Ричард Байерс - Dissolution

«Have a care,» the ambassador said with as much nonchalance as she could muster. «If your son kills me quickly, won't that spoil the fun?» Jeggred made a low, grinding sound. Faeryl couldn't tell if he was growling or laughing. Triel said, «You underestimate him. True, I've watched him butcher eight prisoners in as many seconds, but I've also seen him spend days picking one little faerie child apart a mote of flesh at a time. It depends on his humor, and, needless to say, my instructions.» «Of course,» Faeryl said. The shallow gash in her cheek began to sting. Jeggred traced the edges of her lips with his claw, not quite cutting, not yet. «I hope the traitor whelp appreciated the honor.» «It was hard to tell,» she said. «What about you? Will you savor it?» «Alas, Exalted Mother,» Faeryl said, «your daughter can take no pleasure in an honor she didn't earn.» Still stroking the prisoner's features with the claw, Jeggred lifted one of the smaller hands that, save for their dusting of fine hair, looked no different than those of an ordinary dark elf. He caught hold of Faeryl's ear and twisted it, and she gasped at the brutal stab of pain. When he finally let go, the organ kept on throbbing and ringing. She wondered if the draegloth had inflicted permanent damage, though it really didn't matter. In the hours to come, deafness would be the least of her problems. «I wish you wouldn't deny your guilt,» sighed the dainty little Baenre matriarch. «I always find that dull.» «Even when it's true?» Faeryl felt a fresh cut bleeding under her eye. Apparently, when Jeggred had abused her ear, she'd bucked against his claw. «Don't be tiresome,» Triel said. «You were fleeing, and that confirms your guilt.» «All it confirms is my certainty that someone has poisoned your mind against me,» Faeryl retorted. Jeggred caught hold of a lock of her hair and gave it a vicious tug. «My aversion to being condemned unjustly.» «Did you think to escape by running back to Ched Nasad?» Triel asked. «My word is law there, too.» «How do you know?» Faeryl asked. Jeggred slapped her with one of his enormous fighting hands, bashing her head sideways. For a moment, the shock froze her mind. When her senses returned, she tasted blood in her mouth. The draegloth crouched, placing his bestial face directly in front of her own, and growled, «Respect the chosen of Lolth.» «I mean no disrespect,» Faeryl said. «I'm just saying that for all we know, anything could be happening in Ched Nasad. Cloakers could have overrun the city, or it may have drowned in tides of lava. I doubt it, I pray not, but we don't know. We need to find out, and that's why I was sneaking away. Not to betray the weakness of Menzoberranzan's clergy to some enemy or other. Mother of Lusts, it's my weakness too! To gather intelligence, to reestablish communication—» «I told you I have been in communication with Ched Nasad,» Triel said. «To reestablish trustworthy communication. .» Faeryl persisted, «to make myself useful and so demonstrate I'm your loyal vassal, never a traitor.» Triel made a spitting sound, then said, «My loyal servants obey me.» Faeryl wanted to weep, not from fear, though she was experiencing plenty of that, but from sheer frustration. Jeggred ran his claw along her carotid artery.

«Matron,» the Zauvirr said, «I beg you. Let me confront the person who traduced me. Give me that one chance to prove my fidelity. Is it so hard to imagine someone telling you a lie? Don't your courtiers slander one another all the time as a means of vying for your favor? Is it impossible that someone or something in Ched Nasad is lying to you even now—telling you all is well while days, then tendays, then months go by without a single caravan?» Triel hesitated, and Faeryl felt a thrill of hope. Then the ruler of Menzoberranzan said, «You're the liar, and it will do you no good. If you want me to show any mercy at all, tell me whose creature you are. The svirfneblin? The aboleths? Another drow city?» «I serve only you, Sacred Mother.» Faeryl said the words without hope, for she saw that she would never convince the Baenre of her innocence. It was too hard for Triel to measure up to her predecessor, too hard, to rule in these desperate times, too hard to make decisions. She wasn't about to rethink one of the few she'd managed to squeeze out, no matter how foolish it was. Jeggred slapped Faeryl and kept on slapping until she lost count of the blows. Finally time seemed to skip somehow, and he wasn't hitting her anymore. Why should he bother? He'd already battered all the strength out of her. She would have fallen if not for the ropes holding her up. A broken tooth had lodged under her tongue, and it was all she could do just to spit it out. «I told you,» the draegloth snarled, «respect!» «I am respectful,» Faeryl wheezed. «That's why I give the truth even when it might be easier to lie.» Triel peered up at her son and said, «Princess Zauvirr will not distract you from your duties.» Jeggred inclined his head. «No, Mother.» «But at such times as I do not require you,» the matron continued, «you may use the spy as you see fit. If she tells you anything of interest, pass it along, but the point of your efforts is chastisement, not interrogation. I doubt she has anything all that important to confide. We already know who our enemies are.» «Yes, Mother.» The half-demon crouched, leered into Faeryl's face, and said, «I can make the fun last. You'll see.»

He stuck out his long, pointed tongue and licked blood from her face. The member was as rough as a beast's.

The figure in the chapel doorway had a bulbous head with huge, protruding eyes, dry, wrinkled hide, and four wriggling tentacles surrounding and obscuring the mouth. It had gnarled three-fingered hands, a body with contours and proportions different than those of a drow, and an assortment of talismans and amulets burning with strange enchantments. Syrzan, Pharaun had no doubt, was a member of the psionically gifted species called illithids. Specifically, it was one of the few such creatures to follow the path of wizardry and ultimately transform itself into an undead entity known as an alhoon. The thing was surely prodigiously powerful, immune to the ravages of time, and still entirely capable of reading the masters' minds and discerning the treachery therein. Like Pharaun, Ryld had sprung up from his bench. The hulking warrior flung himself at Houndaer, no doubt in an attempt to get his weapons back. Pharaun, who thought he needed his spell components just as badly, scrambled after his friend. The weapons master threw a punch, knocked Houndaer backward off his bench, and snatched up Splitter. He whirled, looking for the next threat, and almost whacked his fellow teacher with the blade.

Pharaun reached for his cloak, then realized Houndaer's unassuming companion was singing a wordless arpeggio. Had Pharaun already been wearing the piwafwi with all its protective enchantments, he might have resisted the song, but instead its power stabbed into his mind. He laughed convulsively, uncontrollably, and staggered backward. Finally, he fell to his knees, his stomach muscles clenching and aching. He'd suspected the nondescript little male was more than he'd seemed, a formidable combatant employing a bland appearance to throw his adversaries off guard, and he'd been right. The «craftsman» was in reality a bard, a spellcaster who worked his wonders through the medium of music. Teeth gritted, Pharaun shook off the compulsion to laugh. Gasping, he lifted his head and looked around. The bard was simultaneously drawing his enchanted dagger and starting another song, this time pitched falsetto. Houndaer was on his feet battling Ryld, their swords ringing. At the end of the room, Tsabrak, shifting his eight legs in agitation, aimed an arrow at Pharaun, while in the doorway the alhoon simply stood with only its mouth tentacles moving, seemingly content to let its compatriots do the righting. Pharaun threw himself sideways. The arrow missed him and clacked and skipped across the floor. The mage slapped the stone, and a wall of sheltering darkness sprang up between him and the foe. Moving with a practiced, silent grace, he scrambled on.