of Bregan D'aerthe, apparently, and that left Jarlaxle, the master of bluff and the player of intrigue, at somewhat of a disadvantage.
He came up from his comfortable chair, stepped out from behind his desk, and gave a low bow, pulling his wide-brimmed and outrageously plumed hat from his head and sweeping it across the floor. 'My greetings, K'yorl Odran, Matron Mother of House
Oblodra, Third House of Menzoberranzan. Not often has my humble home been so graced…»
'Enough,' K'yorl spat, and Jarlaxle came up and replaced the hat. Never taking his gaze from the female, never blinking, the mercenary went back to his chair and flopped down comfortably, putting both his boots atop his desk with a resounding slam.
It was then Jarlaxle felt the intrusion into his mind, a deeply unsettling probe into his thoughts. He quickly dismissed his many curses at the failure of conventional magic—usually his enchanted eye patch would have protected him from such a mental intrusion— and used his wits instead. He focused his gaze on K'yorl, pictured her with her clothes off, and filled his mind with thoughts so base that the matron mother, in the midst of serious business, lost all patience.
'I could have the skin flailed from your bones for such thoughts,' K'yorl informed him.
'Such thoughts?' Jarlaxle said as though he had been wounded. 'Surely you are not intruding on my mind, Matron K'yorl! Though I am but a male, such practices are surely frowned on. Lloth would not be pleased.»
'Damn Lloth,' K'yorl growled, and Jarlaxle was stunned that she had put it so clearly, so bluntly. Of course everyone knew that House Oblodra was not the most religious of drow houses, but the Oblodrans had always kept at least the pretense of piety.
K'yorl tapped her temple, her features stern. 'If Lloth was worthy of my praise, then she would have recognized the truth of power,' the matron mother explained. 'It is the mind that separates us from our lessers, the mind that should determine order.»
Jarlaxle offered no response. He had no desire to get into this argument with so dangerous and unpredictable a foe.
K'yorl did not press the point, but simply waved her hand as if throwing it all away. She was frustrated, Jarlaxle could see, and in this one frustration equated with danger.
'It is beyond the Spider Queen now,' K'yorl said. 'I am beyond Lloth. And it begins this day.»
Jarlaxle allowed a look of surprise to cross his features.
'You expected it,' K'yorl said accusingly.
That was true enough—Jarlaxle had wondered why the Oblodrans had waited this long with all the other houses so vulnerable—
but he would not concede the point.
'Where in this does Bregan D'aerthe stand?' K'yorl demanded.
Jarlaxle got the feeling that any answer he gave would be moot, since K'yorl was probably going to tell
K'yorl smiled in salute to his cleverness. 'I will be the victor,' she assured him. 'It will be over quickly, this very day, and with few drow dead.»
Jarlaxle doubted that. House Oblodra had never shown any regard for life, be it drow or otherwise. The drow numbers within the third house were small mainly because the wild clan members killed as often as they bred. They were renowned for a game that they played, a challenge of the highest stakes called
The first one to come out of the globe and back to secure footing was the loser, so the trick was to remain in the globe until the very last second of the levitation enchantment.
More often than not, both stubborn competitors would wait too long and would plunge to their demise.
Now K'yorl, merciless and ultimately wicked, was trying to assure Jarlaxle that the drow losses would be kept at a minimum. By whose standard? the mercenary wondered, and if the answer was K'yorl's, then likely half the city would be dead before the end of the day.
There was little Jarlaxle could do about that, he realized. He and Bregan D'aerthe were as dependent on magic as any other dark elf camps, and without it he couldn't even keep K'yorl out of his private chamber—even his private thoughts!
'This day,' K'yorl said again, grimly. 'And when it is done, I will call for you, and you will come.»
Jarlaxle didn't nod, didn't answer at all. He didn't have to. He could feel the mental intrusion again, and knew that K'yorl understood him. He hated her, and hated what she was about to do, but Jarlaxle was ever pragmatic, and if things went as K'yorl predicted, then he would indeed go to her call.
She smiled again and faded away. Then, like a ghost, she simply walked through Jarlaxle's stone wall.
Jarlaxle rested back in his chair, his fingers tapping nervously together. He had never felt so vulnerable, or so caught in the middle of an uncontrollable situation. He could get word to Matron Baenre, of course, but to what gain? Even House Baenre, so vast and proud, could not stand against K'yorl when her magic worked and theirs did not. Likely, Matron Baenre would be dead soon, and all her family with her, and then where would the mercenary hide?
He would not hide, of course. He would go to K'yorl's call.
Jarlaxle understood why K'yorl had paid him the visit and why it was important to her, who seemed to have everything in her favor, to enlist him in her court. He and his band were the only drow in Menzoberranzan with any true ties outside the city, a crucial factor for anyone aspiring to the position of first matron mother—not that anyone other than Matron Baenre had aspired to that coveted position in close to a thousand years.
Jarlaxle's fingers continued tapping. Perhaps it was time for a change, he thought. He quickly dismissed that hopeful notion, for even if he was right, this change did not seem for the better. Apparently, though, K'yorl believed that the situation with conventional magic was a temporary thing, else she would not have been so interested in enlisting Bregan D'aerthe.
Jarlaxle had to believe, had to pray, that she was right, especially if her coup succeeded (and the mercenary had no reason to believe it would not). He would not survive long, he realized, if First Matron Mother K'yorl, a drow he hated above all others, could enter his thoughts at will.
* * * * *
She was too beautiful to be drow, seemed the perfection of drow features to any, male or female, who looked at her. It was this beauty alone that held in check the deadly lances and crossbows of the House Baenre guard and made Berg'inyon Baenre, after one glance at her, bid her enter the compound.
The magical fence wasn't working and there were no conventional gates in the perimeter of the Baenre household. Normally, the spiderweb of the fence would spiral out, opening a wide hole on
command, but now Berg'inyon had to ask the drow to climb over.
She said not a word, but simply approached the fence. Spiral wide it did, one last gasp of magic before this creature, the avatar of the goddess who had created it.
Berg'inyon led the way, though he knew beyond doubt that this one needed no guidance. He understood that she was heading for the chapel—of course she would be heading for the chapel! — so he instructed some of his soldiers to find the matron mother.
Sos'Umptu met them at the door of the chapel, the place that was in her care. She protested for an instant, but just for an instant.
Berg'inyon had never seen his devoted sister so flustered, had never seen her jaw go slack for lack of strength. She fell away from them, to her knees.
The beautiful drow walked past her without a word. She turned sharply—Sos'Umptu gasped—and put her glare over Berg'inyon as he continued to follow.
'You are just a male,' Sos'Umptu whispered in explanation. 'Be gone from this holy place.»
Berg'inyon was too stricken to reply, to even sort out how he felt at that moment. He never turned his back, just gave a series of ridiculous bows, and verily fell through the chapel's door, back out into the courtyard.
Both Bladen'Kerst and Quenthel were out there, but the rest of the group that had gathered in response to
