Berg'inyon Baenre hung upside down from the huge cav  ern's roof, securely strapped to the saddle of his lizard mount. It had taken the young warrior some time to get used to this position, but as commander of the Baenre lizard riders, he spent many hours watching the city from this high vantage point.

A movement to the side, behind a cluster of stalactites, put Berg'inyon on the alert. He lowered his ten foot long death lance with one hand; the other held the lizard's bridle while resting on the hilt of his ready hand crossbow.

"I am the son of House Baenre, " he said aloud, figuring that to be enough of a threat to defeat any possible foul play. He glanced around, looking for support, and moved his free hand to his belt pouch and his signal speculum, a shielded metal strip heated on one side and used to communicate with creatures using infravision. Dozens of other House Baenre lizard riders were about and would come rushing to Berg'inyon's call.

"I am the son of House Baenre, " he said again.

The youngest Baenre relaxed almost immediately when his older brother Dantrag, emerged from behind the stalactites, riding an even larger subterranean lizard. Curious indeed did the elder Baenre look with his ponytail hanging straight down from the top of his upside down head.

"As am I, " Dantrag replied, skittering his sticky footed mount beside Berg'inyon's.

"What are you doing up here?" Berg'inyon asked. "And how did you appropriate the mount without my permission?"

Dantrag scoffed at the question. "Appropriate?" he replied. "I am the weapon master of House Baenre. I took the lizard, and needed no permission from Berg'inyon."

The younger Baenre stared with red glowing eyes, but said nothing more.

"You forget who trained you, my brother, " Dantrag remarked quietly.

The statement was true; Berg'inyon would never forget, could never forget, that Dantrag had been his mentor.

"Are you prepared to face the likes of Drizzt Do'Urden again?" The blunt question nearly sent Berg'inyon from his mount.

"It would seem a possibility, since we are to travel to Mithril Hall, " Dantrag added coolly.

Berg'inyon blew a long and low sigh, thoroughly flustered. He and Drizzt had been classmates at Melee Magthere, the Academy's school of fighters. Berg'inyon, trained by Dantrag, had gone there fully expecting to be the finest fighter in his class. Drizzt Do'Urden,  the renegade, the traitor, had beaten him for that honor every year. Berg'inyon had done well at the Academy, by every standard except Dantrag's.

"Are you prepared for him?" Dantrag pressed, his tone growing more serious and angry.

"No!" Berg'inyon glowered at his brother, sitting astride the hanging lizard, a cocky grin on his handsome face. Dantrag had forced the answer for a reason, Berg'inyon knew. Dantrag wanted to make certain that Berg'inyon knew his place as a spectator if they should happen to encounter the rogue Do'Urden together.

And Berg'inyon knew, too, why his brother wanted the first try at Drizzt. Drizzt had been trained by Zak'nafein, Dantrag's princi  pal rival, the one weapon master in Menzoberranzan whose fight  ing skills were more highly regarded than those of Dantrag. By all accounts, Drizzt had become at least Zak'nafein's equal, and if Dantrag could defeat Drizzt, then he might at last come out from under Zak'nafein's considerable shadow.

"You have fought us both, " Dantrag said slyly. "Do tell me, dear brother, who is the better?"

Berg'inyon couldn't possibly answer that question. He hadn't fought against, or even beside, Drizzt Do'Urden for more than thirty years. "Drizzt would cut you down, " he said anyway, just to peeve his upstart sibling.

Dantrag's hand flashed faster than Berg'inyon could follow. The weapon master sent his wickedly sharp sword across the top strap of Berg'inyon's saddle, easily cutting the binding, though it was enchanted for strength. Dantrag's second hand came across equally fast, slipping the bridle from the lizard's mouthpiece as Berg'inyon plummeted from his seat.

The younger brother turned upright as he fell. He looked into that area of innate magic common to all drow, and stronger in drow nobles. Soon the descent had ceased, countered by a levitation spell that had Berg'inyon, death lance still in hand, slowly rising back up to meet his laughing brother.

Matron Baenre would kill you if she knew that you had embarrassed me so in front of the common soldiers, Berg'inyon's hand flashed in the silent code.

Better to have your pride cut than your throat, Dantrag's hands flashed in reply, and the older Baenre walked his mount away, back around the stalactites.

Beside the lizard again, Berg'inyon worked to retie the top strap and fasten together the bridle. He had claimed Drizzt to be the better fighter, but, in considering what Dantrag had just done to him, a perfectly aimed two hit attack before he could even begin to retaliate, the younger Baenre doubted his claim. Drizzt Do'Urden,  he decided, would be the one to pity if and when the two fighters faced off.

The thought pleased young Berg'inyon. Since his days in the Academy, he had lived in Drizzt's shadow, much as Dantrag had lived in Zak'nafein's. If Dantrag defeated Drizzt, then the Brothers Baenre would be proven the stronger fighters, and Berg'inyon's rep  utation would rise simply because of his standing as Dantrag's pro  tegee. Berg'inyon liked the thought, liked that he stood to gain without having to stand toe to toe against that devilish purple eyed Do'Urden again.

Perhaps the fight would come to an even more promising con  clusion, Berg'inyon dared to hope. Perhaps Dantrag would kill Drizzt, and then, weary and probably wounded, Dantrag would fall easy prey to Berg'inyon's sword. Berg'inyon's reputation, as well as his position, would rise further, for he would be the logical choice to replace his dead brother in the coveted position as weapon master.

The young Baenre rolled over in midair to find his place on the repaired saddle, smiling evilly at the possibilities afforded him in this upcoming journey to Mithril Hall.

