Murder, Who Cares

by manic-intent

Dark elves as private detectives in Menzoberranzan...can the world get weirder? ;p Apparently so. Product of warped humor and general insanity, along with chocolate deprivation. *Now Complete*

1. Part 1

Foreword

The following story was a consequence of reading '[The Howdunit series] Private Eyes: a writer's guide to private investigators' by Hal Blythe, Charlie Sweet and John Landreth out of curiosity, boredom, and a vague urge to write something Sherlock Holmes. Oddly (or perhaps not oddly), it became dark elf.

No, that famous sleuth and his less than bright companion would not appear in the story.

I think.

Okay, okay. This would be 'pure' Dark elf. Knowing me, Zaknafein and Jarlaxle would appear sooner or later, but hopefully they wouldn't take over the storyline.

It's quite an interesting book, and I would recommend it for those who like reading widely (ie, taking whatever book in the library that happens to catch your eye), and after it I'm going to read the Armed and Dangerous: A writer's guide to weapons, of the same series. Hopefully there would be no stories about gun-toting elves. The series is funny (The Most Important Piece of Field Equipment: A wide mouthed bottle. Reason? Surveillance. Detectives can't move from their fixed position to use the powder room), interesting, and well, if you want to write PI fiction...

As to the title - well, there are lots of 'Murder, She Wrote' or 'M for Murder' etc series out there, so I decided to have a (more or less) unique name.

Now, it's 9pm, I have a current affairs test tomorrow, and hence I won't ramble anymore. Enjoy the story.

-Anya, off to see in a while what the heck is Kashmir.

=======

[From 'Ragar Noamuth, The Memoirs', volumes of cases and reports written by Ti'erlfein Ilith'vir, House Assassin (Qu'el'velguk) of House Ilith'vir (non-noble House family), of which it is still debatable who he seems to be 'speaking to' in occasion through the text. The volumes were unearthed in the considerably large and musty smelling Bregan D'aerthe archive chamber, and the author has to thank one Jarlaxle for allowing her to peruse the volumes. She did not destroy anything, and she is perfectly sane. She also refuses comment as to having bullied Jarlaxle into giving her permission – she points out that his exact words were "Look at whatever you want…just leave me alone!"]

Part One

Whispers of the outside world crept guiltily in under the door and through the windows like members of a House that had just failed a raid. In my office, which lurked in a corner of the new, needlessly large indoor Circle Column market, to tell the truth, I was not paying attention. My desk was littered with more cases and notes than House Baenre was with soldiers, and more importantly, littered with an ample amount of Tylinyl Ssh'starm, the curvaceous eldest daughter of House Ssh'starm.

Theoretically, as a member of House Ilith'vir, even if I was technically of an inferior gender, it was my duty to advance diplomatic relations, especially with larger and more powerful Houses, and I was negotiating past the preliminary stages of setting up ah, physical connections with her when someone knocked with depressingly clear purpose on the door.

Vith.

Tylinyl pulled away and her full lips curved into a smile. She was using the interruption to make me squirm, and Lloth, was I. "One day you will have to balance your personal life with your job, mrann d'ssinss."

I was about to say something suitably gallant along the lines of her being a new weight in favor of the balance tilting towards my personal life, but she slipped off the desk and adjusted her clothing (not that it made her robes any less revealing) then opened the door in a twirl of silk and a graceful twist of her hand.

Another female, and more guards. The guards were eyeing Tylinyl's guards with disfavor. Tylinyl's guards were eyeing the newcomers with suspicion. All this was promising to become violently interesting, but then the female bowed slightly in Tylinyl's direction, in a gesture of greeting as cold as a Matron's heart.

Not to be outdone, Tylinyl also bowed, then made up for the imagined implication that she was in some way following Gaer'la by voicing a greeting first. "Vendui, Gaer'la Taek'tharm." Eldest daughter of the House rivaling Ssh'starm in current power.

"Vendui, Tylinyl Ssh'starm." Gaer'la touched the long braid that was part of Taek'tharm's disaster of a hairstyle unconsciously. A muscle in Tylinyl's jaw twitched – an illusory victory, perhaps? That a member of Taek'tharm had made a gesture of discomfiture in front of a member of Ssh'starm?

Drow politics are so engaging, no?

There was a promising pause, but I was to be disappointed - instead of the expected following conflict, both females bowed again stiffly, and Tylinyl turned around to level another smile at me, though this one looked like how a block of ice would smile. "Later, Ti'er," she said, lingering on the intimate shortening of my name, then swept off, trailing her guards in her wake.

Gaer'la frowned at the 'Ti'er'. I hurried to speak before she could fabricate all sorts of alliances and such out of the air, as females under pressure are wont to do. Little bit of stress and they crack all over the place. And this side of the gender rules the city. I ask you.

However, to be polite, and also because Gaer'la was bigger than I was, I forced a semblance of a smile onto my face. "Vendui, Gaer'la Taek'tharm. Have you business for my humble self?"

The sentence seemed contain enough servile fawning, for she recovered enough to motion her guards away, step in, and close the door, the latter becoming, for an instant, a symbol of another closed book in the short, unpopular, complicated series that was my fast-deteriorating social life.

"This is your main office?"

There was a barely hidden sneer on her otherwise comely features as she took stock of her surroundings, occasionally craning her neck slightly to look in imaginary, sinister orifices, bringing to mind a mental image of a worried diatryma in bad territory (read: soon to be disemboweled, crushed, mangled, stung, bitten, burned, or whatever droll dangers that the Underdark could throw up at the point).

I settled into 'promoting' mode faster than metal dust would settle in water.

"Our main office, elamshinus uss, is based in our House, but most prefer our sub offices for convenience. If you would forgive me for saying so, no one likes to be seen entering an Investigations office."

