Spider and Stone

CHAPTER EIGHT

ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK

22 UKTAR

Icelin again dreamed of Waterdeep.

She sat on a stool in her great uncle’s shop, a book propped on her knees. Eagerly, she flipped the pages, but each one was blank. She went through the entire book, one page at a time, searching for the story, but it eluded her. Slamming the book shut in frustration, Icelin hurled it across the shop.

It’s not there, said a familiar woman’s voice in her mind. She recognized it from her dream the night before, the soothing voice that spoke to her while the boardinghouse fire raged. You’re not looking in the right place.

“Then where is it?” Icelin cried, waking herself up.

Groggily, she pushed herself to a sitting position. The blanket covering her slipped off her shoulder, awakening her body with a quick draft of cold. Her hips and legs ached with little pains and complaints, and her arm was stiff from lying on it on the hard bed. A low fire burned in a hearth nearby, but even by its light, Icelin had trouble sorting out where she was. Her sleep-fogged brain was slow to react to her new surroundings.

She took a breath, and the thick stench of forge fires entered her lungs, eclipsing the more subtle, sweet smoke coming from the hearth fire. With the smell, the events of the previous day came back to her in a rush.

She was miles beneath Faerun, in the dwarf city of Iltkazar.

The room she’d been given contained a bed, a small stone table with a basin of water on it, and a fireplace. On the walls were empty hooks where weapons used to hang, and discolored patches of floor marked where other pieces of furniture had once rested. These phantoms gave the room an empty, cheerless aspect, broken only by the fire, which cast a golden glow over everything.

Ruen and Sull slept across the hall. Sull’s snores carried to Icelin’s ears through two closed doors. She wondered how Ruen could sleep in the same room with the butcher.

Icelin sat up and reached for her pack and her spare set of clothes. She’d been too tired the night before to change. After their audience with the king, Joya had escorted them to a large stone dwelling in one of the smaller caverns. Icelin hadn’t known it then, but it was the private residence of the Blackhorns. Neither Garn nor Obrin had been at home when they arrived, so Joya had led them to a pair of rooms at the back of the house, which faced the cluster of forges in the back of the cavern.

“These are Ingara’s rooms,” Joya had explained. “Most of her things have already been moved to the house she and her husband will share, and she’s been eating and sleeping at the forges while she finishes her wedding gift, so you’re welcome to them. These days, the house is empty. My father and brother are out on patrol for days at a time, and when I’m not with them, I’m at the temple. It’ll be nice to have some voices in the house to make it feel lived-in again.”

Joya was right. The large, empty rooms felt lonely and neglected. It had taken a long time for the fire to chase the chill away.

Icelin lifted the water basin and set it before the fire. Whoever had left it for her-Joya had said there was a pair of dwarves, a husband and wife, who looked after the house and would see to their needs-had left a washcloth and soap as well. Icelin splashed cold water on her face and used the cloth and soap to clean the sweat and road dust off her. When she’d finished, she slipped quickly into her spare clothes and sat close to the fire to warm herself. Her hair was full of tangles and knots. She leaned over the basin and dipped it into the soapy water. Shivering, she wrung out the strands and combed them with her fingers. She pointedly ignored the gray streaks that stood out against the darker black.

Wisdom comes with the gray, her great uncle used to say. Icelin wished she could dream about him instead of cryptic images of blank books and disembodied voices. Then again, she rarely slept through the night anymore. Maybe her spellscar was to blame, or maybe it was just that she wanted to waste as little time sleeping as she could.

Though, what had brought her awake so early this morning wasn’t hard to guess. Visions of the Arcane Script Sphere floated in Icelin’s mind. Her excitement at learning that the artifact contained a piece of Mystra was eclipsed only by her trepidation when she considered King Mith Barak’s bargain.

Nothing is settled. You can still back out.

Would the king truly let her and her friends go if she did? Icelin wondered. Or were they only guests here as long as the king got what he wanted from them? They would find out soon enough.

For now, her hair clean and with fresh clothes on her back, Icelin felt renewed. Joya had tended her wound the previous night, and she must have slept off the last vestiges of the drow poison, for she detected no lingering weakness. Even the wild magic she’d unleashed the day before hadn’t left her as weary as she’d thought it would, which was a good sign.

