...somewhere else...

Meanwhile

The Great Hall of the Quorum

Lord Jaster Lockh was happy, a state of mind that was so rare in him as to be nearly unprecedented. Especially in recent weeks. About the closest he usually got was a state of grim satisfaction, or sometimes malicious glee. Now, though, and for at least the next five minutes, he was content. He even allowed himself the luxury of a genuine smile. Not that an observer would have been cheered by the sight—Lord Lockh's smile was as thin and bloodless as the man himself. His lips curled back to reveal a mouthful of perfectly white, square teeth. The smile did not reach his eyes, which were as dull and matte as his ceremonial armor. It had once been the custom for the great Lords and Ladies of the Quorum to wear their plate to every vote, to remind all and sundry that they held the power of the City's legions. These days they were mostly indolent merchants and querulous children, and their legions were little more than tax collectors and cart drivers... but Lord Lockh always wore his armor.

He was well aware of the looks it earned him and cared not a whit. The day he paid heed to the opinion of the puffed-up dandies and preening vultures that called themselves a Quorum was the day he turned in his ceremonial mask and scepter. He remembered the old ways, even if the others didn't. In some ways, he preferred the venality and corruption of the current Quorum. It made them easy to buy.

In any case, he had labored hard and long for today's outcome, and if he wanted to indulge himself in a moment of happiness, he had earned that right. Today would be the first step towards a glorious new future. When the Empress had vanished and the wretched priestesses had announced their decrees, he had at first been furious—especially when the implications of those decrees had become apparent.

House Lockh's fortunes had been built on their forges. Jaster Lockh's father had been a blacksmith, and his father before him. They had been big, sturdy, serious men, with muscles that bulged and rippled as they moved among the forges. Jaster's father had expected him to hold a hammer as soon as he was old enough to walk, and he had tried... at first. But as he grew, he had seen a destiny for House Lockh beyond the anvil, and said so, and there had been words. First his father had been as incandescent as a sword blank pulled from the fire, and then he had been as cold and hard as iron set on the rack to cool. That brittle coldness had persisted until Lockh Senior went out to survey an incoming shipment of blacksteel and came back in a box. A tragic accident, very sad, and after a suitable period of mourning Lockh Junior had taken the reins. His first act was to order a review of the accident that had claimed his father's life, find fault with the incumbent Master of the Forge, and order the man's immediate execution—tragically, before he had the chance to spend the small fortune he had recently and mysteriously acquired. Of course, this had the ancillary benefit of allowing the new Lord Lockh to install his close friend and stalwart supporter Iydrun as new Master of the Forge.

That was just how Jaster Lockh did business. People who met him after hearing about his reputation were always surprised to find that he was thin and spare, with high cheekbones and white hair so short that it looked as though it had been painted on. His only extravagant feature was his nose, a blade as sharp as any put out by his forges. His fingers were long and thin, more suited to a piano than a blacksmith's hammer—which, indeed, he never touched after the **** of his father. He had a habit of steepling them and talking over them to people, as though from behind the ramparts of his own private castle.

He gave the impression of caring very little about anything anyone said to him, and for the most part, this was true. There was, however, three things Lord Lockh cared about very much: the power, the fortune, and the legend of Lord Lockh. Through bargain and pact, he had managed to corner the market for weapons and armor to be provided for the City Guard, the Fangs, and the various militias and private armies kept by the noble houses. There was a war coming, everyone knew that. The driders were too dangerous, too secretive, or an affront to Lolth Herself, depending on who you asked. Truth be told, Lord Lockh didn't care much about what happened to the filthy creatures, but he knew very well on which side his bread was buttered. He had spent months making the rounds, assuring each of the lords and ladies that when the time came, House Lockh would stand ready to arm their brave soldiers. And now, just when that lunatic on the throne seemed poised to throw open the gates of war... this revelation. This talk of peace. Of reconciliation.

It really would not do.

"Milord? They're ready for you." The page bowed and scraped nervously. Lord Lockh gave him a brief glance, then sighed and got to his feet. It was time.

He strode out of his vestibule and onto the Quorum floor. The room was a vast amphitheater. Tiers of seats stretched out into the gloom of the upper reaches. Tradition dictated that 999 seats be made available, but in these latter days only a fraction of them were ever held. Today, the house was as full as it ever got. Two hundred eyes watched him as he crossed to the lectern, a stone dais positioned artfully by the Hall's forgotten architect to amplify the speaker's voice throughout the room. He stopped behind it, smiled once more for effect, and began.

