Matron Zhindia will see this one now, Braelin’s fingers flashed in drow hand code to the guard coming the other way up the natural corridor that led from the house proper to the dungeon cells.
The guard, armed with true swords and not merely a knife like Preego had carried, nodded and continued toward them.
The ploy seemed to work as the guard walked right past them, with Braelin keeping his head down and maneuvering Dinin roughly to keep the prisoner between him and the sentry. He breathed easier when the sentry didn’t notice that he wasn’t Preego Melarn or any of his other house companions, and thought it grand that it was so easy to impersonate the “voice” of another in the hand language.
The way was clear all the way to the trapdoor, which, however, was locked, and would be opened by no key Preego had carried.
“The other guard has the main key,” Dinin said, turning back for the hall.
Braelin shook his head and fell to the floor beside the trapdoor, breaking the seal on the key ring. He bent the ring to further separate the ends, then slid one end into the lock, putting his ear against the plate to listen.
“We haven’t the time,” Dinin warned. “It would be easier just to kill the man and be on our way.”
Braelin didn’t want to do that if he didn’t have to. He still wasn’t sure which side Jarlaxle would choose, if any. He could only hope that he hadn’t already made the choice for his friend and mentor.
He wriggled the metal about until he found a bit of a catch, then listened carefully as he worked his improvised pick about to manipulate the tumblers.
“He returns,” Dinin warned.
Braelin hopped up and pushed Dinin in front of him as the guard entered the small foyer.
“Excuse my foolishness,” the guard said, producing a ring with many keys. “You cannot get out without this. I should have thought . . .”
He paused there and cocked his head, apparently only then realizing that Preego Melarn, or any of the other guards, would have known this, too.
Before it could fully register, Dinin leaped upon him and bore him down to the ground, wrestling for his life.
The guard went for one of his swords, but so did Braelin, who had all the leverage, and then had the weapon.
He put the tip to the man’s throat, ending the struggle. Flat on his back, the guard let go of Dinin and lifted his empty hands up by the sides of his head. Dinin took his second sword as he climbed off the man.
“We should put him in a cell,” Braelin said.
Dinin put him to the sword instead, driving the blade into the man’s throat, then angling it to reach up into his brain as he pushed deeper.
Braelin grabbed him and shoved him aside. “What are you doing?”
“Giving them what they deserve,” the son of House Do’Urden replied through his clenched teeth. “Only a bit of what they deserve.”
“Jarlaxle won’t like it.”
“Jarlaxle isn’t here. Jarlaxle did not feel the bite of Zhindia’s snakes, nor the torture given by this guard and all the others, nor the looks of enjoyment upon their faces as they did so.”
Braelin stepped back and let it go . . . because he had felt those things. “Take his clothes and be quick.” He shook his head and sighed. “And wipe that blade.”
They went through the trapdoor into the main house soon after and made their way along the corridor. Fortunately, both of the guards had house emblems, which would allow them to levitate down from the balcony and into the main cavern of Menzoberranzan, if only they could get there.
“We split up when we get out of this house,” Braelin instructed. “You know the Braeryn?”
“Of course.”
“Then get to the Oozing Myconid.” It had almost been said as a reflex for Braelin. The Oozing Myconid was, of course, the standard meeting place for any involved with Bregan D’aerthe here in Menzoberranzan. But that had been before Braelin had been trapped in there—trapped, perhaps, by Azleah herself with the help of those wretched succubi.
Could she still be trusted?
“No,” he thought and said, shaking his head, his heart sinking. He simply couldn’t be certain.
“I know it.”
“Forget that path,” Braelin corrected. “Get to House Do’Urden—it is nearby. Speak with Matron—”
“Zeerith, yes,” said Dinin. “I know the place.”
“But do they know you?”
“They know me as Dininae of the Blaspheme. Priestess Saribel knows me.”
“Then find her and remain with her until I come to you and figure out a better course.”
“I once served Bregan D’aerthe and would like to again,” Dinin said.
“That is a matter for Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel, and I know not where to find them. Get to House Do’Urden, and then worry about such things if we’re all still alive.”
“You see how simple this is?” Matron Zhindia said to Kyrnill, the two standing in Zhindia’s private chamber, staring into a small pool of water that was showing them the exchange between Dinin and Braelin. “Just dangle before them what they most want and they will take the hook. Like stupid fish.”
Kyrnill Kenafin nodded and even offered a little laugh in reply, although any mirth she was showing was fully faked. She hated this play, for it was inevitably tying her up even more deeply into the many webs strewn about her. Now she was double-crossing both the merciless Zhindia, who had shown such joy in inflicting the most horrible agony, and Yvonnel, who was probably the most powerful person in Menzoberranzan, with arcane magic to rival that of the Archmage of Menzoberranzan, or worse, that of the previous archmage! And with divine magic that seemed above even the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan.
