After a time, Nimor noted the approach of footsteps outside and turned as Horgar Steelshadow entered the suite, flanked by a pair of Stone Guards.
“Ah,” the dark elf said, inclining his head. “A good day to you, my lord. How fares the City of Blades?”
“I doubt that you care,” Horgar replied. For the ruler of such a powerful city, the crown prince was in many ways unremarkable. He looked very much like all the other duergar in the room, with a sullen cast to his eyes and a hairless skull. He carried a scepter of office and did not wear armor, which was all that differentiated him from his bodyguards. He motioned the guards to remain by the door, and strode over to speak quietly to Nimor. “Well? What news?”
“I believe I have found the allies I was seeking in Menzoberranzan, dear prince. A strong House eager to see the current order of things overthrown, but whose loyalty is not in question there. The hour of your victory approaches.”
“Hmph. House Zauvirr was eager to hire our mercenaries in Ched Nasad, but damned few of Khorrl Xornbane’s folk came back. I don’t doubt that you or that Zammzt fellow whispered the same thing in Khorrl’s ear when you hired his company.”
“Xornbane’s losses were regrettable, but in truth we did not expect the exceptional effectiveness of your stonefire bombs against Ched Nasad’s calcified webs. Absent that unforeseeable chance, Khorrl Xornbane would have taken the city with House Zauvirr.”
The duergar prince scowled, his beard jutting out like a bottlebrush.
“I warned Khorrl that dark elves have a habit of poorly rewarding mercenaries, especially dwarves. I won’t let another of our mercenary companies march into peril like that again. Xornbane was an eighth of this city’s strength.”
“I have no need of a single company of mercenaries, Prince, no matter how large and fierce,” Nimor assured him. “I have need of your whole army. March in your full strength, and you need not fear defeat in detail.”
“It still smells like an insidious drow ruse to me.”
Nimor frowned and said, “Prince Horgar, if you are hesitant to hazard any risks at all, you will rarely win a throw of the dice. You have an opportunity to achieve something great, but I cannot tell you that your success is guaranteed, or that there are no risks in our enterprise.”
“We’re not talking about a handful of coins riding on a stupid game,” the duergar prince said. “We’re talking about my throne riding on a war that could take a turn I don’t care for in any number of ways. Don’t try to shore up my resolve with empty observations about risk and reward.”
“Very well, then, I shall not, but I will point out that when last we met you said you wanted only one thing before you would consent to lead your army against Menzoberranzan, and that was a substantial ally within the city itself. I have provided you that ally. When will it ever be better for you to strike out at the threat a strong Menzoberranzan poses to your kingdom? Their priestesses are powerless, they have already endured a costly slave rebellion, and now I bring to you a great House willing to assist you in your efforts. What more do we lack, Prince?”
The duergar scowled and turned away to stare out at Gracklstugh. He stood for a time, thinking hard. Nimor watched him waver, and decided it was time to set the hook.
Lowering his voice, he moved close and said, “What better way to secure your seat against the unruly lairds you fear, than by distracting them with a campaign beyond your borders? Even if you should fail to take Menzoberranzan, some diligent planning should ensure that the forces of the most dangerous lairds seem to find the deadliest part of any battle you fight. In truth I believe it is within your grasp to win a great victory over Menzoberranzan, and wreck the strength of your most rebellious nobles at the same time.”
The duergar prince grunted and studied Nimor closely.
“You presume much, dark elf,” said Horgar. “What is it you hope to gain by destroying Menzoberranzan, eh? Why do you seek to set me on this course of action?”
The assassin grinned and clapped the duergar on the shoulder. The Stone Guards in the chamber shifted nervously, disapproving of the contact.
“My dear Prince Horgar, the answer is simple,” Nimor said. “Revenge. Your army is to be the instrument of my vengeance. Naturally I recognize that you will not raze Menzoberranzan simply because I ask it, so it is a necessary part of my design that you are provided with the suitable motivation to do what I wish done. I have worked long and hard to bring about the circumstances under which the army of Gracklstugh might be aimed at the city I hate—including, I might add, assisting you with the small problem of your father’s thoughtless longevity. How can I make my purpose plainer?”
“I paid for your help in that case with hundreds of stonefire bombs,” the duergar prince said, bridling. “Do not speak of my father’s . . . death again. If I came to believe that you might seek to influence my actions with that story, I would have to make sure that whatever information you possessed never came to light. Do you understand me?”
“Oh, I did not mean anything by the remark, Horgar. I merely pointed out that I had been useful to you before, and that I may prove useful again. Now, can I count on the army of Gracklstugh, or not?”
Horgar Steelshadow, Crown Prince of Gracklstugh, reluctantly nodded assent.
“We will come,” he said. “Now, explain to me who exactly will be aiding us inside Menzoberranzan, and how he’ll be able to help.”
Ryld could feel hateful eyes lingering on his broad back as he followed Valas and Coalhewer through the streets of the duergar city. He was all too conscious of the fact that he was out of his element. He towered a good twenty inches over any of the gray dwarves, and his coal-black skin and inky piwafwi didn’t help him to blend in at all. The three travelers wound their way through a swordsmith’s district, a narrow alleyway lined on both sides by open-air forges where duergar in leather aprons hammered endlessly on glowing metal. Ryld knew a thing or two about good steel, and he could see at a glance that the dwarves knew their work.
The weapons master quickened his step and drew alongside Valas.
“Where are we going?” he asked as quietly as possible over the ringing hammers.
“I thought we needed to obtain some sort of official license or pass. Shouldn’t we be heading for a courthouse, or something?”
“If ye wanted a royal license, ye would,” Coalhewer answered, “but that would take ye months and cost ye a fortune in bribes. No, I’m takin’ ye to call on the household of the clan laird Muzgardt. He’ll give ye a writ o’ passage that should get ye where ye want to go.”
Ryld nodded. It was not so different from Menzoberranzan, after all.
“How far will Muzgardt’s writ run?” Valas asked. “Will it get us out of Gracklstugh’s dominions?”
“Muzgardt’s clan be merchants. They deal in ale and liquors throughout the Deepkingdom, and sometimes bring outside brews into the city—drow wine, svirfneblin brandy, even some vintages from the surface, or so I hear. Ye’ll find his folk all over the realm.” Coalhewer laughed a nasty laugh and added, “’Course, Muzgardt sells passage to those as want it, too. He likes his gold.”
Ryld smiled. Coalhewer was a grasping, avaricious fellow by anyone’s standards. Muzgardt’s greed must be something noteworthy indeed for a dwarf like Coalhewer to comment on it.
They came to the end of the street of swordsmiths and found themselves back in the vicinity of the Darklake, though farther north along the shore. Before them stood a huge, ramshackle brewery made from loose stone stacked to make walls between the petrified stems of a small forest of gigantic mushrooms. Big copper vats steamed within, filling the air with a heavy, yeasty stink. Dozens of copper kegs stood nearby, and burly gray dwarves swarmed over the place, mashing fungus, mixing fermenting masses, and filling casks with freshly brewed ale.