Night of the Hunter

CHAPTER 17

The eight Ruling Matrons of Menzoberranzan gathered around the spider-shaped table in the secret council chamber, with Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre and Matron Mez’Barris Armgo taking their seats at the ends of the longest arms of the arachnid.

Between them sat an empty chair, one that seven of the ruling matrons expected would be filled in short order.

But Matron Mother Quenthel knew better.

This council had been long-awaited, and indeed had been delayed longer than many had expected. Nearly all of House Xorlarrin was gone from the city now, and a few of the ruling matrons were surprised to see Zeerith Q’Xorlarrin in attendance and seated in the chair of the Third House to the right of Matron Mother Quenthel. Rumors had filtered throughout the city that Zeerith had already departed.

No matter, though, they all whispered, for surely this was the day of Zeerith’s formal withdrawal from the Ruling Council and House Xorlarrin’s formal withdrawal from Menzoberranzan. Their settlement in the dwarven complex once known as Gauntlgrym was going splendidly, by all accounts. Several Houses had already set up trading arrangements with the Xorlarrins, and indeed, some fine armor and weapons had already begun to flow back to Menzoberranzan, crafted in the primordial forge.

After the many obligatory prayers to the Spider Queen, led by High Priestess Sos’Umptu Baenre, Matron Mother Quenthel called the chamber to order.

Surprisingly, though, Sos’Umptu did not depart, as was the custom. She moved to the chair between the matron mother and Matron Mez’Barris and calmly sat down, a movement that clearly did not sit well with the Matron of House Barrison Del’Armgo, who squirmed in her seat and openly glowered at the Baenre high priestess, and then at Matron Mother Quenthel as well.

“You know why we are gathered,” the matron mother began. “Matron Zeerith Q’Xorlarrin’s expedition to the rediscovered dwarven mines has been quite successful and fruitful. By the will of Lolth, and as previously discussed in this very hall, it is time for us to rebuild that which was lost in the decades of tumult, in the War of the Spider Queen and the devastations of the Spellplague.”

She looked to Zeerith and bade her to speak.

“The city of Q’Xorlarrin is prepared,” the old matron said as she stood. “We secure the halls and the magical Forge of the dwarves is fired once more, its flames the hot breath of a captured primordial.”

The declaration, though it was not news to anyone in the room, of course, brought a round of applause.

“Q’Xorlarrin is not an independent entity,” Matron Mother Quenthel interrupted, stifling those cheers and drawing surprised glances from a few of the others, though the still-standing Matron Zeerith’s expression did not change. All of this had been long-ago decided, in private, between the two, the others soon realized.

“You have your city, as you desired, Matron Zeerith,” the matron mother explained. “And your autonomy-to a point.”

Matron Mother Quenthel patted her hand in the air, bidding Zeerith to sit down, and when she had, the matron mother continued, “Q’Xorlarrin is a sister to Menzoberranzan, and will pay a tithe, mostly in the form of armor and weapons, machines of war, and the like. In its daily routines, Q’Xorlarrin is Matron Zeerith’s own to rule, as she sees fit. But know this, my old rival, my old friend, my old enemy: In a time of need, Menzoberranzan will call upon you, and you will answer as we desire. In a time of war, your soldiers will march to the call, and under the banner of Menzoberranzan, and under the command of the Baenre garrison. Your prayers to Lady Lolth will confirm these truths. Are we agreed?”

Matron Zeerith nodded. “My family is humbled by the great respect and opportunity Lady Lolth has offered us. Q’Xorlarrin stands with Menzoberranzan, in peace and in war.”

“You are our eyes to the World Above, and the implements of your master smiths will sound gloriously throughout the tunnels of the Underdark,” Matron Mez’Barris added, and everyone in the room knew that she had done so merely to interject her voice into a discussion so clearly dominated by Matron Mother Quenthel.

These events were moving along without Mez’Barris’s consent, without her opinion, even.

“Is it your decision to remove yourself to your settlement at this time?” Matron Mother Quenthel asked Matron Zeerith.

“Yes,” she answered. “I will depart Menzoberranzan within the tenday.”

“And so your seat?”

Matron Zeerith took a deep breath, glanced across the way to Matron Mez’Barris’s left, at Matron Vadalma Tlabbar of the Fourth House, Faen Tlabbar, and Zeerith’s most-hated rival. Then she turned to her own right, to Matron Miz’ri Mizzrym of the Fifth House, another hated rival. Zeerith stepped behind the chair and pushed it into the table, signaling that she was done.

“Be gone,” Matron Mother Quenthel told her coldly. “No more is this your place.”

Without a bow, without a salute, without a word, Matron Zeerith Q’Xorlarrin left the Ruling Council.

The other remaining matrons stared at Matron Mother Quenthel for guidance, and Quenthel understood their anticipation. Was she commanding ascent, where each would step up one rank to replace the vacated third seat? Or was she to leave it open, inviting someone, anyone, to try for the rank, which would likely result in a House war?

