Vieran spun webs of black ink, forming an intricate border along the edges of a vellum wedding certificate. The ink dried with a purple sheen as he opened a small drawer in the old wooden desk. He quickly found the gold leaf he was looking for, but where had the glue gone?
“Hey, Vieran, question for yah?”
Vieran jumped, slamming the drawer shut. A short curvy drow woman leaned on the corner of his desk. His boss: Yazmine.
You scared me half to death, Vieran signed, moving his splayed hands towards his center with extra emphasis.
“It’s just us two today. No need to sign. Anyway... Question... Severin is out sick today, sooo...” Yazmine looked at him expectantly with her sharp silver eyes.
Vieran waited for her to continue with the question. When that didn't happen, he prompted: “Sooo...?”
“Hells, you're dense. His shift. Will you take his shift. The textbooks for Arach-Tinilith are due soon, and I cannot mess up this order. Do you know how much business this will be?”
Vieran nodded. They had only set and printed around 20% of the book content. He had done most of the proofreading already, while Severin worked on setting and printing the pages.
“I’ll take care of it.” He hoped doing extra shifts would grant him Yazmine’s favor – and a pay raise – though currently he just needed the extra money.
“Fantastic,” Yazmine said. She turned to look towards the front as the door swung open, ringing the little bell hanging above it. A woman walked in, taller than Yazmine but just as curvy, carrying a stylish bag overflowing with papers. Yazmine looked back to Vieran, who had resumed searching for glue. “Vieran, the front desk?”
Vieran looked at the front desk, then towards Yazmine. A moment later the request registered, and he stood up, scuttling the chair backwards with a loud squeak and hurried towards the front.
The front desk was of standing height and built into the wall. A door to his right connected it to a small lobby. Apparently this place had once been a bank, back before the spellplague. Vieran ran a hand through his fine, pin straight hair and pulled out the work order book. He flipped to the current page and readied his pen... Then realized the woman in front of him had no idea what he was waiting for. He cleared his throat.
“Your order? If you need assistance determining which of our services best suit your needs, we can provide samples.” He glanced up at her over his reading glasses, which seemed to startle the woman. He looked back down.
“Oh, umm, you do my family's taxes? I'm here to drop off some paperwork.” She pulled out a disheveled stack of papers, and seemed to panic when a stray sheet almost fell out of her bag with the tax forms. Strange. If a paper was destined to fall, he'd rather it fall on the floor of the scriptorium than the butcher's.
“Name?”
“Vahadarr.” She tapped the stack of papers on the desk, mostly aligning the edges, and passed it over to Vieran. He fixed the remaining stray edges then added a small label to it.
“Vahadarr... Yes, we have you on file. And we bill your house directly, so all you'll have to do is sign here.” He spun around the work order book and pointed to a signature line. The woman signed and Vieran absently read her upside down writing. Imrae. He hadn't seen her here before. “Thank you Ms. Vahadarr. The finalized paperwork will be ready by the end of the week.”
“End of the week,” she muttered to herself. “Right, end of the week. I'll be back then.” The woman closed up her bag and headed out the door, ringing the bell again.
Vieran took the stack of papers over to the filing cabinets left of the desks. They were cut out of a thin stone material that had been polished to smooth perfection. Came with the building, according to Yazmine. He swiftly found the folder for the Vahadarr’s taxes and began to file the new paperwork. Expense reports, income sheets... and a pamphlet labeled “The Dance of Destruction” featuring a caricature of Lolth puppeteering what looked to be the Matron Mother of House Benrae with thin spider webbing. He glanced back to see if Yazmine was looking his way only to find she was no longer in the room. Restroom, maybe?
Vieran fumbled in his pocket and brought out a long wooden pipe, imported. In contrast, the pipeweed he shoved into it was as local as could be. He struck a match, but before lighting his pipe, an infrared glint off the pamphlet caught his eye. Vieran’s heart raced with excitement as he picked the pamphlet back up. A heat seal? He tilted it by the match. Warm reflections revealed a completely different set of text overlaid on the printed words and an additional image: a nude drow woman dancing, sword in hand. No wonder that woman had been jumpy.
