"Not by the masters’ standing." Drizzt grumbled aloud.
"Eighth is not so low." Kelnozz whispered back. Berg’inyon is only ranked tenth, and he is from the ruling house of Menzoberranzan. You should be glad that your standing is not to be envied by your classmates." A shuffle outside the room’s door sent Kelnozz back into the silent mode. "Holding a higher rank means only that I have more fighters eyeing my back as a convenient place to rest their daggers."
Drizzt let the implications of Kelnozz’s statement slip by; he refused to consider such treachery in the Academy. "Berg’inyon was the finest fighter I saw in the grand melee." he signaled. "He had you beaten until I interceded on your behalf."
Kelnozz smiled the thought away. "Let Berg’inyon serve as cook in some lowly house for all I care," he whispered even more quietly than before―for the son of House Baenre’s bunk was only a few yards away. "He is tenth, yet I, Kelnozz of Kenafin, am third!"
"I am eighth," said Drizzt, an uncharacteristic edge on his voice, more anger than jealousy, "but I could defeat you with any weapon."
Kelnozz shrugged, a strangely blurring movement to onlookers seeing in the infrared spectrum. "You did not." he signaled. "I won our encounter."
"Encounter?" Drizzt gasped. "You deceived me, that is all!"
"Who was left standing?" Kelnozz pointedly reminded him. "Who wore the blue light of a master’s wand?"
"Honor demands that there be rules of engagement." growled Drizzt.
"There is a rule," Kelnozz snapped back at him. "You may do whatever you can get away with. I won our encounter, Drizzt Do’Urden and I hold the higher rank! That is all that matters!"
In the heat of the argument, their voices had grown too loud. The door to the room swung wide, and a master stepped onto the threshold, his form vividly outlined by the hallway’s blue lights. Both students promptly rolled over and closed their eyes―and their mouths.
The finality of Kelnozz’s last statement rocked Drizzt to some prudent observations. He realized then that his friendship with Kelnozz had come to an end, and, perhaps, that he and Kelnozz had never been friends at all.
"You have seen him?" Alton asked, his fingers tapping anxiously on the small table in the highest chamber of his private quarters. Alton had set the younger students of Sorcere to work repairing the blasted place but the scorch marks on the stone walls remained, a legacy of Alton’s fireball.
"I have." replied Masoj. "I have heard of his skill with weapons."
"Eighth in his class after the grand melee," said Alton, "a fine achievement."
"By all accounts, he has the prowess to be first," said Masoj. "One day he will claim that title. I shall be careful around that one."
"He will never live to claim it!" Alton promised. "House Do’Urden puts great pride in this purple-eyed youth, and thus I have decided upon Drizzt as my first target for revenge. His death will bring pain to that treacherous Matron Malice!"
Masoj saw a problem here and decided to put it to rest once and for all. "You will not harm him." he warned Alton. "You will not even go near him."
Alton’s tone became no less grim. "I have waited two decades…" he began.
"You can wait a few more." Masoj snapped back. "I remind you that you accepted Matron SiNafay’s invitation into House Hun’ett. Such an alliance requires obedience. Matron SiNafay―our matron mother―has placed upon my shoulders the task of handling Drizzt Do’Urden and I will execute her will."
Alton rested back in his seat across the table and put what was left of his acid-torn chin into a slender palm, carefully weighing the words of his secret partner.
"Matron SiNafay has plans that will bring you all the revenge you could possibly desire." Masoj continued. "I warn you now, Alton DeVir," he snarled, emphasizing the surname that was not Hun’ett, "that if you begin a war with House Do’Urden, or even put them on the defensive with any act of violence unsanctioned by Matron SiNafay, you will incur the wrath of House Hun’ett. Matron SiNafay will expose you as a murderous imposter and will exact every punishment allowable by the ruling council upon your pitiful bones!"
Alton had no way to refute the threat. He was a rogue, without family beyond the adopted Hun’etts. If SiNafay turned against him, he would find no allies. "What plan does SiNafay… Matron SiNafay… have for House Do’Urden?" he asked calmly. "Tell me of my revenge so that I may survive these torturous years of waiting."
Masoj knew that he had to act carefully at this point. His mother had not forbidden him to tell Alton of the future course of action but if she had wanted the volatile DeVir to know, Masoj realized, she would have told him herself.
"Let us just say that House Do’Urden’s power has grown, and continues to grow, to the point where it has become a very real threat to all the great houses." Masoj purred, loving the intrigue of positioning before a war. "Witness the fall of House DeVir, perfectly executed with no obvious trail. Many of Menzoberranzan’s nobles would rest easier if…"
He let it go at that, deciding that he probably had said too much already.
By the hot glimmer in Alton’s eyes, Masoj could tell that the lure had been strong enough to buy Alton’s patience.
The Academy held many disappointments for young Drizzt, particularly in that first year, when so many of the dark realities of drow society, realities that Zaknafein had barely hinted at, remained on the edges of Drizzt’s cognizance with stubborn resilience. He weighed the masters lectures of hatred and mistrust in both hands, one side holding the masters’ views in the context of the lectures, the other bending those same words into the very different logic assumed by his old mentor. The truth seemed so ambiguous, so hard to define. Through all of the examination, Drizzt found that he could not escape one pervading fact: In his entire young life, the only treachery he had ever witnessed―and so often!―was at the hands of drow elves. The physical training of the Academy, hours on end of dueling exercises and stealth techniques, was more to Drizzt’s liking. Here, with his weapons so readily in his hands, he freed himself of the disturbing questions of truth and perceived truth.
Here he excelled. If Drizzt had come into the Academy with a higher level of training and expertise than that of his classmates, the gap grew only wider as the grueling months passed. He learned to look beyond the accepted defense and attack routines put forth by the masters and create his own methods, innovations that almost always at least equaled―and usually outdid―the standard techniques.
At first, Dinin listened with increasing pride as his peers exalted in his younger brother’s fighting prowess. So glowing came the compliments that the eldest son of Matron Malice soon took on a nervous wariness. Dinin was the elderboy of House Do’Urden, a title he had gained by eliminating Nalfein. Drizzt, showing the potential to become one of the finest swordsmen in all of Menzoberranzan, was now the secondboy of the house, eyeing, perhaps, Dinin’s title.
Similarly, Drizzt’s fellow students did not miss the growing brilliance of his fighting dance. Often they viewed it too close for their liking! They looked upon Drizzt with seething jealousy, wondering if they could ever measure up against his whirling scimitars. Pragmatism was ever a strong trait in drow elves. These young students had spent the bulk of their years observing the elders of their families twisting every situation into a favorable light. Everyone of them recognized the value of Drizzt Do’Urden as an ally, and thus, when the grand melee came around the next year, Drizzt was inundated with offers of partnership.