It was still his home, and Braelin Janquay wasn’t sure if he liked that or not. He walked the Braeryn of Menzoberranzan for the first time in many months, and had lived on the surface now for many years, but he felt like he had never left these haunts and also that he had never really been here, all at the same time. He took a deep breath, taking in the aroma, and laughed as he considered that this place was certainly living up to its nickname as the Stenchstreets.
But the smell did not repel him, as it would have for almost anyone who was not intimately familiar with it. For Braelin, this supposedly terrible place had been his sanctuary for much of his life—for all his days until Jarlaxle had hired him, trained him, and taken him on many grand adventures. Now he lived in Luskan, working for Jarlaxle and for Beniago, but Menzoberranzan, more particularly the Braeryn of Menzoberranzan, remained his home.
The Braeryn felt different this visit, however, for the place was eerily quiet and the people he saw on the street, even the ones he knew, seemed subdued and wary. One woman he had thought a friend gave him a hard look and rushed down an alleyway at his first move to engage her.
Braelin looked to the many scars on the streets and buildings, recent scorch marks from the demonic fires of Abyssal creatures, to explain the reception.
Some in the city and many who lived in the Braeryn knew that Braelin worked for Bregan D’aerthe, and Bregan D’aerthe’s alliance in this civil war had not been formally announced. But it wouldn’t be hard for these folk to think he sided with the Baenres, of course, and from what he had heard, the demons brought into Menzoberranzan by Matron Zhindia had been making survival very difficult for any who sided with the Baenres.
With that grim thought in mind, Braelin was aware that many here would betray him if it meant saving themselves from demonic retribution, or worse, from being dragged back to Zhindia and made into a drider—other rumors said that she was building a drider army to counter the Blaspheme.
Braelin Janquay had spent most of his life in the most chaotic and dangerous parts of Menzoberranzan, but he had never known it to be anything like this.
With the reception he was receiving driving home caution, he had taken his time, a roundabout route, learning all that he could before slipping along the shadows of this particular street in the Braeryn, one that held an establishment well known to be owned, or partially owned, by Jarlaxle and Bregan D’aerthe.
He eyed the building, the Oozing Myconid, now and warily looked for any signs that Zhindia had ruined it and killed the tavern keepers, or perhaps set a trap for Jarlaxle or any others loyal to Bregan D’aerthe who might venture inside.
He called upon a spell stored in a ring to show him any such traps near the front door, then a second spell to open the door with a magical knock from afar. He crept up and glanced about, making sure he was not seen, then scaled the wall beside the door and flipped over as he moved above it, head down, feet hooked on the eaves of the roof. Securing himself more firmly, he then produced a clever tube set with mirrors—a peekaround, it was called by members of his trade—to peer inside.
The place seemed normal, if quiet.
Given the recent demon attacks in the Stenchstreets, Braelin was surprised that anyone was inside at all.
He looked to the bar across the way, and smiled despite his wariness.
For Azleah tended that bar, and she looked as beautiful as when Braelin last saw her, before this new swarm of tumult had begun in the City of Spiders.
He tucked his peekaround away, hooked his strong fingers on the thin top jamb of the door, and rolled down gracefully as he swung into the establishment, letting go at the exact moment to let him hit the ground and right himself with such smoothness and fluidity that any who had not watched the entirety of his entrance would have thought he had simply strolled in through the doorway.
Azleah had seen the flourish, though, as her grin revealed to him.
She pretended not to look at him as he made his way across the dimly lit room, but he knew that she had seen him, had recognized him, and was pleased to see him again.
Braelin made no such attempt to hide his stare. Azleah was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was short by drow standards, but Braelin, too, barely topped five feet. Her hair was silvery white with hints of gold, her eyes shining amber, and her nose a mere button sandwiched by her dimpled cheeks.
She finally looked up at him openly when he slapped his hands on the bar.
“What is your desire?” she asked, and her choice of words wasn’t lost on Braelin. He fancied her indeed, but the best part was that he knew that she fancied him as well, perhaps even more.
“Same as always,” he answered cavalierly.
“Why, Braelin Janquay, I am working, and there are others in here,” Azleah said.
“Oh, I see. I thought you meant for a drink.”
“Of course, you did.”
“The same as always,” he repeated and looked to the shelves of fine liquors rising up on the wall behind her.
“Good timing, then,” she said and pulled a bottle from under the bar, Braelin’s favorite beverage, Myconid Elixir, a clear, potent alcohol made from the potatoes farmed in a nearby myconid garden—the very alcohol that had given this place its name centuries before.
Braelin’s lips turned to a frown. “No, wait, I have changed my mind,” he said, reaching over just as Azleah was preparing to pour.
She looked at him curiously, suspiciously.
He pointed to the top shelf. “Perhaps the limited elvish Feywine,” he said.
Azleah pulled her hand away and poured the Myconid Elixir. “No, you don’t, Braelin Janquay,” she said. “You just want to watch me climb up the ladder.”
