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"I will say this for you, priestess, you have a creative touch where torture is concerned. And yet," he added, leaning forward and fixing her with his unnerving black gaze, "some might call you unwise. Suspecting me of such power, you come here, to my place, to threaten me?"

"I'm here to do business," she corrected him. "I want you to hunt down a certain female. I will pay you well."

He waved away this offer. "Surely there is someone more suitable to the task than the captain of the Dragon's Hoard. The city does not lack for assassins and bounty hunters."

"You will notice I did not ask you to kill the female," Shakti said with careful emphasis. "I ask only that you find her and bring her possessions to me. What you do with her is entirely up to you, so long as she is not seen in Menzoberranzan again. Surely you can handle so simple a task."

"So could a mercenary band, at a much lower price. The city has many such bands. Go hire one of them."

"I cannot," she said reluctantly. "I cannot risk word getting back to any of the city's matrons. Lloth has forbidden one priestess to slay another."

"I begin to understand your dilemma," Nisstyre said with a touch of amusement. His reputation for handling questionable deals with great discretion had brought him many similar offers over the years. "How unpleasant for you, being forced to do business with a suspected heretic. But why me, especially?"

Shakti threw the books on his desk. "You sold these books. They tell of the surface world and are forbidden in the city!"

"So we're back to threats now," the merchant observed. "I must say, this is getting rather tiresome. Unless you have something interesting to offer me—"

*"I offer you Liriel Baenre!"

Nisstyre received this announcement with a moment's silence.

"You needn't shout," he admonished the young priestess. He kept his face carefully impassive except for the faint, sardonic smile that curved his lips. "I admit the offer has a certain appeal, but of what practical value is a Baenre princess to a merchant band?"

Shakti put both hands on the desk and leaned in. "Liriel Baenre carries a magical device that could be very helpful in your work. It is a matter of much conflict among the priestesses of Lloth. I can say no more about it at this tune, but bring it to me, and I will share its secrets with you."

"But you are a priestess of Lloth."

"That, and perhaps more." Shakti met his gaze squarely. "From time to time, a cleric of Lloth is sent into a rival church as a novice, to act as the eyes of Lloth. The Spider Queen permits this spying, and sometimes encourages it. It may be possible for a priestess of Lloth to work with those who follow Vhaeraun. Information can be spoken both ways, to the benefit of all. It is an enormous risk. I am willing to take it."

Nisstyre gazed at Shakti Hunzrin for a long time, weighing her sincerity and considering the immense value of her offer. He measured the hatred in her voice when she spoke

Liriel's name, the fanatic gleam in her eye, and decided to accept the alliance. But, unlike the priestess, he was not willing to speak so openly, or commit himself to so dangerous a course.

"The Dragon's Hoard is famous for acquiring nearly anything, regardless of the cost," he said, choosing his words carefully. "I will get you your princess, but I warn you, the reward had better be worth the trouble."

"Trust me," she agreed grimly.

The concept was so ludicrous that both merchant and priestess burst out laughing.

Chapter Sixteen

HUNTERS

Alone in his study, Nisstyre pondered the strange alliance he had made. He had accepted Shakti Hunzrin's offer, not only to place a spy in Lloth's stronghold of power, but also to learn more about the magical device the priestess had mentioned. He thought he knew what this device might be.

The wizard thought back to the battle in the forest of Rashemen and the amulet he had taken as his sole prize. When his patrol did not return to Menzoberranzan with the amulet, Nisstyre had written off the entire excursion as a loss. Then came his meeting with Liriel and the recovery of his lost patrol. Nisstyre did not find the amulet on the bodies of the drow soldiers, nor on the two slain in the cavern, nor among the skeletal remains he had later recovered from the deepbat lair. He'd assumed the amulet was lost somewhere in the cave, perhaps even ingested by a dragazhar. Liriel's attention seemed to be focused entirely on her unknown foe, and on the need to ensure that this enemy did not follow her into the Underdark. It did not occur to

Nisstyre that Liriel might have taken the amulet. Apparently, it should have.