Gaer'la sniffed, but made a general 'go on' noise.

"No one likes to be seen as someone who has problems great enough to require the services of ragar noamuth." A mouthful that could be shortened into 'RN', though that abbreviation irrationally irritated me.

"It is convenient to place your offices in such areas," Gaer'la said, as we forged through the painfully stilted, preliminary stages of a business transaction.

"I thank you, elamshinus uss," I said modestly, "Matron Ilith'vir was generous enough to consider my suggestion."

"This was your idea?" Gaer'la seemed shocked that she had actually shown an iota of approval for a male's idea. Lloth, I hate dealing with such extremes in the spectrum of prejudice.

"She did mention before that something resembling this…idea, as you aptly pose it," I hastily said, again groveling, "would allow Investigations to gain an edge over Bregan D'aerthe, which I am sure you know is the only other competitor for our services as ragar noamuth."

Gaer'la nodded wisely, or attempted to look as though she was doing so. Silently somewhere part of my mind was laughing, but most of it was still committed to attempting to get through this without getting turned into something invertebrate and nasty. Matron Ilith'vir wouldn't be devastated by my death – I was only her brother after all, and not holding a 'true' rank in the House. Though she would, knowing her, relish the idea of using my death as a reason to bring down another House.

"Giving the mercenary group carte blanche to sift through records would be tantamount to suicide," she added. The cynical part of me counted all the difficult words and held up a score with a flamboyantly sarcastic air. Admittedly it did not contain many digits. I hoped she would get to the point before my feet fell asleep.

"House Thr'tynlbur wishes Investigations to find Tyfein Taek'tharm," she finally said with studied care, as if afraid that she would say something that would be used against her later. "Dead or alive, it matters not."

Aha. "Tyfein being your weapon master?" I asked, but I already knew the answer. Well, well, Taek'tharm's weapon master going AWOL. Their Matron must be most upset - Tyfein had graduated with honors in the year above me in Melee-Magthere.

I filed that fact away for further reference.

"Was our weapon master," Gaer'la said sharply, offended at being interrupted. Time to snivel a bit more.

"My profound apologies, elamshinus uss, I was not aware of that fact." I said with a tone with the consistency of crude oil.

Gaer'la looked pacified, for she continued grudgingly. This was apparently distasteful to her - and it didn't take much intelligence to deduce that her Matron probably made her do it. "Tyfein was last seen leaving for his no doubt disreputable haunts at Eastmyr, and did not return. If he is dead, Matron Taek'tharm would like to see his body." This last stood out. Not his inventory, but his body. Strange.

"May I ask a question?" I began cautiously.

"You may."

"Would you happen to be informed as to the location of his 'haunts' Eastmyr?"

Gaer'la wrinkled her nose, as if I had suddenly turned into a haszak. "Nav." Her eyes avoided contact, a broad hint that she was lying. That was normal - a RN expects everyone to lie to him or her, even if the subject is attempting to tell the truth. Yes, it gets confusing, and it does get frustrating, so for convenience's sake Investigations assumes that whomsoever is paying us is speaking the truth until overwhelming evidence is unearthed.

But why would she lie? The most obvious answer would be that the location was embarrassing to her delicate sensibilities. I made a mental note to check out the more controversial sections of that already seedy district. It did contain many drinking pits into which the errant weapon master could have ventured. Matron Ilith'vir would probably accuse me of enjoying it.

I'm innocent, I tell you. I've never been proven otherwise.

"Forgive me, elamshinus uss, but Investigations requires more information - could you deign to fill up this form?" I pushed one of the standard 'Missing Persons' papers tentatively in her direction. Only way we can get personal information, really. For some reason, most beings prefer writing to actually giving voice to information, even if one tends to write more of something than one would speak about it.

I bet you didn't know that.

It proves my point that most females are equipped with as much brains as a thoqqua, because she didn't even notice the barbed point in my words.

She sniffed and did so, ungraciously. It took an extraordinarily long time in my estimation - Gaer'la wrote as slowly as a child learning how to pen words for the first time did.

It seemed like a pretty straightforward case however, and the pay was certainly almost as attractive as I found Tylinyl, so we shook hands (figuratively - no highbrow female would descend to shaking hands with a male) on the contract.

She left eventually, probably hurrying to go away before I did something typically male and disgusting, agreeing to send a communications disc to House Ilith'vir to settle the more vulgar parts of a business transaction like rules and money and the agreements that if we did something 'wrong' House Taek'tharm would, of course, have no knowledge of us in a business sense.

Resentment from me? Why, none, none at all. I find such cloistered stereotypical examples of the…fairer sex most entertaining. Don't you?

The pay was large enough for me to be able to ignore all the other cases on the desk at the moment and send a communications disc to the House. Formality, a request for help, and also to remind the Matron of my existence and that yes, I was doing something.

I dressed hurriedly to go – leather armor and piwafwi, folding the more comfortable robe and trousers neatly then stuffing them into a drawer. By the time I'd finished help was comfortably seated on its haunches on the desk, idly scratching the smoothed stone furniture.

Llyrx was a typical Dreix imp, not really popular as familiars because they cannot provide the mage with magical help, and are rather afraid of battle. They look like tiny versions of Tunnel Bears, and even share the same purplish gray fur and beady black eyes. However, these can fly - two sets of bat wings sprout from their back, two large ones from the 'shoulder' and two smaller ones lower down.

Flying with this sort of wings always struck me as clumsy. Llyrx flew like he was battling and clawing up in the air, not unlike the streaking, graceful swoops of feathered birds that were small enough to fly in the Underdark tunnels.