Braelin shrugged as if he didn’t care that he had been caught. “I am a man,” he stated. “I have spent most of my life being ogled by the women of Menzoberranzan. Am I to be blamed for turning the coin?”
“So you leer at every woman you see?”
“Only one.”
“Am I to be complimented by that?”
“Am I to be complimented by the way you leer at me?”
Azleah drew a wide grin. “Only you,” she said.
“Atmosphere is more than half the pleasure of the drink,” Braelin said.
She put his filled glass before him. “Then find some time,” she said. “I’ve plenty of atmosphere to share.”
Braelin lifted the glass in toast to her before taking a sip, and Azleah, not one to give him the last word, collected the bottle of Myconid Elixir, spun about, and hiked up her gown revealingly as she climbed the ladder to replace it on the top shelf.
“I am happy to learn that you are still here, that this establishment remains untouched,” Braelin told her sincerely when she came back to stand across the bar from him.
“Oh, the Oozing Myconid has been touched,” Azleah replied darkly. “Repeatedly.”
“Demons?”
The woman shook her head. “Allies of the zealot Matron Zhindia Melarn.”
“Not Melarni themselves?”
“None of her own, I believe, no. I have spoken with Mizzryms and members of House Vandree. They come in here and advise me to see the truth of Matron Zhindia and of House Baenre. I suspect that it is not a truth with which Jarlaxle would agree.”
“Vandree is with Zhindia, then,” Braelin mumbled.
“And House Mizzrym.”
“We knew that Matron Miz’ri Mizzrym would side with her,” said Braelin. “Vandree is a blow to the cause of those who would oppose the Lolthians.”
“Then the whispers are true,” said Azleah. “Bregan D’aerthe will throw in with the heretics. I had expected Jarlaxle to see how fares the battle before playing his hand.”
“He would prefer to remain apart from it all, but I suspect he is as determined to see this to the end, whatever end that may be, as is Drizzt Do’Urden himself,” Braelin told her. “Something has come over our friend, though he will not speak of it. He went to the north, and there . . . was changed.”
“So say the rumors.”
“So say I, who have seen him firsthand. Rumors no more.”
“He will declare for House Baenre, then.”
“He is Jarlaxle. He will declare nothing, and act as best serves him—only in this case, he has made the decision that what best serves him and what best serves Bregan D’aerthe is for Menzoberranzan to be rid of the yoke that is the infernal Spider Queen.”
He studied Azleah carefully as he spoke, looking for some hint that she didn’t agree. He did note a mote of disappointment, but that much, he had expected.
“Jarlaxle might well be killed here,” Azleah said. “He will become a primary target for Matron Zhindia, do not doubt. As will the Oozing Myconid and all who work in this place as soon as she is convinced that Bregan D’aerthe is her enemy.”
“Jarlaxle already led an assault on her house only a few short years ago,” Braelin reminded. “One that I remember so painfully well.” He gave a little laugh, but could not hide the accompanying shudder. “If Zhidnia has not attacked the Oozing Myconid yet, then she is harboring doubts as to our allegiance, as well she should be.”
Azleah fixed him with a sympathetic stare. She was one of the few who knew that he had been the victim of the Curse of Abomination in that time, turned into a drider by the Melarni priestesses. The mere thought now racked him with phantom pains and he found himself rubbing his legs.
He shook it all away with a reminder that Yvonnel had saved him, that Jarlaxle and his friends had rescued him.
“Jarlaxle brought Artemis Entreri here, and Entreri killed her only daughter—irretrievably, I am told,” Braelin added, bringing the conversation back on track. “She’ll never forget that and she’ll never forgive it, of course, but she cares about losing her daughter only because it weakened her house and her position. She is a true Lolthian, that one. All she cares about is power, so even her anger at what happened before will be put aside for now as she tries to figure out if Bregan D’aerthe will be to her advantage or her enemy’s advantage.”
“How can you know that?”
“Because the battle has been going on for some time now and here I am, inside the Oozing Myconid speaking with you. What protection other than fleeing through secret ways would you and this place have if Zhindia was still holding grudges?”
“Despite the past, Zhindia doubts that Jarlaxle will turn against Lolth openly. Or she hopes.”
“Perhaps she believes that Jarlaxle’s hold on his band will be lessened and we are primary agents to turn against him.”
“It is no secret that Braelin Janquay wishes to lead Bregan D’aerthe,” Azleah teased.
That brought a smile and a bit of snorting to Braelin. “The open secret is a falsehood, then,” he said.
Azleah hopped up on her toes and leaned over the bar, resting her elbows on the burnished wood and dropping her face—a very round face for a drow—into the palms of her hands. “Do tell,” she prompted. “I had thought you an ambitious man.”
