Genteel Steel

“…and in the case of Jones v. Jones, Adrie Wolfe will represent Mrs. Jones,” the judge ruled, tapping his gavel. “We reconvene at the appropriate location. Is this acceptable, Miss Wolfe?”

“Quite, Your Honor,” I said politely. My second settlement this week, and it has to be a nasty divorce. “If my learned friend would care to do the honors?”

“Tomorrow morning at eight, Miss Wolfe. Think you can make it?” my opponent asked, cocking his head slightly in a fashion calculated to irritate me.

“I believe I can, Mr. Johnston.”

Ah, yes, the peerless William Johnston, a lean man with a permanent sardonic grin, sandy hair, and blue eyes that were supposedly quite popular with the ladies. I wouldn’t know, as I was never a fan of them myself.

He and I were classmates at the Yale College of Litigation, and his reputation was formidable–that being one of the rare understatements I allow myself. This case would prove more difficult than I had originally anticipated. And it was a pity, too. My shoulder still had yet to heal from my last court appearance.

The ten minute walk back to my offices was a pleasant affair, a crisp autumn breeze heavy with the scent of rain sending leaves skittering around the pavement on either side of my lanky frame. People tell me that I’m too tall, standing a good three inches above six feet. Even so, the extra bit of reach that serves me well in my current profession.

The weight of the old fashioned brass key in my left hand seems negligible compared to the item that I most often hold–yet another thing that sets me apart from Johnston and the others. I’m a southpaw. It forces them into four and counter-four, rather than six and counter-six like they’re used to, whereas I get to use the same ones every time.

“How’d it go?” my junior partner asked, looking up at the sound of our heavy office door swinging shut.

“About as well as could be expected for a truly unpleasant one,” I answered. “Did you get coffee?”

“On your desk. Am I your second?” Rick asked, enthusiasm glowing outward like light from a miniature sun.

“If you really must be. Will you start getting everything ready?”

“Of course.”

“Number two sounds about right. Johnston is all about power, and it would give me just the right amount of speed.”

“I might have to switch the guards so it’s balanced.”

“Use steel instead of a titanium one, then,” I said mildly, sipping from the Starbucks mocha. “Eight o’clock a.m., on the dot. Can you be ready by then?”

“Of course! Besides, it’s you that really has to be ready. How’s the shoulder?”

“Painful but of little consequence. I won the last one with it injured, and I can do it again,” I said, gnawing my lower lip in thought. “Be sure you put a good edge on it if you’re going to touch it up. We don’t want a repeat of March.”

His face fell as he thought of the incident, and I instantly regretted having brought it up. “I am sorry, Adrie.”

“It’s okay,” I said lightly. “Let’s just make this the sort of mistake that only happens once. I’m going to go home. I’ll meet you in court.”

He nodded absentmindedly, turning to the rack in the back of my office. I left the windbreaker I had been wearing on the cluttered walnut surface of my desk and took a heavier coat off the brass stand in the corner of the break room on my way out the door.

Humming a jaunty tune of some childish song conjured up from days of yore, I started my journey homeward through the back allies of Portland. Occasionally I would pause and look up at the blue sky undimmed by clouds through the gleaming towers of skyscrapers, squinting a little in the bright sun. The pavement was still dark and wet from the morning’s rain, air mercifully clear of the golden pollen that tormented the sinuses of the populace.

It was a beautiful afternoon. Perhaps that was why the duel was set for the 10th instead. Why sully a perfectly lovely day with bloodshed?

The next morning was a dreary day, the drizzle of rain heavy enough to be miserable, but not enough to warrant postponing the fight. The celestial weather department, as I have always fancied, has a twisted sense of humor.

I beat Rick to the court, a smooth ellipse of grit the rain had effectively turned into a very shallow swamp. I sighed in irritation, shaking the delicate beads of water off the canvas of my coat. My wonderful second turned up not only with my sword and gloves, but also with a big cup of black coffee. The man is heaven-sent, I swear to you.