The only reason why I used Llyrx was because he can sketch and I can't. You'd never believe he could either - his 'hands' looked a lot like paws.

What, did you think I enjoyed Dreix imp company? I had a theory that the Matron chose their species to negotiate with on purpose – they're one of the only things that could irritate me.

"Had a nice sleep?" I asked Llyrx, not really out of curiosity, but to open a mental channel. Needs my voice for some reason.

Llyrx shook his head vigorously, and there was that idea that someone was drilling into my head and pouring something unpleasant in, then his rather squeaky voice spoke in my mind. No, thanks to you.

Then my work is done. I retorted amiably.

Where are we headed, oh great and compassionate Master, light of my life? My, isn't this so unbearably exciting? I don't think I can stand it.

I'm not having a good day, Llyrx, so cut down on the sarcasm. Either Eastmyr or Melee-Magthere.

I don't feel like getting disemboweled today. Do I get a say in this?

I'm open to suggestions. I rubbed my temples. Speaking telepathically always gave me a mild headache.

We go to Melee-Magthere, and if your contact doesn't kill you out of bothering him, for sword practice, or just for the sheer hell of it, then we go to Eastmyr.

Thank you for that vote of confidence.

I try.

**

Getting into Tier Breche was the troublesome part. Technically I was a Master, even if I was one of relatively low rank (read: more pathetic in fighting as compared to…say, my contact, and also of a House of much lower rank). However, out of some subtle and elaborate arrangements, I did not have to go to Tier Breche to teach very often, hence my exact status was unknown (read: volatile and subject to whim).

The stairway to Tier Breche is still the largest single piece of architecture in the entire city, as it was then. As I climbed up the neatly cut steps I wondered which of these were enspelled with killing spells and which were 'clean'…but even if they were enspelled, the spells were rarely, if ever, used. I had certainly never personally seen that happen.

Certainly no one could be stupid enough to attack the Academy.

Llyrx, you would be surprised.

The two drow guards, last-year students, standing on the topmost step of the stairway lifted their long swords smartly into attention, and a opal of fiery hue winked from the rings of spell turning on their ring-fingers. The guard horns, that would summon immediate aid if they were attacked, rubbed in a barely noticeable, metal-against-metal rasp against their belts as they straightened.

"Who goes there?" the larger one challenged, as instructed.

"A Master of Melee-Magthere," I showed them the bracers brusquely. They bowed politely and let me through. Trying not to show relief, I hurried away – from here I could hear the chittering of the wall spiders that guarded against the invasion of Tier Breche from the air by shooting sticky web at intruders. It was only a rumor, but sometimes these spiders may just decide to shoot web at 'friendly' drow as well.

Melee-Magthere squatted in its corner of the Academy, fat and shapeless, compared to artistic Sorcere or magnificent Arach-Tinilith. Actually, in a certain light, if you squinted, you could convince yourself that it was pyramidal.

I tried to put as much distance from myself and Arach-Tinilith as was possible with the maximum amount of dignity and the minimum amount of notice. Not that I have anything against a building partially dedicated to welding to females the metal plaque of philosophy on which would be carved: Females better than Males. Lloth better than everything. Ambition is the key to success. Try to kill as many of your fellow species as possible in your lifetime and justify it…and such pearls of wisdom…

Arach-Tinilith, in a word, frightens. Spider-shaped and huge, it hunkered down and seemed to watch every intruder into Tier Breche intently and with malign intent. Currently in the large space before it some of the senior students were undulating in what they probably thought was a sensual dance fitting to honor Lloth, around a large brazier in which a bright purple-blue flame danced, flicked sparks, and blew oily smoke. Occasionally the Mistress in charge of the weird ritual would break off her monotonous chant and theatrically toss in a pinch of coarse whitish powder, which would change the color of the flame into a mottled dark green for a short while.

There was no apparent otherworldly consequence that I could make out as I left rapidly. However the flickering shadows painted by the flames onto the bodies of the priestesses were vaguely threatening in their chaotic malevolence, and the congregation, incongruous as it may seem from a distance, looked quietly powerful this close. Symbolic, in a sense, pertaining to Arach-Tinilith in relation to Menzoberranzan.

Inside, halfheartedly carved gargoyles and drow adorned the walls, not contributing much to the beautification effort, but succeeding in giving the uninvited a sense of distinct unease. I wished Llyrx wouldn't hang on so tightly in my cloak, and then proceeded to wish myself somewhere far, far away as passing students shot me curious and wary glances. I had the feeling that they were paying more respect to my bracers than to myself.

Melee-Magthere has always reminded me of a first year mage student – all pretentiousness, with the nervous, defensive attitude of those who aren't really sure what their place is.

Are we there yet?

Not even close, Llyrx.

I want to sleep.

If that'd make you shut up, by all means.

I'd fall out of your cloak…

And hopefully you'd break your neck.

The ensuing silence in my mind felt offended, but I was in no mood to apologize. Melee-Magthere was turning me into a skittish rothe calf, which irritated me.

I am calm and confident. Confident. I do not care what these students think of me…

Good for you. I was nearly taken in by your superb acting.

Sleep, Llyrx.

The corridor I was following opened out into a miniature amphitheater, better known as the Concourse, one of the only truly open spots in the endless maze of uniformly unassuming assembly halls, armories, sparring halls and sleeping cells that made up Melee-Magthere. Students enjoying (read: not being killed) in their break sat in little groups at the benches that lined the sides, or on the stairs, playing with dice, chatting warily, in whispers, or just spending time in that semi-alert, trance-like state that passed for sleep. Some looked up as I passed, mostly the newer students, eyes already cold and ruthless. They'd have to be, to survive.

