Four coins went up. Four coins were caught. The only parts of Drizzt's body that had even flinched were his arms.
"Two-hands” Zak said to Malice. "This one is a fighter. He belongs in Melee-Magthere”
"I have seen wizards perform such feats” Malice retorted, not pleased by the look of satisfaction on the troublesome weapon master's face. Zak once had been Malice's proclaimed husband, and quite often since that distant time she took him as her lover. His skills and agility were not confined to the use of weapons. But along with the pleasures that Zaknafein gave to Malice, sensual skills that had prompted Malice to spare Zak's life on more than a dozen occasions, came a multitude of headaches. He was the finest weapon master in Menzoberranzan, another fact that Malice could not ignore, but his disdain, even contempt, for the Spider Queen had often landed House Do'Urden into trouble.
Zak handed two more coins to Drizzt. Now enjoying the game, Drizzt put them into motion. Six went up. Six came down, the correct three landing in each hand. "Two-hands” Zak said more emphatically. Matron Malice motioned for him to continue, unable to deny the grace of her youngest son's display.
"Could you do it again?" Zak asked Drizzt.
With each hand working independently, Drizzt soon had the coins stacked atop his index fingers, ready to flip. Zak stopped him there and pulled out four more coins, building each of the piles five high. Zak paused a moment to study the concentration of the young drow (and also to keep his hands over the coins and ensure that they were brightened enough by the warmth of his body heat for Drizzt to properly see them in their flight).
"Catch them all, Secondboy” he said in all seriousness. "Catch them all, or you will land in Sorcere, the school of magic. That is not where you belong!"
Drizzt still had only a vague idea of what Zak was talking about, but he could tell from the weapon master's intensity that it must be important. He took a deep breath to steady himself, then snapped the coins up. He sorted their glow quickly, discerning each individual item. The first two fell easily into his hands, but Drizzt saw that the scattering pattern of the rest would not drop them so readily in line.
Drizzt exploded into action, spinning a complete circle, his hands an undecipherable blur of motion. Then he straightened suddenly and stood before Zak. His hands were in fists at his sides and a grim look lay on his face.
Zak and Matron Malice exchanged glances, neither quite sure of what had happened.
Drizzt held his fists out to Zak and slowly opened them, a confident smile widening across his childish face. Five coins in each hand.
Zak blew a silent whistle. It had taken him, the weapon master of the house, a dozen tries to complete that maneuver with ten coins. He walked over to Matron Malice.
"Two-hands” he said a third time. "He is a fighter, and I am out of coins”
"How many could he do?" Malice breathed, obviously impressed in spite of herself.
"How many could we stack?" Zaknafein shot back with a triumphant smile.
Matron Malice chuckled out loud and shook her head. She had wanted Drizzt to replace Nalfein as the house wizard, but her stubborn weapon master had, as always, deflected her course. "Very well, Zaknafein” she said, admitting her defeat. "The secondboy is a fighter”
Zak nodded and started back to Drizzt.
"Perhaps one day soon to be the weapon master of House Do'Urden” Matron Malice added to Zak's back. Her sarcasm stopped Zak short, and he eyed her over his shoulder.
"With this one” Matron Malice continued wryly, wrenching back the upper hand with her usual lack of shame, "could we expect anything less?"
Rizzen, the present patron of the family shifted uncomfortably. He knew, and so did everyone-even the slaves of House Do'Urden-that Drizzt was not his child.
"Three rooms?" Drizzt asked when he and Zak entered the large training hall at the southernmost end of the Do'Urden complex. Balls of multicolored magical light had been spaced along the length of the high-ceilinged stone room, basking the entirety in a comfortably dim glow. The hall had only three doors: one to the east, which led to an outer chamber that opened onto the balcony of the house; one directly across from Drizzt, on the south wall, leading into the last room in the house; and the one from the main hallway that they had just passed through. Drizzt knew from the many locks Zak was now fastening behind them that he wouldn't often be going back that way.
"One room” Zak corrected.
