hadn't expected it to employ stealth and attempt to poison her； though in retrospect； that tactic made perfect sense。
The question was； had the demon done all it planned to do； or； since its first ploy had failed； would it strike at her in some other way？
Off to the west； someone screamed； the sound echoing down the stone halls。 Quenthel had her answer； and it was the one she'd expected。
Her heart beat faster； her mouth felt drier still； and she realized she wasn't eager to confront this new intruder； certainly not without the supnotport of her personal guards。 Yet she was mistress in these halls； and it was unthinkable to turn tail and let an invader make free with her domain。
Besides； if she fled； the cursed thing would probably track her anyway。
Leaving her fallen patrol with their useless magical treasures strewn about them on the floor； she strode toward the noise。 She shouted for other underlings to attend her； but no one responded。
In a minute or so； she entered a long gallery； where wall carvings told the history of Lolth as it had occurred and as it was prophesied： her senotduction of Corellon Larethian； chief deity of the contemptible elves of the World Above； their union and her first attempt to overthrow him； her disnotcovery of her spider form and her descent into the Abyss； her conquest of the Demonweb and her adoption of the drow as her chosen people； and her future triumph over all other gods and ascendancy over all creation。
A silhouette appeared in the arched entry at the far end of the hall。 It changed color and shape…humanoid； quadruped； blob； worm； cluster of spikes…from one instant to the next。 Somehow perceiving Quenthel； it let out a cry。 Its voice sounded like a wavering； cacophonous jumble of every noise she'd ever heard and some she hadn't。 Within the first discornotdant howl she caught the shrill note of a flute； the grunt of a rothe； a baby crying； water splashing； and fire crackling。
Quenthel recognized the demon for the profound threat it was； but for a moment； she was less concerned for her safety or fired with a fighter's rage than she was surprised。 Poison surely suggested an assassin； yet the demon before her was plainly an embodiment of chaos。
The spirit started down the gallery； and the walls bulged； flowed； and changed color around it。 Quenthel reached into the leather bag hanging from her belt and brought out a scroll； then something hit her hard in the back of the neck。
* * *
Ryld peered about the room。 Judging from the sunken arena in the center of the floor； the ruinous place had； in another era； served as a drinknoting pit…one of those rude establishments where dark elves of every stanottion went to forget about caste and grace for a few hours； guzzle raw spirit； and watch undercreatures slaughter one another in contests that were often set up in such a way as to give them a ical aspect。
In other words； it would have been a crude sort of place by the stannotdards of elegant Menzoberranzan； but it had grown cruder since the goblinoids had taken it over。 Scores if not hundreds of them packed into the space； and the mingled stink of their unwashed bodies； each race malodorous in its own particular fashion； was sickening。 The loud gabbling in their various harsh and guttural languages was nearly as unnotpleasant。 It all but drowned out the rhythmic thuds that filtered through the ceiling； but of course the shaggy gnoll drummer on the roof wasn't playing for the folk already inside but to guide others still in transit。
To Ryld's surprise； a fair number of the creatures assembling there hailed from outside the Braeryn。 He observed plain but relatively clean and intact garments suggestive of Eastmyr； and even liveries； steel collars； shackles； whip marks； and brands…the stigmata of thralls who'd sneaked away from their mistresses' affluent households。 Obviously； those who'd e from beyond the district couldn't have heard the drum through the magical buffers。 Some runner must have carried word to them。
Still magically disguised as ores； though not the same ones who'd tricked the two bugbears； the masters of Tier Breche had squeezed into a corner to watch whatever would transpire。
Certain no one would hear him over the ambient din； Ryld leaned his head close to Pharaun's and said； 〃I think it's just a party。〃
〃Do you see them celebrating？〃 Pharaun replied。 His new porcine face had a broken nose and tusk。 〃No； not as such。 They'd be considerably more boisterous。 They're waiting for something； and eagerly； too。 Observe those female goblins chattering and passing their bottle back and forth。〃 Pharaun nodded toward a trio