Or a third option, perhaps, a blend of orderly ascent and enjoyable chaos.

“Matron Vadalma,” Matron Mother Quenthel said to the woman at Mez’Barris’s right, and the matron mother indicated the open chair.

Vadalma Tlabbar rose and paced the long way around the table, so as to not walk behind her superiors, Baenre and Armgo. With a superior look to the others in the room, she pulled back Zeerith’s seat and took her place as the Matron of the Third House of Menzoberranzan.

“Matron Miz’ri,” Matron Mother Quenthel bade, and Miz’ri reversed Vadalma’s course, taking Vadalma’s former seat and rank.

And so it went for the next three, each matron ascending to the seat in the position immediately above their previous station, an orderly advancement for the fourth through eighth ranked Houses, elevating them to the third through seventh positions. When they were done, the seat diagonally across the table from the matron mother was left open.

Matron Mother Quenthel said nothing for a long while, letting the others consider the possibilities.

“Matron Prae’anelle Duskryn?” Matron Mez’Barris finally asked, referring to the Matron of House Duskryn, currently the Ninth House of Menzoberranzan.

“If Duskryn is awarded the Eighth House, who here believes that it will be a lasting arrangement?” Matron Mother Quenthel said with a wicked little laugh, and the other matrons joined in, for her words rang of truth. House Hunzrin was currently ranked eleventh in the city, but it was commonly conceded that Hunzrin could defeat any of the lesser Houses with ease, and likely a few of the ruling Houses as well. And particularly so with the new city of Q’Xorlarrin established, for House Hunzrin was a powerful economic force in Menzoberranzan, and with many channels outside the city, spiderwebbing out into the wider Underdark and even to the surface. Many in Menzoberranzan had been expecting House Hunzrin to make a move on the Ruling Council for years now, and only the web of alliances among the various other eight Houses had kept Matron Shakti Hunzrin’s hand at bay.

House Duskryn had no such tight ties, and would easily be picked off by House Hunzrin should Duskryn be elevated to the Ruling Council, everyone seated at that table believed.

“House Duskryn is Ninth, and Matron Prae’anelle is prepared to take her rightful seat,” Mez’Barris pressed.

Of course she did, Matron Mother Quenthel understood, for House Duskryn was a devout and fairly isolated clan, with few allies to protect it from House Hunzrin, and House Hunzrin’s closest ally within the city was Mez’Barris’s own House Barrison Del’Armgo. Both Shakti and Mez’Barris had one thing in common: their hatred for House Baenre. If Duskryn was given the title as Eighth House, Mez’Barris would force Shakti’s hand from her preferred subterfuge and into a straightforward attack to land her on the Ruling Council.

“Matron Prae’anelle will find her seat accordingly,” the matron mother explained, “as soon as there is an opening.”

Mez’Barris began to ask the obvious question then, and some of the others shifted uncomfortably in their seats at the unexpected proclamation, but the matron mother turned to her left and nodded, and Sos’Umptu rose from the chair and marched around the table-pointedly behind Matron Mez’Barris-and took the vacant seat for the Eighth House.

“House Baenre will hold two places on the Ruling Council? This is your design?” an astonished Mez’Barris remarked.

“No,” the matron mother curtly answered. “Sos’Umptu is no longer of House Baenre.”

“Who has she joined? Will she begin her own? If so, the rank is far lower, by precedent!”

“By the will of Lolth, Daermon N’a’shezbaernon is hereby reconstituted,” the matron mother declared.

“Daermon …” Mez’Barris echoed, hardly able to get the name out of her mouth.

“The cursed House Do’Urden?” scoffed Matron Zhindia Melarn, the youngest drow on the Ruling Council, and easily the most fanatical and rigid in her devotion to Lolth. “Apostasy!”

“Go and pray, Matron,” the matron mother coolly replied to Zhindia. “When you are done, you will select your words more carefully.”

“There is no precedent for this,” Matron Mez’Barris added.

“There has been no time like this before now,” the matron mother replied. “You have all heard rumors of Tsabrak Xorlarrin’s journey to the east. The whispers are true-he goes with the blessing of Lolth, and empowered in her great spell, the Darkening. We will wage war in the east, on the surface, by the Spider Queen’s demand, and we will wage that war in the name of House Do’Urden.”

She paused for a moment to let that sink in around the table.

“Sos’Umptu, Mistress of Sorcere, High Priestess of the Fane of the Goddess, hereby relinquishes her position as First Priestess of House Baenre, to assume the seat as Matron of House Do’Urden.”

Even House Baenre’s allied matrons ruffled a bit at this seemingly obvious power play.

“It is a temporary appointment,” the matron mother assured them. “In a House that will be formed through a cooperation of the other ruling Houses. Her patron, for example …”

She paused and glanced at a door at the side of the room, and opened it with a shouted command word.

