Chapter 16
Tier Breche again
"Do
you know why I have called the both of you here today?" Malice asked from her
throne.
Zak
and Jarlaxle shot each other what did you
do this time? looks.
"Forgive
our ignorance, Matron," Zak began, an impish grin starting to spread on his
lips.
Malice
gave him an annoyed frown. She had seen
that both Zak and Jarlaxle seemed to be spending a lot of time out of the
house, and she would soon intend to find out what they were doing. Bregan D'aerthe, perhaps, but she'd heard
more female names being sprinkled in their conversation when they thought no
one was listening.
Zaknafein
was wise enough to shut up. For
himself, he was wondering why Malice's moods suddenly began swinging between
fiercely possessive, ice-cold, and piercingly suspicious.
"Drizzt
will leave for the Academy in a month," she said smugly, waiting for the
outburst.
None
came. Both brothers continued looking
at her as if expecting that she would continue. There was a long pause. Then Jarlaxle spoke up. "Well,
it's traditional..." he began cautiously. Malice's temper had degenerated over the present year for some
reason. Probably something female.
Thrown off her figurative orbit by this bland
statement, Malice asked, "Aren't you two going to object?"
Zak
and Jarlaxle gave each other amused glances that irked her immensely. "Well, if it gives you any pleasure," Zak
shrugged, then took a deep breath.
"No
need," Malice said quickly. "But
why...?"
"She
thinks we'd object?" Jarlaxle whispered, though unfortunately loud enough to
hear.
"Why
should we object?" Zak inquired. "I
mean, if I've had to sit through so many years of Sorcere with its long winded
lectures and bloody dangerous experiments and competitions, what's wrong with
him doing a mere ten years in Melee-Magthere? If anything, it's less
dangerous."
"Nothing
wrong with Melee-Magthere," Jarlaxle continued, "If anything, it might give him
a firmer grip on reality, if all that backstabbing still goes on. And it will teach him what I can't teach
very well here – fighting in groups and against groups of trained
fighters. And later he'd have the
chance to do monsters."
"What
made you think we'd object?" Zak asked mildly.
Malice
glared at him, then sighed. "A wrong
impression. Jarlaxle, you are to make
full use of these last days in training him, then dress him properly for the
first day. Zaknafein will take him
there."
They
nodded.
"How
is Bregan D'aerthe?" Malice asked suddenly.
Jarlaxle
blinked. "Considering the income that
it's bringing in, what do you think, Matron? Begging all respect, of course."
"Well
enough to keep the both of you running off any chance you'd get," Malice said
sharply. The brothers gave each other
blank looks.
"As
you wish, Matron," Zaknafein said in his mildest voice. This only seemed to irritate Malice more.
"I
do not know why the two of you seem to spend so much time there when it's
'running like clockwork', as you said once, Jarlaxle, but I mean to find out."
She said coldly.
"The
paperwork mounts up," Jarlaxle said, "And the clients all demand to speak with
us personally. The important ones, at
least."
"The
two of you were adopted into House Do'Urden for purposes," Malice said, "And
you are not to shirk your responsibilities! Do you understand?"
"Yes,
Matron," the both of them said. What
was wrong with Malice? A perfectly innocuous (sort of) talk on Drizzt going to
the Academy suddenly twisting into a weird lecture and warning – odd, even for
Malice.
Bowing,
they exited the room quickly. Only when
they were several corridors away did Jarlaxle speak up.
"Why
did I have this feeling she was talking about you?" he inquired.
Zaknafein
shrugged helplessly. "I have no
idea. Malice has been acting strange
since she caught us discussing in my room months ago."
"Something
we said?" Jarlaxle asked, "I don't remember us saying anything other than
discussing the present status of the group."
Zaknafein
shrugged. "Females. Where's Drizzt?"
"Weapons
hall, practicing with Zaire, I think," Jarlaxle said, then paused. "Well, he should be, if he knows what's good
for him.
"I
was wondering where Zaire was and why her mind felt so busy," Zak sighed. "Well, who's winning?"
"Sometimes
Drizzt does," Jarlaxle said, "Sometimes Zaire does. Any advice you'd like me to tell him for the Academy?"
Zak
gave him an amused grin. "Tell him not
to bother to watch his back – his neck will ache. Tell him to watch all those around him, even those he presumably
trusts."
"Including
us?" Jarlaxle smiled.
Zak
let out a bark of laughter. "Perhaps
someday, but not now. If you'd excuse
me, I believe I am wanted at Sorcere."
It
was Jarlaxle's time to laugh. "Masters
don't like it more than anyone else when someone of higher rank shows up. Believe me, you aren't wanted."
"All
the more why I'm going." Zak said, and smiled an evil smile.
"Why
are you wearing that?" Jarlaxle asked, pointing to the long, slender whip on
Zak's side.
Zak
shrugged. "It gets attention more than
the staff sometimes. And besides, it's
fun to practise with when you're good at it."
"Tricks
with candles?" Jarlaxle asked sourly.
"I
don't waste my time on that," Zak said loftily, "Think of a whip as an
extension to my hands. Or whatever."
Jarlaxle
chuckled. "You mean it's the current
fashion in Masters of the Academy."
"That
too," Zak admitted, "But most of them just have it and not know how to use
it. Except possibly Hatch'net."
"The
old boy's still there?" Jarlaxle rolled his eyes.
"Where
else would we be without his tongue?" Zak asked rhetorically, though he winked.
