Night of the Hunter by R. A. Salvatore
Matron Zeerith nodded. “My family is humbled by the great respect and opportunity Lady Lolth has offered us. Q’Xorlarrin stands with Menzoberranzan, in peace and in war.”
“You are our eyes to the World Above, and the implements of your master smiths will sound gloriously throughout the tunnels of the Underdark,” Matron Mez’Barris added, and everyone in the room knew that she had done so merely to interject her voice into a discussion so clearly dominated by Matron Mother Quenthel.
These events were moving along without Mez’Barris’s consent, without her opinion, even.
“Is it your decision to remove yourself to your settlement at this time?” Matron Mother Quenthel asked Matron Zeerith.
“Yes,” she answered. “I will depart Menzoberranzan within the tenday.”
“And so your seat?”
Matron Zeerith took a deep breath, glanced across the way to Matron Mez’Barris’s left, at Matron Vadalma Tlabbar of the Fourth House, Faen Tlabbar, and Zeerith’s most-hated rival. Then she turned to her own right, to Matron Miz’ri Mizzrym of the Fifth House, another hated rival. Zeerith stepped behind the chair and pushed it into the table, signaling that she was done.
“Be gone,” Matron Mother Quenthel told her coldly. “No more is this your place.”
Without a bow, without a salute, without a word, Matron Zeerith Q’Xorlarrin left the Ruling Council.
The other remaining matrons stared at Matron Mother Quenthel for guidance, and Quenthel understood their anticipation. Was she commanding ascent, where each would step up one rank to replace the vacated third seat? Or was she to leave it open, inviting someone, anyone, to try for the rank, which would likely result in a House war?
Or a third option, perhaps, a blend of orderly ascent and enjoyable chaos.
“Matron Vadalma,” Matron Mother Quenthel said to the woman at Mez’Barris’s right, and the matron mother indicated the open chair.
Vadalma Tlabbar rose and paced the long way around the table, so as to not walk behind her superiors, Baenre and Armgo. With a superior look to the others in the room, she pulled back Zeerith’s seat and took her place as the Matron of the Third House of Menzoberranzan.
“Matron Miz’ri,” Matron Mother Quenthel bade, and Miz’ri reversed Vadalma’s course, taking Vadalma’s former seat and rank.
And so it went for the next three, each matron ascending to the seat in the position immediately above their previous station, an orderly advancement for the fourth through eighth ranked Houses, elevating them to the third through seventh positions. When they were done, the seat diagonally across the table from the matron mother was left open.
Matron Mother Quenthel said nothing for a long while, letting the others consider the possibilities.
“Matron Prae’anelle Duskryn?” Matron Mez’Barris finally asked, referring to the Matron of House Duskryn, currently the Ninth House of Menzoberranzan.
“If Duskryn is awarded the Eighth House, who here believes that it will be a lasting arrangement?” Matron Mother Quenthel said with a wicked little laugh, and the other matrons joined in, for her words rang of truth. House Hunzrin was currently ranked eleventh in the city, but it was commonly conceded that Hunzrin could defeat any of the lesser Houses with ease, and likely a few of the ruling Houses as well. And particularly so with the new city of Q’Xorlarrin established, for House Hunzrin was a powerful economic force in Menzoberranzan, and with many channels outside the city, spiderwebbing out into the wider Underdark and even to the surface. Many in Menzoberranzan had been expecting House Hunzrin to make a move on the Ruling Council for years now, and only the web of alliances among the various other eight Houses had kept Matron Shakti Hunzrin’s hand at bay.
House Duskryn had no such tight ties, and would easily be picked off by House Hunzrin should Duskryn be elevated to the Ruling Council, everyone seated at that table believed.
“House Duskryn is Ninth, and Matron Prae’anelle is prepared to take her rightful seat,” Mez’Barris pressed.