"But two more doors” Drizzt reasoned, looking out across the room. "With no locks”
"Ah” Zak corrected, "their locks are made of common sense” Drizzt was beginning to get the picture. "That door” Zak continued, pointing to the south, "opens into my private chambers. You do not ever want me to find you in there. The other one leads to the tactics room, reserved for times of war. When-if-you ever prove yourself to my satisfaction, I might invite you to join me there. That day is years away, so consider this single magnificent hall-" he swept his arm out in a wide arc-"your home”
Drizzt looked around, not overly thrilled. He had dared to hope that he had left this kind of treatment behind him with his page prince days. This setup, though, brought him back even to before his six years of servitude in the house, back to that decade when he had been locked away in the family chapel with Vierna. This room wasn't even as large as the chapel, and was too tight for the likings of the spirited young drow. His next question came out as a growl.
"Where do I sleep?"
"Your home” Zak answered matter-of-factly.
"Where do I take meals?"
"Your home”
Drizzt's eyes narrowed to slits and his face flushed in glowing heat. "Where do I . . “ he began stubbornly, determined to foil the weapon master's logic.
"Your home” Zak replied in the same measured and weighted timbre before Drizzt could finish the thought. Drizzt planted his feet firmly and crossed his arms over his chest. "It sounds messy” he growled.
"It had better not be” Zak growled back.
"Then what is the purpose?" Drizzt began. "You pull me away from my mother-"
"You will address her as Matron Malice” Zak warned. "You
will always address her as Matron Malice”
"From my mother-"
Zak's next interruption came not with words but with the
swing of a curled fist.
Drizzt awoke about twenty minutes later.
"First lesson” Zak explained, casually leaning against the wall a few feet away. "For your own good. You will always address her as Matron Malice”
Drizzt rolled to his side and tried to prop himself up on his elbow but found his head reeling as soon as it left the black-rugged floor. Zak grabbed him and hoisted him up.
"Not as easy as catching coins” the weapon master remarked.
"What?"
"Parrying a blow”
"What blow?"
"Just agree, you stubborn child”
"Secondboy!" Drizzt corrected, his voice again a growl, and his arms defiantly back over his chest.
Zak's fist curled at his side, a not-tao-subtle point that Drizzt did not miss. "Do you need another nap?" the weapon master asked calmly.
"Secondboys can be children” Drizzt wisely conceded.
Zak shook his head in disbelief. This was going to be interesting. "You may find your time here enjoyable” he said, leading Drizzt over to a long, thick, and colorfully (though
most of the colors were somber) decorated curtain. "But only if you can learn some control over that wagging tongue of yours” A sharp tug sent the curtain floating down, revealing the most magnificent weapons rack the young drow (and many older drow as well) had ever seen. Polearms of many sorts, swords, axes, hammers, and every other kind of weapon Drizzt could imagine-and a whole bunch he'd never imagine-sat in an elaborate array.
"Examine them” Zak told him. "lake your time and your pleasure. Learn which ones sit best in your hands, follow most obediently the commands of your will. By the time we have finished, you will know every one of them as a trusted companion”
Wide-eyed, Drizzt wandered along the rack, viewing the whole place and the potential of the whole experience in a completely different light. For his entire young life, sixteen years, his greatest enemy had been boredom. Now, it appeared, Drizzt had found weapons to fight that enemy.
Zak headed for the door to his private chamber, thinking it better that Drizzt be alone in those first awkward moments of handling new weapons.
The weapon master stopped, though, when he reached his door and looked back to the young Do'Urden. Drizzt swung a long and heavy halberd, a polearm more than twice his height, in a slow arc. For all of Drizzt's attempts to keep the weapon under control, its momentum spun his tiny frame right to the ground.
Zak heard himself chuckle, but his laughter only reminded him of the grim reality of his duty. He would train Drizzt, as he had trained a thousand young dark elves before him, to be a warrior, preparing him for the trials of the Academy and life in dangerous Menzoberranzan. He would train Drizzt to be a killer.
How against this one's nature that mantle seemed! thought Zak. Smiles came too easily to Drizzt; the thought of him running a sword through the heart of another living being revolted Zaknafein. That was the way of the drow, though, a way that Zak had been unable to resist for all of his four centuries of life. Pulling his stare from the spectacle of Drizzt at play, Zak moved into his chamber and shut the door.
