Maestro Page 7

  “There will still be an attack on House Do’Urden,” Quenthel warned.

  “Hunzrin and Melarn,” Yvonnel replied. “Undoubtedly. And I am counting on it.”

  She laughed again and skipped out of the room, Minolin Fey in her wake, leaving Quenthel dumbfounded and off-balance, which had been the whole point, Quenthel realized after a moment of reflection.

  BACK IN HER own chambers, Yvonnel dismissed Minolin Fey, secured her room with multiple glyphs and wards, and fell into a deep communion with the Abyssal Plane, using the imparted memories of Yvonnel the Eternal to formulate a demonic name.

  She watched the summoned form materialize in front of her, like a great, half-melted candle of mud, tentacle arms dripping with Abyssal goo.

  Yvonnel, so gloriously groomed and perfectly formed, winced at the grotesque handmaiden, and even more so when the yochlol said, “You summoned me, daughter of House Baenre?” in that watery, gurgling, mud-like voice.

  “Could you not assume a more … pleasing form, Yiccardaria?” Yvonnel asked.

  The handmaiden giggled, which sounded very much like water bubbling through a thick muddy puddle, and waggled her tentacles about as she turned, spinning round and round. Faster and faster she twirled, and the movement seemed more blurry still from the sheen of brown mist the handmaiden left in her turning wake. The brown cloud settled as she stopped, and now she was a drow woman, beautiful in form, delicate and naked and with long, thick white hair that hung to her waist.

  “Do you approve?” Her voice was no longer muddy, but clear as a shining silver bell.

  “I do,” Yvonnel said. “And you have my appreciation, Handmaiden, both for the transformation and for coming to my call.”

  “I would not have come, were it not the will of the Spider Queen.”

  Yvonnel bowed again.

  “We have much to discuss,” Yiccardaria said, moving over and running the back of her fingers gently over Yvonnel’s soft cheek.

  It was a test, Yvonnel knew, to see if she could sort through what her eyes and nose and skin were telling her—to hold onto the truth that this was a lump of smelly goo teasing her.

  “I had much I wished to discuss with you,” Yvonnel replied, taking the yochlol by the wrist and moving her hand aside. “That is why I requested your presence, after all. But it would seem that you come with information that you believe I should know.”

  “Astute,” the yochlol said, pulling away with a giggle. “I approve of your transformation and will relay my pleasure to the Spider Queen. Perhaps more so …” She reached to touch the beautiful young drow woman again.

  “It was Gromph who brought Demogorgon to Menzoberranzan,” Yvonnel said, trying to keep focused on the matters at hand. She had never known a handmaiden to behave like this, and wasn’t quite sure what it might be about, beyond her initial inkling that the spy for Lolth—every handmaiden was a spy for Lolth, first and foremost—was testing her.

  And she couldn’t deny her body’s reactions to the exquisite creature.

  She thought the yochlol was trying to seduce her as a test of her willpower—a ridiculous challenge indeed for one of Yvonnel’s understanding and intelligence. But then she understood: The handmaiden was testing her corporeal body, not her willpower, to see if this form Yvonnel wore was real or illusion. The physical reactions, involuntary and ignorant of willpower, would reveal that to the spy.

  The handmaiden laughed again and danced away, staring knowingly at the young Yvonnel, whose nipples had visibly hardened under the soft shirt.

  “Gromph summoned Demogorgon,” Yvonnel said again, this time more sternly.

  “Not without help,” Yiccardaria replied. “Great help, and of most of which the Archmage remains unaware. Understand that Gromph Baenre did more than summon Demogorgon.” She laughed again, and Yvonnel had to force herself not to lean forward too eagerly.

  “Let me tell you of the Faerzress,” Yiccardaria said.

  “I know …” Yvonnel started to interrupt, but the handmaiden didn’t slow.

  “Of what it was and what it is, and of the demon lords who have come through. The Lady of Chaos wishes you to know these things, and the source of the ritual Archmage Gromph performed.”

  “And of how it might benefit … me,” Yvonnel said with a wicked grin, and now it was the yochlol’s turn to offer a respectful bow.

