in her step, her eyes obediently downcast, but a little smile on her lips. Why, she was smiling
'Mock my authority, will you?' Namra snarled, lurch shy;ing forward to land a fury of blows on the servant girl.
Isryl half turned in their midst so that glasses flew and decanters toppled. Her lady master drew breath for a shriek of rage at this carelessness-and that was when Isryl calmly flung the silver tray and all into Namra's face.
Blinded and half choked, Namra staggered back, spitting out stinging wine. Firm hands seized her chin and held it immobile with steely strength. A cool fore shy;head touched hers and the world exploded as if all glasses, everywhere, had burst at once, their shards tumbling down into darkness.
As Namra's stout body went to the floor, the slender servant girl moved with it, keeping their brows together. This moment had been well chosen. No one else was in this end of the house just now, and the girl who was not Isryl needed only a minute or so for this grimmest of stealing spells.
When she lifted her head from the stocky body of her lady master, Isryl's slender form had already begun to change. She tugged off her gown and carry-sash in frantic haste, then set to work with strong and eager fingers to acquire the clothing of her lady master, rolling the senseless Namra over like so much meat on a kitchen board. The fat woman's form was melting, too, her skin growing dark and more shapely, her fea shy;tures delicate and elfin. . but no change could strip away the tiny wisps of smoke drifting from her staring eyes, or the thin ribbon of drool flowing from one slack corner of her mouth.
Qilue was not gentle. The real Isryl had been more dead than alive this morning. It had taken three healing potions to get her well enough to walk, and the Harper agent she'd been delivered to had still winced and clucked disapprovingly at the girl's battered appearance.
This cow under her hands had done that.. this cow who'd now slumped fully back into her drow form. Qilue herself now looked like fat, lazy, embittered Namra Dunseltree, wife of Inder Dunseltree of Softer Tapestries fame. Qilue finished tying and adjusting Namra's over-jeweled, none-too-clean clothing around herself, satisfying herself in a mirror that she looked every bit as haughty and nasty as her predecessor in the role. She plucked up the walking stick to strike a pose, then danced back to the senseless, drooling drow. Qilue bound her hand and foot with the gown and carry-sash, then cast a careful spell.
The body vanished under her hands, and she knew it would now be lying in the midst of the glade in Ardeep, with Llansha, Veltheera-and Thalaera-staring disapprovingly down at the new arrival, wondering how many spells and how much gentling would be needed to make it sane once more.
Qilue sighed, shrugged, and stepped forward, every haughty inch Namra Dunseltree. Her mindtouch magic had earned her only the most superficial and uppermost of the disguised drow's thoughts. To learn more would have taken days of careful and continuous probing. If she'd tried for much more, much faster, her victim-and she knew that 'victim' would then have been very much the right word-would have gone quickly and irrevoca shy;bly insane, losing forever in mental chaos the very memories and knowledge Qilue sought.
What Qilue did know was that the cruel drow was Anlaervrith Mrantarr, a lazy novitiate into the worship of Lolth. She was a drow of humble birth and no par shy;ticular accomplishments, who'd been quite happy to leave her subterranean city. Qilue had been unable to learn the name of that city, though she'd gained some mind pictures of it made vivid by fear and hatred. Anlaervrith had left there for a chance at betterment and adventure. To that end she'd dealt with a drow sorceress-not a priestess, but able to pose at will as such-who called herself simply 'Daerdatha.'
Anlaervrith was to wear the shape Daerdatha put her into after the human Namra Dunseltree had been 'removed,' and to act, speak, and live as Namra had done, as communicated in mind messages Daerdatha had thrust-Qilue would almost have said 'burned'-into Anlaervrith's brain.