"Are they all like that?" he asked into his nearly empty room. "Do all drow children possess such innocence, such simple, untainted smiles that cannot survive the ugliness of our world?" Zak started for the small desk to the side of the room, meaning to lift the darkening shade off the continually glowing ceramic globe that served as the chamber's light source. He changed his mind as that image of Drizzt's delight with the weapons refused to diminish, and he headed instead for the large bed across from the door.
"Or are you unique, Drizzt Do'Urden?" he continued ashe fell onto the cushioned bed. "And if you are so different, what, then, is the cause? The blood, my blood, that courses through your veins? Or the years you spent with your wean-mother?"
Zak threw an arm across his eyes and considered the many questions. Drizzt was different from the norm, he decided at length, but he didn't know whether he should thank Vierna-or himself.
After a while, sleep took him. But it brought the weapon master little comfort. A familiar dream visited him, a vivid memory that would never fade.
Zaknafein heard again the screams of the children of House DeVir as the Do'Urden soldiers-soldiers he himself had trained-slashed at them.
"This one is different!" Zak cried, leaping up from his bed. He wiped the cold sweat from his face.
"This one is different” He had to believe that.
Chapter 7
Dark Secrets
"Do you truly mean to try?" Masoj asked, his voice condescending and filled with disbelief.
Alton turned his hideous glare on the student.
"Direct your anger elsewhere, Faceless One” Masoj said, averting his gaze from his mentor's scarred visage. "I am not the cause of your frustration. The question was valid”
"For more than a decade, you have been a student of the magical arts” Alton replied. "Still you fear to explore the nether world at the side of a master of Sorcere”
"I would have no fear beside a true master” Masoj dared to whisper.
Alton ignored the comment, as he had with so many others he had accepted from the apprenticing Hun'ett over the last sixteen years. Masoj was Alton's only tie to the outside world, and while Masoj had a powerful family, Alton had only Masoj.
They moved through the door into the uppermost chamber of Alton's four-room complex. A single candle burned there, its light diminished by an abundance of dark-colored tapestries and the black hue of the room's stone and rugs. Alton slid onto his stool at the back of the small, circular table, and placed a heavy book down before him.
"It is a spell better left for clerics” Masoj protested, sitting down across from the faceless master. "Wizards command the lower planes; the dead are for the clerics alone”
Alton looked around curiously, then turned a frown up at Masoj, the master's grotesque features enhanced by the dancing candlelight. "It seems that I have no cleric at my call” the Faceless One explained sarcastically. "Would you rather I try for another denizen of the Nine Hells?"
Masoj rocked back in his chair and shook his head helplessly and emphatically. Alton had a point. A year before, the Faceless One had sought answers to his questions by enlisting the aid of an ice devil. The volatile thing froze the room until it shone black in the infrared spectrum and smashed a matron mother's treasure horde worth of alchemical equipment. If Masoj hadn't summoned his magical cat to distract the ice devil, neither he nor Alton would have gotten out of the room alive.
"Very well, then” Masoj said unconvincingly, crossing his arms in front of him on the table. "Conjure your spirit and find your answers”
Alton did not miss the involuntary shudder belied by the ripple in Masoj's robes. He glared at the student for a moment, then went back to his preparations.
As Alton neared the time of casting/ Masoj's hand instinctively went into his pocket, to the onyx figurine of the hunting cat he had acquired on the day Alton had assumed the Faceless One's identity. The little statue was enchanted with a powerful dweomer that enabled its possessor to summon a mighty panther to his side. Masoj had used the cat sparingly, not yet fully understanding the dweomer's limitations and potential dangers. "Only in times of need” Masoj reminded himself quietly when he felt the item in his hand. Why was it that those times kept occurring when he was with Alton? the apprentice wondered.
Despite his bravado, this time Alton privately shared Masoj's trepidation. Spirits of the dead were not as destructive as denizens of the lower planes, but they could be equally cruel and subtler in their torments.
Alton needed his answer, though. For more than a decade and a half he had sought his information through conventional channels, enquiring of masters and studentsin a roundabout manner, of course-of the details concerning the fall of House DeVir. Many knew the rumors of that eventful night; some even detailed the battle methods used by the victorious house.
