“This is unexpected,” Eskavidne remarked, she and Yiccardaria standing amid the carnage in the summoning chamber just outside Menzoberranzan.
“Lolth guided us here,” Yiccardaria reminded her. “Unexpected indeed. An unexpected intrusion into the affairs of the City of Spiders! An unwanted shove to the stone we set rolling down the mountainside.”
“The Lady did not care which side in our little game proved worthy of victory, but now, it would seem, she is not about to let the disciples of that one play with our rolling stone.”
“She will push back, sister, and it will be glorious!”
“But our bet . . .”
“We still don’t know who will win, the Baenres or the Melarns,” Yiccardaria said.
“We know who won’t, but the Dark Maiden and her foolish followers are perhaps of no consequence to our bet, though again, they likely are. And we know which side will be most wounded by the Spider Queen’s countering shove.”
“The playing field has been unbalanced against Zhindia,” Yiccardaria agreed. “And so we must at the very least alter our odds.”
“We both know the odds will tilt in favor of the Baenres, my side in the wager,” Eskavidne replied. “Eilistraee, curse her name, has seen fit to interfere, but now the great Queen of Spiders will push back harder. The Baenres’ gain here in this chamber is indeed their loss.”
Yiccardaria sighed. “If Zhindia wins, I will do most of the training of Byrtyn Fey,” she agreed. “I will give you some fun with that one.”
“And if the Baenres still prove powerful enough to win, I will give you no pleasure while you watch me do all the training of Byrtyn Fey,” Eskavidne said.
“Agreed.” Both smiled and nodded.
“It will still be so much fun,” Yiccardaria said. “Whatever the outcome.”
“As long as the Dark Maiden loses, then of course!”
“Shall we go and bring the new player to the game?”
“Indeed. To the Fane!”
Dinin sensed the pursuit, heard the flapping of succubus wings.
“They don’t want to catch me,” Dinin told himself over and over again, trying to stay calm. He was suddenly rethinking his treatment of the Melarni nobleman. Had they found Preego and decided to annul the deal? Was he about to be carried in by these fiends back to Matron Zhindia for torture and then the ultimate punishment?
He lowered his head and ran on, nearly crying out in terror, only at the last moment reminding himself that there were likely other combatants in the area, and from both sides. He was wearing the outfit of a Melarni guard and so certainly did not want to be surprised by any of the Blaspheme or other Baenre allies before he could properly explain!
The sound of the wings receded. Dinin dared to stop and glance back and up, breathing a sigh of relief. As he had hoped, the pursuit of the succubi was a show for Braelin Janquay and for any others who might be spying about the area. His escape had to look perfectly authentic.
He set his sights ahead once more, running northwest along the Westrift toward the house built into it that had once been his home, trying to pick a path through the shadows that would get him close enough to surrender without being slaughtered by a Xorlarrin lightning bolt, or chopped in half by a Blaspheme warrior who might mistake him for a Melarni.
He skidded to a stop and dove into an alcove in the piled rocks lining the Westrift. A group of drow were moving quickly, away from House Do’Urden. To join a fight, Dinin believed, for one was raging not far away, over to the northeast near the Fane of the Goddess.
His heart calmed a touch when he recognized them as Blaspheme, including at least two he had fought beside.
He came out slowly, hands held high, calling, “Dininae! Dininae of the Blaspheme! Help me!”
Spears and swords went up to the ready. Whispers among the group lasted only a moment before he was called over to the Blaspheme war party. Questions came at him from every side, but he just shook his head and kept repeating, “Get me into the house.”
They did, quickly, and Dinin found himself standing before Aleandra, introduced to him as the new leader of the Blaspheme forces supporting House Do’Urden.
She vouched for him to Saribel and Ravel, who in turn took him to Matron Zeerith, where he recounted his story in full.
His cover story, given to him by the Melarni.
“I would be soon, if not already, returned to the Curse of Abomination were it not for Braelin Janquay of Bregan D’aerthe,” he finished, after recounting many true details of his torture at the hands of Preego Melarn and the subsequent payback he had given to his tormentor. “Alas that one of Matron Zhindia’s succubus fiends recaptured Braelin as we made our break from House Melarn.”
Zeerith stared at him for a long while, making him shift uncomfortably.
“Is it true?” she finally asked.
“What?” Dinin replied, looking up nervously.
