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busy to notice hitherto, at some point a number of teachers and students had evidently crowded into the space to watch the battle. They were watching Quenthel still, eyes wide, faces uncertain.
    “It was a desecration,” said Quenthel. “A mockery.”
    She stared at them with haughty expectation.
    They peered back at her for a moment, then folded their hands and bowed their heads in obeisance.

chapter
three
    Tall and lithe, the left side of her otherwise handsome face creased with an old battle scar of which, she recognized, she was rather foolishly proud, Greyanna Mizzrym entered her mother’s presence dirty, sweaty, and still clad in her mail shirt. Greyanna knew Mother didn’t like for her daughters and other chattels to come to meet with her fully armed, but she had an excuse. She’d just returned from an inspection tour of Mizzrym operations in Bauthwaf—“around-cloak,” as the dangerous network of tunnels immediately surrounding Menzoberranzan was called—only to hear from a frantic functionary bearing the fresh marks of a whip of fangs that the matron mother wished to see her as soon as possible.
    Actually, even knowing the articles likely wouldn’t save her if things went horribly wrong, Greyanna rather liked having a justification to walk in on her parent with her mace in her hand and her shield on her arm. She couldn’t think of any reason why Mother would have decided to kill her at this particular point in time, but one could never be altogether sure, could one?
    Certainly not with Miz’ri Mizzrym, a female regarded even by other dark elves as excessively and capriciously cruel. She sat enthroned in her temple with all of her weapons and protections ready to hand, the six-headed whip and the purple rod of tentacles, the enchanted rings gleaming on her fingers. She might have been considered comely even by the exacting standards of her exquisite race, except that her mouth drew down in an ugly and all but perpetual scowl. She regarded her daughter’s martial appointments coldly but without comment.
    Greyanna lowered her head and spread her hands, offering the proper obeisance, and said, “Matron Mother. You wished to see me?”
    “I wished to see you yesterday.”
    “I was off conducting family business.” Of course, Mother knew that as well as she did. “We have to keep up with our duties even now. Especially now—as you yourself have observed on more than one occasion.”
    “Watch your insolent tongue!”
    Greyanna sighed. “Yes, Mother. I apologize. I didn’t mean to speak out of turn.”
    “See that you refrain from doing so again.”
    Miz’ri fell silent, perhaps to gather her thoughts, perhaps simply in an effort to rattle her daughter’s nerves. Such petty, pointless attempts at intimidation were virtually a reflex with her.
    Greyanna wondered if a servant had been instructed to fetch her a chair for the remainder of the interview. It didn’t look like it. That was typical of her mother as well.
    “Your brother Pharaun . . .” Miz’ri said at last.
    Greyanna’s eyes opened wide. “Yes?”
    “I think it might finally be time for the two of you to get reacquainted.”
    The younger female held her scarred features calm and composed. It was rarely a good idea to show strong emotion to anyone, particularly Mother. If you showed her that something mattered to you, she would find a way to hurt you with it. Even so, Greyanna couldn’t quite suppress a shiver of anticipation.
    She and her twin sister Sabal had loathed one another from the cradle onward. Of course, in the noble Houses of Menzoberranzan, rivalry between sisters was expected and encouraged. Certainly Miz’ri encouraged it, perhaps simply for her own amusement. But for some reason—perhaps it had something to do with the fact that outwardly, they were identical—her daughters’ enmity far transcended even her expectations. It was more bitter and more personal. Each yearned to injure and thwart the other for its