At least something you've said this night befits a Baenre."
Quenthel responded with a single laugh, and Pharaun knew he had made his point.
Jeggred lurched forward, his fighting arms outstretched. Danifae clutched his mane and restrained him, her eyes on Pharaun.
"Hold, Jeggred," Danifae said, her voice and manner both as calm as a windless sea. "Master
Mizzrym's play is transparent to all but fools."
That last, Pharaun knew, was meant for Quenthel.
"I'll have another heart before this is done," Jeggred promised Pharaun, though he did not pull away from Danifae.
Pharaun put his hand to his chest and feigned a wound.
"You've scarred me, Jeggred," he said. "I offer a compliment to your intellect and what do I receive in return? The threat of violence." He looked past the draegloth to Quenthel as though for support. "I am pained beyond measure. Mistress, your nephew is an ungracious brute."
Quenthel turned and said, "Enough of this. Follow me. Lolth calls."
She started slowly down the rise. Danifae whispered something to Jeggred and released his mane.
To Pharaun, she said, "You should be cautious, Master Mizzrym. My hand grows tired on the leash, and things may not be as clear as you think."
Pharaun gave her his smirk. "I am always cautious, Mistress Danifae," he said, choosing the title with deliberateness. "And things are what they are. That too is plain to all but fools."
To that, Danifae said nothing, though her jaw tightened. She turned and followed Quenthel.
Pharaun and Jeggred were alone atop the rise.
The draegloth's eyes burned into Pharaun. His wide chest rose and fell like a bellows, and his bare teeth dripped saliva. Even from five paces, Pharaun caught a whiff of Jeggred's vile breath and winced.
"You are an effete fool," the draegloth said. "And our business is unfinished. I will feast on your heart before all is said and done."
Without fear, Pharaun stalked up to the hulking draegloth, the words to a spell that would strip all the skin from Jeggred's body ready in his mind.
"No doubt it will improve your breath," he said.
With that, he walked past the draegloth.
He could feel Jeggred's eyes burning holes in his back. He also could feel the baleful stare of the eight satellites in the sky above.
At a dignified hurry, he moved nearer to Quenthel and Danifae. Jeggred followed, his breath and heavy tread audible five paces behind Pharaun.
When he reached Quenthel's side, he asked, "Now that we are here, where exactly are we to go?"
Quenthel looked into the sky, to the glowing river of souls that shone like the gem-encrusted ceiling of Menzoberranzan's cavern.
"We follow the souls to Lolth," she answered.
"And?" he dared.
Quenthel stopped and faced him, anger in her face. The serpents of her whip flicked their tongues.
"And?" she asked.
Pharaun lowered his gaze but asked, "And what, Mistress? Lolth calls her Yor'thae but what is the Yor'thae to do?"
For a moment, Quenthel said nothing. Pharaun looked up and found that her gaze was no longer on him.
"Mistress?" he prompted.
She came back to herself. "That is not a matter for a mere male," she said.
Pharaun bowed, his mind racing. He wondered if even Quenthel knew what it was that the
Yor'thae was to do, what it was that was happening to Lolth. The possibility that she did not troubled him.
Quenthel offered nothing further, and they began again to walk.
Pharaun looked behind him and met Danifae's gaze. She licked her lips, smiled, and pulled up the hood of her cloak.
Chapter Four
Around Gromph, hundreds of fires crackled and burned. Black smoke poured into the air,
casting the bazaar in a surreal haze. Abandoned shops and booths lay in charred heaps of rubble.
The blackened, petrified forms of drow merchants-turned to stone by the touch of the lichdrow
Dyrr, shapechanged into the form of a black-stone gigant-lay scattered about like castings. Some of the petrified drow had run like candle wax in the heat of the Staff of Power's explosion; they would never be restored to flesh. Gromph gave their fate no further thought.
Wide, deep scorings from the gigant's thrashings marred the otherwise smooth floor of the bazaar.
Still dazed from the destruction of the staff, Gromph sat in a heap on the cool stone floor with his legs stretched out before him. Smoke leaked from his clothes. His mind moved sluggishly; his senses felt dull.
But not so dull that he was not conscious of his pain. A lot of pain.
Much of his body was burned. He felt as though a million needles were stabbing his skin, as though he had bathed in acid. His once-severed leg still had not fully reattached and sent shooting pains up his thigh and hip. His non-magical clothes-thankfully, not much of his attire-
had melted into his flesh, turning his skin into an amalgam of burned meat and cloth. He could imagine how the exposed flesh of his face must look. He was surprised he could still see. He must have closed his eyes-his captured Agrach Dyrr eyes-before the explosion.
He held two charred sticks in his hands. He stared at them, dumbfounded as to their purpose.
In appearance, they reminded him of his forearms-thin and burned almost beyond recognition. It took a moment for him to realize what they were: the remnants of the Staff of Power.
With a wince, he uncurled his ruined fingers from the wood and let the pieces of the staff clatter to the ground.
Seeing no movement in the bazaar except Nauzhror, who squatted beside him and clucked nervously, Gromph thought for an absurd moment that the staff's destruction might have annihilated everyone else in Menzoberranzan.
The stupidity of the thought made him smile, and he instantly regretted even that small movement. The charred skin of his lips cracked, causing him an excruciating stab of pain. Warm fluid seeped from the wound and into his mouth. He gave expression to the pain only with a soft hiss.
Gromph was no stranger to pain. If he could endure his own rat familiar eating out his eyes and a giant centipede severing his leg, he could abide a few burns.
"Archmage?" Nauzhror asked. "Shall I assist you?"
The rotund Master of Sorcere put forth a hand as though to touch Gromph's arm.
"Don't touch me, fool!" Gromph hissed through the charred ruin of his face. More blood leaked into his mouth. Pus ran from burst blisters.
Nauzhror recoiled so fast he nearly toppled over. "I–I meant only to aid you, Archmage," he stammered.
Gromph sighed, regretting his harsh tone. It was unlike him to let his emotions rule his words.
Besides, the beginning of a plan for dealing with what remained of the lichdrow was taking shape in his mind.