In the next room, Sull’s snores had stopped. He and Ruen must be stirring, Icelin thought. The king had promised to let her speak to the drow today, and Icelin was curious to see more of Iltkazar. The underground city, spread over several large caverns, bore the most intricate carved stonework Icelin had ever seen. Such beauty, all of it buried underground where most of Faerun would never see it.

She met Sull and Ruen in the hall. The rest of the house was quiet. Joya must have already left for the day.

“I’m feelin’ fine today,” Sull said. He stretched and yawned hugely. “Slept better than I have in months.”

“How were you able to sleep in a dwarven bed?” Icelin asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Didn’t need a bed,” Sull said proudly. “I made myself a nice stack of blankets by the fire. I’m a travelin’ man now, and I can sleep anywhere.”

Icelin grinned. “And you?” she said to Ruen. “Sull’s wild beast snores didn’t keep you awake?”

“I’ve grown used to them,” Ruen said, “which is frightening in itself. What about you?” he said, looking Icelin over carefully. “Are the effects of the drow poison gone?”

“Gone completely.” Icelin turned in a circle, lifting her hands in the air. “What do you think? Am I fit for polite company?”

Ruen pursed his lips. “Polite company?”

Icelin made a face at him. “Fit for the king’s company, at least, and time’s wasting.”

“Oh, wait a breath or two, lass,” Sull interjected hastily. “We need to eat something first, don’t we? Joya says the skeleton and I are going out on patrol with the Blackhorns. Who knows when we’ll get to eat again?”

“The skeleton?” Icelin said.

“He means me,” Ruen said, sighing. “A new nickname.”

“It’s for your own good, too,” Sull told her, ignoring Ruen. “You’ll fall asleep on your feet if you don’t have a decent meal.”

“Let me guess,” Icelin said. “You found the larder last night, and you have some new recipes you want to try?”

Sull’s smile took in his whole face. “You should see the seasonin’s,” the excited butcher said. “Dried mushrooms, roots-I’ve never heard of half of them! You think the Blackhorns would let me take a few samples back to Waterdeep with me?”

“You can ask them yourself,” Ruen said. “I think they’re home.”

Icelin listened and heard movement and voices coming from the front of the house. The Blackhorn family chattered away at each other in Dwarvish. She couldn’t understand a word, but they sounded cheerful, more cheerful than they had on the journey to the city.

The three of them entered the kitchen to see Ingara and Obrin taking plates and cups from a shelf, while Garn stoked the kitchen fire. Obrin laughed at something his sister said. The boisterous sound echoed in the room, and Icelin marveled at how the humor transformed the dwarf’s features. The hard lines at his eyes and lips softened. He stroked his beard excitedly, twirling the mahogany strands around his index finger. He and Ingara laughed like a pair of mischievous children, and they looked and sounded so alike in that breath that Icelin, with a sudden insight, realized the two were likely twins.

Icelin would have been content to stand in the doorway for a long while, soaking up the dwarves’ mirth and good cheer, but Garn looked up from the fire just then and saw the three of them standing there.

“Up at last, are you?” he said, giving the fire another good poke. “We thought you’d sleep the day away.”

Instantly, Obrin and Ingara’s laughter ceased. An awkward silence fell over the room as dwarves and humans regarded each other, neither seeming to know what to say. For Obrin, it was as if a shutter had closed over his face. In silence, he took the rest of the cups and plates from his sister and set them out on a round table across from the fire.

Icelin’s heart sank a little. She regretted staying now. They’d obviously intruded on a family ritual that was no less sacred for its casualness.

Thankfully, the silence didn’t last long. Ingara broke it. “Look at us all, standing around as if we’ve never had guests in the house before. Come in, all of you. We don’t have any food on the table yet, but the fire is warm, and you can have some drink. Father, will you show them?”

“You’re very kind,” Icelin said as Garn laid out a pitcher of something that smelled a little too strongly of liquor for her stomach. Wordlessly, Obrin handed around cups while Ingara retrieved more chairs from the next room. They were large enough for all but Sull, who settled himself on the floor near the fire.

“I couldn’t help but notice your larder,” Sull said, addressing Ingara before another awkward silence fell over the group. “Lovely stock you’ve got in there, just lovely. I … er, hope you didn’t mind me nosin’ around. I have an eye for cookin,’ see, and you have some herbs that are new to me. For instance, those jars of blue powder-what are they used for?”

Ingara blinked. “In truth, I’m not sure. Garryin and Foruna look after the house and do most of the cooking.”