“My ambitions only have to do with you,” he said, and enjoyed how her eyes widened at his sincerity and fervor. But as much as he liked just talking to her, it was important he be clear in correcting her assessment—for himself, if nothing else. “I remain loyal to Jarlaxle. Always loyal to Jarlaxle. He found me on the streets, broken and wondering the point of life itself, and gave to me a home, a path, and a purpose. I do not wish to ever replace him, but am bound to make him confident that if something ever happened to him, all that he has built will be well served by me, if I remain alive. Never would I think of being the source of his demise, in any way.”
“But if something happened to Jarlaxle, Kimmuriel would take the band, yes? What then for Braelin?”
“I would not be stupid enough to even contemplate any action against that one, who could, and would, read my mind and know my plans and so do things to me to make the Spider Queen herself shudder in whatever approximation of sympathy she might muster. And yes, my dear Azleah, take that as a bit of advice for yourself, as well. I have come to know Kimmuriel very well. He is not vindictive—no longer, at least—and is not unpredictable in terms of temperament. But he is no enemy any of us would ever want. If he should take the reins, I would not jostle the rothé’s yoke.”
“So, Zhindia’s hopes that Bregan D’aerthe is malleable are dashed.”
“Unless, perhaps, she is thinking of tavern keeper Azleah,” Braelin said, turning it all back around on her. “It is an open secret that Azleah would like a band of her own, one led by women, which she believes to be the natural order of things.”
Azleah moved back from the bar at that, her expression becoming very serious. “I do have one, a gang, and no mercenary band,” she admitted. “No rival to Bregan D’aerthe, which I still willingly serve, but merely a complement of my own associates within a city that Bregan D’aerthe has all but abandoned.”
She glanced about as if making sure that her next actions would not be noticed, then moved to a small drawer at the base of the shelves and brought forth an unremarkable-looking little book, returning fast and sliding it to Braelin.
It was full of her recent observations and advice, Braelin knew, and tucked the report safely away.
“Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel both know of my expanding network,” she told him. “And offer their blessing and support.”
Braelin tapped the interior vest pocket where he had slipped the tome, and nodded.
“Mutual benefit,” said Azleah. “They know.”
“But perhaps Matron Zhindia Melarn does not know this,” Braelin slyly added. “Her hopes, in her own sexist way, would be on her ability to turn you into an ally, or perhaps the priestess Dab’nay. But surely she wouldn’t hope, or care, to turn me or any other man high in Jarlaxle’s ranks.”
Azleah nodded, clearly catching on. “Let us keep it that way, for all our sakes.”
Braelin finished his drink in a great gulp, then slapped the glass down on the bar. “I have much to do this day,” he told her. “Perhaps later we can share another drink.”
“Perhaps we can share more than that,” she said boldly. “You know where to find me, but only because I let you know where to find me. And in a place where the atmosphere is more than half the pleasure.”
Despite the dire portents all about him, Braelin left the Oozing Myconid with a spring in his step.
“I told you,” Chellith Vandree said to the Hunzrin priestess standing beside him as they watched the drow man enter the tavern in a most careful and unusual way. “There is no doubt. That is Braelin Janquay of Bregan D’aerthe.”
“I didn’t doubt you,” Barbar’eth Hunzrin replied. “Why would I? A minion of Jarlaxle comes to the Braeryn to check on his tavern? It proves nothing.”
“Braelin Janquay is more than a minion,” Chellith argued. “There are whispers that he is third to the leaders. Why would Jarlaxle send someone so important if he meant to remain neutral?”
“He sent his best scout to a place where information is critical,” Barbar’eth reasoned.
Chellith blew a long sigh.
“Do not let your ambition blind you to doubt,” the priestess advised. “Your greatest wish is to become the Vandree weapon master when this is all done.”
“I do not deny it, and striking such a blow would put me in great favor.”
“Or get you—get us—tortured,” Barbar’eth argued. “Matron Zhindia hates Jarlaxle, it is true, but she hopes to bring Bregan D’aerthe into her fold.”
“And what does House Hunzrin think? If there even is a House Hunzrin left, I mean.”
Barbar’eth knew her face was tightening, giving away her true feelings. She was playing the role of contrarian here out of caution and to draw out any information this Vandree scout might have of Bregan D’aerthe’s standing. Obviously, he had nothing other than his speculation. She had been hoping for more.
“House Hunzrin survives,” she curtly replied. “Few were killed in the raid beyond the replaceable non-drow servants.”
“Yes, I am sure that Matron Shakti and First Priestess Charri are quite content.”
“Your tone . . .” Barbar’eth warned.
“Can you not see the opportunity here? For me, yes, but for yourself as well. If those Hunzrins not in Matron Mother Baenre’s thrall do not act out boldly, then . . .”
Chellith found the words stuck in his throat, for the muscles in his mouth wouldn’t heed his desire to speak. None of his muscles would move to his mind’s command.
He stood there, perfectly still, perfectly helpless, as if his body was trapped in some wrap of unseen metal.
