify the error. We failed to do so, so now she's punishing us.» «She's afflicting all Menzoberranzan,» T'risstree said, «not just Tier Breche.» «Surely,» said Drisinil, «you didn't expect her to be fair. I hope a priestess knows Lolth's ways better than that. Her wrath is as boundless as her might. Besides which, Arach-Tinilith is the repository of the deepest mysteries and thus the mystic heart of Menzoberranzan. It makes perfect sense that whatever befalls us here should touch the city as a whole.