The oppressive mood was playing on my already tight nerves like a priestess with a prisoner. I felt better that students didn't carry weapons, but still felt grateful for the concealed knives secreted in my clothing. My only flaunted weapon didn't inspire much confidence though (read: would not really discourage attack) – a slender dagger on my hip, standard black hilt traced with silver spider designs. It was supposed to be a Lloth-blessed dagger, but as far as I found so far it didn't have any magical or divine properties.

I had to pass the central canteen, another painfully plain place, where some ate in silence, as quickly as they could. As they ate their eyes roamed everywhere, scanning for a possible ambush. Eating was, of course, a time when one was vulnerable, and hence something to get over with all speed.

Not that the food here's anything to be savored, if what I heard is correct.

Aren't you supposed to be sleeping?

We aren't there yet? Walk faster, you. You're even slower than a haszak walking on its tentacles.

Oh look, a cooking vat. Methinks it lacks a certain ingredient…screaming Dreix imp, perhaps?

Okay, I'm sleeping. See? My eyes are closed.

You nearly fooled me.

After getting lost a few more times – it had been a year since I'd visited my Alma Mater – I managed to find the contact exactly where I'd thought he would be, in the gymnasium.

The gymnasium wasn't an impressive looking place, and if one didn't know about it one would probably think it a storeroom. Students went to the sparring halls if they wanted to spar.

Wonder why.

Students are all posers. The gymnasium isn't public enough to show off.

Oh…

We're here. Get out of my cloak.

I don't like your contact.

Wimp.

Admit it, you're scared of him too.

I wouldn't call it scared…

Oh?

He was doing pull-ups on one of the bars, boots a few feet off the ground, skin ostensibly taking on a velvet texture in the dim light emitted by the light globes, stripped to the waist, swords, piwafwi and armor in a neat pile on the ground. He spoke blandly to a small, female drow child curled up in a chair next to the stand, bantering with quips and good-natured insults.

I did not share his apparently amiable attitude and frowned at the girl – an underage female child in Melee-Magthere? Even a priestess would not truly be welcome unless invited. She wore her House insignia openly – one of the scions of House Do'Urden, stranger and stranger. But considering the extent of aptitude in weaponry of her evident protector, what could possibly befall her here?

"Ilharn," she warned as she noticed me and glanced up sharply, "Someone's here." The quality of her speech for one of such years mildly surprised me, as did the reference to my contact as 'father'. Most females do not concede such a family tie.

"I know," he said calmly, and pulled himself up again, chin over the bar, all perfect control, before letting go, landing catlike on his feet, and then turning to raise an eyebrow at me. "What do you want, velguk?"

"Information," I said just as candidly, wondering why Zaknafein insisted on referring to me as 'assassin', then glanced at the girl-child, who seemed to be industriously writing into a book. "Admirers already, Zaknafein?"

"Vierna, meet Ti'erlfein Ilith'vir," Zaknafein said in a world-weary tone. "Ragar noamuth, Qu'el'velguk of House Ilith'vir. That is 'noamuth' with only one 't', dalharil."

Vierna stilled her quill and pouted up at him. "Don't correct me!"

"Would you rather Briza did it?" Zaknafein asked, and flashed her a fleeting, genuine smile when she flinched.

"Then again…" she said grudgingly, leaving the sentence hanging.

"Baby-sitting, Zaknafein?" I asked dryly. "The warrior feared for his love of murdering drow priestesses? Didn't think you had this in you, even if she is your daughter. And in such a place, too."

"Melee-Magthere is as safe a place as any, and Vierna is Malice's new arsenal in spying on her weapon master," Zaknafein put a defensive hand on the child's shoulder. "I must admit she has proved more tenacious than all those disgusting animated spiders…and certainly a lot more attractive."

Vierna giggled as Zaknafein winked at her. He certainly seemed happier than the last time I had to see him – which was a short time after the nasty incident with Matron Malice Do'Urden that had stripped him of his rank as patron. I had never seen anyone in such a black mood until then, and hoped not to again.

Or perhaps it was just the presence of Vierna. From all reports I had heard so far, and certainly from the behavior I'd witnessed, he seemed devoted to his daughter, an attitude that the cynic in me stated would not last past Vierna's eventual admission into Arach-Tinilith. Rumor had it that quarrels between Zaknafein and Malice over whether Vierna would or would not enter the Academy had been the last straw that caused Malice to make such a resolution. House Do'Urden's weapon master simply had to learn when to keep his mouth shut.

This Vierna…a weakness to be exploited?

You can be so single-minded. I did not think Zaknafein Do'Urden would have any weaknesses, Llyrx.

That isn't an answer.

Did it have to be?

"Spy?" I asked, more to start my normal tactic of dealing with Zaknafein – to keep talking non-stop until he gave me the information to go away than out of any true wish of finding out.

"She used to put spiders on my clothing until she realized that unless I was distracted I always managed to dispose of them. So she made Vierna follow me around at certain periods when I go off alone somewhere, and take down whatever I say or do that is interesting." Zaknafein sighed. "I haven't been able to get rid of her yet." His speech was odd today – rushed and on the verge of stumbling over each word. Some state of excitement?

Can't be over meeting you.

Shut up, Llyrx. This could prove to be more interesting than I thought.

What could?

Finding out whatever happened to him in the short period of time before we happened along.

What happened?

Obviously a fight. But with whom, I wonder?

Not that evident to me.

That's because you're a Dreix imp.

Thank you for that perfectly rational and convincing reply, master.

Shut up, Llyrx.

"He doesn't like me," Vierna confided in a stage whisper.

"I worship you," Zaknafein said, striking an exaggerated pose before slumping back into his normal bearing. "There, are you convinced now?"

Vierna attempted to sniff in disdain, but spoiled the gesture by sneezing. She recovered with commendable alacrity. "Again, with more sincerity, ilharn."