  Yiccardaria spoke for a long time after that, revealing Lolth’s brilliant deception of Kimmuriel Oblodra, and thus, Kimmuriel’s subsequent deception of Gromph.

  “The barrier of the Faerzress is wounded,” she explained, “and so the demon lords have passed through, though they’ll not so easily return. And if they do return …” she paused and laughed and let Yvonnel sort out the logical conclusion.

  It was not a difficult maze to navigate. With the demon lords playing on the Material Plane in Faerûn’s Underdark, Lady Lolth would fashion the Abyss more favorably to her own demands and desires.

  Yvonnel found herself quite in awe of the Spider Queen at that moment, as she reflected on the events of the last few decades. After the murder of Mystra and the advent of the Spellplague, Lolth had made a play for the Weave in a failed effort to create the Web of magic. Then Lolth had lent her support to the chromatic dragons in their attempt to resurrect the catastrophe of Tiamat, weaving that grander purpose into a useful war in the Silver Marches.

  And now, even as all of that, too, had fizzled, Lolth had done this next thing, perhaps the greatest upheaval of all.

  How beautiful was this goddess, the Spider Queen, to so willingly and agilely assault the stability of the planes, to weave new upheavals even as the last ones were falling back to previous normality?

  “The Spider Queen?” Yiccardaria teasingly asked.

  Coming out of her contemplation, Yvonnel realized she had worn her thoughts too near the surface, and the handmaiden had read them all too easily. She looked at Yiccardaria with puzzlement for just a few moments, trying to decipher the question.

  “You so easily name any of Lady Lolth’s ploys as failure,” the yochlol remarked. “Perhaps the failure is in you.”

  It took a moment for Yvonnel to decipher those last two remarks in the context of each other, but when she did, a wide smile spread over her face, and more beautiful still did Lady Lolth seem to her.

  “No, not the Spider Queen,” she said, “the Lady of Chaos.”

  “Good, good,” purred Yiccardaria. “I came to teach you a lesson and you are a fine student indeed.”

  “I requested your presence because I am in need of information, Handmaiden,” Yvonnel replied.

  “Yes, and I leave you with one who will better serve your desires, and who will remain at your side and at your whim until you decide otherwise.”

  With that, the yochlol-turned-drow began to transform again, not as dramatically as before—not physically, at least, but more fully, Yvonnel realized when she sensed the life energy of the yochlol departing.

  But still, a naked drow woman stood there in Yiccardaria’s place, though only for a moment before the tiny, emaciated creature tumbled to the floor, seemingly too weak to even stand.

  Yvonnel moved over and prodded the wretched and dirty drow with her foot, rolling her over just enough to look upon her face.

  From the memories of Yvonnel the Eternal, this young Yvonnel knew this drow. Her first reaction was one of near murderous fury.

  “K’yorl Odran,” she mouthed, hardly able to spit out the name in her abject shock.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Recruiter

  THE WOMAN CHANTED SOFTLY, HER EYES CLOSED. SHE DIPPED HER fingers into the small bowl Ambergris had given her and pulled them forth dripping with ogre’s blood. Gently she stroked the black leather belt, singing to it, the blood streaking it and melting in, disappearing without a trace. Over and over she dipped and ran her bloodied fingers across the enchanted material. This item was for her beloved husband, a secret gift, and one she hoped would keep him alive.


  A long time later, Catti-brie collapsed onto the floor in exhaustion, the belt still hanging from the rack where she had imbued it with its powers. The mithral buckle glistened in the torchlight.

  The woman slept the night away, her creation above her.

  The next day, Catti-brie wore her simple white robe and a black lace shawl, its loose hood upon her head, framing her face. She sat on the altar stone in the primordial chamber and stared up at the water pouring in from the tendrils above: living water, carrying the essence of the Elemental Plane of Water in the form of elementals to hold back the mighty primordial from the Plane of Fire. These were the roots of the distant Hosttower of the Arcane, the residual magic holding strong—for now.