Johnston had wasted no time in getting to his spot. He and I were thinking along the same lines when we dressed this morning–a sure sign of two experienced duelists.  We were both dressed in nylon track pants, close fitting, long sleeved white T-shirts, leather gloves, and tennis shoes. I had stretched earlier and jogged the whole way here.

A point: the phrase warmed-up is idiotic in October Oregon weather at its best, especially in the rain. The chill had seeped almost all the way to my bones, staved off only by the scalding hot caffeinated liquid that seems to form the staple of my existence. And yet, I had set the mug aside and moved out to the center of the muck to face Johnston.

Water dripped from the tip of my small sword as I took my en guarde position. There’s nothing quite like a fight to the death to bring all of one’s senses into focus. We began.

I make it sound so mundane, but it really isn’t. Excuse me while I try and describe it on paper. Your hands tremble with adrenaline, the guards ring dully when they are struck, and every whipped cut from your opponent stings like the blazes. People say that before death, your life flashes before your eyes. It’s true. That’s called “living”.

I began to retreat through the slop, relying on my superior footwork to save my skin. Prime, circu, octave, tierce…and then there it was. Light seemed to stream down and pinpoint the movement like some God-sent beacon of hope. He was trying to envelope my blade and disarm me, but in doing so he had to bring the point across his body. Damning for him, but that move was my saving grace.

It was a textbook lunge, executed at blurring speed without a thought. I knew it had to be fatal. The world seemed to stop, my misty breath hanging suspended in mid air for a moment. Out of the surreal state that had consumed my mind, these words appeared: Shrimp for dinner tonight. An omen? I sincerely doubt that.

Was that wrong? Was the way I grinned like a maniac as I walked away evil? Such questions often trouble me.

The answer I have found is perhaps. But in fair Portland where we lay our scene, civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

“How dare she speak to me like that?” Olorra said with a snarl, both hands clenched tightly into fists. “She’s a common-blooded elg’caress and she–”

The other priestess seized her by the upper arms and shook her violently before she could continue her rant. “Shut up, you fool! Do you want her to hear you say that?” Zarniss said, keeping her voice low. “You know she has spies everywhere!”

“Shebali!” the steely-eyed drowess said, spitting on the smooth stones that lead up to the Fane’s stairs. “At least I have noble blood!”

Zarniss released the impetuous high priestess and slapped her across the face, sending her sprawling into the gray dust. “I wouldn’t care if you were the daughter of the Goddess herself. You will mind your tongue when I tell you. Let’s not forget which of us is in charge.”

“Yes, Revered Zarniss,” Olorra said, poisoning her elder’s title with all the venom she dared. The other female wasn’t intimidated in the slightest by the glare leveled at her. Zarniss had seen far worse looks in her century as a priestess of Lloth with those almost colorless gray eyes, oddly flat and shifty as they took in the world. This plan was, in her educated opinion, bad.

“Playing, children?” a smooth voice said, flowing like oil over ice. Both priestesses felt their blood run cold in their veins and looked up, captured by sea-green eyes filled with an amused contempt.

“Arch Priestess, what a surprsie,” Zarniss managed. The rebuke would have invited retribution had it been any cleric besides the woman before them who uttered it.

Malavin Ken’ar stood a full head above the standing drowess, easily making six feet tall in her bare feet. She gazed down from that impressive height with a more benign form of malevolence, obviously less than impressed. Olorra’s temper would have acted up, had she not been frozen in terror.

The Arch Priestess of Lloth sighed ponderously and pushed her hair behind one ear, its color seeming to shift slightly. It appeared silver except in natural light when its true shade could be seen, a faint golden blond. Some aspiring clerics had tried to spread the rumor she was tainted with surface elven blood, but their efforts amounted to naught. Matron Mother Ilmniss Ken’ar OUsstyl was not a woman to tarry with non-drow, let alone faeries.

“I saw neither of you at the surface,” she said finally, studying their faces closely. Her voice broke the sudden silence that had filled the air for a brief space. “But excuse me, perhaps I slipped into some archaic tongue. Or is there some part of the word ‘mandatory’ the two of you have difficulty comprehending? Is it possible I was unclear?”

The two of them went as pale as their dark skin would allow. “Ah…ah…” Olorra struggled to find the words she needed and failed miserably.

