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The Ambitious OneThe mercenary leaned against the pillar anchoring the wide stairway of Tier Breche, on the northern side of the great cavern that housed Menzoberranzan, the city of drow. Jarlaxle removed his wide-brimmed hat and ran a hand over the smooth skin of his bald head as he muttered a few curses under his breath.
Many lights were on in the city. Torches flickered in the high windows of houses carved from natural stalagmite formations. Lights in the drow city! Many of the elaborate structures had long been decorated by the soft glow of faerie fire, mostly purple and blue hues, but this was different.
Jarlaxle shifted to the side and winced as his weight came upon his recently wounded leg. Triel Baenre herself, the matron mistress of Arach-Tinilith, among the highest-ranking priestesses in the city, had tended the wound, but Jarlaxle suspected that the wicked priestess had purposely left the job unfinished, had left a bit of the pain to remind the mercenary of his failure in recapturing the renegade Drizzt Do’Urden.
“The glow wounds my eyes,” came a sarcastic remark from behind. Jarlaxle turned to see Matron Baenre’s oldest daughter, that same Triel. She was shorter than most drow, nearly a foot shorter than Jarlaxle, but she carried herself with undeniable dignity and poise. Jarlaxle understood her powers—and her volatile temperament—better than most, and he certainly treated the diminutive female with the greatest caution.
Staring, glaring, out over the city with squinting eyes, she moved beside him. “Curse the glow,” she muttered.
“It is by your matron’s command,” Jarlaxle reminded her. His one good eye avoided her gaze; the other lay beneath a patch of shadow, which was tied behind his head. He replaced his great hat, pulling it low in front as he tried to hide his smirk at her resulting grimace.
Triel was not happy with her mother. Jarlaxle had known that since the moment Matron Baenre had begun to hint at her plans. Triel was possibly the most fanatic of the Spider Queen’s priestesses and would not go against Matron Baenre, the first matron mother of the city—not unless Lolth instructed her to.
“Come along,” the priestess growled. She turned and made her way across Tier Breche to the largest and most ornate of the drow Academy’s three buildings, a huge structure shaped to resemble a gigantic spider.
Jarlaxle pointedly groaned as he moved, and lost ground with every limping step. His attempt to solicit a bit more healing magic was not successful, though, for Triel merely paused at the doorway to the great structure and waited for him with a patience that was more than a bit out of character, Jarlaxle knew, for Triel never waited for anything.
As soon as he entered the temple, the mercenary was assaulted by myriad aromas, everything from incense to the drying blood of the latest sacrifices, and chants rolled out of every side portal. Triel took note of none of it; she shrugged past the few disciples who bowed to her as they saw her walking the corridors.
The single-minded Baenre daughter moved into the higher levels, to the private quarters of the school’s mistresses, and walked down one small hallway, its floor alive with crawling spiders—including a few that stood as tall as Jarlaxle’s knee.
Triel stopped between two equally decorated doors and motioned for Jarlaxle to enter the one on the right. The mercenary paused, did well to hide his confusion, but Triel was expecting it.
She grabbed Jarlaxle by the shoulder and roughly spun him about. “You have been here before!” she accused.
“Only upon my graduation from the school of fighters,” Jarlaxle said, shrugging away from the female, “as are all of Melee-Magthere’s graduates.”
“You have been in the upper levels,” Triel snarled, eyeing Jarlaxle squarely. The mercenary chuckled.
“You hesitated when I motioned for you to enter the chamber,” Triel went on, “because you know that the one to the left is my private room. That is where you expected to go.”
“I did not expect to be summoned here at all,” Jarlaxle retorted, trying to shift the subject. He was indeed a bit off guard that Triel had watched him so closely. Had he underestimated her trepidation at her mother’s latest plans?
Triel stared at him long and hard, her eyes unblinking and jaw firm.
“I have my sources,” Jarlaxle admitted at length.
Another long moment passed, and still Triel did not blink.
“You asked that I come,” Jarlaxle reminded her.
“I demanded,” Triel corrected.