None, though, would name that perpetrating house. In Menzoberranzan, one did not utter anything resembling an accusation, even if the belief was commonly shared, without enough undeniable proof to spur the ruling council into a unified action against the accused. If a house botched a raid and was discovered, the wrath of all Menzoberranzan would descend upon it until the family name had been extinguished. But in the case of a successfully executed attack, such as the one that felled House DeVir, an accuser was the one most likely to wind up at the wrong end of a snakeheaded whip.
Public embarrassment, perhaps more than any guidelines of honor, turned the wheels of justice in the city of drow.
Alton now sought other means for the solution to his quest. First he had tried the lower planes, the ice devil, to disastrous effect. Now Alton had in his possession an item that could end his frustrations: a tome penned by a wizard of the surface world. In the drow hierarchy, only the clerics of Lloth dealt with the realm of the dead, but in other societies, wizards also dabbled into the spirit world. Alton had found the book in the library of Sorcere and had managed to translate enough of it, he believed, to make a spiritual contact.
He wrung his hands together, gingerly opened the book to the marked page, and scanned the incantation one final time. "Are you ready?" he asked Masoj.
"No”
Alton ignored the student's unending sarcasm and placed his hands flat on the table. He slowly sunk into his deepest meditative trance.
"Fey innad . . “ He paused and cleared his throat at the slip. Masoj, though he hadn't closely examined the spell, recognized the mistake.
"Fey innunad demin. . “ Another pause.
"Lloth be with us” Masoj groaned under his breath.
Alton's eyes popped wide, and he glared at the student. " A translation” he growled. "From the strange language of a human wizard!"
"Gibberish” Masoj retorted.
"I have in front of me the private spellbook of a wizard from the surface world” Alton said evenly. "An archmage, according to the scribbling of the orcan thief who stole it and sold it to our agents” He composed himself again and shook his hairless head, trying to return to the depths of his trance.
"A simple, stupid orc managed to steal a spellbook from an archmage” Masoj whispered rhetorically, letting the absurdity of the statement speak for itself.
"The wizard was dead!" Alton roared. "The book is authentic! "
"Who translated it?" Masoj replied calmly. Alton refused to listen to any more arguments. Ignoring the smug look on Masoj's face, he began again.
"Fey mnunad de-mill de-sui de-kef”
Masoj faded out and tried to rehearse a lesson from one of his classes, hoping that his sobs of laughter wouldn't disturb Alton. He didn't believe for a moment that Alton's attempt would prove successful, but he didn't want to screw up the fool's line of babbling again and have to suffer through the ridiculous incantation all the way from the beginning still another time.
A short time later, when Masoj heard Alton's excited whisper, "Matron Ginafae?" he quickly focused his attention back on the events at hand. Sure enough, an unusual ball of green-hued smoke appeared over the candle's flame and gradually took a more definite shape.
"Matron Ginafae!" Alton gasped again when the summons was complete. Hovering before him was the unmistakable image of his dead mother's face.
The spirit scanned the room, confused. "Who are you?" it asked at length.
"I am Alton. Alton DeVir, your son”
"Son?" the spirit asked.
"Your child”
"I remember no child so very ugly”
"A disguise” Alton replied quickly, looking back at Masoi and expecting a snicker. If Masoi had chided and doubted Alton before, he now showed only sincere respect. Smiling, Alton continued, "Just a disguise, that I might move about in the city and exact revenge upon our enemies!"
"What city?"
"Menzoberranzan, of course”
Still the spirit seemed not to understand.
"You are Ginafae?" Alton pressed. "Matron Ginafae
DeVir?" The spirit's features contorted into a twisted scowl as it considered the question. "I was. . . I think” "Matron Mother of House DeVir, Fourth House of Menzoberranzan” Alton prompted, growing more excited. "High priestess of Lloth” The mention of the Spider Queen sent a spark through
the spirit.. "Oh, no!" it balked. Ginafae remembered now. "You should not have done this, my ugly son!" "It is iust a disguise” Alton interrupted. "I must leave you” Ginafae's spirit continued, glancing
around nervously. "You must release me!" "But I need some information from you, Matron Ginafae” "Do not call me that!" the spirit shrieked. "You do not un-
derstand! I am not in Lloth's favor. . . “ "'ll'ouble” whispered Masoi offhandedly, hardly sur-prised. "Just one answer!" Alton demanded, refusing to let another opportunity to learn his enemies' identities slip past
him. "Quickly!" the spirit shrieked. "Name the house that destroyed DeVir” "The house?" Ginafae pondered. "Yes, I remember that
evil night. It was House-"
The ball of smoke puffed and bent out of shape, twisting Ginafae's image and sending her next words out as an undecipherable blurb.
