saw that Quenthel had turned. She was signing at him furiously.
Hold your temper,she ordered.We are their guests.
Had it been a male who had spoken, Jeggred would have snarled back in defiance - thentorn him to pieces. Instead, he bowed to his mistress.
As you command, Mistress.
As he signed, he snuck a glance at the aboleth he'd wounded.
He'd been wrong about aboleth blood. It was green and didn't flow freely but oozed out like sap.
Satisfied the stupid creature was not going to retaliate, Jeggred returned his attention to Quenthel. He could have guarded her bet-ter if he'd been allowed to remain at her side, but an order was an order. He had obeyed, as he always did, without question. As a re-sult, he could understand nothing of the conversation - Oothoon's voice was pitched too low for him to hear, and he could not see what Quenthel was signing, since her back was to him.
It didn't matter though. Jeggred didn't need to know what was being said. He could read Quenthel's emotions by the way she held her body. That stiffening of her shoulders was tension. And that furtive drift of her hand toward her wand was caution - perhaps even fear.
Strangely, the vipers in Quenthel's whip were drifting lazily withthe current, completely relaxed. They, even more than Jeg-gred himself, should have sensed her rising tension. But instead the stupid things were off guard. Quenthel was wrong to put such stock in the bound imps, which were little better than slaves. Al-ways asking their opinions - instead of trusting her own heart - made her weak.
The draegloth didn't like the feeling of that thought. He wasn't sure what to do with an idea like that, the idea that the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith, his aunt, sister to his mother the Matron Mother of the First House of Menzoberranzan, was . . . weak? He pushed the thought from his mind and found it quickly replaced by a growing unease.
Growling low in his throat - a low gurgle of water - Jeggred readied himself. Something was about to happen. He braced a foot against the far wall - one kick would send him into the room - and flexed his claws.
Quenthel drew her wand, and in a swift motion spun and aimed it at the aboleth behind her. A sticky glob shot out of the end of the wand, expanding swiftly as it raced through the water.
Simultaneously raking the aboleth beside him with one clawed hand, Jeggred kicked himself into the audience chamber -
- only to find his head and shoulders tangled in a sticky mass. Quenthel's shot had missed when the aboleth ducked swiftly aside. The viscous glob struck the doorway instead and completely blocked the opening.
Roaring with rage, Jeggred twisted his body around and braced both feet against the sides of the opening. Heaving, calf and thigh muscles nearly bursting from thestrain, he tore his head free, then his shoulders. Ignoring the sting where hair had torn from his scalp, he clawed at the sticky barrier with a fighting hand. It got stuck, too.
Meanwhile, inside the audience chamber, Quenthel corrected her aim. A second glob erupted from the wand, and it struck the aboleth guard in the mouth just as its teeth were about to close on the drow priestess. Gurgling, the aboleth tried to spit out the sticky ball but could not.
The aboleth that had been out in the corridor with Jeggred had been motionless at first, but it soon moved in to attack. It reared above Jeggred, opening its mouth, attempting to bite. Jeggred raked its belly with his free hand, tearing a deep slash. Green blood oozed out - lots of blood - clouding the water Jeggred breathed. It tasted vile, like pungent seaweed - not at all as Jeggred had imagined.
The aboleth turned and bolted down the tunnel, retreating with powerful strokes of its fluked tail. Jeggred growled, knowing it had probably gone to summon more of the fish-folk.
He continued ripping at the sticky ball that blocked the audi-ence chamber doorway. Each time, his hand got stuck - but each time he ripped off a few strands. Smelling real blood, the draegloth began to pant - then he realized that the blood was his own. His hand was raw where skin had been torn from it.
Inside the audience chamber, Quenthel held Oothoon at bay with her rod. The aboleth matriarch stared for several moments, her three eyes unblinking, then she launched herself out of the