“You have forgotten your place,” Barbar’eth warned. She stepped back and reached into her belt pouch, producing a small strip of metal. She held it up before Chellith’s eyes.
He knew what was coming before the priestess even created a small flame between the thumb and index finger of her free hand. He tried to break out of her spell of holding, but this one was strong, so very strong.
Barbar’eth began whispering, teasing him with her chant.
“I cannot ever allow a man to speak to me in such a manner,” she said, shaking her head and feigning—so clearly feigning—some remorse.
No, Chellith knew her well, and knew she enjoyed this play.
His armor began to grow warm, and how he wanted to shed the chain shirt!
But he could not.
The discomfort became pain became searing agony. He tried to break from her magical hold, and failed again. He wanted to apologize, but he could not.
And she was lecturing him, warning him, reminding him that though they were friends and lovers, their companionship had an order to it that could not be denied. This was the Spider Queen’s way, she was saying, repeatedly.
Chellith wanted to scream. He knew that his skin was blistering. They had been through this before, several times, enough so that the man looked like he was wearing a mail shirt of scars whenever he removed his armor and clothes.
Barbar’eth liked those scars. She would run her hand gently over them and whisper into Chellith’s ear reminders that she made the rules, and his duty was simply to unquestioningly follow them.
He could smell flesh burning, his flesh burning. How he wished her magical paralysis took that particular sense away.
The pain was exquisite now. If her spell hadn’t been holding him in place, he was sure he would fall over.
“Do you understand?” he heard Barbar’eth sneer, moving closer to him, and he understood that in his attempt to put his thoughts elsewhere he hadn’t heard her the first few times she had asked that. Not that it mattered, though, for what was he to do? He couldn’t even blink his eyes!
The priestess gave a disgusted harrumph and waved her hands out, spinning around.
The paralysis ended and Chellith fell to one knee, gasping. The armor cooled almost immediately, but the pain remained.
Still with her back to him, Barbar’eth whispered, her voice hissing like a snake, “You so enjoy snide insults aimed at my family.” She spun about, her face a mask of rage. “Is the fleeting pleasure of the jibes worth it to you?”
“I was only . . .”
“Are they worth it to you?” she repeated, biting off every word.
“No, priestess.”
“Who do you serve?”
“Lolth, Lady Lol . . .”
“Of course Lolth, you idiot. We all serve Lolth. But who does Chellith serve?”
“I serve Priestess Barbar’eth,” he said.
“Now, tell me all that you know of this Braelin Janquay fool.”
“He . . . he holds great . . . power . . . in the city of Luskan,” Chellith said, but it took a while, for he was trembling and still gasping.
Barbar’eth sighed and began casting once more. She placed her hand on the man’s forehead and sent waves of magical healing into his tormented body.
“He is the prime scout of Bregan D’aerthe,” Chellith said, calming as the pain diminished.
“Then I ask again: Why would Jarlaxle risk him here?”
Chellith shrugged. “Why is the Oozing Myconid still operating? Why are the workers not dead?”
“Do tell.”
“Because Matron Zhindia has not moved against Bregan D’aerthe.”
“And yet you want us to do so without her explicit permission? Did you even think this inane plan through? Matron Zhindia will make driders of us! I should simply melt you for your stupidity.”
“She won’t if we can get Braelin Janquay to reveal to us Jarlaxle’s designs in the war,” Chellith said, obstinate despite his recent torture.
“If he is so valuable to Jarlaxle, he will never betray that.”
“Does it matter?” Chellith asked.
Barbar’eth stared at him, at first in anger for his impertinence, but then curiously.
“We murder him,” he continued, “and tell Matron Zhindia that he admitted to us that Bregan D’aerthe will side with the Baenres before we were forced to kill him.”
Barbar’eth’s puzzled expression didn’t change for a moment. Then her eyes began to narrow.
“That is likely to happen, of course,” Chellith said, his tone growing frantic in the face of Barbar’eth’s deepening scowl. “Matron Zhindia hates Jarlaxle. She will believe what we tell her because it is only confirming that which she knows in her heart, despite any hopes she might have of sidelining that band of mercenaries.”
Barbar’eth’s expression softened. “So, even if Jarlaxle was planning to keep Bregan D’aerthe out of it . . .”
“Our actions will make of Jarlaxle and his band enemies of Matron Zhindia,” Chellith said. “Can you deny the gain to House Hunzrin? Ever has Bregan D’aerthe been your rivals—your house and Jarlaxle’s band fight for every morsel of trade beyond the city, and of late—”
He bit it off there, realizing that if he said the truth, that Jarlaxle was growing stronger and controlled much of the northern Sword Coast area on the surface, while House Hunzrin had lost all favor up there—by bringing a catastrophe in the form of phylacteries filled with demons to a Waterdhavian noble family—the reminder might not go over very well with the vicious woman, particularly since so many of her house were now imprisoned in their own compound by the Baenre heretics.