Jarlaxle swept into a low, exaggerated bow, snatching off his hat and brushing it out at arm’s length. The Baenre daughter’s eyes flashed with anger.
“Enough!” she shouted.
“And enough of your games!” Jarlaxle spat back. “You asked that I come to the Academy, a place where I am not comfortable, and so I have come. You have questions, and I, perhaps, have answers.”
His qualification of that last sentence made Triel narrow her eyes. Jarlaxle was ever a cagey opponent, she knew as well as anyone in the drow city. She had dealt with the cunning mercenary many times and still wasn’t quite sure if she had broken even against him or not. She turned and motioned for him to enter the left-hand door instead, and, with another graceful bow, he did so, stepping into a thickly carpeted and decorated room lit in a soft magical glow.
“Remove your boots,” Triel instructed, and she slipped out of her own shoes before she stepped onto the plush rug.
Jarlaxle stood against the tapestry-adorned wall just inside the door, looking doubtfully at his boots. Everyone who knew the mercenary knew that these were magical.
“Very well,” Triel conceded, closing the door and sweeping past him to take a seat on a huge, overstuffed chair. A rolltop desk stood behind her, in front of one of many tapestries, this one depicting the sacrifice of a gigantic surface elf by a horde of dancing drow. Above the surface elf loomed the nearly translucent specter of a half-drow, half-spider creature, its face beautiful and serene.
“You do not like your mother’s lights?” Jarlaxle asked. “You keep your own room aglow.”
Triel bit her lower lip and narrowed her eyes once more. Most priestesses kept their private chambers dimly lit, that they might read their tomes. Heat-sensing infravision was of little use in seeing the runes on a page. There were some inks that would hold distinctive heat for many years, but these were expensive and hard to come by, even for one as powerful as Triel.
Jarlaxle stared back at the Baenre daughter’s grim expression. Triel was always mad about something, the mercenary mused. “The lights seem appropriate for what your mother has planned,” he went on.
“Indeed,” Triel remarked, her tone biting. “And are you so arrogant as to believe that you understand my mother’s motives?”
“She will go back to Mithral Hall,” Jarlaxle said openly, knowing that Triel had long ago drawn the same conclusion.
“Will she?” Triel asked coyly.
The cryptic response set the mercenary back on his heels. He took a step toward a second, less-cushiony chair in the room, and his heel clicked hard, even though he was walking across the incredibly thick and soft carpet.
Triel smirked, not impressed by the magical boots. It was common knowledge that Jarlaxle could walk as quietly or as loudly as he desired on any type of surface. His abundant jewelry, bracelets and trinkets seemed equally enchanted, for they would ring and tinkle or remain perfectly silent, as the mercenary desired.
“If you have left a hole in my carpet, I will fill it with your heart,” Triel promised as Jarlaxle slumped back comfortably in the covered stone chair, smoothing a fold in the armrest so that the fabric showed a clear image of a black and yellow gee’antu spider, the Underdark’s version of the surface tarantula.
“Why do you suspect that your mother will not go?” Jarlaxle asked, pointedly ignoring the threat, though in knowing Triel Baenre, he honestly wondered how many other hearts were now entwined in the carpet’s fibers.
“Do I?” Triel asked.
Jarlaxle let out a long sigh. He had suspected that this would be a moot meeting, a discussion where Triel tried to pry out what bits of information the mercenary already had attained, while offering little of her own. Still, when Triel had insisted that Jarlaxle come to her, instead of their usual arrangement, in which she went out from Tier Breche to meet the mercenary, Jarlaxle had hoped for something substantive. It was quickly becoming obvious to Jarlaxle that the only reason Triel wanted to meet in Arach-Tinilith was that, in this secure place, even her mother’s prying ears would not hear.
And now, for all those painstaking arrangements, this all-important meeting had become a useless bantering session.
Triel seemed equally perturbed. She came forward in her chair suddenly, her expression fierce. “She desires a legacy!” the female declared.
Copyright © 2025 by R.A. Salvatore. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
