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away into that limitless world。
As fancies went； his wasn't entirely absurd。 Most dark elves feared to travel the Underdark except in armed convoys； and with good reason。 They； however； lacked the abilities he'd spent decades developing； survival skills that made him one of the finest scouts in Menzoberranzan。
Indeed； the small； wiry male in the rugged outdoorsman's garb liked traversing the subterranean world alone。 He relished the wonders； the quiet； and the freedom。 Sometimes； when he'd idled in camp too long； he felt he preferred it to the striving； conniving existence of his fellow drow； the luxuries of Menzoberranzan notwithstanding。 He yearned for an errand that would take him out into the wilderness； and played with the notion of simply running away。
He heard the Zauvirr ing and put the dream aside。 Like it or not； his mission this day wasn't to explore the wild。 It was to direct his pany； fellow mercenaries of Bregan D'aerthe； in the taking of Faeryl Zauvirr and her retainers。
That was the theory； anyway。 In point of fact； he didn't have to give any more orders。 No doubt the warriors of Ched Nasad were petent fighters in their own right； but when the sell swords swarmed out of hiding； they caught them entirely by surprise； then proceeded to cut them down with murderous efficiency。
Once Valas was certain his band would be victorious； he started searching for Faeryl herself。 His smallness and natural agility enabled him to thread his way through the fury of battle without harm。
He found the princess at the center of the carnage。 She'd just finished killing one of his mand。 The dead male's brains and bloody hair adhered to one end of her basaltheaded war hammer。
〃Ambassador；〃 Valas called。 〃I have orders to take you alive； if possible。〃
She answered with a curse。 He didn't blame her for that。 In her place； he wouldn't want to be delivered alive to Matron Baenre； either。
He hefted one of his matched pair of kukris—vicious curved daggers— and fingered a little brass ovoid； one of many trinkets adorning his tunic and cloak。
He'd collected the amulets and brooches from races and civilizations across the Underdark。 Fashioned according to alien aesthetics； most of the ornaments were ugly and uncouth to dark elf eyes； but he hadn't acquired them for their appearance； nor were they merely souvenirs。 Each contained a different enchantment。
Three images； exact facsimiles of himself； flickered into existence around him。 He edged toward Faeryl； and the phantoms came with him。
She stared fiercely； obviously trying to pick out the real Valas from the false。 It didn't help。 When she swung； she struck at the image on his left。
The illusion vanished on contact； and at the same instant； he sprang。 She couldn't e back on guard in time to fend him off。 He hooked a leg behind her and threw her to the ground； then kicked her repeatedly in the head until she went limp。
Chapter
S I X T E E N
Laughter echoed through the candlelit corridors of ArachTinilith。 Quenthel frowned。 She'd been expecting something to happen； eagerly anticipating it； in fact。 What she wasn't expecting was an explosion of mirth； and she couldn't guess what it meant。
She strode forward； and her patrol followed behind。 They seemed edgy； but not quite as reluctant as they had the night before。 The fate of Drisinil； Molvayas； and the rest of the plotters had convinced the survivors that Quenthel still enjoyed the favor of Lolth； at least to the same dubious extent as the rest of the stricken clergy。
The laughter rang on and on until at last the searchers found the source。 Hunched over； her shoulders shaking； a novice knelt before one of the smaller altars of the goddess。 Steady despite the paroxysms of glee； her index finger painted lines of graceful calligraphy on the floor。 Quenthel couldn't make out what the girl was using for pigment until she lifted her hand to her face like an artist dipping a brush in a paint pot。 She'd gouged her eyes out； another seeming handicap that didn't impair her writing。
The mistress stepped close enough to inspect the lines of blood。 For all her erudition； she couldn't read the characters； but she could feel the power in them。 They pulled at her and repelled her at the same time； as if they might yank her spirit； or a piece of it； out of her body。
She wrenched her eyes away from the symbols and swung her whip。 The vipers cracked into the eyeless female's back； their venomous fangs tore into her； and she collapsed； dead or merely insensible。 Quenthel didn't particularly care which。
〃What was she writing； Mistress？〃 Jyslin asked。
〃I don't know；〃 Quenthel admitted； smearing the glyphs with her toe； 〃something in one of the secret tongues of the Abyss。 Scribing it may have been a way of casting a spell； so I made sure she wouldn't finish。〃
〃What was wrong with her？〃 Minolin asked。
Quenthel was still surprised that the FeyBranche had not； as expected； turned out to be one of the traitors。
〃I don't know that； either；〃 said the Mistress of ArachTinilith。 She actually did have an idea； but wasn't sure of it yet。 〃Let's move on。〃
Fifteen minutes later； a runner； dispatched from a squad stationed in the third leg of the spider； found Quenthel to report that one of her rades had gone mad。 Quenthel went to see for herself； half expecting more gouged eyes and bloody writing。
But the new dementia took a somewhat different form。 The victim had taken shelter； if that was the right word for it； in a small library devoted； for the most part； to musty treatises on warfare in all its aspects。 She sat on the floor in the corner defined by two tall sandstone bookshelves； rocking and whimpering to herself。
Quenthel stooped； jammed her fist under the girl's chin and forced up her head。
〃Rilrae Zolond What ails you？ What happened？〃
Rilrae's face was blank and seemingly devoid of prehension。 Tears flowed down her cheeks。 She smelled of mucus； and the breath snuffled in her nose。 She didn't answer Quenthel's question； just made a feeble； ineffectual effort to turn her face away。
The mistress sighed and let her go。 She'd seen cases like Rilrae before； generally in some dungeon or torture chamber。 The junior priestess had experienced something sufficiently unpleasant to drive her deep inside her own mind。 Had Quenthel still possessed her Lolthgranted powers； or been carrying the proper equipment； she might have been able to shake Rilrae out of her delirium； but as matters stood； the useless creature wouldn't be providing any information。 Annoyed； the mistress nearly vented her frustration by giving Rilrae a stroke from her whip； but she didn't want to appear rattled or upset in the eyes of her followers。
She led the patrol on and eventually found a suicide sprawled in the corridor with froth on her lips and an empty poison bottle still clutched in her hand。
One of the secondyear students reeled from a doorway a few yards farther down。 Glaring and twitching； she unrolled a parchment； possibly one Quenthel herself had dispensed from the temple armory； and began shouting the words。 The Baenre recognized the trigger phrase of a spell intended to summon a certain type of plague demon。
She snatched out her hand crossbow and pulled the tr