  The constant steam in the room felt wonderful and she inhaled it deeply, feeling rejuvenated after the powerful enchanting the day before. There was a great equilibrium to be found here, a profound reminder to her of the balance of Toril itself: the give and take of the seasons, the undulations of the tides. What a wonderful gift was this home, this world.

  And what a wonderful creation was Gauntlgrym, built by dwarves and almost surely by elves. What other race could have powers great enough to forge the Hosttower of the Arcane and devise this elaborate subterranean aqueduct, enchanting the water with the stuff of that elemental plane all along its hundred-mile journey to this place?

  She could not hope to replicate such a masterpiece, of course, even with the help of Archmage Gromph and the Harpells, and any and every other wizard or priestess they might pull in from thousands of leagues around. Magic was no longer as pure as in the long-lost days of Faerûn, and ancient secrets were deeply hidden from the folk of the modern world.

  But Catti-brie didn’t have to replicate the grandeur of the undertaking that had made Gauntlgrym possible, she reminded herself. She just had to repair it.

  “Give me the wisdom, Goddess,” she whispered.

  Someone cleared his throat behind her, and the woman twisted around.

  Jarlaxle was into his respectful bow before she fully recognized him.

  “Again?” she asked in disbelief. “How long have you been there?”

  “You looked serious,” he said. “I did not want to disturb you.”

  “But now you have.”

  The drow mercenary laughed and bowed again.

  Catti-brie apologized. “The task before me is daunting,” she admitted.

  “We’ll find you allies in the undertaking,” Jarlaxle promised. “Do not underestimate the knowledge and power of Archmage Gromph. And the Harpells, for all their eccentricity, have been known to deliver well in those moments of dire need. And there are others.”

  “Do tell.”

  “A thousand dwarves.”

  “Masons! That’s the easy part, even for a structure as beautiful and intricate as the former Hosttower.”

  “There are many who would not wish to see the primordial escape its bindings,” the drow replied. “And I speak not of fools like Lord Neverember, or any other of the local nobles, who cannot see far enough past their own mirror to even realize there is a wider world out there.”

  “More drow?”

  “There are a few I would welcome,” Jarlaxle replied without hesitation. “And with House Xorlarrin wandering about, there are some fine wizards to be found to lend a hand. House Xorlarrin plans to retake Gauntlgrym in the distant future, of course, and so they will be most eager to help with keeping the beast in its pit.”

  “Fine allies,” the woman said dryly.

  “Common goals—for now.”

  Catti-brie heaved a sigh, shook her head, and faced the pouring water again.

  “But no, I wasn’t speaking of drow,” Jarlaxle said, walking over to stand beside her. “We already have the most learned of all the drow wizards in the person of Gromph. But there are others with knowledge of the ancient ways and magic. We will find them.”

  He put his hand comfortingly on Catti-brie’s shoulder and she turned her head to regard him. She even managed a slight hopeful nod at his welcomed optimism.

  Truly this was a daunting task!

  “You will find these others, then, as we go about our work?”

  “I hope. It is not in my best interest to let Gauntlgrym fall to the primordial, even beyond my friendship …” He paused and let that hang for a moment, staring hard at the woman.

  “Is that the appropriate word?” he asked at length. “Am I considered a friend to the Companions of the Hall? To King Bruenor of Gauntlgrym?”

  “You know the answer to that.”

  “But I want to hear it from you,” he said. “And of you. Am I your friend, Catti-brie?”

  The woman put her hand up to cover Jarlaxle’s, but turned back to watch the waterfall. “You perplex me,” she admitted. “I am never quite sure of your motives or your goals, and yet, those have aligned with my own enough times now that I have come to trust you.”

  “As a friend?”

  “Yes.” She was surprised by her quick admission, but even in reflection, she couldn’t deny that she did indeed consider Jarlaxle a friend. He always had ulterior motives, of course, but he had never given Catti-brie or any of them any reason to believe that he would betray them. She remembered that day, long, long ago, when she, Drizzt, and Entreri were trying to escape Menzoberranzan only to find Jarlaxle and his band waiting for them in the tunnels.

  He had them caught, but let them go.

  Certainly Drizzt was fond of the mercenary leader—with caution, of course.

