Daughter of the Drow - Elaine Cunningham [18]
"Yes," Liriel said in a dull, tight voice.
She knew very well, indeed. And finally, Syzwick's frantic chatter was starting to make sense. The male honestly did not know of Bythnara's attack. He had seen only that Liriel had slain his lover, and his only concern was his own survival. Murder-for such it was in Syzwick's eyes-was perfectly acceptable, even lauded, among dark elves, provided it could not be proven. Syzwick was a witness, and he fully expected to be eliminated. The male was pleading for his life, promising to swear that Liriel had acted in self-defense.
How ironic, she thought numbly, that in doing so he would be speaking simple truth! But she would never truly convince him of that. Nor, for her own half-understood reasons, did she want to try.
"Bythnara slipped and fell in," she said at last.
Syzwick's forehead furrowed in puzzlement, and he waited for Liriel to elaborate. When she did not, he accepted the lie with an eager nod.
"Bythnara was reaching for a fish when the boat struck one of those little eddies," he said, improvising. "We were tossed about in a circle. She lost her balance and fell. We tried to reach her, but the pyrimo were upon her too quickly."
He held his breath as he awaited the female's response. Slowly, a grim smile crept across Liriel's face, and Syzwick let out a sigh of soul-deep relief.
"One more thing."
"Anything!" he swore fervently.
"Planning a deed requires layers upon layers; you know this. But after the fact, do try to keep things simple, hmm?"
Syzwick was silent for a moment. "Bythnara slipped and fell in," he echoed.
"Good boy," she said dryly. "You should also bear in mind that pyrimo can kill in more ways than one. I would hate to see one of my dinner guests develop, shall we say, a fatal case of indigestion."
"I won't say a word," he promised. "Not ever."
Liriel nodded, and her smile hid more than she cared to acknowledge. "In that case, let's get you and these fish back to Menzoberranzan."
It was turning out to be one of those days, Liriel observed, when nothing seemed to go according to plan. She'd intended to deliver Syzwick back to the city along with most of the pyrimo catch, then head back into the Underdark to barter off the rest of the toxic little goodies. She had several deals to make, some spells to learn, a tutorial to attend, a few scores to settle, and an assignation with a certain mercenary to keep-all before that night's festivities began. In short, it was supposed to have been a fairly typical day.
First came the hunting "accident;" then, just as she was leaving her house-a miniature castle in Narbondellyn that her father had given her on her twenty-fifth birthday-the silent alarm on her Baenre ring began to pulse.
Liriel's brow furrowed with annoyance as she dug around for the ring in the bottom of her bag. She was supposed to wear the insignia at all times, but she never wore rings. Her long, shapely hands were one of her favorite features, and she liked to ornament them with elaborate painted tatoos and glittering nail polish, but she refused to wear rings. She could hurl a knife with the best tavern cutthroat alive, and, although most drew contended jewelry did not throw off their aim, Liriel figured she took enough chances without adding that particular risk.
She found the ring and clenched it in her hand. Yes, there it was again: a silent, magical alarm, attuned to her senses alone. She'd heard it only once before, when the ring was given to her a couple dozen years ago. Every noble in Menzoberrauzan carried a house insignia; House Baenre went one step further and kept each of its members on a magical leash. At the sound of the alarm, the Baenre in question was supposed to drop everything and hasten to the family fortress. Until now, Uriel had been spared such a summons. Muttering imprecations, she saddled her riding lizard and spurred it toward her ancestral