Ричард Байерс - Dissolution

Somewhat pleased to be ahead of his clever friend for once, Ryld gripped Pharaun by the shoulder. «Steady,» the swordsman said. «Don't embarrass yourself.» The wizard looked around, then grinned and said, «Right. Our friends didn't trick us into entering a trap. The drider's magically constrained.» «No.»

Ryld glanced back to see that the two bogus orcs had stepped through the portal, which dwindled to nothing behind them. It was the bigger and more talkative of the duo who was speaking. «The driders help us of their own free will.» «Interesting,» said Pharaun. In the blink of an eye, the goblinoids turned into an aristocratic warrior—Houndaer Tuin'Tarl, specifically, whom Ryld had trained—and a craftsman of one sort or another. The prince closed the portal with a wave of his arm. «Do you still use that second-intention indirect attack?» Ryld asked. «That was a nice move.» For the first time, Houndaer smiled a smile that had neither malice nor suspicion in it. «You remember that, Master? It's been so long, I'm surprised you even remember me.» «I always remember the ones who truly learn.»

«Well, thank you. It's good to have you with us, and you're going to be glad you are. Great things are in store.» the noble said. The drider scuttled toward them. «All, here comes Tsabrak. You'll see his mind isn't sluggish or otherwise crippled, yet he's on our side nonetheless.»

In point of fact, the drider didn't look especially congenial. The length of his legs lifted his head above those of the four dark elves, and he glared down at them with eyes full of madness and hate. Ryld inferred that Tsabrak had entered into a typical Menzoberranyr alliance. He'd thrown in with the runaways to secure some practical advantage, but he still loathed all the drow who'd deformed him and cast him out. «What is this?» the drider snarled, exposing his fangs. They seemed to impede his speech a trifle. «Syrzan said no!» Syrzan wasn't a typical drow name, but Ryld had no idea to which other race it might belong. He glanced over at Pharaun, who conveyed with a subtle shrug that he didn't know, either. «Syrzan is my ally, not my superior,» said Houndaer, glaring back at the spider-thing. «I make my own decisions, and I've decided these gentlemen can help us. They're masters of Tier Breche—» «I know who they are!» Tsabrak screamed, flecks of foam, perhaps mixed with venom, flying from his lips. «Do you think me a mindless beast? I studied on Tier Breche the same as anyone!» «Then you know how useful their talents could be,» said the craftsman, «and how unlikely it is they can do us any harm, particularly now that the prince has disarmed them.» «Just point us to Syrzan,» Houndaer said. «It will allay your fears.» It? Ryld wondered. «I can't,» the drider said. «It's gone off somewhere.» «Where?» Houndaer asked. «Agitating slaves? Acquiring more magic fire from its secret source? How do I know? You'll just have to sit on these two until it gets back.»

«That's all right,» the noble said. «Master Argith and I can reminisce 'bout old times. We'll all wait in the room where Syrzan interviewed the other recruits.» «Perhaps you'd care to tag along,» the craftsman said, «to make absolutely sure the masters don't cause any trouble.» Pharaun beamed up at the bloodthirsty aberration and asked, «Please? There are half a dozen questions concerning drider existence that have perplexed me for years.» Tsabrak ignored him, instead glowering at Houndaer and the artisan as if he suspected them of playing a trick on him. Finally, he said, «Yes. I'll go. Somebody with sense needs to be there.» «Fine.» Houndaer nodded to Ryld and Pharaun and said, «Come this way.» The masters and their hosts, or captors, set off through a maze of passageways. As promised, Pharaun treated Tsabrak to a barrage of questions, and, when the drider failed to respond, cheerfully answered himself with a gush of scholarly speculation. Ryld paid little attention. He was too busy studying the rogues' citadel, a forlorn and dusty place where Pharaun's monologue echoed away into the quiet. No servants were in evidence, merely runaway males and driders, who often recognized their former instructors and curiously peered after them. The marks of magical attacks, bursts of lightning and sprays of acid, scarred the walls. By all appearances, the conspirators were hiding in the seat of a House extinguished by its enemies. No one was supposed to take possession of such a fortress without the Baenre's permission, and few would dare. The vacant castles were supposedly cursed and haunted places, breeding grounds for sickness, insanity, and bad luck. As if to compound the potential for ill fortune, the squatters had broken the copious shrouds of spiderweb wherever they impeded traffic and even in corners where they didn't. At one point, the masters and their warders passed a row of small octagonal windows. The glass was gone but the molded calcite frames remained. Ryld glanced out and saw mansions shining green and violet far below. The rogues had taken a stalactite castle, hanging from the cavern ceiling, for their hiding place. No doubt the isolation had attracted them. A minute later, the little procession reached its destination, a chapel with rows of benches, a crooked aisle snaking up the middle to an asymmetrical basalt altar, and murals, agleam with silvery phosphorescence, carved in bas-relief on the walls and ceiling. To Ryld's surprise, these last depicted not the Demonweb but other hells entirely devoid of spiders, yochlols, or the goddess Lolth herself. Apparently the House that once abode here had sacrificed to forbidden deities. Perhaps that transgression had contributed to its downfall. The dark elves settled themselves in the pews. While Houndaer and the commoner seemed convinced of the masters' claim of estrangement from Tier Breche, they nonetheless retained possession of the newcomers' gear. Tsabrak crouched just inside the door, his legs splayed out on either side of the entrance. «I admire the decor,» Pharaun said. «Without even trying, I noticed images of Cyric, Orcus, Bane, Ghaunadaur, and Vhaeraun. Quite a nice selection of patron powers for the discriminating worshiper.» «We're not looking for a new god,» Houndaer spat.

«I'm sure,» the wizard said. «Perhaps you'd be kind enough to tell Master Argith and me what your grand and glorious scheme is all about. And why now?» «Why now?» the noble asked. «Our fellowship has existed for decades,» the craftsman cut in, «though it's only recently that we all eloped and took up residence here full time. Formerly we merely gathered for an hour or two every fortnight or so.» «If you're a male,» Houndaer said, «and utterly dissatisfied with your place in Menzoberranzan, you need some sort of a refuge, don't you?» «I quite agree,» the wizard said. «Of course, others have opted for a merchant House, the Academy, or Bregan D'aerthe.»

Houndaer made a spitting sound. «Those are just places to hide from the matrons.

This is a fortress for males who want to turn Menzoberranzan upside down and put ourselves on top. Why not? Aren't our mages and even our warriors as powerful as the clergy?» Pharaun grinned and said, «They certainly are now that the priestesses have mislaid their magic.» Houndaer blinked. «You know about that?»

«I've inferred it. You obviously know as well. Otherwise, you wouldn't run about breaking spiderwebs simply for the fun of it, to say nothing of putting your master plan into motion. I'd be curious to hear how you found out and if you know why.» «We don't know why,» Houndaer said, shaking his head. «We started to figure it out after a couple of us saw priestesses die fighting gricks out in the Bauthwaf. The bitches should've used spells to save themselves, but they didn't, and we guessed it was because they couldn't. After that, we kept our eyes open and waylaid a few clerics to see what they'd do to defend themselves. Everything we learned supported our theory.»