Exile (The Dark Elf Trilogy #2)(68)

Come, the illithid bade Belwar, and the burrow-warden jumped to his feet and rushed out, respectfully remaining a stride behind his master.

A kneeling drow caught Belwar’s attention as the mind flayer led him through the bottom level of the central tower. How fortunate the dark elf was to be able to touch and bring pleasure to the central brain of the community! Belwar then thought no more of it, though, as he made the ascent to the structure’s third level and to the suite of rooms that his three masters shared.

The other two illithids sat in their chairs, motionless and apparently lifeless. Belwar’s master paid little heed to the spectacle; it knew that its companions were far away in their astral travels and that their corporeal bodies were quite safe. The mind flayer did pause to wonder, for just a moment, how its companions fared in that distant plane. Like all illithids, Belwar’s master enjoyed astral travel, but pragmatism, a definite illithid trait, kept the creature’s thoughts on the business at hand. It had made a large investment in buying Belwar, an investment it was not willing to lose.

The mind flayer led Belwar into a back room and sat him down on an unremarkable stone table. Then, suddenly, the illithid bombarded Belwar with telepathic suggestions and questions, probing as it roughly set the injured shoulder and applied wrappings. Mind flayers could invade a creature’s thoughts on first contact, either with their stunning blow or with telepathic communications, but it could take weeks, even months, for an illithid to fully dominate its slave. Each encounter broke down more of the slave’s natural resistance to the illithid’s mental insinuations, revealed more of the slave’s memories and emotions.

Belwar’s master was determined to know everything about this curious svirfneblin, about his strange, crafted hands and about the unusual company he chose to keep. This time during the telepathic exchange, the illithid focused on the mithril hands, for it sensed that Belwar was not performing up to his capabilities.

The illithid’s thoughts probed and prodded, and sometime later fell into a deep corner of Belwar’s mind and learned a curious chant.

Bivrip? it questioned Belwar. Simply on reflex, the burrow-warden banged his hands together, then winced in pain from the shock of the blow.

The illithid’s fingers and tentacles wiggled eagerly. It had touched upon something important, it knew, something that could make its champion stronger. If the mind flayer allowed Belwar the memory of the chant, however, it would give back to the svirfneblin a part of himself, a conscious memory of his days before slavery.

The illithid handed Belwar still another healing potion, then glanced around to inspect its wares. If Belwar was to continue as a gladiator, he would have to face the hook horror again in the arena; by illithid rules, a rematch was required after a drow. Belwar’s master doubted that the svirfneblin would survive another battle against that armored champion.

Unless...

Dinin Do’Urden paced his lizard mount through the region of Menzoberranzan’s lesser houses, the most congested section of the city. He kept the cowl of his piwafwi pulled low about his face and bore no insignia revealing him as a noble of a ruling house. Secrecy was Dinin’s ally, both from the watching eyes of this dangerous section of the city, and from the disapproving glares of his mother and sister. Dinin had survived long enough to understand the dangers of complacency. He lived in a state that bordered on paranoia; he never knew when Malice and Briza might be watching.

A group of bugbears sauntered out of the walking lizard’s way. Fury swept through the proud elderboy of House Do’Urden at the slaves’ casual manner. Dinin’s hand went instinctively to the whip on his belt.

Dinin wisely checked his rage, though, reminding himself of the possible consequences of being revealed. He turned another of the many sharp corners and moved down through a row of connected stalagmite mounds.

“So you have found me,” came a familiar voice from behind and to the side. Surprised and afraid, Dinin stopped his mount and froze in his saddle. He knew that a dozen tiny crossbows-at least-were trained on him.

Slowly, Dinin turned his head to watch Jarlaxle’s approach. Out here in the shadows, the mercenary seemed much different from the overly polite and compliant drow Dinin had known in House Do’Urden. Or perhaps it was just the specter of the two sword-wielding drow guards standing by Jarlaxle’s sides and Dinin’s own realization that he didn’t have Matron Malice around to protect him.

“One should ask permission before entering another’s house.’ Jarlaxle said calmly but with definite threatening undertones. “Common courtesy.”

“I am out in the open streets.’ Dinin reminded him.

Jarlaxle’s smile denied the logic. “My house.’

Dinin remembered his station, and the thoughts inspired some courage. “Should a noble of a ruling house, then, ask Jarlaxle’s permission before leaving his front gate?” the elderboy growled. “And what of Matron Baenre, who would not enter the least of Menzoberranzan’s houses without seeking permission from the appropriate matron mother? Should Matron Baenre, too, ask permission of Jarlaxle, the houseless rogue?” Dinin realized that he might be carrying the insult a bit too far, but his pride demanded the words.

Jarlaxle relaxed visibly and the smile that came to his face almost appeared sincere. “So you have found me,” he said again, this time dipping into his customary bow. “State your purpose and be done with it.’