“Is it true that you were a special prisoner for Matron Zhindia?”
The man was at a loss, trying to gauge many things here. Was she doubting some or all of his cover story? Or something else, perhaps—he still wasn’t sure if he wanted to reveal his identity so early on. Perhaps it would be better to remain Dininae until the battles were more resolved.
“There are whispers that you once lived in this house,” Zeerith said more pointedly. “There are whispers that your significance in this battle might be much more than that of a mere drider returned from the Abyss.” Dinin realized then that if he remained Dininae, he would likely be sent right out and back into the fight. If he got killed, or even recaptured, Zhindia and Lolth would be sorely angry with him—and death on the battlefield would not keep him from Lolth’s retribution, he feared.
“They are true,” he admitted. “I am, or was, Dinin Do’Urden, son of Matron Malice and the elderboy of House Do’Urden.”
“You knew your way around in the corridors below!” Aleandra unexpectedly put in, poking her finger his way in her epiphany—one that everyone there, Dinin included, thought genuine.
Matron Zeerith raised her hand and glared at the woman, who shrank back, for daring to speak out of turn. Zeerith focused on Dinin, her stare making him feel very small indeed.
“Well, this is . . . interesting.”
“I did not expect such an entourage this day,” Matron Mez’Barris said to the group entering the space that served as her private audience hall and family chapel, a medium-sized chamber with a domed ceiling whose eight long and two short rafters, and bulbous central area, looked very much like the silhouette of a spider. Statues lined the walls from beside the entry door all the way around to the wall behind the slightly raised dais and throne. Unlike any other house in the city, many of these depicted the men of House Barrison Del’Armgo, including perhaps the most impressive of the bunch, against the wall to Mez’Barris’s right.
Braelin Janquay kept his head down mostly, but couldn’t help but notice how much that statue of Uthegentel resembled the hulking man standing just behind Mez’Barris’s throne. She had made Malagdorl Uthegentel’s visual twin, that was for sure.
“Greetings from Lolth’s Web,” Matron Zhindia said.
Braelin understood that she was using the name of the region that housed her house as a not subtle reminder to Mez’Barris of her suddenly elevated stature.
“We have come bearing gifts,” Zhindia continued.
“Have you come with answers?”
Beside Braelin, Zhindia shifted uneasily at that, and on the other side of him, Yiccardaria and Eskavidne each gave a little gurgling laugh.
“Is there anything in particular that troubles you?” Zhindia answered. “We are preparing the grounds for a great battle even now, and expect the entire western reaches of Menzoberranzan to be bathed in Abyssal smoke within a few hours.”
“What of House Hunzrin?” Mez’Barris returned immediately.
She snapped her fingers when Zhindia didn’t immediately reply, and the startled Braelin looked up to see the wizard Kaitain rush up to his matron’s side, holding a large mirror, struggling to keep it steady.
Malagdorl took the heavy thing with one hand and held it out at the end of his outstretched arm with ease.
Kaitain rubbed his hands together and cast a spell and the glass became cloudy almost instantly, only then gradually clearing to reveal the image of Matron Shakti Hunzrin, a woman Braelin knew well.
“Matron Mez’Barris,” Shakti greeted through the scrying device, and she bowed. “The clairaudience was already engaged and heard your response, and I am honored that you continue to consider the unlawful fate visited upon me and my family.
“This is the Bregan D’aerthe traitor who slew priestess Barbar’eth?” Shakti asked.
“And Chellith Vandree, yes,” answered Zhindia.
“I thought you were to make of him a drider,” said Mez’Barris.
“It seems fitting that such an honor should go to Matron Mez’Barris, given the glory brought to you through the heroic exploits of Lolth’s Warrior,” Zhindia answered, and Mez’Barris’s expression showed that to be the perfect statement in this place at this time, despite how badly the Matron of House Barrison Del’Armgo was trying to hide it.
“You make of the traitor a drider, Matron Mez’Barris,” said Zhindia, “and then let Lolth’s Warrior serve him to the Abyss for the Spider Queen’s pleasure. And let him do it with this.”
She drew out a sword, its fine edge glowing with a line of barely perceptible red light. Its hilt and crosspiece were plain now, but Braelin knew the blade intimately and understood that its wielder could change the hilt, willing the sword into whatever design they desired.