The last person to possess the amulet had been an impossibly strong human warrior, a man Nisstyre had left to die in the forests of Rashemen. The drow wizard had assumed the amulet's magic caused the human's fierce battle rage. If that were so, what use could Liriel make of it, and why should the priestesses of Menzoberranzan should want it so desperately?

Nisstyre pushed back his chair and strode from his study. In all of the city, there was one drow who might have the answer to these questions.

Kharza-kzad Xorlarrin paced his room, frantic with worry and indecision. Zeerith Q^orlarrin, his younger sister and liege matron, had left him just moments before after a most disturbing interview.

Liriel, it seemed, had gotten herself into very serious trouble. The old wizard had been afraid something like this might happen to the impetuous young girl. To some extent, Kharza-kzad blamed himself If he had understood more about his student's plans, perhaps he could have done something to avert this disaster. He knew Liriel had been to the surface, of course, and that she had acquired some new magic there. He had not imagined Liriel might have found a human artifact, and he would never have thought anything human-made could possess much power or cause such controversy.

To take drow magic to the surface! Kharza-kzad was staggered by the implications of such a thing. But that prospect, fearful though it might be, was not the thing that put the old wizard into a frenzy of grief and worry.

He excelled in the creation of magical wands, particularly those used for battle. His wands were the prized possessions of many a battle wizard, and hundreds of Menzoberranzan's enemies had fallen before his magic. Yet he himself, Kharza-kzad Xorlarrin, had never killed.

The old wizard was not sure how many drow could make such a claim, and he was quite certain few would boast of it. He had never really considered the matter before, never envisioned those who would fall before his wands of destruction. Now he rued his isolation, his dedication to his solitary craft. Had he witnessed a few battles, wielded just one of his own weapons, perhaps he would be better prepared to take the life of his student. For Matron Zeerith had ordered him to hunt Liriel down, take the amulet, and leave no trace of its former owner.

It did not occur to Kharza-kzad that he might refuse Zeerith's command. He was a drow of Menzoberranzan, a lowly male despite his power and his honorary position at the Sorcere, and he was bound by law to honor the will of a ruling matron.

The wizard's fingers, wizened and dry, clasped the grip of the wand tucked into his belt and he steeled himself for what must be done. Yet the familiar object felt foreign in his hand, as foreign as the dreadful task before him.

In a locked room in the Hunzrin fortress, shielded by magical wards to keep out the prying eyes of her kin, Shakti chanted the words of a clerical spell. It was risky to invoke Lloth in her cause, but if the goddess was not truly with her, Shakti preferred to know this now.

The young priestess had been one of the last to leave the Baenre chapel after that eventful meeting. House Hunzrin's humble rank had ensured that she had a seat near the back of the room, and she had lingered there to observe the other priestesses, to watch who exchanged conspiratorial glances and who stalked out scowling with rage. And in the shadows of the chapel she, Shakti Hunzrin, had seen what few of Menzoberranzan's priestesses divined: the true will of Lloth.

The enormous magical illusion, the shapeshifting spider-drow, looked out over the Spider Queen's faithful with golden eyes and the face of Shakti's hated rival. Yet when the chapel was nearly empty, the illusion shifted again, and the drow eyes flickered back and forth from amber to crimson. To Shakti, the message seemed clear.

The Lady of Chaos had rejected the death sentence that Zeerith Q*Xorlarrin had laid upon Liriel. In its place, a contest had been declared. Lloth's favor was a capricious thing, a prize awarded to the most resourceful and devious. At the moment, Liriel Baenre seemed to wear that crown. Shakti intended to take it from her.

So she chanted a prayer to the dark goddess of the drow, asking for a spell of invisibility to enshroud her servant. Ssasser, the dark naga, waited eagerly at her side. The snakelike creature was coiled before an ornate mirror, and the faint light from candle sconces set into the mirror's frame glittered on the naga's blue-scaled body. Eyes closed, Shakti chanted the final words of the spell. A hiss of unmistakable delight and triumph signaled that Lloth had answered her prayer. Shakti opened her eyes: the naga was gone.

The priestess raised her pitchfork and waved it before the mirror. Instantly the image of the naga appeared in the glass. The creature's hideous face furrowed in a scowl, and its long thin tongue flicked out toward its reflection.