"My noble sisters and brothers," he said, pitching his voice just so to echo off the walls and pillars and make him sound like a giant. "I stand before you a pious and humble servant of the people. You know me as a patriot. I care not for my own fortune or glory, but the survival and prosperity of our great City... and the glory of Mother Lolth. Like you, I was struck dumb by the revelations of recent months, and I have, I believe, led the way by my manumission of the slaves that used to toil in the Lockh Forges."

This, at least, was true. He had instantly freed every **** laborer when the order came down. There hadn't been many; smithing was skilled work, and a trained apprentice could command his price. Nobody would waste years of training and diligence on a ****. He had owned several hundred, who carted coal and pumped bellows; he still employed them, of course, but he paid a nominal wage. He calculated that, no longer having to feed, house or clothe them, he was at worst breaking even on the proposition.

"We are all grateful to the Church of Lolth for showing us this new way forward. It is a hopeful time for our people and our City. Yet I come before you bearing grim tidings." He scanned his audience. Lord Berrick looked bored, but at least the man wasn't actually asleep today. In any case, he would vote the way he was told. Lords Ebonne and Varrick and Lady Tristanii were watching raptly—as well they should. Lord Lockh could look each one of them in the eye and tell them how much they had been paid and when. They weren't the votes he had to worry about. He took a deep breath and continued.

"Investigating a case of possible embezzling, I uncovered something much worse. One of my men was spiriting away weapons for sale to an unknown party. Through careful, patient, and brave detective work—a story I would love to tell you when you have the time—I found that he was in fact delivering them to the warren of the driders!"

Cue gasps. Lord Ebonne was barely convincing, but to her credit, Lady Tristanii looked as though she had just caught her eldest daughter in flagrante delicto with the stableboy. A low murmur was rising among the seats, and he raised his voice to cut through it.

"Yes, to the driders. Further interrogation revealed that they have been secretly arming and training mercenaries, malcontents, and criminals—some recruited from the camp that sprawls outside our walls! These twisted creatures seek vengeance against us, and they will use our weakness as their blade. We must be vigilant. I propose an expeditionary **** be raised—not to conquer!" he raised a hand, as if warding off the thought, "But to verify that they are holding to the letter of Lolth's law. If they are, then there is no harm in it... but if not, then we must be ready to strike, to preserve our City and our way of life."

He had barely finished when Lord Ebonne jumped to his feet. "Hear, hear!" he cried. The murmur was rising to a hubbub of angry voices, all at odds with each other. Lord Lockh allowed himself a brief, satisfied smirk. He could see a few faces denouncing him and calling for peace, but there were only a few. Those nobles he had paid were speaking vigorously on his behalf, and he was surprised and gratified to see that a fewer of the older, more conservative houses were as well. Lady Bir'kil and Lord Torrageth were among them—no surprises there, as their mines provided the ore for Lockh's forges. But Eidolon, Yith'nst, Kit'lenn, they were all with him, too.

"A vote!" called Lady Tristanii. "Let us vote!" The chorus was taken up, until a third of the hall was chanting: "Vote! Vote! Vote!"

"Wait!" A voice, as high and clear as a bell, cut through the crowd noise. Lord Lockh turned towards the newcomer and scowled. She was a priestess, and a fairly high-ranking one by the cut of her robe. She wore a silver tiara atop which her white hair was piled in plaits, and she was staring at him with one of the most knowing looks he had ever seen. "Does tradition not allow for a counter-argument before a vote?"

Lord Lockh's lip twisted in a sneer. "Very well. "I yield the floor to... you have the advantage of me, milady."

The priestess smiled. "Mish'li, Lord Lockh. And I am no lady, only a humble servant of Lolth." She turned to the crowd.

"Great lords and noble ladies, your wisdom has served us well in recent days. Since the turmoil of the revelation, we have been grateful for your guiding hand. I ask now that you show some of that wisdom before you commit us to a course that would set us against not only our sisters in the warren, but the hand of Mother Lolth herself." She clasped her hands to her chest. "I do not know what insidious plotting goes on at Lord Lockh's forges, and I commend him for uncovering such base treachery. But I can tell you that whatever else the driders are—whatever else they are planning—they are no threat to us. In fact, just today, I received a delegation from the warren. They reaffirmed their allegiance and devotion to the Goddess we both revere."

Lord Lockh struggled to hide his shock. For once, his spies had failed him. He had given strict standing orders for what to do in case of a drider sighting in the City. Had he been too distracted to notice?

Mish'li went on, heedless of his anger. "I promise you, they are on the same path as us. They have had to renounce poisonous old traditions, and they struggle to remain righteous. It is a difficult and narrow path we walk, and we will only succeed if we walk it together. We need them, and they need us. No purpose will be served by sending an army to their doorstep—only division, suspicion, and fear. I beg you, open your hearts to the driders as they have opened theirs to us. Let our people become one again, and we will all prosper."

