Flesh peddlers, spice merchants, narcotic dealers, and more ordinary sellers thronged the booths and shacks of the city’s rebuilt Bazaar. Pack lizards and trade carts crawled along Menzoberranzan’s streets.
Qu’ellarz’orl might have been Menzoberranzan’s head, but the Bazaar was the city’s heart.
Valas knew that the marketplace reflected the status of the city at any given time. He could see that trade was thriving, which meant that Menzoberranzan was coming back to life.
Rumors had been swirling through the city, most merely hard-to-believe, but some patently absurd. Valas didn’t know what he believed but he did know what he saw: Quenthel Baenre was once again Mistress of Arach-Tinilith and neither Pharaun, Jeggred, Danifae, or any of the others had returned. Valas heard the unspoken message in that. Of the band that had been sent to find Lolth, none but the high priestess had returned.
Valas was leaving the city, lest he too disappear. He had arranged with Kimmuriel, his Bregan D’aerthe superior, to take a scouting mission far from Menzoberranzan. He would return again, but only after enough time had passed so that Quenthel Baenre had forgotten all about him.
To his surprise, the thought of leaving the city turned him maudlin.
Strange, that he would feel nostalgia over such a pit. Menzoberranzan was an ugly, black-hearted bitch who devoured the weak and made bureaucrats of the strong. Still, she managed to evoke a certain attachment in her surviving citizens.
Valas supposed that was the secret of her survival. Mean as she was, the drow who lived there called her home and fought like demons to preserve her. He stared at Narbondel, glowing red in the darkness, signaling another day.
Another day of violence, infighting, murder, and betrayal.
Lolth and the city deserved each other, he decided, and smiled.
With nothing else for it, he turned, melted into the shadows, and headed away from the city for his next mission.
Inthracis the Fifth opened his eyes. Nisviim stood over him, the jackal-faced arcanaloth’s expression slack and distant. Without a word, Nisviim turned and exited the chamber.
Inthracis lay there, his new mind racing. He had failed. His last memories were of searing pain. The drow mage had captured and incinerated him with a clever combination of spells.
Inthracis resolved to remember the tactic so that he might use it himself one day.
He presumed that Lolth’s Yor’thae had reached the Spider Queen. He did not know which of the three priestesses had been the Chosen One, and he did not care. He cared only about the possibility of facing Vhaeraun’s wrath. If the Masked Lord discovered that Inthracis lived again.
.
He pushed such thoughts from his mind.
He would simply have to hope that Lolth’s wrath with her son would keep Vhaeraun occupied long enough that the Masked God would forget about Inthracis. Meanwhile, the ultroloth would stay in the background for a few decades and allow Nisviim to take a more active hand in the affairs of Corpsehaven.
He sat up, reveling in the feel of his new body. For a moment, he wondered if Lolth too was adorned in new flesh.
He put that thought from his mind, too. He’d had enough of gods and goddesses to last him a long while.