“Yes, no doubt you have something to say, High Priestess Olorra. You never seem to have a shortage of singularly useless comments,” Malavin said with a humorless smile. “That tongue of yours may get you into trouble some day, when you cross the wrong person.”

She knows. Oh, by Lloth, she knows, Olorra moaned in her thoughts. I’m doomed…we’re doomed!

Zarniss couldn’t look away from the Arch Priestess’s mesmerizing gaze, unaware that her thoughts mirrored Olorra’s perfectly. She just prayed that her face didn’t betray anything.

“Reverend Daughter Zarniss, the C’rintrin Talthara is convening at the peak of Faer’Ssussun and I am regrettably obliged to attend. I leave the Fane in your charge while I’m gone,” Malavin said dismissively, glancing up at the magical timekeeper in the center of the Ghetto of Scholars. She started down the path past them.

Before Zarniss’s chest could swell too far with self-importance, Malavin halted as though a thought had occurred to her. “Oh, and make sure the Fane’s still standing when I return,” she said over her shoulder.

“Yes, Arch Priestess,” the Reverend Daughter said, pride stung. Olorra let out an unpleasant snicker once their superior had continued on her way and was well out of earshot.

“You look a touch humiliated, Zarniss.”

“Revered Zarniss to you, whelp,” the older drowess snapped. “Get up. The Fane will have to be in perfect order when she returns.”

* * *

“These reports are disturbing,” Malavin said, the Matrons quieting slightly as she spoke. “People and shipments disappearing in the tunnels…we can’t afford to lose the trade. However, flying into a blind panic isn’t going to help either. We have to find whatever’s responsible and deal with it.”

“The scouting parties we’ve sent haven’t returned,” Sabinil Vae said sourly. Her face was as dour as ever, disguising a particularly poisonous temper. “How then are we supposed to identify our foes? Why don’t–”

“We found a survivor,” Ilvistin Tormtor interrupted. “Of one of your scouting parties, Matron Sabinil.”

“And why wasn’t I informed of this?” Vae’s Matron Mother snapped.

“He didn’t survive very long. We did learn that he was beset upon not only by former companions that had no memory of him or desire to stop fighting, but some nameless horror that had stripped them of their will and enslaved them. He apparently barely managed to escape the latter. When we found him, there were circular bruises on his face, and a lot of them.”

A horrified silence blanketed the room, the air itself opressive and heavy with dread. “Illithids,” the Matron of House Everhate whispered.

Only Malavin’s face remained impassive. “A company of dread fangs will be sent to learn the truth of this. Until they return, no one is to know of this. A city in panic would prove easy prey to mind flayers.”

“So be it. This council has ended,” Matron Ilvistin said. “It may be prudent to consult with Mistress Xanaphia as well. She and Tsavyr will be exceedingly valuable if things do go badly.”

The Arch Priestress restrained a groan. She would rather confront mind flayers on a battle field than speak with those two arcanists. “Perhaps,” she said aloud, despite her inner thoughts. “If they can be convinced.”

Spiders stood poised on the walls all around them, ebony carapaces shining like rich onyx. to other people who spent their days on the surface, such a sight would no doubt cause discomfort. For Myrae and her guest, however, they were as common as grass in the world above. The spies of Lloth–and perhaps other industrious watchers–the arachnids continued to move about and weave their webs.

Myrae had been watching them earlier, appraising their movements with a subtle appreciation of their graces. They were simpler and easier to please than other drow, and a good deal quieter. That trait in particular greatly endeared them to the Matron. They served as her eyes and ears throughout the city–her city, and they had previously provided her with a welcome distraction from Talabaere Helviiryn. Unfortunately, there was no ignoring her now.

“That evidence must be destroyed!” the enraged matron screeched.

Myrae studied her nails with an air of mild disinterest, the tendons in the back of her hands flexing out like fans as she spread her delicate fingers apart. A silver band adorned with webs and four tiny spiders flashed as she turned over her hands. The miniscule ruby chips of their eyes glowed in the dim, flickering light emanating from hanging globes all around the room. A larger, unlit orb sat on a pedestal by Myrae’s seat. It was dusty and quite unremarkable for being the center of House Faen Tlabbar’s alarm system, linked by magic to the network of suspended glass spheres that spanned the stronghold’s entire length.