Lord Lockh looked desperately through the crowd. Faces that had been cheering for him minutes before now looked thoughtful. As applause spread throughout the hall, his blood ran cold. Even Lords Ebonne and Varrick were clapping, those faithless cowards, and Lady Tristanii had vanished. The call for a vote went up again, and this time nothing could stop it. After that it was all over but the counting.

The outcome was clear before they even finished voting. Lord Lockh had no desire to stick around for the triumphant announcement. As he left the room, his bodyman Johass fell in beside him. Johass was a hulk of a drow whose scarred appearance and repeatedly broken nose concealed a mind almost as sharp as his lord's. He was a man of simple tastes, without ambition beyond service, but he kept his eyes and ears open, and he knew better than to say anything. Rage and frustration fumed off of Lockh like steam. His fists were balled up so tightly that his elegantly manicured nails drew blood from his palms, and he walked stiffly, with his shoulders raised and his head jutting forward. Lockh bore straight for his estate, a modest villa a few blocks from the Quorum Hall. He shunned the ostentatious palaces preferred by some of the nouveau riche; let them advertise their lack of taste with gaudy, sprawling mansions. Every inch of Lord Lockh's home was set out just the way he liked it. He stalked up the narrow path to the main door, waited for Johass to open it, and beelined straight for his study.

He had just crossed the threshold when something occurred to him. Despite its relative size, the Lockh villa was still staffed by more than a dozen servants and a half-dozen guards at all times. Not one of them had greeted him. Johass had headed straight for the kitchens, anticipating his master's appetite, and Lord Lockh was alone.

Well... not quite alone. As he stepped into his study, he noticed a figure sitting in one of the couches along one wall. It was a drow, a thin, sinewy man in a leather cap. He was in the mansion of a noble uninvited, which may have explained the look of abject terror on his face. If he was a thief, he wasn't a very good one; he was just sitting there, staring at Lord Lockh with the horrified grimace of one who has seen his **** coming. Lockh felt that was an appropriate reaction. He opened his mouth to call for Johass and stopped.

The presence of a stranger wasn't the only unusual thing in his study. The chair behind his desk had been turned around so that it faced the wall. The desk was massive, a slab of cherrywood from the surface, and one of the most expensive things he owned. He sometimes felt it was odd that a blacksmith would cherish one of the few wooden articles of furniture in the City, but perhaps it was the rarity that made it special. In any case, he had spent long hours sitting in his chair processing the busywork that kept his empire afloat, and now it was turned against the wall. He squinted at it. Was that a stain? Had something—

The chair turned around.

It wasn't empty.

The figure that now occupied Lord Lockh's full attention looked up him and down. As it did so, Lockh realized the terror on the young intruder's face wasn't of him. There were worse things in the city than an angry Lord Lockh, and he realized he was about to find out what they were.

The thing in the chair looked like a drow, certainly-- a young man, with a full head of hair and a wispy moustache and goatee. He wore the leather doublet of a laborer, a miner or blacksmith, though if he was a smith it certainly wasn't any of Lockh's. From the neck down, he looked normal, if a bit disheveled. From the neck up...

The drow's skin was drawn so tightly over his skull that he looked like a rotting corpse. It looked cracked, like badly baked clay, and shining out between the cracks was a kind of greasy, pallid unlight. It was not darkness. Darkness was merely an absence. This was an active negation, a window into some other place where light had never tread and never would. The cracks writhed like worms, and the unlight they shed pulsed and thrummed like a diseased heartbeat. The drow's eyes were gone. Wisps of unlight poured out of the empty sockets and dissolved like smoke. And yet, somehow, he saw. Lord Lockh felt that terrible gaze on him like a physical ****. He tried to open his mouth, tried to turn and run, but found his lips sealed and his feet rooted to the floor. The drow on the couch let out a whimper and flinched backwards, yet like Lockh, he seemed unable to turn away from the dreadful figure in the chair. His eyes were pleading as he stared at Lockh, and his mouth worked desperately but nothing came out.

The thing in the chair smiled, or at least the corners of its mouth turned up. It was a terrible thing to watch. The cracks around its lips and chin twined and squirmed like blind worms wriggling from an open grave. When it spoke, its voice was a low hiss. The words were tinny and indistinct, as though they were coming from a long way away, but Lord Lockh heard them without trouble.

"Hello, Lord Lockh," it said. "A pleasure to meet you. Let's talk."