"Don't fret, Ssasser. But for this reflection, you're invisible," Shakti informed the naga. She knew better than to let the magic-wielding creature out of her sight entirely. The naga was a virtual slave to House Hunzrin, but it was as evil and treacherous as the drow it served. Ssasser would welcome a chance to slay a Hunzrin priestess; indeed, the sly creature began to slink away from the telltale reflection.

"Stay by the mirror, where I can see you," snapped the priestess. "Listen well: you will return to Liriel Baenre's home. Search the place for anything that will help you track her. Return to the Hunzrin compound with the information you gain. Then I will give you a pair of quaggoth to aid you in the hunt. When you kill Liriel and bring me her amulet, you will earn your freedom."

The dark naga's mirrored face brightened at this news. Quaggoth were huge, white-furred, bipedal creatures that looked like the impossible offspring of ogres and bears. They were not particularly intelligent, but they were fierce hunters, strong and cunning in battle. Some drow enslaved them as soldiers or guards. Ssasser loved to command, and with such troops he would surely accomplish the delightful task of slaying a female drow.

"Ssasser hear all that Shakti mistress say. Ssasser bunt now?" the creature implored.

At a nod from the drow, the naga darted toward the small tunnel that led out of the room and wound downward through the walls of the compound.

Shakti smiled, pleased by the dark naga's eagerness. She had a high opinion of the Dragon Hoard merchants, and her decision to work with Nisstyre was not made lightly. Still, there were other hunters at her disposal, and she was determined to put every one of them on Liriel's trail.*

In the hills north of the village of Trollbridge, Fyodor of Kashemen crouched low behind a scattered pile of rocks and peered into a small cave. The sun was rising behind him, but the morning was chill and the rocky soil white with a late frost. The young warrior blew on his hands to warm them and settled down to watch and wait. He had hunted for days; now for the first time, his quarry was within sight.

A spark flared in the depths of the cave, and then another. In moments a tiny campfire let off meager light. There was no smell of cooking meat, but that did not surprise Fyodor. The drow, it would seem, ate their food raw. He had followed these three through the forest, and more than once he'd come across game they'd recently slain. Although he had never lost their trail, not once did Fyodor see the remnants of a campfire. He was rather surprised the dark elves risked one now. Of course, daylight was coming, and a small fire, lit for warmth in this cave on a remote hillside, was unlikely to be spotted.

Before the arrival of each new day, the drow found shelter from the sun. The rough countryside was studded with caves, but this was the first time Fyodor had actually found their hiding place. He'd hunted the drow for days now, starting in the Underdark cavern strewn with the bodies of giant bats and dark elf warriors. Something about the battlefield disturbed him; what exactly, he could not say. He had searched the bodies of the two slain drow and had not found the amulet on either. This did not surprise him, for surely the survivors would take such a treasure with them. So he had followed the bloody footsteps of the three surviving drow to a steep tunnel that led him up into rugged, rocky hills. The drow headed west, traveling throughout the night with speed that Fyodor, following their trail by day, could barely match.

But now his time had come. When the drow emerged from the cave with the coming of night, Fyodor would claim his amulet, or he would die.

The dark naga cowered in a corner, wary despite the spell of invisibility hiding him from view. Ssasser had slipped into Liriel's castle as he'd done before, easily overcoming the trapped door by swallowing the crossbow-fired dart. He did not fear the servants that tended the drow female's abode, for hie servitude to the Hunzrin family had purchased him a considerable amount of magic. But the powerful being in the Liriel's study was far beyond the naga's strength.

Gromph Baenre, the most famed wizard hi the city, was seated at his daughter's table. Books were scattered about his feet, and his face was fixed in a fearsome scowl.

His long black fingers moved through the gestures of a spell, and he muttered arcane words with the precision earned by great power and much practice. Ssasser paid little heed to the gestures—since the naga lacked hands, such knowledge would do him little good—but he listened carefully to the spell and repeated it to himself silently, several times, until he was certain he had it right.

So intent was the creature on his stolen lesson that he did not at first notice the result of the spell. Smoke flowed into the study, seemingly from the carved stone walls. The cloud tugged free of the wall and formed into a drow statue of living stone.