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

Not that the fallen wizard had many associates, in any case.

“They are not rogues—” Ravel started to say, but Jearth stopped him short with an upraised hand.

Quietly! the weapons master insisted, flashing the word with his fingers through use of the intricate drow sign language. As he did that, Jearth brought his cloak up with his other hand to shield the signing hand from view, which the secretive drow often referred to as his “visual cone of silence.”

Ravel glanced around, then brought one hand in close so that it was shielded by his own voluminous robes. They are not Houseless rogues, his fingers signed.

Many are.

Not all. I recognize a soldier of House Baenre. Their weapons master’s assistant, no less!

Many are commoners of lower Houses.

But with a Baenre, Ravel insisted.

At least three, at my last count, Jearth signalled.

Ravel recoiled, a look of horror on his handsome black-skinned features.

Did you believe that we could assemble a force of nearly a hundred skilled drow and march out of Menzoberranzan without attracting the attention of Baenre? Of any of the great Houses? Jearth countered, his hand moving as a blur, so fast that Ravel could barely keep up.

Matron Mother Zeerith will not be pleased.

She will understand, Jearth signed. She knows well the ever-present eyes of Baenre and Barrison Del’Armgo. She knows that I invited Tiago Baenre, who serves as first assistant to Andzrel Baenre, weapons master of the First House.

Ravel looked at him doubtfully.

Tiago is a friend, Jearth explained.

Disloyal to Baenre?

Hardly, Jearth admitted. Our entire plan depends upon our success of securing the powers of Gauntlgrym quickly, that the other Houses will see our fledgling city as a boon and not a rival, or at least, that they will think it not worth the cost of coming after us. In that regard, Tiago will be loyal to his House and useful to our cause if we succeed.

You will do well to embrace Tiago when we are away, Jearth added. Allow him a position of leadership among our expedition. Doing so will afford us a longer time period before exhausting the patience of House Baenre.

Keep our enemies close, Ravel’s fingers signaled.

“Potential enemies,” Jearth replied aloud. “And only if that potential is not realized will House Xorlarrin succeed.”

You doubt the power of Matron Mother Zeerith and House Xorlarrin? Ravel flashed indignantly.

I know the power of Baenre.

Ravel started to argue the point, but he didn’t get far, his fingers barely forming a letter. He had tutored under Gromph Baenre. He had often accompanied Gromph to the archmage’s private chambers within the compound of the First House of Menzoberranzan. Ravel was a proud Xorlarrin noble, but even the blindness wrought of loyalty had its limits.

He realized that he could not argue Jearth’s point; if it came to blows, House Baenre would obliterate them.

“Would you like an introduction to Tiago Baenre?” Jearth asked aloud.

Ravel smiled at him, a clear sign of surrender, and nodded.

Young, handsome, and supremely confident, Tiago Baenre guided his lizard along the wall of an Underdark corridor. Even with his saddle perpendicular to the floor, the agile Tiago sat easy, his core muscles locked tightly, keeping him straight and settled. He wasn’t leading the march of a hundred drow, double that number of goblin shock troops, and a score of driders—nay, Ravel had sent two-score goblins up ahead to make sure the way was clear of monsters—but as the leagues wore on, it became apparent to all that Tiago was guiding the pace.

His sticky-footed subterranean lizard, Byok, was a champion, bred for speed and stamina, and with, so it was rumored, a bit of magical enhancement.

He thinks us his lessers, Ravel flashed to Jearth at one juncture.

He is Baenre, Jearth replied with a shrug, as if that explained everything, because indeed it did.

The clacking of exoskeleton scrabbling across the floor drew their attention, and Ravel pulled up his own mount and turned sidelong to greet the newcomer.

“A goblin stabbed at my consort, Flavvar,” said the creature. Half gigantic spider, half drow, the speaker’s voice came through with a timbre that was as much insect as it was the melodic sound of a drow voice. Once this creature had been a drow, but he had run afoul of the priestesses of Lolth. Far afoul, obviously, for they had transformed him into this abomination.

“Out of fear, no doubt,” said Jearth. “Did she creep up on him?”

The drider, Yerrininae, scowled at the weapons master, but Jearth just grinned and looked away.

“Did the goblin damage her?” Ravel asked.

“It startled her and startled me. I responded.”

“Responded?” Ravel asked suspiciously.

“He threw his trident into the goblin,” Jearth reasoned, and when Ravel looked at Yerrininae, he noted that the drider puffed out its chest proudly and made no effort to argue the point.

“We intend to dine on the fool,” the drider explained, turning back to Ravel. “I request that we slow our march, as we would like to consume it before too much of its liquids have drained.”

“You killed the goblin?”

“Not yet. We prefer to dine on living creatures.”

Ravel did well to hide his disgust. He hated driders—how could he not?— thoroughly disgusting beasts, one and all. But he understood their value. If the two hundred goblins sought revenge and turned their entire force on the driders in a coordinated assault, the twenty driders would slaughter all two hundred in short order.