Double-crossing either Zhindia or Yvonnel was straining and difficult, particularly given the dire consequences of getting caught—by either! And now she would likely find herself enmeshed with Jarlaxle and worse, with Kimmuriel Oblodra, that strangeest and most dangerous psionicist. Yes, cheating Zhindia and Yvonnel was surely dangerous, but double-crossing Bregan D’aerthe, or more particularly, double-crossing Kimmuriel Oblodra, was simply impossible.
So many webs, so many threads she needed to keep track of, so many knots tied by strings easily cut but much harder to keep straight . . .
The two men wearing the black-and-red uniforms of Melarni dungeon guards crossed through the southernmost rooms of the house’s uppermost levels, approaching the balcony.
“Soon, now,” Matron Zhindia remarked.
“How can you be sure that Braelin is wearing the correct emblem?”
“The fool Preego fell to Braelin,” Zhindia replied.
Kyrnill nodded and let it go. The truly awful Zhindia had sent her nephew to be taken down, likely wounded, possibly killed, simply in order to deliver this cursed house emblem to Braelin Janquay.
And the Bregan D’aerthe operative had behaved exactly as she had predicted. The plan was simple, and Kyrnill had to admit, simply elegant, even if her part in it was not quite so simple.
“Kariva and her sisters are in position?” Zhindia asked the handmaiden Eskavidne, who stood across the scrying pool, watching it all with obvious amusement.
Braelin thought it strange that they met no resistance all the way to the balcony, but he wasn’t about to curse his seemingly good fortune.
“Straight to House Do’Urden,” he reminded Dinin when they cautiously exited to the terrace. Out by the railing, they noted that the area below them seemed clear enough—House Melarn was built fully among the hanging stalactite mounds, with no structures or large guard posts on the ground of the cavern. “You take the direct route. I’ll head south and meet up with you there in a short while.”
Dinin nodded and clambered over the rail. He leaped away, tapping the house emblem, then slowly drifting toward the floor.
Braelin followed almost immediately, tapping the emblem as he stepped off the ledge. He, too, began to float down, but much slower than Dinin had.
Dinin touched down and glanced back up, pausing for just a moment before sprinting away toward the boulevard called Lolth’s Promenade, ducking for the shadows and soon out of sight.
Braelin was still floating, barely halfway to the ground.
Something was wrong, something more than the slowness of his descent. The armor of Preego Melarn was the typical chain shirt worn by most warriors in Menzoberranzan, but suddenly it was growing uncomfortably warm. And uncomfortably tight, becoming quite restrictive.
Braelin made to remove the leather vest above it, but that, too, was tight, so tight that the buttons would not easily unfasten. Worse, the tightening sleeves of the shirt continued to hinder his every move, and indeed, began forcing his arms down by his sides, stiffening as if he were more in a prison than a shirt.
He tried to thrash, for the heat was growing more than uncomfortable, burning him now.
The ground was close.
But so, too, were three familiar forms flying down from out of the shadows under the balcony from which he had leaped.
Three succubi, laughing at him as they approached.
“Where is the other?” the one with startling red hair asked as they neared.
“He ran off,” said a black-haired fiend.
“Well, go and get him, both of you!” the first shrieked. “I can play with this one all by myself.”
Braelin’s thoughts spun, trying to make sense of it. Had the balcony been clear of guards because Matron Zhindia had set three powerful fiends waiting beneath it? It seemed ridiculous. Why would she do that?
Just for me?
The notion was lost in a burst of intense pain from the heating armor.
He touched down and began running, arms still stiff at his sides, but got only a few strides before the red-haired succubus caught him from behind.
“Oo, you are so warm,” she purred, holding him tight with a powerful grip.
Braelin turned fast within that grip and tried to headbutt the fiend, but she moved too quickly and he stumbled past, then was tripped hard to the ground as she kicked out his trailing ankle. He couldn’t break his fall and landed hard and awkwardly.
She grabbed him again as he lay facedown, and he heard her huge feathered wings come out wide, then begin to flap.
He rose up into the air, back to the same balcony, then was dragged back into House Melarn, where several guards surrounded him and hoisted him to his feet.
The burning armor had cooled again, at least, and his clothing was loosening once more. Before he could move them well enough to resist, his hands were pulled tightly behind his back and there shackled.
Suddenly, Braelin wished the armor was still burning him, that it would just kill him and be done with it. For he was once again Matron Zhindia’s prisoner, and he had no doubt he would not remain in such a blessed state for much longer.