"Jerlys, " the drow whispered grimly.

"Jerlys Horlbar?" Jarlaxle asked, and the mercenary leaned against the rough wall of the stalagmite pillar to consider the star  tling news. Jerlys Horlbar was a matron mother, one of the two high priestesses presiding over House Horlbar, the twelfth house of Men  zoberranzan. Here she lay, dead, under a pile of rubble, her tentacle rod ruined and buried beside her.

It is good we followed him, the soldier's flicking fingers remarked,  more to placate the mercenary leader than to make any pertinent revelations. Of course it was good that Jarlaxle had ordered that one followed. He was dangerous, incredibly dangerous, but, seeing a matron mother, a high priestess of the Spider Queen, lying dead,  sliced by a wicked sword, the mercenary had to wonder if he, too,  had underestimated.

We can report it and absolve ourselves of responsibility, another of Bregan D'aerthe's dark band signaled.

At first, that notion struck Jarlaxle as sound advice. The matron mother's body would be found, and there would be a serious inquiry, by House Horlbar if by no one else. Guilt by association was a very real thing in Menzoberranzan, especially for such a seri  ous crime, and Jarlaxle wanted no part of a covert war with the twelfth house, not now, with so many other important events brew  ing.

Then Jarlaxle let the circumstances lead him down another avenue of possibility. As unfortunate as this event seemed, the mer  cenary might still turn it to profit. There was at least one wild card in this game that Matron Baenre played, an unknown factor that could take the impending chaos to new levels of glory.

Bury her once more, the mercenary signaled, deeper under the pile this time, but not completely. I want the body found, but not for a while.

His hard boots making not a sound, his ample jewelry quiet, the mercenary leader started from the alley.

Are we to rendezvous? one soldier flashed to him.

Jarlaxle shook his head and continued on, out of the remote alley. He knew where to find the one who had killed Jerlys Horlbar,  and knew, too, that he could use this information against him, per  haps to heighten his slavish loyalty to Bregan D'aerthe, or perhaps for other reasons. Jarlaxle had to play the whole thing very carefully,  he knew. He had to walk a narrow line between intrigue and war  fare.

None in the city could do that better.

Uthegental will be prominent in the days to come.

Dantrag Baenre cringed when the thought drifted into his mind. He understood its source, and its subtle meaning. He and the weapon master of House Barrison Del'Armgo, House Baenre's chief rival, were considered the two greatest fighters in the city.

Matron Baenre will use his skills, the next telepathic message warned. Dantrag drew out his surface stolen sword and looked at it.

It flared a thin red line of light along its impossibly sharp edge, and

the two rubies set into the eyes of its demon sculpted pommel flared with inner life.

Dantrag's hand clasped the pommel and warmed as Khazid'hea,  Cutter, continued its communication. He is strong and will fare well in the raids on Mithril Hall. He lusts for the blood of the young Do'Urden,  the legacy of Zak'nafein, as greatly as you do, perhaps even more.

Dantrag sneered at that last remark, thrown in only because Khazid'hea wanted him on the edge of anger. The sword considered Dantrag its partner, not its master, and knew that it could better manipulate Dantrag if he was angry.

After many decades wielding Khazid'hea, Dantrag, too, knew all of this, and he forced himself to keep calm.

"None desire Drizzt Do'Urden's death more than I, " Dantrag assured the doubting sword. "And Matron Baenre will see to it that I, not Uthegental, have the opportunity to slay the renegade. Matron Baenre would not want the honors that would undoubtedly accom  pany such a feat to be granted to a warrior of the second house."

The sword's red line flared again in intensity and reflected in Dantrag's amber eyes. Kill Uthegental, and her task will become easier,  Khazid'hea reasoned.

Dantrag laughed aloud at the notion, and Khazid'hea's fiendish eyes flared again. "Kill him?" Dantrag echoed. "Kill one that Matron Baenre has deemed important for the mission ahead? She would flay the skin from my bones!" But you could kill him?

Dantrag laughed again, for the question was simply to mock him, to urge him on to the fight that Khazid'hea had desired for so very long. The sword was proud, at least as proud as either Dantrag or Uthegental, and it wanted desperately to be in the hands of the indisputably finest weapon master of Menzoberranzan, whichever of the two that might be.

"You must pray that I could, " Dantrag replied, turning the tables on the impetuous sword. "Uthegental favors his trident, and no sword. If he proved the victor, then Khazid'hea might end up in the scabbard of a lesser fighter." He would wield me.

Dantrag slid the sword away, thinking the preposterous claim not even worth answering. Also tired of this useless banter,  Khazid'hea went silent, brooding.

The sword had opened some concerns for Dantrag. He knew the importance of this upcoming assault. If he could strike down the young Do'Urden, then all glory would be his, but if Uthegental got there first, then Dantrag would be considered second best in the city,  a rank he could never shake unless he found and killed Uthegental. His mother would not be pleased by such events, Dantrag knew. Dantrag's life had been miserable when Zak'nafein Do'Urden had been alive, with Matron Baenre constantly urging him to find and slay the legendary weapon master.

This time, Matron Baenre probably wouldn't even allow him that option. With Berg'inyon coming into excellence as a fighter,  Matron Baenre might simply sacrifice Dantrag and turn the coveted position of weapon master over to her younger son. If she could claim that the move was made because Berg'inyon was the better fighter, that would again spread doubt among the populace as to which house had the finest weapon master.

The solution was simple: Dantrag had to get Drizzt.