Into the chamber limped a male drow of middle age. He measured his steps and kept his gaze to the floor as he moved to sit at the chair Sos’Umptu had vacated.

“To let a male in here!” Zhindia Melarn said, and spat.

“Are we agreed, Matron Mez’Barris?” the matron mother said, noting with an open grin the curious way in which the Matron of Barrison Del’Armgo stared at the unexpected newcomer.

“Do you not recognize your own son?”

“Tos’un,” Mez’Barris breathed, and she turned a sharp eye upon Matron Mother Quenthel. But Quenthel matched her glare, and with a wicked grin that Mez’Barris could only take as a thinly veiled threat. There was something here, Quenthel’s look clearly told Mez’Barris, that could embarrass the Second Matron of Menzoberranzan and her family.

“Are we agreed, Matron Mez’Barris?” the matron mother repeated.

“I will pray,” was all that Matron Mez’Barris would concede at that point.

“Yes, do,” said the matron mother. “All of you. I will accept your accolades when Lady Lolth has informed you that I am performing her will.”

With that, she clapped her hands sharply, bringing the meeting of the Ruling Council to an abrupt end.

The six non-Baenre matrons hustled from the room, whispering in small groups regarding the startling turn of events. Quenthel noted that Zhindia Melarn only remained away from Mez’Barris’s side until they reached the door. Quenthel knew those two would confer at length about this. Now they understood why Bregan D’aerthe patrolled the corridors of the former House Do’Urden.

Now they would complain, but they would take it no farther than that. Not at present, at least, with the Darkening imminent, as well as the war it portended. And not until Matron Mez’Barris came to fully understand the implications of the unexpected return of Tos’un Armgo, her son.

House Barrison Del’Armgo was not brimming with allies, after all, and a major embarrassment could bring the rest of the city storming their gates.

“It played as you anticipated?” Gromph asked the matron mother when she went to him in his room at House Baenre.

“Of course.”

“I would have enjoyed witnessing the expression borne by Matron Mez’Barris when her long-lost child entered the chamber.”

“You revisited Q’Xorlarrin?”

“I did,” Gromph replied, though he left out any details, particularly his rather startling revelations concerning the surface elf, Dahlia. “Tiago has returned with you?”

“No, but he will be along presently, I am confident, along with Saribel Xorlarrin, who will be his bride.”

“Good, he has much to do.”

“As Weapons Master of House Do’Urden, no doubt,” Gromph remarked, and the matron mother looked at him curiously, then suspiciously, for she had not divulged that little bit of information to him.

“Logic could steer you no other way,” the archmage remarked. “Aumon of your seed will supplant Andzrel in the hierarchy of House Baenre, of course, and I doubt you allowed Tiago those fabulous and ancient items forged by Gol’fanin that he might serve as a guard captain or some other meaningless position.”

“Well-reasoned,” the matron mother said, but her expression revealed that she still thought it too fine a guess.

“And the House Do’Urden wizard?” Gromph asked innocently.

“You tell me.”

“Not Gromph, surely!” the archmage said. “I find my platter quite filled enough.”

Matron Mother Quenthel stared at him, unblinking.

“Tsabrak Xorlarrin,” Gromph answered, nodding with clear resignation at the inevitableness of the choice.

“He of the Blessing of Lolth,” the matron mother replied.

“You hinted that he would be the Archmage of Q’Xorlarrin,” Gromph reminded.

“A necessary tease. I will not afford Matron Zeerith any hopes that she can break fully free of us.” The matron mother paused there and eyed Gromph slyly. “Does it concern you that Tsabrak will return to Menzoberranzan so soon after finding such glory in the eyes of the Spider Queen?”

“Lolth is a spider,” the archmage quipped. “Her eyes can be filled with many such glories, all at the same time.”

He wasn’t sure, but it didn’t seem to Gromph as if his sister was amused.

“I have already told you of my concerns for Tsabrak,” Gromph said more seriously. “And those concerns are … none.”

“We shall see,” said the matron mother as she took her leave. “We shall see.”

Gromph wore a grave expression-until he magically shut the door behind his sister. He’d allow her the illusion of an upper hand.

He could afford to, for she clearly had not sorted out that Methil El-Viddenvelp was not only imparting memories to her but was discerning her intent and feeding it back to Gromph. In essence, crafty old Gromph was using the mind flayer in the same way Yvonnel had used Methil to gain an upper hand in the chamber of the Ruling Council.

Quenthel was sharper than she had been before the interactions with the illithid, perhaps, and surely far more knowledgeable about the ways of Lolth’s world.

But thus far, at least, she was no Yvonnel. Not yet.

After the ease with which Quenthel had dominated and manipulated Minolin Fey and Gromph at House Fey-Branche in the Festival of the Founding, Gromph Baenre found himself quite glad of that.