Ричард Байерс - Dissolution

Pharaun sighed and said, «Then you aren't in touch with some chatty informant in the realms of the divine. Like me, you merely observed and deduced. What a pity. Aren't you, in your ignorance, apprehensive that Lolth will rekindle the priestesses' magic just when it's least convenient?» «Maybe the goddess turned against the clergy because it's our turn to rule,» said the commoner. «Who's to say? In any case, this is our chance, and we're taking it.» «Your chance to do what?» asked Ryld. «You talk as if you intend to revolt, but instead you're inciting the slaves into an uprising.» Houndaer cursed. «You know that, too?»

«We stumbled on it while looking for you,» Pharaun explained. He brushed a stray strand of his coiffure back into place. His white hair shone like ghost flesh in the soft light shining from the carvings. «As Master Argith noted, on first inspection, whipping the undercreatures into a lather would seem irrelevant to your objective.» «Look deeper,» the noble said. «We're canny enough to know we can't topple the matriarchy all at once. Even without their spells, our mothers and sisters are too powerful. They have too many talismans, fortresses, and, most importantly, troops and vassals serving out of fear.» «I begin to comprehend, and I apologize for not giving you sufficient credit,»

Pharaun said. «This is merely the opening gambit in a sava game that will last a number of years.» «When fighting engulfs Menzoberranzan,» Houndaer said, «and the clerics cast no spells to put down the revolt, their weakness will become apparent to everyone.

Meanwhile, our brotherhood will take advantage of the chaos to assassinate those females who pose the greatest obstacles to our ambitions. With luck, the orcs will account for a few more. At the end of the day, our gender's position in the scheme of things will be considerably stronger, and every male in the city will start aspiring to supremacy.

«In the years to come, our cabal will do whatever we can to diminish the females and put ourselves in their place. One day soon, we'll see a noble House commanded by a male and eventually, a master in every House.» He smiled and added, «Needless to say, a master who belongs to this fraternity. I'll enjoy ruling over House Tuin'Tarl, and I imagine that you, Brother of Sorcere, wouldn't say no to primacy over your own family.» Pharaun nodded and said, «You're far too canny to have forgotten we've all gone rogue. .» «Our kin will welcome us back once we've weakened them to the point where they're desperate for reinforcements. We'll concoct tales of travels to the far ends of the Underdark, or something. It won't matter to them when they're desperate enough.»

«Indeed, you've plotted everything out so shrewdly that I only see one potential pitfall, Pharaun said. «What if the goblins and gnolls should actually succeed in slaughtering us all, or at least inflicting such damage on our city that the devastation breaks our hearts?» Houndaer stared at the mage for a moment, then laughed. «For a moment, I almost thought you serious.» Pharaun grinned. «Forgive me. I have a perverse fondness for japes at inappropriate moments, as Master Argith will attest.» Houndaer smiled at Ryld and said, «I'd just as soon hear him attest that I mastered all those lessons on strategy he pounded into my skull.» «You did,» said Ryld, and perhaps it was true. His instincts told him that this scheme, outlandish as it seemed, might work, and he abruptly realized he didn't know how he felt about the possibility. He and Pharaun had infiltrated the rogues to betray them, to placate the archmage, and because the Mizzrym wizard had some vague notion that they'd achieve greater status and power and thus a permanent cure for Ryld's formless dissatisfaction, thereby. Yet now the conspirators were offering high rank and a role in a grand adventure. Perhaps, then, the teachers should become in truth the rebels they were pretending to be. The warrior glanced over at Pharaun. With a flick of his fingers so subtle that no one else would notice, the wizard signed one word in the silent language: Persevere.

Ryld took it to mean that his friend, with his usual acuity, had divined what he was thinking and was urging him to hold to their original intent. He gave a tiny nod of assent. He didn't know if Pharaun was making a wise choice, but he did realize he wouldn't even be here listening to this apocalyptic talk if his friend hadn't asked for his aid. When all was said and done, Ryld had descended from Melee-Magthere to help the wizard achieve his ends, and that was what he was going to do.