Alton leaped to his feet. "No!" he screamed. "You must tell me! Who are my enemies?"
"Would you count me as one?" the spirit image said in a voice very different from the one it had used earlier, a tone of sheer power that stole the blood from Alton's face. The image twisted and transformed, became something ugly, uglier than Alton. Hideous beyond all experience on the Material Plane.
Alton was not a cleric, of course, and he had never studied the drow religion beyond the basic tenets taught to males of the race. He knew the creature now hovering in the air before him, though, for it appeared as an oozing, slimy stick of melted wax: a yochlol, a handmaiden of Lloth.
"You dare to disturb the torment of Ginafae?" the yochlol snarled.
"Damn!" whispered Masoj, sliding slowly down under the black tablecloth. Even he, with all of his doubts of Alton, had not expected his disfigured mentor to land them in trouble this serious.
"But. . “ Alton stuttered.
"Never again disturb this plane, feeble wizard!" the yochlol roared.
"I did not try for the Abyss” Alton protested meekly. "I only meant to speak with-"
"With Ginafae!" the yochlol snarled. "Fallen priestess of Lloth. Where would you expect to find her spirit, foolish male? Frolicking in Olympus, with the false gods of the surface elves?"
"I did not think. . “
"Do you ever?" the yochlol growled.
"Nope” Masoj answered silently, careful to keep himself as far out of the way as possible.
"Never again disturb this plane” the yochlol warned a final time. "The Spider Queen is not merciful and has no tolerance for meddling males!" The creature's oozing face puffed and swelled, expanding beyond the limits of the smoky ball. Alton heard gurgling, gagging noises, and he stumbled back over his stool, putting his back flat against the wall and bringing his arms up defensively in front of his face.
The yochlol's mouth opened impossibly wide and spewed forth a hail of small objects. They ricocheted off Alton and tapped against the wall all around him. Stones? the faceless wizard wondered in confusion. One of the objects then answered his unspoken question. It caught hold of Alton's layered black robes and began crawling up toward his exposed neck. Spiders.
A wave of the eight-legged beasts rushed under the little table, sending Masoj tumbling out the other side in a desperate roll. He scrambled to his feet and turned back, to see Alton slapping and stomping wildly, trying to get out of the main host of the crawling things.
"Do not kill them!" Masoj screamed. "To kill spiders is forbidden by the-"
"To the Nine Hells with the clerics and their laws!" Alton shrieked back.
Masoj shrugged in helpless agreement, reached around under the folds of his own robes, and produced the same two-handed crossbow he had used to kill the Faceless One those years ago. He considered the powerful weapon and the tiny spiders scrambling around the room.
"Overkill?" he asked aloud. Hearing no answer, he shrugged again and fired.
The heavy bolt knifed across Alton's shoulder, cutting a deep line. The wizard stared in disbelief, then turned an ugly grimace on Masoj.
"You had one on your shoulder” the student explained. Alton's scowl did not relent.
"Ungrateful?" Masoj snarled. "Foolish Alton, all of the spiders are on your side of the room. Remember?" Masoj turned to leave and called, "Good hunting” over his shoulder. He reached for the handle to the door, but as his long fingers closed around it, the portal's surface transformed into the image of Matron Ginafae. She smiled widely, too widely, and an impossibly long and wet tongue reached out and licked Masoj across the face.
" Alton!" he cried, spinning back against the wall out of the slimy member's reach. He noticed the wizard in the midst of spellcasting, Alton fighting to hold his concentration as a host of spiders continued their hungry ascent up his flowing robes.
"You are a dead one” Masoj commented matter-of-factly, shaking his head.
Alton fought through the exacting ritual of the spell, ignored his own revulsion of the crawling things, and forced the evocation to completion. In all of his years of study, Alton never would have believed he could do such a thing; he would have laughed at the mere mention of it. Now, however, it seemed a far preferable fate to the yochlol's creeping doom.
He dropped a fireball at his own feet.