“She was Mal’a’voselle Amvas Tol of House Amvas Tol, from the earliest days of Menzoberranzan,” handmaiden Yiccardaria told Matron Mez’Barris Armgo and the gathering in the city’s Second House. “They would not heed the word of our Lady Lolth, among the first and greatest heresies of the early age. This one, their weapon master, was perhaps the greatest warrior in Menzoberranzan, and she only heightened her skills in her centuries serving us as a drider.”
“Yet Malagdorl defeated her,” Mez’Barris replied, turning her admiring gaze on the mighty warrior.
“He did, and his feat did not go unnoticed.”
“He is the greatest warrior in the city,” the matron boasted.
“Perhaps,” said Yiccardaria, and Matron Mez’Barris bristled, yet knew better than to challenge Lolth’s handmaiden. “But more great warriors are coming, no doubt. But yes, there is no weapon master, no master at Melee-Magthere, who can match weapons with your Malagdorl.”
“Tell that to Lady Lolth, if you will,” Mez’Barris said, still with an edge of offense in her voice.
“She knows. That’s why I am here, at her bidding, to congratulate you and this great warrior.”
Mez’Barris smiled.
“And to grant to Malagdorl Armgo a title beyond Weapon Master of House Barrison Del’Armgo,” the yochlol went on. “He is beyond your house now, Matron Mez’Barris.”
A flash of alarm crossed Mez’Barris’s face, and if any had doubts of her amorous trysts with this great man, her grandson, those were surely diminished in her reaction.
“Malagdorl is now Weapon Master of Menzoberranzan,” Yiccardaria announced.
“He serves House Barrison Del’Armgo!” Mez’Barris insisted.
“He does, Matron, he does,” the yochlol assured her.
The matron’s confusion was evident on her face. “I have never heard of such a title as this.”
“The city has an archmage in Tsabrak, a first priestess of the Fane of the Goddess, a matron mother,” Yiccardaria reminded.
“And all three side with the heretics!”
“To their folly. For now Malagdorl Armgo is the city’s weapon master, the true epitome of the fighting spirit of Menzoberranzan.” She walked past Mez’Barris’s throne and up to the large man. “More than that, Malagdorl Armgo is now to be recognized as Lolth’s Warrior.”
Malagdorl smiled and nodded, seeming quite pleased with the title, and more so with himself.
“How many have you killed in this war?” Yiccardaria asked him.
“Twenty-three.” He shot a scowl at the wizard Kaitain when he spoke, as if challenging the man to argue with the number.
“Impressive,” purred Yiccardaria. “Even without the kill of Mal’a’voselle Amvas Tol.”
“Were I allowed the freedom I desire on the battlefield, it would be ten times that number.”
“No doubt. But should our enemies find some way to defeat Malagdorl, their joy would be even greater than ours in the fall of Mal’a’voselle. We cannot ever give them that. Do you agree, Matron Mez’Barris?”
The matron sat on her throne, seeming dumbfounded by the whole conversation, and simply nodded.
Malagdorl, though, issued an almost feral growl.
Yiccardaria giggled at that, hopped up on her toes, kissed him, and whispered, “Lolth will make of you a god.”
“We will formalize this in House Melarn,” Yiccardaria told Mez’Barris. “Within a tenday. Great gifts will come with it, to enhance your armor, to strengthen your body, to grant you magical protections and insight. You have only begun your journey, Lolth’s Warrior.
“Only just,” she finished, and kissed him again.
He wrapped her in one arm and hoisted her from the floor.
Across the way, Mez’Barris sat with a grin stamped upon her face. The honor to her house could not be underestimated.
But watching Yiccardaria passionately kissing Malagdorl brought a murderous rage bubbling up within her, jealousy coursing through her.
A helpless one, though. This was Yiccardaria, one of Lolth’s favored handmaidens. Whatever she wanted, Matron Mez’Barris had to give.
They had him lying on the floor, his cursed outfit locking his arms in place. He could turn his head and move his legs, but he took great care not to, as a priestess stood to either side, a third at his feet, a fourth at his head, all holding scourges and watching him intently, and obviously eager to inflict some pain.
“My sisters return,” the red-haired succubus told Matron Zhindia. “The other has escaped.”
“To where?” Zhindia returned.
“Perhaps he jumped into the Westrift,” said the fiend.
Zhindia stormed over and shoved aside the priestess at Braelin’s left. “Do you understand what you have cost me?” she raged at Braelin. “Do you understand that you have declared Bregan D’aerthe’s intentions now? Take heart, fool, for you will remain alive long enough to see them all—Jarlaxle, Kimmuriel, Drizzt, and Dinin—put to abomination. And you will already be there in that state as Lolth’s servant.”
Her smile was perfectly wicked, and Braelin tried hard to hide his revulsion and horror, not wanting to give her the satisfaction.
He suspected that he was failing.