Of course she did, Matron Mother Quenthel understood, for House Duskryn was a devout and fairly isolated clan, with few allies to protect it from House Hunzrin, and House Hunzrin’s closest ally within the city was Mez’Barris’s own House Barrison Del’Armgo. Both Shakti and Mez’Barris had one thing in common: their hatred for House Baenre. If Duskryn was given the title as Eighth House, Mez’Barris would force Shakti’s hand from her preferred subterfuge and into a straightforward attack to land her on the Ruling Council.
“Matron Prae’anelle will find her seat accordingly,” the matron mother explained, “as soon as there is an opening.”
Mez’Barris began to ask the obvious question then, and some of the others shifted uncomfortably in their seats at the unexpected proclamation, but the matron mother turned to her left and nodded, and Sos’Umptu rose from the chair and marched around the table—pointedly behind Matron Mez’Barris—and took the vacant seat for the Eighth House.
“House Baenre will hold two places on the Ruling Council? This is your design?” an astonished Mez’Barris remarked.
“No,” the matron mother curtly answered. “Sos’Umptu is no longer of House Baenre.”
“Who has she joined? Will she begin her own? If so, the rank is far lower, by precedent!”
“By the will of Lolth, Daermon N’a’shezbaernon is hereby reconstituted,” the matron mother declared.
“Daermon …” Mez’Barris echoed, hardly able to get the name out of her mouth.
“The cursed House Do’Urden?” scoffed Matron Zhindia Melarn, the youngest drow on the Ruling Council, and easily the most fanatical and rigid in her devotion to Lolth. “Apostasy!”
“Go and pray, Matron,” the matron mother coolly replied to Zhindia. “When you are done, you will select your words more carefully.”
“There is no precedent for this,” Matron Mez’Barris added.
“There has been no time like this before now,” the matron mother replied. “You have all heard rumors of Tsabrak Xorlarrin’s journey to the east. The whispers are true—he goes with the blessing of Lolth, and empowered in her great spell, the Darkening. We will wage war in the east, on the surface, by the Spider Queen’s demand, and we will wage that war in the name of House Do’Urden.”
She paused for a moment to let that sink in around the table.
“Sos’Umptu, Mistress of Sorcere, High Priestess of the Fane of the Goddess, hereby relinquishes her position as First Priestess of House Baenre, to assume the seat as Matron of House Do’Urden.”
Even House Baenre’s allied matrons ruffled a bit at this seemingly obvious power play.
“It is a temporary appointment,” the matron mother assured them. “In a House that will be formed through a cooperation of the other ruling Houses. Her patron, for example …”
She paused and glanced at a door at the side of the room, and opened it with a shouted command word.
Into the chamber limped a male drow of middle age. He measured his steps and kept his gaze to the floor as he moved to sit at the chair Sos’Umptu had vacated.
“To let a male in here!” Zhindia Melarn said, and spat.
“Are we agreed, Matron Mez’Barris?” the matron mother said, noting with an open grin the curious way in which the Matron of Barrison Del’Armgo stared at the unexpected newcomer.
“Do you not recognize your own son?”
“Tos’un,” Mez’Barris breathed, and she turned a sharp eye upon Matron Mother Quenthel. But Quenthel matched her glare, and with a wicked grin that Mez’Barris could only take as a thinly veiled threat. There was something here, Quenthel’s look clearly told Mez’Barris, that could embarrass the Second Matron of Menzoberranzan and her family.
“Are we agreed, Matron Mez’Barris?” the matron mother repeated.
“I will pray,” was all that Matron Mez’Barris would concede at that point.
“Yes, do,” said the matron mother. “All of you. I will accept your accolades when Lady Lolth has informed you th
With that, she clapped her hands sharply, bringing the meeting of the Ruling Council to an abrupt end.
The six non–Baenre matrons hustled from the room, whispering in small groups regarding the startling turn of events. Quenthel noted that Zhindia Melarn only remained away from Mez’Barris’s side until they reached the door. Quenthel knew those two would confer at length about this. Now they understood why Bregan D’aerthe patrolled the corridors of the former House Do’Urden.