Pharaun turned to Tsabrak and said, «I assume the driders have allied themselves with the conspiracy because the boys promised you a place of honor in the splendid Menzoberranzan to come. Perhaps they even pledged to find a way to transform you back into a drow.» «Something like that,» Tsabrak sneered. «Mainly, though, those of us who joined did it for the chance to kill lots and lots of priestesses.» «I can't say I blame you,» Pharaun said. «Well, gentlemen, your plans are inspiring to say the least. I'm glad we sought you out.» «So am I,» said Ryld. «The only things I'm still hazy on,» the mage continued, «are Syrzan and the Prophet one and the same? I see by your expressions that they are. Who is … it really, and what power does it use to so enthrall the goblins?» «I think you're about to find out,» Houndaer said. An instant later, something droned through the air, almost like a noise, but not. Actually, the sensation existed solely within the mind. Pharaun turned, and Tsabrak scuttled aside to reveal the robed figure in the doorway. Ryld felt a jolt of dismay. Afraid it was already too late, he sprang up from the bench.

Off to Faeryl's left stood an iron maiden cast in the form of a tubby jester in cap and bells. The bells looked real, and would evidently jingle while a victim writhed inside. The device was open just a crack, not enough to expose the spikes inside. Straight ahead, a chain and hook dangled from their pulley, fishing for a prisoner to hoist, and a rack waited to stretch one. To the left, a brazier of coals threw off dazzling heat, and a collection of probes, knives, pincers, and pears hung on their pegs. Her nemesis, the small male with all the ugly baubles, lounged in that vicinity in an iron chair with shackles attached to the armrests. That was about as much as the envoy could see while roped naked to a molded calcite post. She was hungry, thirsty, and sore from standing for hours in one position. Her bonds chafed her, and her head ached. However, she had yet to endure one of the genuine agonies this stuffy cellar provided, and she thought she knew why. Some messenger had instructed the torturers to wait for Triel to arrive before commencing the festivities. Faeryl had already attempted to converse with the little male and her jailers and failed to elicit a response from either. She had nothing else to do but struggle to govern her thoughts. She didn't want to imagine all the things the Baenre might do to her, but she herself had presided over enough excruciations that it was difficult not to envision the possibilities. She didn't want to dwell on the massacre of her followers, either, but the memories kept welling up inside her. Surrounded and outnumbered, the daughters and sons of Ched Nasad had perished one by one. As Faeryl watched the slaughter, her eyes ached with the tears she refused to shed. Naturally, she didn't «love» her minions, but she was used to them, even fond of a few, and she knew that without a retinue she was nothing, just a fallen priestess in a land of enemies, bereft of goddess and home alike. Then the small male confronted her and used his magic to confound her and knock her out. She woke tied to the stone stake. A door creaked, and voices murmured. Faeryl's instincts warned her that Triel had come at last. The ambassador closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, composing herself. She wouldn't show fear. Dignity was all she had left—for a little while longer anyway, until her captors lashed and burned it out of her. Sure enough, Triel and her draegloth son emerged from the doorway that apparently led to more salubrious precincts of the Great Mound. The Baenre matron was smiling. Fangs bared in a grin, Jeggred bounded along on his caprine legs. The little male rose and offered obeisance. «Valas,» said Triel. «Well done. Did the Zauvirr give you any trouble?» «They tried to sneak away in disguise,» the male replied. «It almost fooled the lookout, but once he figured out what was what, everything went as planned.» The Baenre proffered a fat pouch that looked too big and heavy for her tiny hand. «I'll send word when I need Bregan D'aerthe again,» she said. Valas took the pouch, then bowed low. He withdrew, and Triel and her monstrous son turned toward the prisoner. «Good evening, Matron,» Faeryl said, «or is it morning now?» Fighting hands outstretched, talons at the ready, jaws agape, Jeggred lunged at the prisoner. Despite herself, Faeryl flinched. Both the claws and the pointed teeth stopped less than an inch from her flesh. The draegloth loomed over her, pressing close, almost seeming to embrace her like a lover. He ran a pointed nail across her cheek, then lifted it to his bestial muzzle. He sucked, and a bit of warm, viscous drool, mixed, perhaps, with a trace of her blood, dripped onto her forehead.