Obrin said something under his breath and tipped his cup back, draining its contents.

“Yes, that’s true.” Ingara pursed her lips. “We’ve been conserving supplies in case of a siege, so the fare’s been simple of late.”

“It won’t come to a siege,” Garn said quietly. He’d stopped tending the fire and sat at the kitchen table with a clay mug clasped between his hands. The runes tattooed on his cheek emphasized the lines and wrinkles there, and Icelin saw a pair of scars near his left eye that she hadn’t noticed before. They distorted the skin and made his eye appear half-closed. “The king will throw open the city gates and invite the drow in for a bloody battle before he allows them to starve us out like rats,” Garn said. “Better to have one last glorious fight.”

Obrin raised his cup at that pronouncement. He and his father exchanged a private, knowing glance.

“Iltkazar’s outer defenses are formidable,” Ruen said. “The drow could lose hundreds, thousands, trying to break through. After that they still have to take the city.”

“Their magic is also formidable,” Ingara said. She reached into a belt pouch and pulled out three objects, which she held up to the firelight. “We’ve been pulling these off of drow corpses.”

They were rings, thick gold bands ornamented by a cluster of rubies and onyxes in the shape of a spider. Icelin’s eyes widened. “I know something of appraising,” she said. “The gems alone would fetch an astounding price at the markets of Waterdeep.”

“Shame we’re so far from Waterdeep,” Garn said.

Icelin ignored him and took one of the rings from Ingara’s hand. A tingling sensation danced in her palm, confirming what she already suspected.

“They’re magical,” Icelin said. “Have you seen them used in battle?”

Ingara shook her head. “Damned drow are full of magic, so it’s hard to tell where any given spell comes from. You being a wizard, I thought maybe you could tell me its powers.”

“Take those things over to the forges if you want to play with them,” Garn said testily. “Moradin’s honor, I won’t have drow magic in my house. I’ll tear it down stone by stone myself before that taint soaks into it.”

Another heavy silence fell over the group. Icelin was beginning to wish she’d taken some of that liquor after all. Her stomach had twisted up into knots.

She handed the ring back to Ingara. “I’d be happy to come to the forges and examine the rings,” she said.

“I’ve an interest in seeing this war axe you’re forging,” Ruen said. “I knew a dwarf in Waterdeep who spoke of the smithcraft with reverence. I’ve never seen the equal of the axes your family carries.”

Icelin heard the simple honesty in his words. Ruen was not the kind of man to flatter in order to gain favor. She knew enough about him to know that when he offered a compliment, he meant it. If he did not respect a person, he remained silent.

The dwarves must have felt his sincerity too, for a bit of the tension slipped out of the air. Ingara smiled. “My thanks,” she said. “We can go over now, if you like.”

Sull, Icelin had noticed, was fidgeting at his place by the fire. At Ingara’s words, he could contain himself no longer. “That’s it!” he said, throwing up his hands. “Maybe you people can sit around the fire chewin’ on nothing but words, but I have to have meat or bread or … something.” He made a helpless gesture with his hands.

“Poor Sull.” Icelin giggled before she appealed to Ingara. “Will you let my friend aid you in the kitchen? He’s completely tame, I promise you, and he’s able to make a feast out of very few rations.”

“Of course,” Ingara said, smiling at Sull. “The larder is yours, Sir Butcher. We’d be happy for the, ah, aid.” She glanced at her father, who nodded, though his eyes seemed fixed on faraway matters. Obrin said nothing at all.

Ruen stood. “Icelin and I will go with you,” he said to Ingara. “We’ll come back for the food,” he told Sull.

The butcher was already headed for the pantry. “I’ll bring you a bowl of whatever I whip up,” he called over his shoulder.

“Are you sure you won’t get lost?” Icelin said.

“I’ll follow the smell of the forge fires,” Sull assured her. “How hard could it be?”

“We should go,” Ruen said. Icelin could tell he was eager to be out of the house, and she was all for it, too.

She wondered why the Blackhorns had invited them to stay in their house, since they were obviously so unwelcome by the men of the family. Was it truly out of respect for the aid they’d given the family, or was there more to it? Judging by what Icelin had seen so far, Joya, at least, had the ear of the king and spoke more familiarly to him than any of the other dwarves she’d seen. Had the king instructed Joya to watch his “guests” during their stay? If so, for what purpose?