“What you think ‘must’ or ‘must not’ happen is really none of my concern, Talabaere. Now calm down before your aorta ruptures. I can hear your pulse going through the roof from here. It’s hardly healthy.”

“You upstart!” the Matron Mother of House Helviiryn hissed. “I am fourth matron on the Noble Council. You’re just some slave brat who got lucky. Blood will tell!”

“Yes, about inbreeding,” the younger drowess said, a hint of ice creeping into her tone. “How long do you think you will last in Yvoth-Lened once the Arch Priestess knows of your…infidelity, shall we say? Malavin Ken’ar is not an understanding woman, and I think you’d be hard pressed to find some excuse for your behavior even the most leinent priestess would accept.”

Talabaere twitched dangerously, and the younger female allowed herself a thin, triumphant smile. “What do you want?” the older matron asked bitterly. The elg’caress has me, and there’s no mistaking that. No doubt some favor or gold will be enough to buy her off. Still, the idea of being indebted to this usurper sat badly with her.

“A slave in possession of your house. I want you to give her to the Church. It seems only fitting that you repay the Flesh-Carver in some way.”

“As a sacrifice?” the other matron queried, her look turning to one of uneasy puzzlement.

“No, to work there. I have a specific one in mind, in fact: a girl named Inayne. Someone should know her. You may wish to go arrange that now. As for the evidence, I’ll torch it myself once I hear that has been done. You can be present if you so wish.”

“I do,” Talabaere sadi shortly, forcing her dry throat to swallow. She was uneasy in a way that defied explanation, as though a trap were snapping shut around her while Myrae watched with cat-like patience. Helviiryn’s matron caught her gaze, then looked away quickly.

Myrae’s eyes were too like the Reverend Daughter Xunaere’s to be met for any period of time. Irises the color of oblivion ringed equally dark pupils with occasional, almost imperceptible wisps of silver suggesting webs hidden in those eternal depths. It wouldn’t have surprised the other drowess if they were a gate into the Demonweb Pits themselves.

The defeated matron excused herself tensely and strode out. She was only too glad to have left Faen Tlabbar, the Court of Thieves.

Myrae sighed. “Istrsyn, I know you’re listening.”

A handsome male drow seemed to materialize before her. “What can I do for you, Matron Myrae?” he said with a sweeping bow.

“Revered Talabaere’s evidence. I want you to make copies of it all. When you have finished, bring the duplicates to me.”

“Copies?” He wasn’t surprised, tone expressing mild interest.

“Always have security to fall back on.”

“You are quite the schemer, aren’t you?” he said with a wry smile.

“Aren’t we all,” the Matron of Faen Tlabbar said absently, straightening the circlet of red gold that rested on her forehead. The male winked and sauntered off down the West Hall, humming quietly to himself. He dared not betray her–Myrae was the only one standing between him and an unpleasant end at the hands of his enemies.

She rose from the great stone chair that served as her seat and walked down the East Hall in her willowy, graceful gait. Fingers trailing across the smooth, metallic surface of the two statues standing as silent sentinels on either side of the door, she let her thoughts stray into reflection. It hadn’t been so long ago that she had been forced to polish the two adamantine myrlochar–soul spiders, as surface dwellers would call them–to a perfect shine. Her back gave a phanntom ache at the memory, and the ghostly crack of a snake whip echoed in her ears.

She found no hungering nostalgia in the far reaches of her soul for the old days when Vasva was Matron Mother of Faen Tlabbar. The House itself had been a powerless ruin of ancient glory days, a festering sore on the then pestilence-ridden cityscape of Yvoth-Lened. This was, she was glad to see, no longer the case.

Myrae retreated from her thoughts for a moment and continued down the hall. Her footsteps echoed softly down the stone corridor as she made her way onward, casting an eerie echo ahead. The next pause in her passage towards the main door came as she passed by a mirror. Since she was about to join the Matrons of the Bel’la El’lar for a meeting, it benefited her to consult it once at the very least.