“We are on Matron Zhindia’s side, of course, for that is the demand of Lady Lolth,” Chellith said, his voice growing stronger. “But do we really want Bregan D’aerthe to join us? When we win—and how can we not?—would it not be a more profound victory by far, particularly for House Hunzrin, if Jarlaxle and his mercenary rogues were all sent to the Abyss to be shown the error of their ways?”
Barbar’eth came forward suddenly, grabbed Chellith by the cheeks, and kissed him deeply.
“I will bring in our friend,” she whispered. “Oh, my clever lover, you watch the door, and when Braelin Janquay comes back out of the tavern, engage him with words.”
“I’ll tell him that I wish to join Bregan D’aerthe,” Chellith replied with a chuckle. “Those arrogant fools think everyone wants to be a part of their ridiculous adventure.”
Barbar’eth left and Chellith watched Barbar’eth move back down the alleyway, almost hypnotized by the confidence in her stride, her swaying hips; he was undeniably attracted to her, desired her and hated her all at the same time. As soon as she moved out of sight at the end of the alleyway, the Vandree warrior turned his attention back to the Oozing Myconid, just in time to see Braelin Janquay come out through the door.
Chellith stayed in the shadows for a bit longer, trying to recall anything he had heard about this man—not the information Barbar’eth had asked for, but regarding Braelin’s fighting style or training. He didn’t know much, but was certain that Braelin had never been to Melee-Magthere. Braelin wasn’t the son of a noble house. In fact, there was no House Janquay in Menzoberranzan, and never had been as far as Chellith knew.
“No academy training, no weapon master to learn from,” the Vandree warrior whispered to himself, bolstering his resolve. He could not imagine that any such commoner could match blades with him. Chellith had been third in his class and had trained extensively under Weapon Master Zintarl. How could any homeless rogue from the Stenchstreets ever hope to match that?
Realizing that there were Bregan D’aerthe allies within, Chellith waited for Braelin to get some distance from the tavern before moving out to intercept him. Even then, he barely came out of the shadows, and instead gave a short, sharp hiss.
When Braelin turned his way, Chellith began flashing his fingers in the drow sign language, relaying his name and asking for an audience.
The rogue looked around, then moved carefully toward the warrior.
“House Vandree, you claim?” Braelin asked. “You are a noble?”
“Nephew of Matron Asha,” he answered honestly, though he noted that his declaration of his house had moved Braelin Janquay’s hand a bit closer to his weapon belt.
“A skull drinker,” Braelin said, showing little respect. It was whispered throughout Menzoberranzan that the Vandree table was set with goblets made of human skulls. While true, the goblets were used only on special occasions, but the disparaging moniker of “skull drinker” was common when referring to one of Chellith’s clan.
Chellith tried to hide his anger at the insult and did what he could to not end this commoner’s life right here and now. “And you are a dwarf humper, I suppose, since you are of Bregan D’aerthe.”
“Am I?”
“You are Braelin Janquay of Bregan D’aerthe, yes. I know of you and heard that you were in the city, and so I have sought you out.”
“Heard from whom?”
“Whispers on the Stenchstreets.”
“You spend much time here, then?”
“It is my only reprieve from the nonsense of the current winds blowing in the city, and from the glares of the priestesses of Vandree, most especially from Matron Asha herself.”
“Do tell.”
He snorted in derision. “You are of Bregan D’aerthe so I need not explain to you what is going on. No doubt, you have heard of the tightening alliances as the battle lines are more clearly drawn,” Chellith said. “Do not waste our time with such a pointless question.”
Braelin didn’t respond at all, not even a blink.
“Just as I won’t waste our time pretending where my house’s allegiance lies; yes, you know that my matron has chosen the side of Matron Zhindia Melarn. Does that bother you? For I have heard that Bregan D’aerthe has not stated any position.”
Still, not a blink.
“I am not here as an envoy from House Vandree to you, or to Jarlaxle through you.”
“Which is exactly why I am trying to figure out why you are here, and why you sought to bother me.”
“Because none in the Oozing Myconid have a direct line to Jarlaxle, and the fewer who hear my request, the better. I have little desire to become a drider.”
Braelin seemed to relax, just a bit, at that. He spent a moment looking Chellith up and down before asking, “How do you know that we will not side with Matron Zhindia?”
“I do not care.”
That clearly caught Braelin by surprise, as Chellith was hoping.
“I do not care which side Bregan D’aerthe takes, if any,” Chellith elaborated.
“Then, again I ask: Why do you bother me?”
“I want to join.”
“Join? You are a noble nephew in a ruling house.”
“And it is nothing I ever wanted.” Chellith paused and looked around for effect. “If you mean to betray me, please just kill me, but I must speak truly here. I wish to be gone from this place.”
“We of Bregan D’aerthe might soon be here, as you just implied.”