Naked and hairless, Masoj stumbled through the door and out of the inferno. The flaming faceless master came next, diving into a roll and stripping his tattered and burning robe from his back as he went.
As he watched Alton patting out the last of the flames, a pleasant memory flashed in Masoi's mind, and he uttered the single lament that dominated his every thought at this disastrous moment.
"I should have killed him when I had him in the web”
A short time later, after Masoj had gone back to his room and his studies, Alton slipped on the ornamental metallic bracers that identified him as a master of the Academy and slipped outside the structure of Sorcere. He moved to the wide and sweeping stairway leading down from Tier
Breche and sat down to take in the sights of Menzoberranzan.
Even with this view, though, the city did little to distract Alton from thoughts of his latest failure. For sixteen years he had forsaken all other dreams and ambitions in his desperate search to find the guilty house. For sixteen years he had failed.
He wondered how long he could keep up the charade, and his spirits. Masoj, his only friend-if Masoj could be called a friend-was more than halfway through his studies at Sorcere. What would Alton do when Masoj graduated and returned to House Hun'ett?
"Perhaps I shall carry on my toils for centuries to come” he said aloud, "only to be murdered by a desperate student, as I-as Masoj-murdered the Faceless One. Might that student disfigure himself and take my place?" Alton couldn't stop the ironic chuckle that passed his lipless mouth at the notion of a perpetual "faceless master" of Sorcere. At what point would the Matron Mistress of the Academy get suspicious? A thousand years? Ten thousand? Or might the Faceless One outlive Menzoberranzan itself? Life as a master was not such a bad lot, Alton supposed. Many drow would sacrifice much to be given such an honor.
Alton dropped his face into the crook of his elbow and forced away such ridiculous thoughts. He was not a real master, nor did the stolen position bring him any measure of satisfaction. Perhaps Masoj should have shot him that day, sixteen years ago, when Alton was trapped in the Faceless One's web.
Alton's despair only deepened when he considered the actual time frame involved. He had just passed his seventieth birthday and was still young by drow standards. The notion that only a tenth of his life was behind him was not a comforting one to Alton DeVir this night.
"How long will I survive?" he asked himself. "How long until this madness that is my existence consumes me?" Alton looked back out over the city. "Better that the Faceless One had killed me” he whispered. "For now I am Alton of No House Worth Mentioning”
Masoj had dubbed him that on the first morning after House DeVir's fall, but way back then, with his life teetering on the edge of a crossbow, Alton had not understood the title's implications. Menzoberranzan was nothing more than a collection of individual houses. A rogue commoner might latch on to one of them to call his own, but a rogue noble wouldn't likely be accepted by any house in the city. He was left with Sorcere and nothing more. . . until his true identity was discovered at last. What punishments would he then face for the crime of killing a master? Masoj may have committed the crime, but Masoj had a house to defend him. Alton was only a rogue noble.
He sat back on his elbows and watched the rising heat-light of Narbondel. As the minutes became hours, Alton's despair and self-pity went through inevitable change. He turned his attention to the individual drow houses now, not to the conglomeration that bound them as a city, and he wondered what dark secrets each harbored. One of them, Alton reminded himself, held the secret he most dearly wanted to know. One of them had wiped out House DeVir.
Forgotten was the night's failure with Matron Ginafae and the yochlol, forgotten was the lament for an early death. Sixteen years was not so long a time, Alton decided. He had perhaps seven centuries of life left within his slender frame. If he had to, Alton was prepared to spend every minute of those long years searching for the perpetrating house.
"Vengeance” he growled aloud, needing, feeding off, that audible reminder of his only reason for continuing to draw breath.
Chapter 8
Kindred
Zak pressed in with a series of low thrusts. Drizzt tried to back away quickly and return to even footing, but the relentless assault followed his every step, and he was forced to keep his movements solely on the defensive. More often than not, Drizzt found the hilts of his weapons closer to Zak than the blades.
Zak then dropped into a low crouch and came up under Drizzt's defense.
Drizzt twirled his scimitars in a masterful cross, but he had to straighten stiffly to dodge the weapon master's equally deft assault. Drizzt knew that he had been set up, and he fully expected the next attack as Zak shifted his weight to his back leg and dove in, both sword tips aimed for Drizzt's loins.