"What do you know of Tyfein Taek'tharm?" I asked, partly in an attempt to regain control of the conversation, and partly out of self-consciousness at witnessing something unmistakably private.

"What is it worth to you?" Zaknafein replied casually.

"I could easily go through the official records, but they tend to be rather dry. Did you teach him?"

"As I taught you, yes."

That didn't sound too enthusiastic…I wonder why?

Shut up, Llyrx.

I can fly in a loop too, if you wish.

Eh?

Unless, of course, your complex and logical mind concludes that the only command I can follow is 'shut up'.

You can't even follow that simplistic command, how can I give you more…complicated ones?

All right, all right.

"How did he strike you?" I took out my notebook. Zaknafein was an excellent judge of character…

"Swift and precise, but without enough follow-through, too easy to block." Zaknafein said critically.

…when he was serious.

"I meant…"

"I know," Zaknafein cut in. "Tyfein was…is…ah, he's dead, is he?"

I cursed myself silently for talking in the past tense, then cursed Zaknafein for being too sharp today. "Suspected to be."

"It makes no difference to me," Zaknafein picked up his famous black swords and buckled them on in a single, practiced movement, though his fingers seemed to be enigmatically shaky. "Tyfein is fairly intelligent, but his attitude was too independent to be a fighter." His mouth twitched at the side, as if he was mocking himself. "He seemed to me then to be a very divided personality…reckless but never too brash, occasionally creative and then suddenly very inflexible."

The swords at his side, Reaper and Reaver, he touched with sensitive, nervous long fingers, tracing the inlaid jewel designs on their heavily enchanted hilts. On will, for an unknown but finite number of times a day, Zaknafein could cause a zone of anti-magic to surround him, something he had used to great advantage for decades, as well as the higher degree of magic resistance he enjoyed when holding the pair. The matched blades were sharp and double-edged, and still managed to be perfectly balanced and light enough for Zaknafein to wield with a two-handed style comfortably.

"Any…vices?"

"Do you think all students treat me as some sort of shoulder to cry on and tell me all their secrets?"

I tried to imagine Zaknafein as such a father figure, but my mind slunk away in defeat after a half-hearted struggle.

"No-o…"

"But I do happen to know that Tyfein was addicted to gambling," Zaknafein peered at Vierna. "Must you write this down, dalharil?"

"Ilhar told me to." Vierna stuck out her lower lip mulishly.

"Ilharess," Zaknafein corrected instantly. "If you were to call Malice 'Mother' in front of her, you would have been whipped."

"What sort of gambling?" I asked briskly, feeling control slip away from my fingers a second time.

"For Lloth's sake, Ti'erlfein, it was years ago," Zaknafein scowled at me, plainly wishing that I was somewhere else, hopefully expiring painfully. "I cannot recall. Ask Jarlaxle if you must."

"Jarlaxle? What does he have to do with Tyfein?"

"Tyfein was independent, as I told you. Do you not listen? And where do excessively self-reliant fighters look towards?" He spoke with exaggerated patience, as if speaking to a very dense child. I ignored the slight, my mind now whirling with theories.

"Tyfein wanted to join Bregan D'aerthe? But he became weapon master…" This was very interesting indeed.

"His Matron had objections," Zaknafein said unnecessarily. Of course. "And Bregan D'aerthe is not powerful enough to take on an entire House yet, though it will be."

"Did Jarlaxle turn him down? Tyfein seemed skilled."

"Jarlaxle talked to Tyfein often, but they seemed to come to some resolution. Tyfein stopped approaching Bregan D'aerthe, and Jarlaxle…well, who knows what deal he made?" Zaknafein was indifferent again, though his slightly flushed cheeks in the little infra vision that was available in the dim light betrayed his inner emotions. He was unquestionably very proud of something, but what? Odd, as excitement was not normally an emotion associated with elves.

Why do you think it was because of a fight?

Aren't you supposed to be sleeping? But if this will make you keep quiet…because that is one of the only occurrences that can make Zaknafein this exhilarated. Sometimes I think fighting is his life.

Circumstantial evidence.

Hah, yes. Besides, he has a new, deep scratch in his chain mail. Adamantite chain mail. Hence, an adamantite weapon or an enchanted weapon must have delivered the damage. And I'd have heard of any student currently in Melee-Magthere that would be good enough to actually land such hits on Zaknafein…

Hence it is a noble or a well-known freelance warrior?

Bravo, Llyrx, your grasp of the obvious is staggering.

I blundered into that one, didn't I?

"Are you expecting someone?" I asked. Rhetorical question – Zaknafein immediately shot a swift glance at the direction of the entrance to the gymnasium in reflex, but he folded his arms and fixed an impassive expression on his face.

Silence broken only by the soft scratching of pen on paper as Vierna wrote.

"Would you happen to know what Tyfein did…does in Eastmyr?"

"I am tired of questions," Zaknafein said shortly. "Pay me."

"I would pay you more if you could answer that one."

"Would you like me to make up a story now, then?" This was the annoying thing about Zaknafein – he was unpredictable. One instant he could be accommodating (read: answering questions and not threatening to cut off one's head), and the next he would be obstinate (read: one should start backing off towards the nearest exit).

"So you do not know?"

"I am not his guardian angel, velguk. Why would I want to know why he goes to mere east?"

That's strange.

Yes?

That he used 'mere east' instead of 'Eastmyr'…that's what young drow call it.

Zaknafein is not old.

But he's not young.

Your logic is as devastating as always.

Time to back off. "Bel'la dos, Zaknafein. You have been of great assistance."
"Pay me." Zaknafein held out his hand pointedly, palm out, and the sword calluses were oddly visible.