"Someplace
less stressed and quieter," Jarlaxle muttered under his breath. "Old coot."
Zak
grinned. "Ah yes. Tell Drizzt not to worry too much about what
Hatch'net says either – or he'd never get any peace of sleep."
"I
remember that," Jarlaxle remarked dryly.
**
Drizzt
trailed along behind Zaknafein and Zaire, wearing the robes of a noble son,
climbing up the stone steps of Tier Breche. Once they were inside the courtyard, Zaknafein completely ignored him
and swept off towards Sorcere, the milling ranks of students paying attention
parting before him.
Once
two students were slower than usual in getting out of his way – representatives
from del'Armgo and Oblodra. Zak's whip
suddenly leapt into his hands, and with a sharp sound both students were
sprawled in an unceremonious heap on the ground. Zak's whip came back to his hand; the short sword of one of them
coiled in it. With a contemptuous sniff,
Zak dropped the weapon with a clatter and swept off into Sorcere, leaving the
students to disentangle themselves.
One
of the students held a dagger when he got up, but thought better of it when
Zaire turned casually and bared her teeth. Flushed with embarrassment they turned away back to the fighters.
The
masters came out of Melee-Magthere suddenly, and started driving the
twenty-five or so fighters inside. Zaknafein watched from the shadow of the entrance of Sorcere until
Drizzt was inside, and silently wished him good luck. He did hope the boy would get out alive.
In
the meantime, Zaknafein stalked up the steps, Zaire trotting behind him. In the corridor of the Masters' rooms he ran
into Tyrank'al. Zaire chirped a
greeting, and the Master bent down to pat her head affectionately.
Tyrank'al
was a sharp, intelligent mage inflicted with the near-hereditary common sense
of Oblodran males. His rashness had
toned down considerably over the years that he had been a Master, fortunately.
It seemed some sort of
balance – the females were fanatical and slightly suicidal, the males the salt
of the earth. Zak liked Oblodran male
elves. At least he didn't feel like he
was speaking to a brick wall.
"Drizzt
Do'Urden is in Melee-Magthere?" Tyrank'al asked.
"Why
yes," Zak said. "Does Oblodra have a
representative?"
"Not
this year," Tyrank'al shook his head, "In six years, perhaps."
"Or
maybe twenty four?" Zak asked slyly. Thirty was the age for a student mage.
"That
remains to be seen," Tyrank'al said serenely, "Though Matron Kyorl believes the
family has too much representatives in Sorcere as it is."
"Del'Armgo
has a Melee-Magthere representative this year," Zak commented.
"Oh
yes," Tyrank'al said, "Ver'ginran. Quite a big fellow, though secretly of course, I believe he has an
intelligence figure that can be counted on the fingers of a Diatryma."
"Diatrymas
have no fingers," Zak said automatically. Then he started to laugh.
"Quite
so," Tyrank'al said seriously. He never
smiled. "How is this Drizzt?"
"A
suitable candidate for Sorcere, actually," Zak shrugged, "Jarlaxle had other
ideas. He is very good, though. Drizzt, I mean. Once he actually nearly beat Jarlaxle."
"I
see," Tyrank'al said, following Zak into Zak's room. Zak closed the door, and the wards switched on.
"Now
what was the point behind the sign?" Zak inquired. Fourth, second finger and thumb pressed together, middle finger
through – 'need to talk privately'.
"Several
of the Masters would like to know if this Drizzt is Master material," Tyrank'al
said. "The Mistress of Melee-Magthere
is getting very old, and it may be now or never. Lloth knows that when this Master class finishes, the Mistress
will only have a few years left at most."
"Jarlaxle
thinks he is," Zak said.
"And
you?" Tyrank'al asked frankly.
Zak
thought about it a little. "Well,
currently Drizzt does not have a very good grip on reality," he said seriously,
"He's too innocent for his own good. If
Melee-Magthere doesn't push that out of him I don't know what will. He is Master material, unlike Ver'ginran,
who if I'm not mistaken was the fellow whose my whip swept off his feet and
confiscated his weapon."
"Tall,
shoulders like an ox, sword with jeweled hilt?" Tyrank'al showed some interest.
"Yes,"
Zak said.
"That's
him." Tyrank'al said solemnly. "What
would Drizzt have done?"
"Fallen
as well," Zak shrugged. "Whips are hard
to avoid. But he'd have gotten up
faster, I would believe."
"Fair
enough," Tyrank'al said, "We'd have to wait and see. Sorcere, as you obviously know, has finally agreed with
Melee-Magthere over the...terms. We
help them get a Master as head, and they stop bothering us in several other
areas."
"Everything
is fair," Zak grinned. "How's N'aryo?"
N'aryo
had sensibly abdicated in favor of 'younger blood', as he put it, instead of
waiting until he became careless and took a dagger in the back, or a lightning
bolt in the front. He stayed in House
Oblodra occasionally agreeing to be a tutor, but mostly waiting for his turn to
die.
"Fit
as ever," Tyrank'al said, "Which annoys him. Bad cough yesterday, bot nothing else serious."
"Good,"
Zak said. He liked N'aryo, and not only
because the elf had been instrumental in getting him to ArchMage rank.
"Sorcere
will be watching this class, Zaknafein," Tyrank'al said solemnly.
Zak smiled. "Everything will go to plan, Tyrank'al. If it's something elves do have, it's
patience, and time."