Matron Zhindia presented the sword horizontally across her open palms and moved toward Malagdorl.
“This is Khazid’hea, the Cutter,” she told the great warrior. “Its edge is as keen and strong as any, and it is possessed of willpower and ego. Khazid’hea demands to be carried by the greatest warrior. By Lolth’s words, that is you, Malagdorl Armgo.”
“That sword was once wielded by the great Dantrag Baenre, and by Berg’inyon,” Yiccardaria said. “Drizzt Do’Urden has wielded it also.”
“And Zaknafein Do’Urden,” said Eskavidne. “And the human, Artemis Entreri.”
Braelin saw Zhindia stop and fight hard from shaking with anger at their recounting. Oh, how she hated Entreri!
On the throne, Mez’Barris harrumphed and shifted, her body language going cold.
“And Tos’un Armgo,” Yiccardaria said, which seemed to calm Mez’Barris down somewhat.
What game were they playing, Braelin wondered, naming all these warriors?
“None of them were worthy of it,” Zhindia then declared, and seemed to have shaken off her distress at the mention of Artemis Entreri. “None, not even Tos’un—with all apologies, Matron Mez’Barris. They are fine warriors all, but Khazid’hea demands the best, the truly exceptional. And that is Malagdorl Armgo. Only Uthegentel Armgo before him would have been worthy of this blade. And now, it is Weapon Master Malagdorl’s to pair with that magnificent trident.”
“To cut apart the Bregan D’aerthe assassin who killed my priestess,” Shakti Hunzrin demanded.
Braelin understood that he was truly doomed, and from all sides. Matron Shakti likely didn’t even care about that minor priestess, but she knew, as everyone here knew, that turning him into a drider, then cutting him apart so that he could serve Lolth, was designed simply to end any possibility of Bregan D’aerthe surviving a Lolthian victory in Menzoberranzan. Shakti Hunzrin wasn’t just looking to be freed of her capture by the Baenres guarding her compound, no. She was looking to rule all the trade after the Lolthians won here in Menzoberranzan.
And he had given them the excuse to do it.
He tried to shake that thought away. He couldn’t have simply escaped that fight on the street outside the Oozing Myconid. He had done what he had to do.
Well, maybe not with Chellith Vandree, but that was irrelevant to this particular conversation.
Much was seeming irrelevant as he watched Malagdorl take the sword, staring hungrily at Braelin.
“When the time comes, you can go and free House Hunzrin, Matron Mez’Barris,” Zhindia said.
Mez’Barris looked to the handmaidens to ask, “Are we to openly declare against Bregan D’aerthe, then?”
“Braelin murdered two nobles of our allies,” Zhindia said, getting only a glare from Mez’Barris in response.
“Well?” Mez’Barris demanded of Yiccardaria and Eskavidne.
“Bregan D’aerthe has already joined the fight against us in their battle in the Braeryn,” Yiccardaria said. “Drizzt Do’Urden himself was among their ranks.”
Mez’Barris nodded, yet still did not commit.
“The final battle looms, and when it comes, my army will engage the bulk of the Baenres, their Blaspheme abominations, and allies—if they have any remaining—leaving your path to House Hunzrin open,” Zhindia explained. “If you are quick and clever, perhaps you will be able to join the larger fight and cut off the inevitable retreat of the few survivors as they scramble back to the Qu’ellarz’orl and their doomed house.”
Matron Mez’Barris didn’t much appreciate being talked to like that, Braelin noted, as her eyes narrowed in a hard glare at the upstart Zhindia Melarn. He took no comfort in noting that Matron Zhindia didn’t so much as flinch at the scrutiny.
“First, I will publicly deal with this . . . creature Braelin,” Mez’Barris replied. She looked right at Braelin, a wicked smile creasing her face. “Within the hour.”
Zhindia started to respond, but Mez’Barris interrupted with, “Take your leave now, Matron Zhindia. See to your part in this grand play for Lady Lolth.”
“As you see to yours?” Zhindia asked, though it wasn’t quite a question.
“Indeed.”
Zhindia, the handmaidens, and the rest of the Melarni delegation departed, leaving Braelin kneeling before the throne of Matron Mez’Barris.
“May I do it, Matron?” said a younger woman, whom Braelin recognized as First Priestess Taayrul, the eldest daughter of Mez’Barris. “I would so like to make this one my first victim of the Curse of Abomination. Lolth will give me the power! I feel it!”