With a sigh, I reached into my pockets.

A final question as I began to leave, "Why so smug today, Zaknafein?"

A shot in the dark, but it hit – Zaknafein twitched again. "Why should I tell you?"

"Since you seem so proud of it…"

"Ilharn bested Uthegentel Armgo," Vierna said unexpectedly. She had been fidgeting in her chair since Zaknafein had suddenly turned emotionless, and I had expected an outburst, but this made me raise my eyebrows.

"Uthegentel?"

"It did not take much effort," Zaknafein preened in Vierna's worshipful gaze.

"No one told me he was dead…"

"I did not kill him."
"And whenever I think I understand you, you do something that is the opposite of my conclusions. Why?"

"Because, Barrison Del'Armgo is still much bigger than Do'Urden." Sarcastic again, as if the political intrigues and struggles of an entire city simply amounted to a complex but juvenile game.

"Then what is the fun in that?"

"Do you remember what Uthegentel was proud of other than his strength, ability and size?" Vicious relish, promising to turn into something good (read: amusing).

I attempted to recall every (unpleasant) occasion so far in which I had met House Barrison Del'Armgo's freakish weapon master and the answer came to me.

"His hair."

Zaknafein stalked over to a small pile of what looked like personal belongings on a torturous-looking piece of exercise equipment, and tossed me a small pouch. Inside was a large, thick lock of white hair. Drow hair. And it looked very familiar.

I looked up and met his smug smirk with a disbelieving grin. "By Lloth."

Zaknafein bowed solemnly, and caught the pouch as I tossed it back to him, secreting it back amongst his belongings. "He will never wear it long again, if he knows what is good for him. Perhaps I should get the hair woven into a cloth to wipe my swords." Vierna sniggered.

"Did you challenge him?"

"No. The poor bastard told me to my face that he would meet me at the outskirts of the city and slaughter me." Zaknafein smiled one of his rare smiles that enhanced his already handsome face. "Vierna was upset."

"I just threatened him with a charge of showing disrespect to a female and priestess-to-be, and then with the disfavor of Lloth," Vierna protested. "I was annoyed."
"My apologies, elamshinus uss," Zaknafein said mockingly. Vierna made a very coarse finger movement.

"I will forgive you if you let me decide which part of Dantrag Baenre to cut off," Vierna conceded. "You are going to fight him next, are you not?" Zaknafein chuckled, but made no reply. Suggestive, but Zaknafein probably knew how wily Dantrag was. He would never go into an outright confrontation like Uthegentel.

Zaknafein doesn't seem to be a good influence.

Vierna only has a few more years to enjoy his bad influence, Llyrx. She has to go to the Academy eventually.

Pessimist. Her personality has a chance of surviving, you know.

Just as a drow with no hope of any sort of aid has a chance of surviving in a drider pit, I suppose. In that case, yes, she does have a chance.

Pessimist.

You have already mentioned that.

Zaknafein seemed to ignore me, and glanced at the entrance again, this time appearing to find what he was looking for. "You can come out now, Jarlaxle."

"You make it sound as though I were hiding."

The mercenary approaching was fast becoming one of the most respected 'rogue' drow males in the city. Although Investigations was quite aware of the ties Bregan D'aerthe had with House Baenre, it was also just as obvious that once Bregan D'aerthe gained more power than House Baenre, Jarlaxle would promptly sever the ties. Or he may not – the mercenary leader was even more unpredictable than Zaknafein, if that were possible.

Behind Jarlaxle was someone heavily cloaked and hooded, face concealed, but by the length and confidence of the stride, I could tell he…or she was a warrior, and a skilled one. Zaknafein's mouth twitched again – this time into something resembling a satisfied smile, which departed just as quickly as it had appeared.

"I gather from Uthegentel's change in hair style that you won?" Jarlaxle's eyes twinkled merrily.

"Was there ever any doubt?" Vierna asked fiercely.

"Ah, this beauty must be Vierna," Jarlaxle tipped his wide-brimmed hat, large diatryma feathers dipping gracefully.

Overwhelmed, Vierna looked to Zaknafein for support. He tilted his head for an instant – ignore him.

"There is someone I would like you to meet," Jarlaxle remarked, very proud of himself, gesturing towards the hooded figure.

"Dalharil, would you mind not writing this down?" Zaknafein decided, clearly unwilling to let Matron Malice know of the identity of the figure, which increased my curiosity a hundred fold.

"But…"

"Was not Nalfein supposed to take you drider blasting *?"

"He was supposed to come when I got bored, and I'm not bored yet because something is obviously going to happen and…"

Jarlaxle was obviously enjoying this, for he chuckled at this point. Zaknafein glared at him, then sighed. "True, it could be the best if Nalfein were not to see you." It was not clear if he referred to Jarlaxle or the hooded drow.

"Well then…" Vierna reached into the pocket of her robes quickly.

I frowned again. Asking a wizard to portal into Melee-Magthere? But in those days they did not have a very powerful teleport block as yet, and as if to drive in that point, a flat plane of blue opened up behind Vierna's chair. A drow mage of average height and unprepossessing demeanor strolled out; his movement deliberate and decisive, weaving an aura of quiet dignity.

His heavily decorated robes swirled around him for a moment as he planted his mage staff on the slate ground and took his bearings. Nodding to Zaknafein, he picked Vierna up easily, ignoring Jarlaxle, the hooded figure, and myself.

"Ilharn…" Vierna realized she had been tricked. Jarlaxle flashed her a knowing grin, and Nalfein a wink from his uncovered eye, and the purportedly powerful mage smirked for an instant before regaining his imperturbable expression.

"Be careful," Zaknafein said formally. "Vendui, Vierna, Qu'el'faeruk Nalfein."