“But at least then, if am with you, I will know that I am fighting for something beyond the latest argument between the matrons of the city. House Vandree, Matron Asha, sides with Matron Zhindia because she worships Lolth and fears the vengeance of the Spider Queen. It is hard to argue that logic, I admit, but to go against House Baenre? That is madness!”
“So, your desire here is simply pragmatic.”
“No, no,” Chellith said, shaking his head as emphatically as he modulated his tone. “Maybe I am simply more loyal to my gender than to the priestesses who raised me, who beat me, who tore my flesh with their snake-headed scourges. I want to join with you to find some semblance of freedom, some semblance of worth beyond my potential as a mate or fodder in whatever squabble the women bring to Menzoberranzan. If that means fighting in the city, even against my own family, then so be it. Because when it is done, all that I ask is that Bregan D’aerthe takes me far from this place. I have much to offer.”
He kept his voice emphatic and even pleading as he began to honestly list his achievements in the Academy and in his work for House Vandree. He recounted everything he could remember, with embellishments, and then made up some more—anything to keep Braelin engaged.
He took heart when the rogue began nodding and smiling, even leaning in as if eager to hear more from this potentially valuable recruit.
“You are a reckless fool, Chellith,” Barbar’eth Hunzrin whispered to herself when she peeked around the alley wall and saw him go out to speak with the Bregan D’aerthe scout, even though that was exactly what she ordered him to do. She couldn’t deny her excitement. The plan was indeed dangerous, so very much so, but when they brought the fabricated information to Zhindia, the powerful matron would no doubt be grateful—as long as they were convincing enough.
And surely Matron Shakti would be positively thrilled when the day was done and Bregan D’aerthe greatly weakened, if not utterly destroyed. House Hunzrin would claim all trade outside of the city as their domain once more!
Still, Chellith had a streak of recklessness in him—as she had just reminded him when she melted his flesh with his own armor. It would not surprise her if he messed this up and made the murder much more difficult than it had to be. Then she’d have to take matters in her own hand.
With that in mind, she put her worries aside and began to read the scroll of summoning, knowing that her complete focus and energy would be needed to properly control this particular beast.
She had called upon this one, Ingrou, before, and preferred it to the other of its hezrou kind . . . mostly because she enjoyed the silly, squeaky noise the massive and hulking frog-faced demon giggled every time it inflicted pain on another. The two had been together often in the last few tendays, and when the portal opened and the hezrou emerged, Ingrou seemed pleased to see Barbar’eth once more.
“Come along, my beastly friend,” she said. “Let us play with a foolish man.”
As good as this Chellith Vandree fellow was at wearing a mask of eagerness and hope, Braelin Janquay was better at pretending to care. His nods were hiding the movement of his eyes, darting every which way. His expression feigned interest, but he wasn’t listening to a thing the idiot warrior was saying, for none of it would matter a whit if and when Braelin ever took him to speak with Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel to request admission into the band formally.
Instead, Braelin was keeping his senses turned outward, past Chellith, keeping his hands ready, his thoughts ready, expecting the worst.
That was Jarlaxle’s training at play.
He noted movement in the shadows of the alleyway. He smelled something terrible, disgusting, and strong enough that he could taste the rankness.
A moment later, he felt a tightening of his muscles, a magical intrusion trying to hold him in place, perfectly still, perfectly helpless.
He recognized it from the extensive training he had done with Dab’nay.
He couldn’t blink. That truth pervaded his thoughts.
He felt his armor growing warmer, uncomfortably so, just as that woman emerged, dressed in the robes of a priestess.
Beside her came a huge, seven-foot beast that looked like a giant spiked toad with muscular arms and walking upright on two legs. Braelin thought of Jarlaxle’s adventure in the north and the tales of the slaadi, but the odor—for indeed, this was the source of that wretched smell—told him that this was no slaad.
It was a demon, and a big, strong, ugly one.
Braelin Janquay reminded himself that he couldn’t blink.
His armor was burning him now, but he couldn’t even twitch at the severe discomfort.
“Look, my dear Ingrou,” he heard the priestess say, and he noted that she wore the insignia of House Hunzrin, one that Braelin, like all members of Bregan D’aerthe, knew well. “We have a spy of Bregan D’aerthe, come to Menzoberranzan to help defeat Lady Lolth, and so deny you creatures of the Abyss this wondrous playground.”
Braelin’s skin was beginning to blister, he realized, and he could feel a great scream of pain bubbling up in his throat.
“Let me cook him a bit longer before you eat—” Barbar’eth said, that last word, the last she would ever speak, bitten off as surely as she hoped this hulking demonic toad-beast would bite off Braelin’s head.
Braelin had trained with Zaknafein of late, but most of his martial skills had come from years and years of training under the tutelage of Jarlaxle, who loathed long battles. “Too much could go wrong with every passing heartbeat,” Jarlaxle had often explained to Braelin in their sparring.
The draw was everything, and if done right, quite often the whole of the conflict.
