Ascendancy of the Last - By Lisa Smedman Page 0,87

a male timbre: Eilistraee willing, it will be, again.

Sshamath is my home, Q’arlynd told them firmly.

His ancestors made no comment.

A bridge of frozen moonlight spanned the river. As Q’arlynd made his way across it, he glanced down at the boats passing below. The people of Silverymoon streamed across the bridge in either direction, walking on the near-invisible bridge as confidently as the drow of Ched Nasad had done across the calcified webs of their city.

Q’arlynd made his way to the market: a bustling hubbub of stalls, braying caravan beasts, and food vendors. Smells assaulted his nostrils: cooking meat, ground spice, ripe fruit, wafting incense, tanned leather, and cloth dye. Oddly, the smell of dung was missing and the cobblestones were clean. Though several shabbily dressed people of various races scurŹried here and there, it was hard to tell whom they belonged to; no one seemed to be directing them with lashes or clubs. Nor were there any obvious cripples, or shackled slaves—a stark contrast from the city where Q’arlynd had been raised.

His enquiries had confirmed that Flinderspeld was indeed working as a gem merchant, here in Silverymoon. Officially, Q’arlynd was in Silverymoon to purchase chardalyn, a rare black gemstone capable of absorbing spells. Silverymoon’s wizards had perfected the use of it, casting a spell into a gem, and releasing the latent magic later by the simple expedient of shattering the stone. Flinderspeld was certain to stock it.

Q’arlynd hadn’t told the svirfneblin he was coming. He wanted to see the expression on Flinderspeld’s face when he first set eyes upon his former master. It would be an important clue to how Q’arlynd should word his request.

A hoodlike arch of brick marked the spot he was looking for: the stairs leading down to the cave where the svirfneblin tradŹing caravans encamped. Q’arlynd hadn’t seen any deep gnomes on his walk through the city. They kept below, it seemed.

He strode down the staircase into cool, damp darkness. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, his darkvision had reasserted itself.

The startled silence that fell upon the main cavern as he entered proved even more profound than the reaction his appearance had prompted in the streets above. The svirfneblin caravanners who’d been unpacking their lizards’ saddlebags glared at Q’arlynd with open hostility. Many, Q’arlynd knew, were deep gnomes from Blingdenstone, the city Menzoberranzan had conquered and plundered. Q’arlynd trod warily, alert for the twang of a wristbow or the whispered hiss of a spell.

A gray-skinned svirfneblin, his bald scalp hidden by a leather cap, stepped in front of Q’arlynd, blocking his way. Bracers on his arms held a pair of matched daggers with pale yellow gems set in their pommels. “You’re not welcome here, drow,” he growled.

Q’arlynd observed the faint shimmer clinging to the deep gnome’s body: an illusion. The real deep gnome would be standing nearby, probably blurred, with daggers in hand. Several other svirfneblin had blurred themselves. Those still visible drew swords or daggers and moved to encircle Q’arlynd. One or two thrust their hands into their pockets, and he hoped they weren’t reaching for death-magic gems. He heard angry whispers. “Spider-kisser,” they called him, and worse.

“I’m looking for someone,” Q’arlynd told the illusionary svirfŹneblin in front of him—speaking in a loud, steady voice so the others could hear. “A friend of mine. His name’s Flinderspeld. He’s a gem merchant, originally from Blingdenstone.”

The svirfneblin’s eyes narrowed. “The drow are no friends of ours. Especially after Blingdenstone.”

“This drow is,” Q’arlynd said firmly. “After Blingdenstone fell, Flinderspeld became a slave. I purchased him—and set him free.”

A female svirfneblin set down the pack she’d been unloadŹing and moved closer. “What’s your name?”

Q’arlynd bowed—just enough to acknowledge the waist-high female. “Q’arlynd Melarn, formerly of Ched Nasad.”

“I thought I recognized you! You’re the one who teleported Flinderspeld here, four years ago. Flinderspeld often speaks of you.”

Whispers spread like ripples on a pond. Q’arlynd waited until they ebbed, then looked at the niches that honeyŹcombed the cavern—each of them, a merchant’s stall. “Does Flinderspeld have a stall here? I’d like to speak to him.”

The female chuckled and jerked her head at the ceiling. “He’s upside.”

Q’arlynd lifted an eyebrow.

“Upside,” she repeated. “In the main marketplace. His customŹers are surface folk, mostly. They’re less at ease down here.”

“I see,” Q’arlynd said. “Will you show me the way?”

The female nodded. “Follow me.”

She led him back up the stairs, shielding her eyes from the sun with a hand as they wound through the maze of stalls. Flinderspeld’s place of business