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limitnotless world。
As fancies went； his wasn't entirely absurd。 Most dark elves feared to travel the Underdark except in armed convoys； and with good reason。 They； however； lacked the abilities he'd spent decades developing； survival skills that made him one of the finest scouts in Menzoberranzan。
Indeed； the small； wiry male in the rugged outdoorsman's garb liked traversing the subterranean world alone。 He relished the wonders； the quiet； and the freedom。 Sometimes； when he'd idled in camp too long； he felt he preferred it to the striving； conniving existence of his fellow drow； the luxuries of Menzoberranzan notwithstanding。 He yearned for an errand that would take him out into the wilderness； and played with the notion of simply running away。
He heard the Zauvirr ing and put the dream aside。 Like it or not； his mission this day wasn't to explore the wild。 It was to direct his notpany； fellow mercenaries of Bregan D'aerthe； in the taking of Faeryl Zaunotvirr and her retainers。
That was the theory； anyway。 In point of fact； he didn't have to give any more orders。 No doubt the warriors of Ched Nasad were petent fightnoters in their own right； but when the sell swords swarmed out of hiding； they caught them entirely by surprise； then proceeded to cut them down with murderous efficiency。
Once Valas was certain his band would be victorious； he started searchnoting for Faeryl herself。 His smallness and natural agility enabled him to thread his way through the fury of battle without harm。
He found the princess at the center of the carnage。 She'd just finished killing one of his mand。 The dead male's brains and bloody hair adnothered to one end of her basalt…headed war hammer。
〃Ambassador；〃 Valas called。 〃I have orders to take you alive； if possible。〃
She answered with a curse。 He didn't blame her for that。 In her place； he wouldn't want to be delivered alive to Matron Baenre； either。
He hefted one of his matched pair of kukris…vicious curved daggers… and fingered a little brass ovoid； one of many trinkets adorning his tunic and cloak。
He'd collected the amulets and brooches from races and civilizations across the Underdark。 Fashioned according to alien aesthetics； most of the ornaments were ugly and uncouth to dark elf eyes； but he hadn't acquired them for their appearance； nor were they merely souvenirs。 Each connottained a different enchantment。
Three images； exact facsimiles of himself； flickered into existence around him。 He edged toward Faeryl； and the phantoms came with him。
She stared fiercely； obviously trying to pick out the real Valas from the false。 It didn't help。 When she swung； she struck at the image on his left。
The illusion vanished on contact； and at the same instant； he sprang。 She couldn't e back on guard in time to fend him off。 He hooked a leg behind her and threw her to the ground； then kicked her repeatedly in the head until she went limp。
C h a p t e r
S I X T E E N
Laughter echoed through the candlelit corridors of Arach…Tinilith。 Quenthel frowned。 She'd been expecting something to happen； eagerly anticinotpating it； in fact。 What she wasn't expecting was an explosion of mirth； and she couldn't guess what it meant。
She strode forward； and her patrol followed behind。 They seemed edgy； but not quite as reluctant as they had the night before。 The fate of Drisinil； Molvayas； and the rest of the plotters had convinced the survivors that Quenthel still enjoyed the favor of Lolth； at least to the same dubious extent as the rest of the stricken clergy。
The laughter rang on and on until at last the searche