As with now, when Braelin dropped his failing act of paralysis, brought his left hand to his right hip, drew, inverted, and stabbed his tapered short sword upward in a single, fluid motion, catching the priestess right under the chin and driving the fine and heavily enchanted blade up with such power that the tip pushed through the top of her head.
Braelin tugged the tapered sword down and the instant it came free, he executed a pair of backflips to bring him away from the demon and Chellith Vandree, landing from the second one at the same moment as the crumbling priestess settled into a heap on the ground.
The toad-beast surprised him with a strange, squeaky sound, like a laugh from something that simply didn’t know how to laugh, as it turned to face him and flexed the clawed hands of its massive long arms.
“What have you done?” Chellith babbled, and to the demon, “Kill him!”
The hezrou demon took a step Braelin’s way.
“She summoned you and now she is dead,” the scout said, almost nonchalant. “You are free, and there is an idiot standing right beside you that doesn’t have his sword drawn.”
The demon took another step, but painted a curious expression on its wide-mouthed face and glanced over at Chellith, who was only then drawing his own sword.
“Wait . . . what?” the Vandree warrior said, his eyes widening as he understood the sudden turn.
The hezrou leaped upon him, toothy maw clamping about the forearm Chellith brought up to fend off the demon.
Chellith’s free hand finally drew a sword and stabbed it into the hezrou demon’s gut.
The beast roared in rage, its left arm coming up, then down hard on the crook in Chellith’s sword arm, slapping the arm away, taking his hand from the impaling blade.
The warrior reached for it again, but the demon shook its head, and so shook Chellith’s whole body, wildly, then spit out the shattered arm, Ingrou’s free right hand coming across to bash the man and send him flying, crashing to the ground, unarmed, bleeding, and badly dazed.
As much as he was enjoying the spectacle, Braelin realized that he wasn’t going to get any information out of the split-brained priestess, who wasn’t even twitching anymore, and that this idiot warrior might prove of some value to him.
And while he might want to flee, he didn’t feel good about leaving a demon in the Stenchstreets.
He wondered if Drizzt—through Jarlaxle—was rubbing off on him.
The demon crouched and tamped down its legs, ready to pounce upon the helpless man, but before it started the leap, an arrow drove into the side of its toad head; then a second, a fine and magical one, stabbed through its left arm into the side of its chest.
Surprised and confused, the hezrou caught a third and a fourth before it even turned to face Braelin, some dozen steps away now and grinning as he lifted the bow yet again.
Ingrou’s telepathic growl reverberated in Braelin’s mind.
It shook him—a demon in your brain is never something you want to experience—but it didn’t distract from the disciplined scout’s aim as he put an arrow right into the demon’s forward-facing nostril.
As soon as the missile flew away, Braelin rushed forward.
The demon leaped ahead as well, and the drow dove into a forward roll, going right under the toad and coming around and up, putting a sixth arrow into the beast before he was even back to his feet, then two more before he had to toss his bow aside, spit his bloody short sword from his mouth to his left hand, and draw his long sword—his new and fabulous long sword—from its scabbard on his right hip.
My patience runs thin, he heard in his mind, and knew it wasn’t the demon. No, it was his sword, the new one Jarlaxle had given him upon his return from the north, its fine edge glowing a thin line of red light.
“Come on, then, let’s play,” Braelin taunted the hezrou—but also encouraged his sword—and he rolled the keen-edged weapon in his right hand.
The sword remained angry with him, he knew, telepathically cursing him for using the other blade to murder the priestess.
“A demon isn’t enough for you?” Braelin verbally replied to the sentient weapon. He felt a sudden urge to rush over and finish Chellith then, but ignored it and charged the hezrou.
Braelin launched into a flourish to try to distract and slow the demon, but the wounded and outraged beast just plowed through it and almost bowled over Braelin, with the rogue getting just down low enough to avoid the sweep of the hezrou’s heavy, powerful arm. He dove out to the side, turning and letting himself fall into a roll, and stabbing twice at the beast’s hip, scoring with both—and how easily and beautifully this deadly sword slid through demon flesh and demon bone!
Braelin flipped himself over and back to his feet and darted ahead as the hezrou turned. He rushed right into the thing, getting in close so that the lunging swipe of its fiendish right claw went behind him.
He almost thought that he had missed, so easily did his sword slip right through the demon’s chest, and that surprise almost cost him dearly, slowing his response when the demon bit at him. He fell backward and down, letting his tapered short sword fall away and gripping the hilt with both hands, and pulled his long sword out—not straight out as was the typical way, no, but with an upward motion, yanking the blade through demon innards, ribs, flesh, and finally right back out free. So quickly did the keen blade slice through the demon and emerge that Braelin just let himself fall backward, and without obstruction, for the demon wasn’t wrapping him with its arms anymore.
Braelin stumbled, but kept his feet under him, backpedaling fast, watching his foe.