The face in the looking glass was not envied by highborn priestesses, but one she was well satisfied with. Her features were sharper than that of most drow, angles more apparent but pretty all the same. Small rings of red gold pierced both the cartilage and lobes of her ears, each one layered with protective enchantments. Her frame itself was small and surprisingly frail for a drowess of her rank. It’s weakeness suggested malnourishment in her youth, though few drow of means would dare comment such.

Dark eyes gazed back at her from under heavily hooded lids and long lashes. She seemed perpetually drowsy, a useful illusion she had complemented with lazy movements and an air of relaxed calm. It took someone who knew her quite well to see the glitter of motion in her eyes, always present as they observed the events before them. She let her ivory-colored hair drift in front of one eye again, trusting that the small knife sheathed at the back of her neck was still hidden.

Urlar’s warning came to mind, tugging her lips upward at the corner into an involuntary smile. Be prepared, he had said. Such an admonishment was unecessary at best.

The expression of satisfaction faded all too quickly as she replayed the day’s earlier events in her mind. “What in the Nine Hells is Xunaere up to?”

Any listener would have been startled to hear Myrae utter a phrase that revealed any gap in her knowledge. But of course she would find some way to remedy the problem and twist the Reverend Daughter’s scheme to her own advantage.

“It’s so hard to stay on top,” the Matron murmured to herself. More important business waited than blackmailing Matron Talabaere Helviiryn.

Llolth be praised, all victory is her doing…

Elhonna, Elune, Araushnee
The fairest of the Gods
These sisters three ruled eternity
Or so it was

The proud, beautiful eldest
Was silver-tongued Araushnee
Quick-tempered, and the darkest
Of the divine, lovely three

Woodland Queen, huntress of the wild
Elhonna walked upon the world
A restless spirit, Denev’s middle child
Her place was on Dinarda’s soil

Elhonna’s younger twin, gentle and serene
Elune, lost in Fate’s twisting strand
What was, what will, and all between
She remained behind

The titans then, were overthrown
In the bloodiest war of heaven
Saving the Earth Mother alone
And Jhanus, her faithful comrade

Araushnee’s pride, children of her thought
Her clever weavers of lovely gossamer
Elhonna’s wonder the graceful spiders caught
And her delighted praise rained down

Elune could see some evil stir,
An adder raising up a blunted head
But that did naught to Fate deter
And the battle was begun

Though rivals, the sisters had admired
Each other, and praised the others’ crafts
But when other forces conspired
How could their affection last?

Araushnee’s wandering eyes made clear
A vision she was to bring to pass
Her silvery speech wound in Elhonna’s ear
What trouble a gift, one favor?

She had tempted her sister, kindled a flame
And the wild goddess sought fitting counsel
But Araushnee’s glory brought only shame
Denev’s sage advice, Elune’s stark warning

Legends say the day Elhonna left to work
Elune broke into tears of horror
And Pandoras showed his wicked smirk
For that “gift” was the fall of Araushnee

As Elhonna wrought her steady craft
Her sister was twisted with poison words
And as he let chaos fly, the Dark One laughed
At the seed of evil buried in the goddess

His lies told her she had been betrayed
And she shaped her own children in the depths
Leading them in her profane crusade
A vengeance against the blameless

She swayed the dark gods with bloody promise
And plotted to betray them all
Elhonna, in denial, affected deafness
Giving no sign as she had heard a word

Araushnee’s spiders swarmed the bronzed gate
Distorted beyond all recognition
The Seldarine fought back nigh too late
But lo and behold, the evil ones began to quarrel

As the monstrous gods fell on each other
Their armies failed and faltered
Araushnee now faced both her sisters and her mother
And it was they who cast her down

She, her spiders, and her ebony-skinned children fled
Her name outlawed in the immortal realms
Re-termed Lolth, the Queen of Spiders dread
She and her drow dwell below in the darkness wretched

Elhonna, Elune, Araushnee
The fairest of the Gods
These sisters three ruled eternity
Or so it was…