Halisstra said. "No battle was fought here - we would have seen the signs. Even if the minotaurs had carried off all the bodies over the years, there would be scorch marks, broken flagstones, the remnants of ruined weapons. I think the Jaelre left this place of their own accord."
"How long ago was it that you were here, Valas?" asked Ryld.
"Almost fifty years," the scout said. "Not that long ago, really. The Jaelre skirmished frequently with the minotaurs back then, and these caverns were guarded by both physical and magical defenses." He studied the great chamber carefully. "Let me proceed ahead a little ways. I will see if I can find anything in the palace that might illumi-nate this riddle."
"Should we all go?" Ryld asked.
"Best not. There is only one entrance to the palace, and we could be trapped inside if the minotaurs return in numbers. Remain outside, so that you can escape if you need to. I will return in a few minutes."
The scout slipped off into the darkness, leaving the company in the abandoned hall.
"I think I agree with Mistress Melarn," Ryld said. "It seems the Jaelre carried away everything of value and left this place."
"A great deal of trouble for nothing, then," Pharaun remarked. "If there's anything so disappointing as fruitless toil and hardship, I'm not sure what it is."
The company stood in silence a moment, each occupied with his own thoughts.
Halisstra ached with exhaustion, her legs as weak as water. She had avoided any serious injury, but on the other hand she had almost com-pletely exhausted her reservoir of magical strength over the past few hours, wielding herbae'qeshel songs to confuse the attacking hordes, strengthen her companions, and staunch the worst of her companions' wounds.
Jeggred, lurking at the rear of the band near the tunnel leading back to the previous room, broke the silence.
"If the mercenary does not return soon, we will be fighting again," the draegloth said. "I do not hear the minotaurs behind us any longer, which means they're probably circling around to come at us from an-other direction."
"We've taught them not to come at us down long, straight tunnels, I suppose," Ryld observed. He studied the Jaelre cavern with a practiced eye. "Best not to let them catch us in the open like this. They might overwhelm us with sheer numbers."
Danifae asked quietly, "What if this is a dead end?"
"It can't be," Quenthel said. "Somewhere in these caverns we'll dis-cover where it is the Jaelre have fled to, and we will follow. I have come too far to return to Menzoberranzan empty-handed."
"That's all very good," Pharaun said. "However, I feel constrained to point out that we are exhausted and have almost used up our magical strength. Blundering through these halls and corridors until the mino-taurs manage to trap and kill us is sheer stupidity. Why don't we lie low in one of those artisan homes - say, in that gallery over there - and rest until we're ready to continue? I believe I can conceal our presence from our pursuers."
Quenthel's eyes flashed with fire as she said, "We will rest when I see fit. Until then, we keep moving."
"I do not believe you understand what I am saying - " Pharaun began, rising to his feet and speaking with short, clipped words.
"I do not believe you understand what I am commanding you to do!" Quenthel snapped. She whirled on the wizard and stepped close, her whips writhing in agitation. "You will cease your incessant question-ing of my leadership."
"When you begin to lead intelligently, I will," Pharaun retorted, his calm demeanor finally cracking. "Now, listen - "
Jeggred rose with a feral snarl and grasped the wizard around the upper arms with his huge fighting claws, pulling him away from Quenthel and hurling him across the floor.
"Show some respect!" the draegloth thundered. "You address High Priestess Quenthel Baenre, Mistress of Arach-Tinilith, Mistress of the Academy, Mistress of Tier Breche, First Sister of House Baenre of Men-zoberranzan . . . you insolent dog!"
Pharaun's eyes flashed as he leaped to his feet. The facade of good humor fell from his face, leaving nothing but cold, perfect malice.
"Never lay a hand on me again," he said in a deadly hiss.
His hands crooked at his sides, ready to shape awful spells against the draegloth, while Jeggred crouched and made ready to spring.
Quenthel shifted the grip on her scourge and paced closer as the ser-pent heads curled and darted, striking at the air in their agitation. Ryld set one hand