Don't go to Sleep
by Iliana Maura
Note: Going back and re-reading these, I've realized that the first handful of chapters did not actually have chapters! I can't believe I missed that shakes head mutter, mutter. So anyway, this time 'round, there are chapter names. However, same as in the first draft, I still don't know whether I got the bit about the Shadow Plane right-no one ever told me anything. Oh, well. I suppose it's a little late now.
Chapter Three : Rath Uusatl Mzild
The eleventh house of Menzoberranzan was wedged into a large pocket on the northern side of the city. Its closest neighbor had also been the eleventh house of Menzoberranzan, once; that house was now scorched ruins lurking behind a shattered gate.
House Nuvin had been the one to shattered those gates, and was now quite happy with its position as eleventh. It wasn't as good as being eighth, meaning Matron Yraeth would have a seat on the Council, but it was close. Yraeth was confident she would sit amongst the eight most powerful matrons of the city, and failing that, she was certain her daughter would.
That is, unless another house destroyed them first; Yraeth was sure that those of her now-destroyed rival, House Kor'tath, had held similar thoughts as she.
But House Nuvin was confident. It was much larger than its position would indicate, boasting nearly five hundred soldiers, six high priestesses, and some twenty common ones. They were sure of their power, confident that none below them had the strength to attack-and if any threats should appear, they would be dealt with quickly.
Which was why Weapon Master Du'vess was kneeling before Matron Yraeth just as the heat began to creep up Narbondel's flanks.
"Please state your report, Weapon Master," Yraeth said softly. She had woken out of a deep Reverie, and for Du'vess's sake, what he had to say had best be very interesting. She sat ensconced in her heavy stone throne within the stark audience chamber, her daughters on either side.
Du'vess swallowed hard, his eyes on the floor. When Matron Yraeth spoke quietly was when he became most frightened-it was a sign of her anger. "Matron," he croaked, throat dry. He coughed a tried again. "Matron, there was an attack upon the house during the night."
Yraeth sat forward. "An attack?" she repeated, incredulous. "An attack? And I heard nothing?" There was a pause, in which Du'vess began shaking. Icy cold and a soft as the whisper of silk, she whispered, "Explain, Weapon Master."
The male swallowed again. "Yes, Matron," he responded swiftly, taking a moment to gather his wits. Keeping his eyes trained on the floor, he began speaking. "Apparently a small number of assassins entered the compound during the night and killed nearly a hundred soldiers before any alarms were raised. None of the assassins were captured."
Matron Yraeth's voice chilled the sweat beading on Du'vess's skin. "None were captured."
"No, Matron," he whispered.
"Did anyone manage to identify what house they were from?"
"No, Matron." His voice cracked as he went on. "There were no House insignias that could be seen; likely they weren't wearing any."
"Do you know how they got into our compound without being noticed?" Yraeth paused for effect. "I trust that it was not because of any flaw you failed to notice."
"No, Matron!" Du'vess gasped quickly. "I checked, Matron. We-I think think there is a possibility they entered by moving through a-a-another plane."
"The Shadow Plane?" Yraeth asked.
"Yes, Matron-it seems very likely."
"That would mean a wizard."
"Yes, Matron." Du'vess felt the slightest hint of heat return to his body; it seemed as though he would not be too badly punished.
"See to it that our defenses are. . . fixed."
Du'vess hid a flinch at the coldness of her voice, and answered, "Yes, Matron." He sprang to his feet and hurried toward the door leading out of the hall. Yraeth's voice stopped him.
"I did not dismiss you," she snarled. "Come back hear."
Trembling, the male returned to the foot of her throne and began to kneel.
"Don't," Yraeth snapped. "Turn around."
Feeling sick, Du'vess did as he was told. He heard the matron rise from her throne and approach him, heavy robes rustling quietly against the stone floor.
A sudden pain erupted in his back. He cried out, and pitched forward, but Yraeth seized his hair and pulled him upright. Knees weak, he struggled to remain standing, and found himself staring at six snakes, all attached to the whip held in Yraeth's hand. Their head twined around him, beads of venom rolling across his skin where it dripped from their exposed fangs.
The heads disappeared, then plunged again into his back. Fangs sank into his skin, releasing their poison; his muscles went taught, far tighter than they were meant to go. He screamed in pain. An awful numbness spread in the wake of the agony, but it nothing to diminish the pain of the next strike.
"I am greatly disappointed in you," she hissed, her voice barely distinguishable from the noise of the snake whip. She lashed out again, and then again. Du'vess howled as the burning spread, then moaned. The pain a snake whip inflicted varied, depending on the mood of its wielder; the male could not remember Yraeth ever being this angry.
"Nearly a hundred soldiers!" she berated him, striking again. "All lost because of your incompetence!"