"Vendui, Qu'el'saruk Zaknafein." Nalfein replied just as politely, then quickly swept back into his portal before Vierna managed to open her mouth to protest further.

Zaknafein waited until the portal closed then turned to me, his stare cold and hard, like the metal of his swords. "Why are you still here?"

"I am taking the opportunity to ask Jarlaxle about Tyfein," I replied on impulse.

Why this insatiable desire for sordid knowledge?

The word 'sordid' makes it all worthwhile, Llyrx.

Now I see what Matron Ilith'vir meant by…never you mind.

Yes?

I'm sleeping…

You really should stop talking in your sleep then. You start spouting all sorts of amusing gibberish.

"Tyfein?" Jarlaxle raised the eyebrow uncovered by his elaborate eye patch. He looked me up and down openly, something that could be considered insulting, but in the face of the power that the slender drow represented, I let it slide.

"What are you doing in Melee-Magthere, Jarlaxle?" I asked curiously, trying to start the 'interview' on my own initiative. "Bladen'Kerst Baenre…"

"Does not know I am here," Jarlaxle said smoothly. Bregan D'aerthe and Investigations (read: Matron Ilith'vir) got along by pretending the other did not exist, but we did occasionally 'assist' each other in 'inquiries'. "What did you wish to ask?"

Canny fellow, trying to beat me at my game. "Would you know what Tyfein does in Eastmyr?"

"Would you pay me if I do?"

"I would consider that." Doesn't anyone answer questions for free?

Master…you do notice that we are in Menzoberranzan…

Good point.

"The races." Jarlaxle abruptly became cooperative.

"The riding lizards?"

"I know of no other. Any more questions and you owe me."

I shook my head. The price would most certainly not be worth it, and I counted myself lucky that I had actually extracted some information with no strings attached.

No apparent strings attached.

Look who calls me a pessimist.

Jarlaxle appeared to lose interest in me and turned to Zaknafein. "Zaknafein, you now have to repay your side of the debt."

I concentrated on fading into the background, i.e., making no sudden moves or overt reminders as to my existence.

Zaknafein glanced to the hooded figure, who, on some hidden cue, twitched aside his cloak, revealing a cadaverous face, scarred horribly on the left side of his face, such that his eye had been put out. The long-healed wound had been covered over by a plain eye patch. The drow's left sleeve hung empty and forlorn – one armed, one eyed, and of obviously advanced age, why was this cripple still alive?

But Zaknafein's sculpted face was now wreathed with smiles. "Vendui, Caomh. How has life been treating you?"

Caomh…he was dead, by all reports…once one of the best Masters in Melee-Magthere then hunted by his House due to some incident. The friction between himself and his House had been building up for some time due to his famously radical views on drow society, and the flare-up and subsequent supposed death of the Master had come to no surprise to Investigations.

"I am alive," Caomh replied, as if that were sufficient answer, returning the smile. "Thanks to you, I gather."

Jarlaxle positively radiated smugness. "It was no small task locating him in Braeryn, even with my contacts."

Ah, Braeryn would be the place where this Caomh would have been able to survive being hunted, even crippled, if he were as good as reports went. The 'Stenchstreets' was the slum district of Menzoberranzan, where the 'undesirables' went to try and eke out a living.

"Xas, xas," Zaknafein said impatiently. "You may send me the student tomorrow. But you still owe me a favor. Caomh has no doubt been a great benefit to Bregan D'aerthe." He winked at Caomh, who rolled his one good eye.

"He defeated two of my lieutenants in combat, even…disadvantaged as he is, and he has proven to be a good teacher," Jarlaxle admitted easily, bantering with Zaknafein now. "Bel'la dos, Zaknafein."

"Student?" Caomh asked, apparently glossing over Jarlaxle's extravagant words.

"You will teach some of my soldiers, and Zaknafein will teach some," Jarlaxle explained, sickeningly pleased with himself. "That way more of Bregan D'aerthe's selected may be trained suitably. Caomh, when you finish with Zaknafein, do return to the Clawrift base." Tipping his hat again, the mercenary turned on his heel and left, no doubt to slip out of the Academy as easily as he had sidled in.

Caomh watched Jarlaxle go, then muttered. "He still reminds me of the time when the two of you were students."

"You actually remember?"

"I remembered the both of you."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Perhaps. You two were the 'berserkers' of different years that went down each free day to Braeryn instead of back to your Houses, fully armed and carrying a day's worth of hard rations, and returned to Melee-Magthere covered in the blood of the slain who were unlucky to enter your range of sight, eh? Where you would be promptly…appreciated by females admiring, of all things, your bloodthirsty ways."

Zaknafein shrugged, dismissive. "If I remember, neither Jarlaxle nor myself spent a night in the six months at Arach-Tinilith in our actual beds. I never knew how we acquired that name. We never did 'berserk'. It was fun."

"Suicidal and needlessly dangerous, you mean. The very essence of what one's attitude becomes when one is under a berserker rage, hence the nickname, I would believe."

"As I said, 'fun'."

Very fascinating.

I'm glad you think so, may we go now?

Be quiet, Llyrx.

Caomh suddenly looked at me. "Who is he?" Blunt-spoken, I could well imagine how his current situation came to be.

"Ti'erlfein Ilith'vir. After your time," Zaknafein said carelessly.

"Ilith'vir?" Caomh said vaguely, then remembered. "Ah, the notorious Investigations. No wonder Jarlaxle was so…willing to answer his questions."

"Bel'la dos for the flattering description. You were Zaknafein's teacher?" Another shot in the dark, but by the sudden freezing of Zaknafein's face, the answer was quite clear.