“Silence, fool child,” Mez’Barris snapped at her. “And get back away from that houseless filth. And you as well!” she scolded Malagdorl, who was merely leaning just a touch in Braelin’s direction. He was holding the vicious sword, though, and called a pair of guards over to take the scrying mirror. All in the room who knew of Khazid’hea could well imagine what the bloodthirsty sword was suggesting to the ferocious warrior.
“Both of you consider our role, here and now,” Mez’Barris demanded. “Are we to be pawns of Matron Zhindia Melarn? Consider this: Who will take the role of Matron Mother when Quenthel Baenre is permanently deposed?”
The two looked at each other.
“Zhindia will!” Mez’Barris told them. “Or thinks she will. But no, we will strike a decisive blow, and not just with this . . .” She sputtered and waved her hand dismissively at Braelin. “Organize the assault on the Baenre guard at House Hunzrin and have them ready to go immediately upon my command,” she told Taayrul and Malagdorl.
“You’ll not wait for word of the larger fight?” First Priestess Taayrul dared question.
“I need no words from another matron to act. We have our own agency,” Mez’Barris replied. “Let the whispers seep out regarding our new prisoner and our intent to curse and slaughter this Bregan D’aerthe assassin this afternoon.
“And you, wizard,” she said to Kaitain. “Find a source, use a source—I don’t care who!—to let Jarlaxle believe that I am not so convinced that Bregan D’aerthe would be foolish enough to side with the heretics.”
“You’re coaxing Jarlaxle in,” Taayrul said.
Shakti Hunzrin gasped and began to protest.
“Jarlaxle might well survive this,” Mez’Barris said over those grumblings. “But Drizzt Do’Urden will be the cost. They are in the city together, as we just confirmed. Jarlaxle is a scoundrel and a heretic, but he is loyal to his followers. He will come for Braelin Janquay, and we will be ready.”
“His allies are formidable,” Kaitain reminded.
“But we know them,” Mez’Barris replied. “We have studied them and we know how to beat them, don’t we?”
“Even the one with the strange magic?” Taayrul asked.
“Especially that one,” said Kaitain confidently.
“How is it possible?” Matron Zeerith asked. “No one escapes the prisons of House Melarn.”
“We were helped. Or Braelin was, at least. He was in the cell beside my own and managed to save me,” Dinin explained to Zeerith and the other nobles of House Do’Urden, as well as Aleandra and one other, Yvonnel of House Baenre.
No response came forth from any of those assembled, other than incredulous stares.
“It was a woman, a priestess, a high priestess, the first priestess of the House, I believe.”
“Kyrnill,” Yvonnel remarked.
“Yes, Kyrnill!” Dinin said with great excitement.
“Kyrnill Melarn aided in your escape?” the obviously skeptical Zeerith asked.
“Yes, well, no . . . in Braelin’s escape. And she corrected him when he called her that.”
“Kyrnill Kenafin,” said Yvonnel.
Dinin nodded with great enthusiasm, Yvonnel noted.
“I heard them talking after she had paralyzed the guard. She said she was Kyrnill Kenafin.” He paused, his expression indicating that something else had just come into his mind. “And she wanted Braelin to speak with you!” he said, pointing at Yvonnel. “She said—”
“Not here,” Yvonnel interrupted. “You and I will discuss this later.”
She felt Zeerith’s cold stare, but didn’t really care. She wasn’t about to expose the dealings between House Baenre and the double-dealing Kyrnill to the entirety of Zeerith’s clan, particularly not to Archmage Tsabrak, who had a lot to lose were he to side with the heretics.
“Are we to believe there is a war building within House Melarn at this crucial time?” Zeerith asked Dinin, but she was still looking at Yvonnel.
“Perhaps a small power struggle, but if there is, it will be crushed in short order,” Yvonnel replied. “More likely, this is posturing by Kyrnill.” She was thinking that it was more likely posturing by Zhindia than by Kyrnill, but she couldn’t quite decipher the game here, the webs within the webs. There were many sticky web strands to explore, particularly since it was Braelin that Kyrnill had freed.
Or so this Dinin claimed.
Regardless, the first priestess had certainly been involved. Was Kyrnill making a play for the support of Bregan D’aerthe? Was Zhindia?