Du'vess could barely understand her words through the pain. After a final blow, she threw him to the ground, where he curled loosely onto his side, whimpering.
"You have one more chance," she snarled, her face contorted with rage. "If you fail me again, your heart will be given to Lloth. Go!"
Fighting the pain in his back, Du'vess scrambled to his feet and ran as he had never run before.
Lil Valsharess Ilhar was a seedy tavern by any race's standards. Certainly Phystus Navid'an, who rarely entered taverns at all, found it repulsive. Smoke hung in the air, reducing visibility and filling his nostrils with the heady scents of many intoxicating substances. Along one wall was the bar, behind that, the kitchens. The other walls were lined with booths shielded by ragged curtains; the center was dominated by an assortment of mismatched tables and chairs. All races found in Menzoberranzan were welcome here, so long as they had coin.
That, his companion had plenty of.
Phystus supposed it made sense to do business here, because no one would pay attention to them. Even here, there were bound to be eyes, but less, no doubt, than would be found in a higher-end tavern or restaurant, and so fewer would make note of the extravagant mercenary trading gold for information with a gangly, nervous-looking wizard.
And extravagant the mercenary was! Phystus had never imagined a drow who could dress as loudly as Jarlaxle, though the wizard had to admit the hat made a striking statement when he bowed. Even stranger, though he ought to stick out worse than a human at a nobles' masque, he managed to blend so well with his surroundings that passerby hardly seemed to notice him.
A rouge's trick, Phystus thought.
The unlikely pair settled themselves in a booth, leaving the curtains open to show they were waiting. A goblin slave scurried over and asked for their orders.
"Wine," Jarlaxle said promptly. "Something strong."
Both the drow and goblin looked expectantly at Phystus. "Don't be shy," Jarlaxle urged. "I'm the one paying."
"Water," Phystus said firmly.
The goblin hid a look of disgust and scrambled off to the bar. Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow. "Water? That's almost as bad as rothe milk."
Phystus squirmed uncomfortably. "I want to keep a clear head," he lied. In truth, he rarely drank alcohol and doubted his ability to avoid making a fool of himself.
The mercenary nodded, smiling. Phystus had an odd feeling Jarlaxle knew a lot more about the wizard's personality-and drinking habits-than he revealed, but the outrageous drow allowed the subject to drop. Taking a breath to gain confidence, Phystus plunged forward. "Let's get to b-business." His voice stumbled and he silently cursed his traitorous tongue.
If Jarlaxle heard the slip, he gave no sign. "Wait for our drinks."
Phystus fidgeted until the goblin returned with their glasses. At least they were clean, he noted. Jarlaxle paid the slave and sipped his wine, nodding in satisfaction. The wizard clenched his hands around his glass but did not drink.
"Now," the mercenary said, setting down his drink, "to business. You brought the book?"
Phystus nodded, and Jarlaxle waited expectantly.
"I expect payment," Phystus snarled, glad his voice didn't tremble.
"Ah, yes," Jarlaxle said. He pulled-from somewhere-a pouch that rested easily in the palm of one hand, bulging with coins, and set it on the table, where it chinked softly. Phystus pocketed it, discreetly casting a quick, minor spell to make sure the gold was real. It was.
The wizard reached beside him and brought up a thick book bound in rothe leather. He pushed it across the table to Jarlaxle, who opened it while simultaneously creating a pale ball of faerie fire to read by. Inside were rows of names, quantities, costs, and goods. The mercenary nodded in satisfaction and flipped quickly through the pages, until he reached the section, a little over halfway through the book, where the writing stopped.
Phystus watched the outlandish drow slide one slender finger down the column listing dates, skipping quickly past those in the last month, and slowing once he reached information about shipments within the past few weeks. There hadn't been many, the wizard remembered; it had been a surprisingly slow period. Reading upside-down in the faerie fire's sickly light, he saw the only three shipments had been from the duergar, Ched Nasad, and Skullport.
Jarlaxle's finger hovered over one of the rows. "Who did you get the gems from in Skullport?" he asked.
The wizard scrutinized the page closer. "A human female who calls herself Medavin," Phystus told him. "She has proven useful in the past."
Jarlaxle nodded again, then closed the book and pushed it back to its owner. Phystus longed to know what was on the mercenary leader's mind, but who was he to ask?
Skullport, Jarlaxle mused. It seemed as though he had tracked orbb's elghinn to the famed underground port city, and the human Medavin. The duergar, he felt sure, would not have used a magical plague to destroy the drow, and orbb's elghinn had struck Ched Nasad only after it had swept through Menzoberranzan.
Skullport, then.
Jarlaxle picked up his drink and nursed it through a pleasant conversation with Phystus, subtly prying for information he stored away for later use.
The wizard really was inexperienced.