Qilue's lips twisted in disgust, and she gave the near shy;est bellpull an angry jerk. The lazy cow had jumped at vague promises of freedom from the rule of Lolth or deca shy;dent nobles. She was told tales of a vast and splendid new world where everyone who had half their wits about them could wallow in endless prosperity. These promises were made by someone deliberately mysterious, who wore a succession of spell-spun, false faces- someone Anlaervrith hadn't even knowingly seen since taking up her role as Namra. She suspected-idly, not really caring-that some of the merchants whom her husband showed around their house were disguised drow not merely playing their own roles, but somehow keeping an eye on her.
All Anlaervrith had really cared about was that Namra didn't have to work, or skimp on food, wine, and clothing, and that she had plenty of servants that she could mistreat to her heart's content. The stablemen even included a well-muscled few whom she planned to get to know intimately. Anlaervrith had been both fas shy;cinated and repelled by the crude size and stink of humans.
Qilue frowned. When Anlaervrith thought of pleas shy;ure, she thought of warm, hearty good meals-and plenty them-and of having so many gems she could bathe in them, slithering around nude in their cool, hard beauty. She also thought of flogging servants and reducing them to tears or to obvious fear, and-older memories, these-of watching the bared, sweat-slick bodies of drow warriors as they limbered up for weapons practice. And, just lately, she thought of sug shy;ared pastries and biscuits, and of sweetened cream.
She did not think of Namra's cold and distant hus shy;band, whose face flickered with disgust at the very sight of her, or of the sadistic drow-whose name she didn't even know-now impersonating him. As for dreams of the future, Anlaervrith had none beyond endless indulgences. This drow, at least, was no threat to the kingdoms of the Sunlit World, so long as she always had a full belly and new gemstones poured into her lap often enough. She neither wondered nor cared about what plots might be driving those who offered her this chance to play at being human. In short, she was very far from the vicious, restlessly cruel schemers Qilue had met in her dealings with drow merchants, slavers, and mercenaries.
Well, so be it. 'Twould almost have been beyond belief to find a secret leader of this invasion inside the head of the very first drow she impersonated. While Qilue searched for someone who'd know more, she'd be Namra Dunseltree, or more accurately, play at being Anlaervrith playing the role of Namra. The real Namra had doubtless gone to slavery-or even some orc's cookfire-months ago. If Anlaervrith's obviously spotty memories were anything to go by, the servants hasten shy;ing-reluctantly, but not daring to dawdle-to answer her summons would be arriving just about-
Qilue turned and drew herself up, pointing her walk shy;ing stick imperiously down at the mess of shattered glasses and decanters, the spilled wine, and the tray, and snapped, 'Well? Must I wait all
The foremost of the two servants stared down at the chaos of the fallen tray in astonishment, and something very like delighted glee flashed across his face for just an instant before he swallowed, gulped, and said, 'What beverage would be my lady's most immediate pleasure?' Qilue waved a careless hand. 'An array of wines, very like these. I'm quite unsettled. Do you know that the little bitch-Isryl, man, don't gawk at me as if you can't think who I'm speaking of! —
The servant in the rear made a queer strangled sound that might almost have been a swallowed chuckle, then stiffened to attention as his lady master Namra leveled her stick at him and added,
The servant gulped, paled, and sprang away in fran shy;tic haste. 'Lady-'tshall be so!' his call rang back to her, as he pounded away down a passage.
Qilue smiled grimly and said to the first servant, 'Send others to clean this up, and to bring me three sharp kitchen knives and a bottle of cheap perfume. They are to be set on yonder table, for my later discus shy;sions with disobedient Isryl.' Her smile broadened as she lurched forward to stroke the fearful servant under the chin with one end of her walking stick. He swal shy;lowed carefully as the metal cap caressed his throat. 'I find,' the merchant's wife purred casually, 'that the sting of perfume, poured into open wounds, quite drives off the stink of fear.'
She went on silently smiling into his eyes until she saw deepening terror there, and the trembling man felt that his lady master must be expecting-waiting for-a response.
'Y-yes, Lady Namra,' he managed. 'Shall I bring your wines now?'
'With a tallglass, yes,' Qilue commanded, and tapped his throat with her stick. 'And be aware: I shall not be pleased if it takes you long.'