Now they would complain, but they would take it no farther than that. Not at present, at least, with the Darkening imminent, as well as the war it portended. And not until Matron Mez’Barris came to fully understand the implications of the unexpected return of Tos’un Armgo, her son.
House Barrison Del’Armgo was not brimming with allies, after all, and a major embarrassment could bring the rest of the city storming their gates.
“It played as you anticipated?” Gromph asked the matron mother when she went to him in his room at House Baenre.
“Of course.”
“I would have enjoyed witnessing the expression borne by Matron Mez’Barris when her long-lost child entered the chamber.”
“You revisited Q’Xorlarrin?”
“I did,” Gromph replied, though he left out any details, particularly his rather startling revelations concerning the surface elf, Dahlia. “Tiago has returned with you?”
“No, but he will be along presently, I am confident, along with Saribel Xorlarrin, who will be his bride.”
“Good, he has much to do.”
“As Weapons Master of House Do’Urden, no doubt,” Gromph remarked, and the matron mother looked at him curiously, then suspiciously, for she had not divulged that little bit of information to him.
“Logic could steer you no other way,” the archmage remarked. “Aumon of your seed will supplant Andzrel in the hierarchy of House Baenre, of course, and I doubt you allowed Tiago those fabulous and ancient items forged by Gol’fanin that he might serve as a guard captain or some other meaningless position.”
“Well-reasoned,” the matron mother said, but her expression revealed that she still thought it too fine a guess.
“And the House Do’Urden wizard?” Gromph asked innocently.
“You tell me.”
“Not Gromph, surely!” the archmage said. “I find my platter quite filled enough.”
Matron Mother Quenthel stared at him, unblinking.
“Tsabrak Xorlarrin,” Gromph answered, nodding with clear resignation at the inevitableness of the choice.
“He of the Blessing of Lolth,” the matron mother replied.
“You hinted that he would be the Archmage of Q’Xorlarrin,” Gromph reminded.
“A necessary tease. I will not afford Matron Zeerith any hopes that she can break fully free of us.” The matron mother paused there and eyed Gromph slyly. “Does it concern you that Tsabrak will return to Menzoberranzan so soon after finding such glory in the eyes of the Spider Queen?”
“Lolth is a spider,” the archmage quipped. “Her eyes can be filled with many such glories, all at the same time.”
He wasn’t sure, but it didn’t seem to Gromph as if his sister was amused.
“I have already told you of my concerns for Tsabrak,” Gromph said more seriously. “And those concerns are … none.”
“We shall see,” said the matron mother as she took her leave. “We shall see.”
Gromph wore a grave expression—until he magically shut the door behind his sister. He’d allow her the illusion of an upper hand.
He could afford to, for she clearly had not sorted out that Methil El-Viddenvelp was not only imparting memories to her but was discerning her intent and feeding it back to Gromph. In essence, crafty old Gromph was using the mind flayer in the same way Yvonnel had used Methil to gain an upper hand in the chamber of the Ruling Council.
Quenthel was sharper than she had been before the interactions with the illithid, perhaps, and surely far more knowledgeable about the ways of Lolth’s world.
But thus far, at least, she was no Yvonnel. Not yet.
After the ease with which Quenthel had dominated and manipulated Minolin Fey and Gromph at House Fey-Branche in the Festival of the Founding, Gromph Baenre found himself quite glad of that.
CHAPTER 18
A SLIGHT TASTE OF REVENGE
HANGING IN HIS IRON CAGE, ARTEMIS ENTRERI DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO make of any of it. Something had happened to Dahlia, obviously. Something awful, something perpetrated by that horrid mind flayer.
She wasn’t crying about Effron. She wasn’t tight with anger or pacing with excessive anxiety and frustration. She wasn’t speaking, not even to answer Artemis Entreri’s soft calls. She wasn’t looking at him, or at anything, it seemed.
She was just sitting there, uncaged, unguarded, broken. She had one shackle around her ankle, chained to a metal ball, but it hardly seemed as if her captors needed it.