The hezrou showed no sign of charging, and didn’t even seem to be looking at Braelin at all. It just stood there, arms out wide, its head and body full of arrows, oozing demonic pus from many wounds, especially right in front, where it was so cleanly and deeply sliced belly to chin.
Braelin watched the feathered end of the shaft of the arrow he had put up the demon’s nose, now pointing skyward and quivering.
Attack! Braelin’s sword telepathically ordered, and he meant to heed that call, but not as the weapon wanted. He began to drop the sword, looking to the bow that was lying off to the side.
No! the sword begged. Please!
There it was, as Jarlaxle had warned him. Khazid’hea, the infamous weapon known as Cutter, was no longer ordering him. No, it was begging him! That brought a smile to Braelin’s face as he considered that he was fully matching wills with the dangerous sword now.
Very well, then, he silently answered. He didn’t retrieve his bow. He didn’t retrieve his short sword. He took up Cutter in both hands and went at the hezrou demon directly, charging at it, dropping to a slide and slashing its legs, coming up fast and driving the sword angled under the demon’s toad-like gullet again and again.
He could feel the satisfaction of the blade in his mind, the elation as it drove home repeatedly and drank its enemy’s blood.
The hezrou was destroyed, Braelin knew, already beginning to emit Abyssal smoke as it began its banishment back home, but Braelin noted something else, some movement to the side, and so he kept stabbing furiously, seemingly out of control.
He stopped short and spun about, Khazid’hea sweeping down and across, intercepting the sword of Chellith Vandree and driving it out wide. Braelin turned right about to face the man, rolled his blade up, over, and then back down and out again, and so off guard was Chellith, so surprised that his backstab had been foiled, that he lost his sword altogether, the weapon flying across the way and bouncing on the stone of the street.
The tip of Khazid’hea was at his throat.
And how the sword wanted to eat!
But this one might prove useful, Braelin remembered, and conveyed to the weapon that sentiment.
Khazid’hea would hear none of it, compelling Braelin to strike, and so forceful was the telepathic command that the skilled Bregan D’aerthe rogue almost did it.
Almost.
Instead, he just slipped the tip into Chellith’s throat, just a bit, forcing the man up on his tiptoes.
Braelin’s free hand came up, his index finger going over his pursed lips. “Not a word,” he told the warrior. “And if you do not follow perfectly, I will take your head.”
He retrieved his weapons, then, and turned toward the Oozing Myconid.
“Why?” he asked as he neared with his prisoner.
“It was the priestess,” Chellith stammered. “She is my master and told me to do this. She is Hunzrin and hates Jarlaxle’s band.”
Chellith rambled on and on for a few moments, until Braelin finally stopped him with, “The band you told me you wished to join?”
“She made me. House Baenre has taken her family out of the fight.”
“What of your family?”
The man swallowed hard, or started to, but the movement brought the lump in his throat against the tip of Khazid’hea. He gurgled in pain.
“Matron Asha . . .”
“Go on.”
“Matron Asha has sided with Matron Zhindia. That was true.”
“And?”
“There is nothing more,” the man pleaded.
“Then I leave you with this advice, Chellith Vandree,” Braelin said. “Never give an interrogator all your information before they have agreed to spare your life.”
Chellith’s eyes widened in horror.
“What more?” Braelin demanded.
The man stammered and stuttered and wanted desperately to come up with something, anything, but after a moment, Braelin understood that anything Chellith said at that point would be a lie.
So, Braelin removed his sword tip, but out the side of Chellith’s neck, slashing the man’s artery.
He walked away as the blood began to spurt, Chellith sinking to his knees. He felt the satisfaction from Khazid’hea, even a whisper deep in his mind from the sword that it was beginning to think that maybe he was worthy.
Braelin sent the same message back to the sword. It wasn’t a bargain, though, a notion of mutual benefit. No, it was a challenge, one Braelin was growing confident he could win.
Following Jarlaxle’s training to the letter, Braelin produced a small rod and cast a divination, one that would show him magical enchantments, particularly those upon items that might be quite valuable. He relieved the dead priestess of some baubles and an interesting broach, retrieved Chellith’s sword, which seemed quite enchanted for a weapon of a man who was not a house weapon master, then went back to Chellith, who was still kneeling, gurgling and choking.
Braelin studied him closely, but found no magical emanations worthy of his time.
“It didn’t have to be like this,” he told Chellith, who was staring at him, grasping at the tear and trying pathetically to stem the blood. “If you had wanted to join Bregan D’aerthe truly, I could have granted that.”
Chellith nodded repeatedly, his eyes plaintive and begging.
Braelin looked around at the few witnesses in the shadows on the street, the end of an alleyway, and a couple on a balcony seemingly enjoying the show. All of them seemed rather amused, and why not? For these Melarni allies had been rampaging the Braeryn with their demons of late.
One last glance and disappointed sigh at Chellith, who was sinking into the street, and Braelin Janquay went on his way.