Genteel Steel

“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…