  “I have a grand stake in the matter of King Bruenor remaining in control of this wondrous place,” Jarlaxle said with a smile. “I will endeavor to make sure that the drow of Menzoberranzan do not try to displace him, and the trading opportunities this arrangement presents for me … well, let me just say that I am quite pleased that the dwarves have retaken Gauntlgrym.”

  Now Catti-brie looked at the mercenary a bit more cautiously. Jarlaxle was ever the opportunist. Could he really facilitate the movement of goods from Menzoberranzan and the surface through Gauntlgrym? Menzoberranzan and Mithral Hall had been mortal enemies—indeed, was it not Menzoberranzan that had spurred the most recent war in the Silver Marches? It was King Bruenor himself who had cleaved the head of Matron Mother Baenre in the Time of Troubles, cementing their enmity.

  She stared at Jarlaxle for a long while, and finally understood that he really was thinking of such possibilities. In the end, she just shook her head. If anyone could accomplish such a ridiculously improbable thing, it would be Jarlaxle.

  “Where is my husband?” she asked, thinking it time to change the subject—and why had Jarlaxle come here to see her?

  “I was told he is patrolling the lower tunnels, as the dwarves attempt to widen their borders.”

  Catti-brie nodded. That fit her expectations, though she hadn’t seen Drizzt since they’d split up earlier that morning.

  “There are no Xorlarrins out there to concern you,” Jarlaxle added.

  “You have seen to that?”

  “To some extent, yes. Let us just say that I showed them a better opportunity at this time than some foolish attempt to retake what King Bruenor has secured. I cannot speak for any demons, however. It is my understanding that the Underdark has become thick with the wretched things.”

  “What news, then, of the Hosttower?” Catti-brie asked.

  “No news,” the mercenary replied.

  Again Catti-brie studied him carefully, and when she found no clues there—Jarlaxle stood quite at ease—she bluntly asked, “Why have you come to this place? There is nothing here that concerns you.”

  “I disagree, good lady. There is plenty here that concerns me greatly.”

  “Me? If so, then perhaps you should get to the point of your visit.”

  “More than that,” Jarlaxle said, and he walked over to the edge of the primordial pit, staring down into the watery swirl and to the fiery eye of the beast below the water elementals.

  “Perhaps you shoul
d stop speaking in cryptic riddles.”

  Jarlaxle turned to face her. “Do you know why Artemis Entreri is still alive?” he asked.

  The question gave Catti-brie pause. “I do not know why I am still alive,” she replied after a few moments. “Why would I know the cause or purpose of that one’s existence?”

  “He was cursed, so we all believed, with his life-force tied to a most wicked and powerful item.”

  “The sword, yes,” the woman replied. “Drizzt came with him and Dahlia to this very place, so that Entreri could throw the weapon into the pit to be devoured by the primordial.”

  “Believing he would also be destroyed.”

  “But he was not,” said Catti-brie. “So it was not the sword after all.”

  “Unfortunately, I believe it was,” said Jarlaxle.

  “The sword was destroy—” Catti-brie’s declaration caught in her throat and she walked over to stand next to Jarlaxle.

  “Was it?” he asked.

  Catti-brie looked into the pit, and viewing the orange glow at the bottom, she could keenly feel the insatiable hunger of the great fiery beast. With hardly a thought to the movement, she ran the tips of the thumb and index finger of her right hand over the band she wore on her left.

  “If not, it is irretrievable in any case,” she said, “swallowed by the molten stone that gives the primordial form.”

  “Are you sure?” Jarlaxle asked.

  “What are you proposing?”

  “Have you ventured down there?” the drow asked. “You have a bond with the great beast, it is clear. It speaks to you through the ring you wear, and in the voice of the Elemental Plane of Fire, which you understand. So have you gone down there to be near the beast, to better see it, to better know it?”

  Catti-brie balked and stepped back from the ledge, but kept her incredulous stare on Jarlaxle. Down there below the water elementals, she would be at the mercy of the primordial. Whatever protective magic she might don, the mighty creature could still swallow her and force her deep into its molten gullet.