She looked to Matron Zeerith, the concern quite visible on the old woman’s face.
“We have to hope it is true and that crushing it will be no easy task for Matron Zhindia,” Zeerith said. “We need help inside our enemy’s camp if we are to begin negotiations with any reasonable expectation of some concessions.”
Zeerith was desperately looking for an out, Yvonnel thought, and a glance at the others in the room showed that the matron was not alone in that—although both of her children, Saribel and Ravel, didn’t seem to share the sentiment.
The fight, it seemed, was more likely in their own camp than in that of the Lolthians.
“Release Dinin to me now that he can relay the message of Kyrnill,” Yvonnel said abruptly, thinking it better to end the parlay before it could openly deteriorate, and until she could get a better understanding of what might really be going on within House Melarn.
Zeerith gasped at that and hesitated, but Yvonnel didn’t back down in posture or expression, her stern stance a reminder that she wasn’t really asking here.
Without waiting for word, she left with Dinin, going to the room with the gate to the tunnels that would lead back to House Baenre—a path that this member of the Blaspheme knew well. She wasn’t surprised in the least when he recounted the full story of Kyrnill’s rescue of Braelin and the woman’s words to be relayed to her, but she still wasn’t sure what that might mean, or how many layers there might be.
One thing she did know, however, was that this man Dinin Do’Urden, the brother of Drizzt, was out of the fight.
In another small room in House Do’Urden, Saribel and Ravel fumed.
“We should join Bregan D’aerthe and be away from Menzoberranzan, if that is even a possibility,” Ravel said.
“The battle has even yet been truly joined,” Saribel argued.
“And Matron Zeerith is already wavering. She doesn’t think we can win. You heard her—she was talking about negotiations!”
Saribel considered that for a moment, then admitted aloud something that had been echoing in her thoughts for a while. “No, it is not just that. She fears the possibility that we might win. She is seeing the truth of the implications to herself and to the order that has given so much to her over the centuries.”
“She has always thought many of the rules of that order were wrong,” Ravel countered. “Look at how well the men of this house are treated. How many times have we heard her grumbling about the more vicious aspects of Menzoberranzan and the waste of the infighting? She was against the war begun on the surface by the Hunzrins, then escalated by Matron Zhindia, thinking it the loss of a grand opportunity! Even after King Bruenor chased us out of Q’Xorlarrin and took it as his own kingdom, Matron Zeerith thought Bregan D’aerthe’s gains on the surface could bring new levels of prosperity, even if much of that flowed through King Bruenor.”
Saribel was shaking her head through it all. She wasn’t about to disagree that Zeerith was an opportunist and so would put practicality over pride—of all the matrons in Menzoberranzan, none was more concerned with outcome than Zeerith.
But this was something more.
“She has grown darker since Tsabrak has returned to the house,” Ravel remarked.
“Tsabrak Xorlarrin, who refused from the outset to accept the name of Do’Urden,” Saribel reminded. “And who seems less than excited by the conflict in the city. He has fulfilled his dream of becoming the Archmage of Menzoberranzan, and now that is at risk, whatever the outcome.”
“Yet he is still a mere man,” Ravel replied. “His dream, for all of his talent and power, could never place him higher. You could command him and he would have to obey.”
Saribel gave him a sour look.
“I am not trying to diminish you, sister, and do not mean to—”
“Stop,” she interrupted. “Please. You do not need to apologize to me, or grovel, or whatever it is you have been conditioned to believe. Isn’t that one of the central points of this revolt again the Spider Queen and her demanded order of things?”
“I only meant—”
“I know what you meant and do not disagree, but you do not understand how brave you have been for most of your life in daring to question, in daring to sometimes disobey, in daring to sometimes stand up. You do not understand Tsabrak because you are not like him.”
“I do not understand, I agree. The idea of subservience because of what? Because I was born a man?” He shook his head. “Why would I support that?”
“In part, because you were fortunate enough to be of noble birth, and more fortunate than that, even, to be born in the house of Matron Zeerith Xorlarrin.”
“So was Tsabrak.”
“Yes, and so were the many, many men of Menzoberranzan who will not side with our cause, and not only because they fear the consequences of a defeat. That is what you are missing here, brother. Many of Menzoberranzan’s men, whatever might be in their hearts, will side with the current structure because they gain power and luxury through their attachment to the matriarchy. They have found their way to levels they find acceptable.”