“Dahlia!” he called again, as loudly as he dared. He really didn’t want to give any of the dark elves moving around the Forge any excuse to walk over and beat him some more—not that they really needed an excuse; many paused to and from their respective forges to stick him with a small knife, or a heated poker, or to toss some hot ash up toward his face, just to see him try reflexively and futilely to turn away.
The woman made no movement to indicate that she had heard him, or that she even cared to listen, in any case.
She was broken, perhaps beyond repair, he realized, and he couldn’t deny, as much as he wanted to, that the thought of Dahlia’s grim fate gnawed at him.
Gnawed at him and tugged at his heartstrings, more than he ever could have imagined.
Knowing where this would inevitably lead, Entreri tried to block out the train of thought, but he could not.
In his memories, he saw Calihye again, and he imagined her in Dahlia’s place. She, too, had been taken by the dark elves, by Jarlaxle’s band of Bregan D’aerthe.
Taken from him.
Had he really loved Calihye? To this day, he wondered, and for this man, who for most of his life was certain that love did not exist, the conundrum truly echoed through his thoughts. Perhaps he had loved Calihye, perhaps not, but surely his relationship with her was the closest he had ever come to knowing love.
Until now? Until Dahlia?
Entreri stared down at her from his cage.
This could not stand.
Very slowly and deliberately, Entreri manipulated his shoulders, twisting and turning and flexing the powerful muscles along his side until his left shoulder blade had moved downward, in effect shortening his arm. More turning and twisting and stretching at last brought his left hand into view.
He noted his exceptionally long thumbnail. He kept it that way on purpose.
He grimaced with the last painful twist, turning his arm practically out of socket so that he could turn it in around the outside of the cage and bring that fingernail to his mouth.
He sucked that thumb for some time, softening the nail with his spit, then he bit and slowly peeled, taking the top of the fingernail in one long strip.
Activity in the room forced him to twist the arm aside before he could put that nail back into his hand, so he used his tongue to tuck it deep to the side of his lower gum, out of sight and leaving his tongue clear in case he needed to speak.
Out of the tunnel that led to the primordial pit floated High Priestess Berellip, sitting comfortably on a magically glowing summoned disc. Entreri thought that surely meant he was in for another round of torture. But that diminished quickly when more notable drow came out of the tunnel right behind Berellip, including Tiago Baenre and the other Xorlarrin priestess in the second rank, followed closely by the House wizard and weapons master, the priestess upon a similar floating disc, the males all riding battle lizards.
And many others followed, all outfitted for battle, clearly, and with a contingent of driders bringing up the back of t
Entreri considered their course, and traced them back to the chamber that had become, he had heard in whispers, the chapel of this new drow settlement. They had come forth with Lolth’s blessing, then, and had come forth prepared to go to war.
They were marching out of Gauntlgrym again, Entreri realized, as they had gone to Port Llast. More prisoners, more slaves, more dead, more blood. It was the drow way.
They came very near to his cage and to Dahlia, and Berellip halted the march with an upraised hand and guided her disc to the side, hovering near the broken elf woman.
“Darthiir,” she said with a sneer and shake of her head. “Know that I would pull your limbs off on the rack, were it my choice. And I would keep you alive and find more ways to wound you. I would give you hope, and then I would feed you to Yerrininae, and I would watch with joy the unspeakable things he would do to you for killing his beloved Flavvar.”
“Priestess,” Jearth dared to interrupt, and Berellip turned a sharp stare upon him. She didn’t look at him for long, though, Entreri noted, but settled her glower at the male sitting beside her sister, the warrior Entreri knew to be Tiago Baenre.
A large bit of bluster left Berellip’s features as she matched stares with the noble of House Baenre.
The archmage had told her to leave Dahlia alone, Entreri realized from that silent exchange. From his time in Menzoberranzan, Entreri knew well that few would dare cross Gromph Baenre. Even Jarlaxle offered that dangerous wizard more than a bit of deference. Despite the tight press of the cage, Entreri managed to cock his head to the side just a bit with curiosity. The archmage and House Baenre were protecting Dahlia?