Charon's Claw (Neverwinter #3)(4)

“Would you be so tactful as to do it out of sight of the goblin’s companions?” the spellspinner asked.

“A better message might be delivered if—”

“Out of sight,” Ravel insisted.

Yerrininae stared at him for a few moments, as if measuring him up—and Ravel knew that he and his drow companions would be constantly scrutinized by this band of dangerous allies—but then nodded and skittered away noisily.

Why did you bring them along? Jearth’s hands signaled as soon as Yerrininae had started off.

It is a long and dangerous road, and ending at a complex no doubt defended, Ravel countered, twisting his hands and fingers with emphatic movement. We are but two days out of Menzoberranzan and already we move more slowly in anticipation of a fight around every corner. Do you doubt the fighting prowess of Yerrininae and his band?

I don’t doubt the prowess of a band of devils, Jearth’s fingers signed. And they would be easier to control, and less likely to murder us.

Ravel smiled and shook his head, confident that it would not come to that. His relationship with Yerrininae went far back, to his earliest days in Sorcere. The drider, under orders from Gromph—and no one, drider or drow, dared disobey Gromph—had worked with Ravel on some of his earliest expeditions, guarding the young spellspinner as he had ventured into the Underdark beyond Menzoberranzan in search of some herb or enchanted crystal.

Yerrininae and Ravel had a long-standing arrangement. The drider would not go against him. Besides, Matron Mother Zeerith had sweetened the prize for Yerrininae, hinting that if this expedition proved successful, if House Xorlarrin was able to establish a city in the dwarf homeland of Gauntlgrym, she would afford the driders a House of their own, with full benefits afforded drow, and with Flavvar, Yerrininae’s consort, as Matron. From that position they could, perhaps, regain their standing with Lady Lolth.

“And who can guess what might happen with the goddess of chaos from there?” Zeerith had teased, not so subtly hinting that perhaps the drider curse could be reversed. Perhaps Yerrininae and his band might walk as dark elves once more.

No, Ravel did not fear that the driders would turn against him. Not with that possible reward dangling before them.

The old drow mage put down his quill and tilted his head so he could regard the door to his private room. He had been back in House Baenre for only a matter of hours, seeking a quiet respite wherein he might work some theories around a particularly effective dweomer he had witnessed in Sorcere. He had explicitly asked Matron Mother Quenthel for some privacy, and she, of course, had agreed.

Gromph might be a mere male, the Elderboy of the House, but none, not even Quenthel, would move against him. Gromph had been one of the pillars of strength of House Baenre beyond the memory of any living Baenre, noble or commoner. The eldest son of the greatest Matron Mother Baenre, Yvonnel the Eternal, Gromph had served as the city’s archmage for centuries. He had weathered the Spellplague and had grown even stronger in the decades since that terrifying event, and though Gromph was quite likely the oldest living drow in Menzoberranzan, his level of involvement in city politics and power struggles, and in the spell research at Sorcere, had only increased, dramatically so, in the last years.

A thin, knowing grin creased the old drow’s withered lips as he imagined the doubting expression on the face of his soon-to-be visitor. He envisioned the male’s hand lifting to knock, then dropping once more in fear.

Gromph paused a bit longer, then waggled his fingers at the entrance, and the door swung in—just ahead of the knocking fist of Andzrel Baenre.

“Do come in,” Gromph bade the weapons master, and he took up his quill and turned his attention back to the spread parchment.

Andzrel’s boots clapped hard against the stone floor as he strode into the room—stepped forcefully, Gromph noted from the sound. It would seem that Gromph’s action had embarrassed the weapons master.

“House Xorlarrin moves brashly,” Andzrel stated.

“Well met to you, too, Andzrel.” Gromph looked up and offered the much younger male a withering stare.

Andzrel let a bit of obvious bluster out with his next exaggerated exhale following the mighty wizard’s clear reminder of station and consequence.

“A sizable force moving west,” Andzrel reported.

“Led by the ambitious Ravel, no doubt.”

“We believe that your student is at their head, yes.”

“Former student,” Gromph corrected, pointedly so.

Andzrel nodded, and lowered his gaze when Gromph did not blink. “Matron Quenthel is concerned,” he said quietly.

“Though hardly surprised,” Gromph replied. He braced himself on his desk and pushed up from his chair, then smoothed his spidery robes, glistening black and emblazoned with webs and crawling arachnid designs in silver thread. He walked around the side of his desk to a small shelf on the chamber’s side wall.

Not looking at Andzrel, but rather at a large, skull-shaped crystal gem set on the shelf, the archmage muttered, “The eating habits of fish.”

“Fish?” Andzrel finally asked after a long pause, Gromph purposely making no indication that he would clarify the curious statement, or even that he intended to turn back around, without prompting.

“Have you ever hunted fish with a line and hook?” Gromph asked.

“I prefer the spear,” the warrior replied.