Careful…

Zaknafein would not attack, Llyrx. House Do'Urden knows fully that if one of its scions attacks an Ilith'vir, Matron Ilith'vir would not hesitate to take revenge.

Releasing crucial information on breaches in defense and sentry duty changes and such?

It is very effective. House Do'Urden newly climbed a rank and there are several below and above that currently wish it did not exist.

Zaknafein does not strike me as the sort to adhere to priestess commands.

And you have in a pinch most of the male population. Like it or not, most do obey commands…they do not want to end up like Caomh, or a rogue like Jarlaxle.

Wonder why Jarlaxle did not ask him to join Bregan D'aerthe?

The last time he did, apparently Zaknafein informed the rogue that his next answer to a question of the same context would be with Reaper and Reaver. Though I have been told it was in not-so-polite terms.

Very effective…but just in case I'm going to prepare a teleport spell.

Such admirable faith you have in me.

Only natural.

"And a good job I did, too," Caomh continued wickedly. "Though I should have attempted to teach him more than weapon skills. If you had been intelligent enough, you would still be patron."

Zaknafein scowled at him half-heartedly. "Maybe I should have let you rot in Braeryn."

Caomh snorted, then changed the subject. "Vierna is your daughter?"

Zaknafein nodded, though from habit, cautiously.

"Pretty little thing," Caomh remarked, "Malice should…"

"Ah?" Zaknafein fingered his swords, an unconscious gesture that he performed each time his attitude became guarded, then seemed to remember something, for he unbuckled them, then offered them to Caomh.

Caomh narrowed his eyes. "Yes?"

"A gift," Zaknafein said gravely. I blinked.

"What…why?"

"Because Malice may be seeking to confiscate them soon."

"What did you do this time?"

"Why does it always have to be something I did? It is only that she knows they are the only material items I value now, and she might decide to be spiteful," From the way Zaknafein pronounced the last word, he managed to make House Do'Urden's fast-rising Matron sound both immature and needlessly vindictive. "I would rather you accepted them, than for her to give them to her next…patron." The last word said with effort.

Ah…

Caomh indicated his missing limb with a nod of his head. "Oh, to have my arm back," he said, his smile forced. "I would never be able to hold both."

The swords were still proffered, and slowly, unwillingly, Caomh grasped the scabbards. In the face of the undercurrents of emotion and sympathetic understanding between the two I felt more awkward than ever, and out of place. And I was drow, for Lloth's sake.

"My son Eyrek'mer cut off my arm," Caomh said conversationally as he weighed the scabbards, and when he turned up his face, his eyes were full of grief and bitterness, but his expression was perversely hard, not vulnerable. "I thought him different. He was the only one I truly cared for."

"You put him to rest?" Zaknafein's voice was gentle, and sounded displaced coming from the efficient killer of House Do'Urden.

"A very neat way of saying I killed him, yes. He…took so long to die…"

Zaknafein clapped a hand on his teacher's shoulder, looked piercingly at me, and then jerked his head in the direction of the exit. Taking the hint, I quickly started towards the archway.

Hopefully Zaknafein would get the hint.

Llyrx, stop talking in riddles.

He's obviously too attached to his daughter. And there would be a higher chance of her turning on him than a son turning on a father, and look what happened to Caomh…

Very true.

So where to next, O great leader?

Eastmyr, or the office to send some notes to the Matron.

Office. I'm still not in the mood to be disemboweled.

Eastmyr is not that dangerous, Llyrx.

Yes it is.

I refuse to argue with such a juvenile mind. Very well, the office then. What just happened may just make Matron Ilith'vir's day.

She's your younger sister, is she not?

You know perfectly well.

Referring to her as 'Matron Ilith'vir' sounds so stilted.

That is how life is.

Who's talking in riddles?

**

The walk back to the office was notably uneventful, to Llyrx's and my relief. I wondered if I should ask my younger sister for a riding lizard, and decided against it – she had not been in a good mood lately. Matrons.

At least she let you have a position in her House.

Matron Ilith'vir is much more bearable than Mother dear ever was, yes.

And you don't have to do much as Qu'el'velguk, as compared to if you were Qu'el'saruk…

That was a point of prolonged debate. I was beginning to entertain the idea that running away to hide behind Jarlaxle's feathers had its advantages, but then she gave in.

Well, you do fight better than old "hargluk" Y'lerklr.

He has the single-minded capacity to do the same things again and again each morning without getting bored, and I do not. Matron Ilith'vir recognized that…eventually.

He is also patron.

Only in name. Matron Ilith'vir is tight on giving too many males titles, and since she beds someone new nearly every night…

She does seem to gather more information than even you do, doesn't she?

I refuse to answer that question.

The Circle Column market was sinking into one of its lulls, and I was grateful for the lowered volume of noise as I approached my office, my thoughts elsewhere, probably, knowing me, in Tylinyl's direction. Hence it was Llyrx who noticed the intrusion.

There's someone inside your office.

I do not hear anything…

Because you Ilythiiri, like humans, have the scent skill of a foulwing with its nose stuck in a cesspool. The stench is obvious to the not sensory-challenged.

Shut up and tell me what's inside.

If I shut up how can I…

Llyrx!

It already knows we're here. Calm down, it's only one haszak.

What!?

--

Translations and References:

Vendui: I greet you

Elamshinus uss: favored one

Haszak: Illithid

Ilharn: Father

Ilhar: Mother

Ilharess: Matron

Drider blasting: A sport popular among mages with offensive spells to try out, or mages simply looking for a bit of fun with a strong flavor of risk. Basically one floated above the drider chasm and 'blasted' driders with spells, hoping that said driders would not break through defensive shields.

Qu'el'faeruk: House Wizard

Qu'el'saruk: House Weapon Master