“At the cost of those men who are not so fortunate, or attractive, or useful to the status powers,” Ravel spat.
Saribel shrugged even as she nodded.
“It is pathetic,” Ravel said.
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
Yvonnel found Bregan D’aerthe in the Braeryn, as she had expected. The Stenchstreets were quiet—Jarlaxle and his band had tamed the area, so it seemed.
Jarlaxle was in the Oozing Myconid, sitting around a table with some others, apparently plotting some action, given the map spread on the table and held down at each corner by a drink.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he greeted Yvonnel. “We could use your help.”
“For Braelin? You know?”
Jarlaxle nodded, his expression full of what seemed like disappointment.
Disappointment that she would doubt him, Yvonnel realized.
“Zhindia has him,” Jarlaxle said.
“Where is Drizzt?”
“Drizzt?” Jarlaxle seemed surprised by the question. “He’s doing what Drizzt does. He’s out on the streets, scouting. And fighting whenever the need arises. Demons keep wandering into the Braeryn. Minor fiends, mostly, but also the occasional buzz of chasmes, or even some stronger demons. They are quickly dispatched, and usually by one of his scimitars. Why?”
Yvonnel looked around at the group. “I will explain later,” she said, and she was glad that she had moved Dinin out of the way into the bowels of House Do’Urden and had not brought him with her to the Braeryn. “Kimmuriel?”
Jarlaxle nodded toward the stairs to the second floor.
With a nod in return, Yvonnel took her leave, bounding up the stairs to the only closed door. She found Kimmuriel within.
With his help, her consciousness was soon back in a selected room in House Melarn.
I cannot talk now, Kyrnill Kenafin immediately telepathically informed her.
Where is Braelin Janquay of Bregan D’aerthe?
He isn’t here. He was given as a gift.
To Lolth?
No. I cannot talk.
The suddenness and sheer power of her rejection of Yvonnel’s psychic intrusion hinted of desperation, and so she let herself come back to her mortal coil in the room with Kimmuriel.
“I heard,” Kimmuriel told her as soon as she blinked her eyes open.
“Where would Zhindia send him?” Yvonnel asked, though she had her suspicions already. If he hadn’t been given to Lolth, then who was the next most important person to Zhindia Melarn? Two possibilities came to mind.
“What are we hiding from Drizzt Do’Urden?” came Jarlaxle’s voice from the door, and the rogue entered and closed it behind him.
Yvonnel took a deep breath. “Braelin tried to escape House Melarn, and almost made it. He took with him one of the Blaspheme who had been captured by Zhindia.”
Jarlaxle shrugged.
“One you know. One Drizzt would surely know.”
“We have no time for riddles.”
“He called himself Dininae.”
“And . . .” Jarlaxle started to ask, but he stopped, his jaw hanging open—a sight not often seen. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Dinin Do’Urden?”
“Yes.”
“We shouldn’t tell this to Drizzt,” Kimmuriel offered. “Not now. Not until we know more.”
“Dinin is in House Do’Urden, near to the entry to the tunnels to House Baenre,” Yvonnel explained. “We should keep him far from the fight or risk returning a great prize to Zhindia.”
Jarlaxle was nodding through it all, clearly digesting and concocting, as was his way. “We should speak with him at once to get the lay of the prison in House Melarn.”
“Braelin isn’t there,” Yvonnel told him, again clearly catching him off his guard.
Jarlaxle looked to Kimmuriel, who nodded his agreement with Yvonnel.
“Then where?” Jarlaxle asked.
“Get your scouts out on the streets,” Yvonnel told him.
“There are many streets in Menzoberranzan.”
Yvonnel held up two fingers. “There are two places to focus upon.”
Less than an hour later, Jarlaxle returned, bearing news from Aleandra Amvas Tol that a certain prominent weapon master of a powerful house was now carrying a very notable sword to complement his adamantine trident.
“We can’t hope to attack Barrison Del’Armgo,” Kimmuriel said.
“Then we’ll find a different way,” Jarlaxle replied. “I’ve done many favors for Matron Mez’Barris. Perhaps she will bargain.”
“Perhaps she will kill you,” said Kimmuriel.
Jarlaxle shook his head. “If she tries, then know that she underestimates me,” he said with a grin. “And we both know how that turns out.”