R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation by Richard Lee & Reid Byers Page A

Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
    “Now that you mention it, somewhat.”
    “The Jewel Box was unusually crowded today as well.”
    Pharaun noticed a blindfolded orc juggling daggers for the amusement of the crowd and paused for a moment to watch the show. Ryld heaved a sigh, signaling his impatience at the interruption in their deliberations.
    The wizard counted five sharp knives, which the slave’s scarred hands caught and tossed with flawless accuracy. A laudable performance, even if it lacked a certain elan. Pharaun tossed a coin to the orc’s owner, then strolled on. Ryld tramped along beside him.
    “So,” said the weapons master, “Tathlyn gets a thrashing, the brothel enjoys a glut of patrons, and you see a connection. What?”
    “What if all those boys endured a beating, or at least some sort of unpleasantness, at the hands of their female relations? What if that’s the reason they flocked to their sad little sanctuary, to lie low, lick their wounds, and kick around one of Nym’s captives in their turn?”
    Ryld frowned, pondering the notion. “You’re guessing that priestesses in a diversity of Houses have grown more harsh and unreasonable. Obviously, that could provoke a spate of runaway males, but what could make the dispositions of all those priestesses curdle in unison?”
    “I have a hunch that when we figure that out, we’ll be getting somewhere.”
    The two masters circled around a colossal snail pulling a dozen-wheeled cart. The creature’s mouth opened into an O and Pharaun—who had once only narrowly survived an encounter with such a giant mollusk in the wild—nearly sacrificed his dignity by flinching, even though he knew this particular specimen had undoubtedly been divested of its ability to spew a caustic sludge. Sure enough, nothing flew from the draft creature’s maw except a few clear, harmless droplets. The wagoner lashed the hostile snail with his long-handled whip.
    “What did you learn downstairs?” asked Ryld.
    “Nothing, really,” said Pharaun, “nothing we hadn’t already inferred. Still, I was able to oblige an old comrade. That was pleasant in its own way.”
    “If neither of us discovered anything substantial, our visit to the Jewel Box was a waste of time.”
    “Not a bit of it. The bloodshed perked you up, didn’t it? You’ve pretty much been smiling ever since.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous. I admit it was an interesting little scuffle . . .”
    Ryld began to recount the battle one action at a time, with comprehensive analysis of the alternative options and underlying strategy. Pharaun nodded and did his best to look interested.
    Triel, Matron Mother of House Baenre and a diminutive ebony doll of a dark elf, marched briskly down the corridor, covering ground rapidly despite her short stride. Eight feet tall, his two goatlike legs more nimble even than most drow’s, Jeggred had no difficulty keeping up with his mother. The scurrying, frazzled drow secretary, though, looked as if she was in imminent danger of dropping her armload of parchment.
    When Triel heard voices conversing a few yards ahead, she wanted to move faster still. Only a sense that a female in her august position ought not to compromise her dignity by running held the impulse in check.
    “I think it’s a test,” said one soft female voice.
    “I worry it’s a sign of disfavor,” answered the other, a hair deeper and a bit nasal. “Perhaps we’ve done something to offend—”
    Triel and her companions rounded a corner. There before them loitered a pair of her cousins. Their mouths fell open when they saw her.
    Triel looked up at her son’s face, which, with its slightly elongated muzzle, mouthful of long, pointed fangs, slanted eyes, and pointed ears, seemed a blend of drow and wolf. That wordless glance sufficed to convey her will.
    Jeggred pounced, his long, coarse mane streaming out behind him. With each of his huge, clawed fighting hands, he grabbed a cousin by the throat and