“But you have been there before, Braelin Janquay, and in this very house, haven’t you? Oh, I remember. Do you? Do you truly? The way you cried and screamed when your legs quartered? The gurgling noises that came from you as your belly bloated?”
Braelin swallowed hard.
“This time, we will do it publicly, for all to see your weakness, for all to see you become a true symbol of the devils that have treated the Spider Queen with such contempt.”
He tightened his jaw, fighting the fear. He thought of Azleah—had she really done this to him? No, he couldn’t believe that.
“Are you ready for your performance?” Zhindia teased. “I brim with the power of Lolth, so eager to begin!”
“We must let it be another, Matron Zhindia,” came a voice from over at the throne.
The ambiguous statement had Braelin’s mind spinning. He craned his neck and managed to view the speaker, and even allowed a bit of hope when he saw it to be the handmaiden Zhindia had called Eskavidne.
“You have a play here for great power,” Eskavidne explained.
“It will be a play of great power,” Zhindia snapped back.
“I bid you to consider the longer play offered to you if you give this agent of Bregan D’aerthe to Matron Mez’Barris to publicly perform the Curse of Abomination,” Eskavidne said.
Braelin slumped. He had dared to hope that she meant another victim, not another torturer.
“Weapon Master Malagdorl has been named as Lolth’s Warrior—he is now the weapon master of all of Menzoberranzan, champion to the Spider Queen herself.”
“Then Mez . . . Matron Mez’Barris has already been given more glory than she deserves,” Zhindia spat. “I am the principle of this war. I am the one who stepped forward to protect the honor of the Spider Queen when the heretics—”
“The longer play, Matron Zhindia,” Eskavidne interrupted. “The only value of this man, who is not Dinin Do’Urden . . .”
Braelin expected Zhindia to spit at him, or kick him, or growl, at least, at the reminder of the lost prisoner, but she surprised him with her calmness, just nodding as Eskavidne continued.
“He is a friend of Jarlaxle and a high agent in Bregan D’aerthe, who are dangerous enemies, particularly given their ties to Drizzt Do’Urden and his friend the dwarf king.”
“They are against us and we don’t want them,” said Zhindia.
“They are and we do not, indeed,” Eskavidne agreed. “Consider, though: Matron Mez’Barris bestows the curse, then her alliance is fully sealed. We both understand how important House Barrison Del’Armgo is to our alliance for Lolth. Let her curse him and parade him about, then let Lolth’s Warrior cut him down in a duel, then you can bring him back from death as an undead drider before the cheering crowds. Those in the Blaspheme remember their moment of transformation into a drider, but they remember more the years, the decades, the centuries they served in the Abyss as undead playthings for Lolth. And the masses will remember the final act, not the initial one.”
Zhindia made a little sound, and it wasn’t a happy one. “I am to clean up Matron Mez’Barris’s mess?”
“Think longer. This display I have described will bond your houses together very closely.”
“And Mez’Barris will want to be the Matron Mother.”
“As all matrons do, surely. Rest easy knowing that Lolth will not allow that,” Eskavidne assured her. “But Matron Mez’Barris—Matron Mez’Barris, I remind you—will be satisfied in another way, as you will be. In several other ways, perhaps.”
“What are you speaking of?” Zhindia demanded, her tone showing both annoyance and intrigue.
“Do you truly believe Narl’dorltyrr suitable as a weapon master of the First House of Menzoberranzan?”
Braelin saw the man shift angrily and uncomfortably across the throne from the handmaiden. The man beside him, whom Braelin knew as Patron Sornafein, smiled, but only briefly as Eskavidne bluntly added, “Or Sornafein as your patron?”
Braelin looked to Zhindia for a reaction. One thing he knew of this house was that Zhindia actually loved Sornafein, by all accounts and observations. He was the only thing anyone had ever known her to love, other than power and Lolth.
“Take care your words,” she said, and then to minimize any threat to a handmaiden of Lolth, added, “I beg. You were there when Sornafein’s mortal wounds were healed by the power of Lolth. He is worthy and undeserving of death or abomination.”
“So, if I told you to make of him a drider, would you?”
Zhindia chews her lip, hesitated, looked plaintively at her lover, and said obediently, “Of course.”
“Well, fear not,” Eskavidne assured her. “Sornafein is worthy enough, and you may play with him whenever you choose. You can even continue to have him formally as house patron. But you should consider the possibilities, Matron Zhindia.”
Zhindia shook her head, clearly confused.
“And the tightening of your alliance with Matron Mez’Barris, who will accept your ascension to Matron Mother,” Eskavidne explained, and plainly added, “What glory to you and to House Melarn when you birth the child of Malagdorl Armgo, Weapon Master of First House Melarn?”