Ричард Байерс - Dissolution

«The brigands who waylaid you and murdered your followers, who left you for dead in that place where my servant Valas found you. I supervised the executions myself.» Faeryl was beginning to comprehend her situation. For some reason, Triel had forgiven her her disobedience. The Zauvirr could go free, her honor and rank restored, but there was a catch. Henceforth, she would have to endorse the fiction that Triel was in no way responsible for any of her misfortunes. For after all, the sovereign of Menzoberranzan was a perfect being, whom the Spider Queen herself had exalted above all others. How, then, could she possibly make a mistake? It rankled a little, but Faeryl was more than willing to embrace the lie to avoid a return to the dungeon. «Thank you, Matron,» she said. «Thank you with all my heart.» Triel waved her hand, and a servant brought wine. «Do you still want to go home?» the Baenre asked.

Pharaun had been summoned to a good many audiences in the course of his checkered career, and it had been his experience that no matter how urgent the occasion, one generally wound up parked in an antechamber for a while. Matron Baenre's waiting area was considerably more lavish than most, and in ordinary circumstances, he would have amused himself by passing esthetic judgment on the decor. Instead he had to address another matter, for when he arrived, Ryld was sitting on a chair in the corner, half hidden behind a marble statue. The carving depicted a beautiful female doing something unpleasant to a deep gnome, for the greater glory of the Dread Queen of Spiders, one assumed.

The Mizzrym hadn't spoken to his friend since the slaughter of the renegades. He supposed the time had come. But first he paid his respects to Quenthel, who, much to her annoyance, was being kept waiting as well. The mage then bowed to a stern-faced drow male, looking ill at ease and out of place in rough outdoorsman's clothes and ugly trinkets. Pharaun didn't know him. «Valas Hune,» the warrior said, «of Bregan D'aerthe.» Pharaun introduced himself, then strolled toward the Master of Melee-Magthere. «Ryld!» the wizard said. «Good afternoon! Have you any idea why the Council summoned us?» The burly swordsman rose and said, «No.» «To shower us with honors, one assumes. How are you?» «Alive.»

«I rejoice to hear it. I was concerned because I could tell that warriors trance strained even your constitution.» For a moment, the two masters regarded one another in silence. «My friend,» Pharaun said, having lowered his voice. «I truly regret what happened.» «What you did was tactically sound,» said Ryld. «It was what any sensible drow would have done. I hold no grudge.» The wizard looked into weapons master's eyes and realized that for the first time, he couldn't read him. Perhaps Ryld meant what he was saying, but it was just as likely he was lying, lulling his betrayer's suspicions to facilitate some eventual revenge. Thus, while Pharaun might continue to observe the forms of their long friendship, he could never trust his fellow master again. For a moment he felt a pang of loss, but he quashed the sensation. Friendship and trust were for lesser races. They weakened a dark elf, and he was better off without them. Pharaun gave Ryld an affectionate clap on the shoulder, just as he had a thousand times before.

When the tall doors opened, all eight Matrons of the Council sat enthroned and illuminated on an eight-tiered pyramid of a dais, with Triel of course set higher than the others, and a span of radiant marble webbing arching overhead. Quenthel stalked in proudly, ahead of Pharaun and the other males, and why not? She was Mistress of Arach-Tinilith and a Baenre. Truth to tell, a miniscule part of her, a part she loathed and repudiated, hadn't wanted to come in, because her unknown enemy was very likely in the room The matriarchs weren't the only folk in the vicinity of the platform. A symbol of the goddess's favor and a source of practical protection, Jeggred loomed behind Triel's chair. Servants scurried about the steps to do the great ladies' bidding. Gromph stood on the highest riser, a place of ultimate honor for a male. When she, the mage, the weapons master, and the mercenary reached the foot of the dais, Triel began to praise them for their efforts against the illithilich and its pawns. At first the oration was pretty much what Quenthel had expected, but soon it took an unexpected turn. She herself would lead an expedition to Ched Nasad to find out why no travelers came from that direction, and what the priestesses of the vassal city might know concerning the silence of Lolth. Ryld Argith, Pharaun Mizzrym, and Valas Hune would serve as her lieutenants, accompanying the ambassador, Faeryl Zauvirr. Upon hearing the news, the hulking warrior in the dwarven breastplate simply inclined his head in acquiescence. The wizard grinned, and the scout smiled. At first the envoy, who was standing nearby, looked equally pleased. Then Triel said, «Finally, dear sister, I lend you my own son Jeggred for your journey. A draegloth carries the blessing of the Dark Mother, and you may need his strength.»

For an instant, it looked as if Faeryl would protest, and Jeggred leered down at her. Plainly, something had once transpired between them, an unpleasantness that made the ambassador loathe and mistrust him.

Gromph shifted his weight as well and Quenthel thought he looked surprised, even a bit put out. Perhaps he hadn't thought Triel had sense enough to want her own special agent on the mission, a minion devoted to her particular interests alone. A thousand arguments against her being sent away at so uncertain a time for Menzoberranzan, the faith, House Baenre. . came to Quenthel in a rush. Ultimately, however, she said nothing.

The assembly discussed the practicalities of their scheme for an hour or so, and Triel dismissed her newly appointed emissaries. Pharaun caught up with Quenthel in the antechamber. He bowed to her, and she waved her hand, giving him permission to speak. «I assume, Mistress, that you know why they picked us?» he murmured. «I understand better than you,» she said. Pharaun arched an eyebrow and asked, «Indeed. Will you elucidate?»

She hesitated, but why not state at least the obvious? He had come to her, after all, when the slave revolt began. He was a true drow—ambitious and ruthless enough that she could always trust him to do what was to his advantage. Gromph had made him a decoy and a target, perhaps someday she would make him Archmage of Menzoberranzan. «My brother and sister send us both forth because they fear our ambitions.» «I daresay that's very sensible of them,» Pharaun said. «Does this mean you undertake our errand reluctantly?» «By no means. Whatever my siblings' motives, the plan has merit, and I would go anywhere and do anything to restore my bond with Lolth and save Menzoberranzan; it is of course the same thing.» In fact, she was eager to distance herself from them until such time as she recovered her magic, provided she could do it without a loss of status, and surprisingly, it seemed she could. The matter of the demonic assassins had still not been settled, too, and she wondered if her leaving the city would bring her unknown assailant into the open. She looked her foppish companion up and down. «What of you?» she asked the wizard. «You're brave enough—I've seen the proof—but still, are you eager to march across the Underdark?» «You mean, can an exquisite specimen such as myself bear to dispense with warm, scented baths, succulent meals, and delicate, freshly laundered attire?» Pharaun asked with a grin, «It will be excruciating, but under the circumstances, I'll manage. I enjoy unraveling mysteries, particularly when I suspect I might enhance my personal power thereby.» «Perhaps you will,» Quenthel said, «but I recommend you keep your hands off any prize your leader covets for herself.» «Of course, Mistress, of course.» The Master of Sorcere bowed low.