Nimor Imphraezl made his way among the grand palaces and jagged stalagmites of the Qu’ellarz’orl, draped in a hooded piwafwi. He wore a merchant’s insignia, posing as a well-to-do commoner with business on the high plateau of Menzoberranzan’s haughtiest noble Houses. It was a thin disguise, as anyone taking note of his confident step and rakish manner would not mistake him for anything other than a noble drow himself. The costume was not uncommon among highborn males who wished to move about incognito. Certain spells at his command might have sufficed to offer him almost any appearance he could think of, but Nimor had discovered long ago that the simplest disguises were often the best. Most drow houses were guarded by defenders who would note the approach of someone veiled in webs of illusion, but spotting a common disguise required a mundane vigilance that some dark elves had forgotten.
He passed a pair of Baenre armsmen, walking in the opposite direction. The noble lads eyed him with open curiosity and not a little suspicion. Nimor bowed deeply and offered an empty pleasantry. The young rakes glanced back over their shoulders at him once or twice, but continued on their business. Baenre boys had become hesitant to start trouble unless they were certain of themselves. Nimor took an extra turn or two on his way to his destination anyway, just to make sure they hadn’t taken it into their heads to follow him. With one last double-back to clear his trail, he turned to a high walled palace near the center of the plateau and approached the fortresslike gate.
House Agrach Dyrr, the Fifth House of Menzoberranzan, clambered in and around nine needle-like towers of rock within the bounds of a great dry moat. Each fang of rock had been joined to its neighbor by a graceful wall of adamantine-reinforced stone, impossibly slender and strong. Flying buttresses, bladelike and beautiful, linked the natural towers to those wrought by drow, a narrow cluster of minarets and spires in the center of the compound that rose hundreds of feet above the plateau floor. A railless bridge spanned in a single elegant arch the sheer chasm surrounding the structure.
Nimor climbed the bridge and approached openly. Near the far end he was challenged by several swordsmen and a pair of competent-looking wizards.
“Hold,” called the gate captain. “Who are you, and what is your business with Agrach Dyrr?”
The assassin halted with a smile. He could sense the myriad instruments of death trained upon him, as if he might suddenly take it into his head to utter some truly inappropriate answer.
“I am Reethk Vaszune, a purveyor of magical ingredients and reagents,” he said, bowing and spreading his arms. “I have been summoned by the Old Dyrr to discuss the sale of my goods.”
The gate captain relaxed and said, “The master told us to expect you, Reethk Vaszune. Come this way.”
Nimor followed the captain through several grand reception halls and high, echoing chambers in the great heart of the Agrach Dyrr castle. The captain showed him to a small sitting room, elaborately furnished in exotic corals and limestone rendered in the motifs of the kuo-toa, the fish creatures who dwelled in some of the Underdark’s subterranean seas. Exotic enough to bespeak the House’s wealth and taste, the room radiated arrogance.
“I am informed that Master Dyrr will join us shortly,” the guard captain said. A moment later, a hidden door in the opposite wall slid smoothly open, and Old Dyrr appeared. The ancient wizard was decrepit indeed, a rare sight for any elf, let alone a drow. He leaned on a great staff of black wood, and his ebon skin seemed as thin and delicate as parchment. A bright, cold spark burned in the old wizard’s eye, hinting at reserves of ambition and vitality that had not yet been tapped completely despite his great age.
“We are delighted to see you again so soon, Master Reethk,” the ancient drow said with a dry, crackling voice. “Have you perchance obtained the things we discussed?”
“I believe you will be satisfied, Lord Dyrr,” Nimor said.
He glanced at the guard captain, who looked to the old wizard to make sure that he was dismissed. Dyrr sent him along with a small wave of his hand, then the old wizard made another gesture and spoke an arcane word, encapsulating the chamber in a sphere of crawling blackness that hissed and moaned softly like a thing alive.
“I hope you’ll forgive me, young one, if I take steps to ensure that our conversation remains private,” the ancient drow wheezed. “Eavesdropping seems to be a way of life among our kind.”
He shuffled to an ornately carved chair and lowered himself into the seat, seemingly careless of the fact that he bared the nape of his wattled neck to Nimor in so doing.
“A sensible precaution,” Nimor said.
The old one reckons me no threat, the assassin noted. Either he is very trusting—unlikely—or very confident. If he has such confidence in isolating himself with me, then either he does not have the measure of my strength, or I do not have the measure of his.
“It is confidence, young one,” the old wizard said, “and you do not have the measure of me, for we are both of us more than we appear.” Dyrr laughed again, a wet and rasping sound. “Yes, your thoughts are known to me. I did not reach my advanced age through carelessness. Now, take a seat. We will dispense with this foolishness and discuss our business.”
Nimor spread his hands in a gesture of acquiescence and took the chair opposite the old wizard. With some care he organized his thoughts, locking away his darker secrets in a place he would not examine while Dyrr sat by reading his thoughts. Instead he concentrated solely on the matter at hand.
“You have no doubt heard of the unfortunate demise of the Matron Mother of House Faen Tlabbar?” the assassin said. “And her daughter Sil’zet, as well?”
“It did not escape my notice. Count on the Tlabbars to go crying murder to the ruling council. What possible action did they hope to exhort from the other matron mothers, I wonder?”
“Perhaps they were overcome with grief,” Nimor replied.
He reached slowly into a pouch at his side, allowing the wizard to note the deliberate nature of his motion. From the pouch he withdrew a platinum brooch, worked in the barred double-curve symbol of Faen Tlabbar and crowned by a dark ruby. Nimor placed it on the table.
“The matron mother’s own House brooch, which I managed to pocket as a keepsake for you. I hope your scrying shield is good, Lord Dyrr. No doubt the Tlabbar wizards will be seeking that emblem with all the magic at their disposal.”
“Half-witted children fumbling in the dark,” Dyrr muttered. “Five hundred years ago I’d forgotten more about the Art than that whole house full of wizards had collectively deciphered in all their years of training.”
He reached out one near-skeletal hand for the brooch and weighed it in his hand.
“I am sure you have a means to confirm the authenticity of the brooch,” said Nimor.
“Oh, I believe you, assassin. I do not think you have cheated me, but I will examine the issue later, just to be certain.”
The wizard left the brooch sitting on the table and leaned back into his chair. Nimor waited patiently while Dyrr settled back, tapping one long, thin finger on his staff, a satisfied smile on his face.
“Well,” the old wizard said finally, “in our previous meeting I required that you demonstrate to me the reach and skill of your brotherhood by removing an enemy of my House, and I suppose that you have done exactly that. You have won my ear. So what is it that the Jaezred Chaulssin want of House Agrach Dyrr?”
Nimor shifted and shot a sharp glance at the wizard. Dyrr was very well informed indeed, to know of that name. Very few outside of Chaulssin did. In fact, Nimor had studiously avoided bringing it up when he had first approached the ancient lord. He wondered what clues he had left for the wizard to decipher, and whether Dyrr could be permitted that knowledge.