He started to feel the heat of the match in his fingertips, so he shook it out and struck another to light his pipe. Vieran liked hidden things, especially in books. So while he also liked to stay quiet and out of trouble, he had read a thing or two about Eilistraee in the name of “research” for his job. Most was house propaganda, of course, but even the propaganda could sometimes tell you a sliver of truth.
This, however, was no ancient text. The newness of the paper and modern script was enough to prove that. Should he turn it in? No... They'd suspect him of reading it, or, worse, planting it on the woman. And Yazmine wouldn't be pleased to lose a client. Keeping it was risky as well... What if the woman was baiting him somehow? He hadn't seen her before... Maybe this was a new kind of sick loyalism test by one of the houses. Maybe he should just destroy it...
He heard the door swing open and Yazmine yawn. With a fluid motion, Vieran folded the pamphlet and slipped it into the inner pocket of his green vest. He continued to file the papers then returned to his seat.
“Vieran,” Yazmine chided.
“Hmm?” He acted nonchalant, but his heart began racing again.
“How many times do I have to tell you? You’re going to burn this place down someday. Smoking and piles of paper are a recipe for disaster.”
Vieran blew a relieved puff of smoke through his nose, then snuffed out the pipe. “Sorry,” he muttered, but kept the unlit pipe held to his lips.
❖❖❖
It was the end of the week. Imrae finished braiding her long curls, tying the end with a red ribbon. She frowned. The braid was uneven, leaving some locks of hair poofing out and others pulled tight against her skull. She sighed and loosed the ribbon, beginning the braid again with shaky hands.
She had lost the pamphlet. She had lost one of the most dangerous materials in her possession, and now she couldn't even remember where she had seen it last.
“Imrae, are you ready yet?” Her younger sister Layla leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed against an outfit that was scandalous even by Menzobarenzon’s standards.
Imrae jumped. “Gods, Layla, how do you walk so quietly?” She tied the ribbon in her hair for the third time this morning. “Now I'm ready.”
“Finally, I’m dying to see if Kammy has anything new.”
Imrae raised an eyebrow.
“I think you’re just dying to see Kammy.”
Layla blushed, then turned around in a huff.
“I would never stoop so low as to desire some half-rate merchant in the Bazaar. She’s one step away from the Stenchstreets.”
Imrae didn’t bother to point out that since the Spellplague they were all basically one step away from the Stenchstreets. It was obvious her sister didn’t believe what she was saying, anyways. Why else would she be wearing... whatever that was.
The two left towards the Bazaar. Layla scanned the booths with sharp red eyes, looking for Kammy’s shop. She lit up when she saw the familiar deep maroon tapestries of the incense and trinket shop and ran off, leaving Imrae alone.
Imrae continued through to the other side of the Bazaar. Along the edges of the block of tents and makeshift booths were a few small permanent shops – a rarity in Menzoberranzan. The only shops allowed this privilege – and risk – were ones that could not feasibly be moved or exist in a tent.
She passed by a small bank, watching the owner plead with the people entering and exiting the Bazaar proper to open accounts. Imrae wondered if the place was a front for something more illicit. Who would use a bank? People either didn’t have the funds to bother or had enough money to distrust any external financial services. She continued on. Once she reached the scribe’s, Imrae saw the same thin man that was in the shop a week ago. He was smoking by the door and watching the people come and go from the Bazaar.
He glanced up and started, putting out the pipe.
“Ah, Mistress Vahadarr, I believe Yazmine finished your paperwork last night.” He pushed the door open for her. “Just a moment, please.”
She entered the building and found it much livelier than last time. Through the small desk window she could see the same short woman arguing with an unfamiliar taller man. Imrae did a double take. It wasn’t everyday you saw a man arguing so casually with a woman, let alone one who she presumed was his boss.
“...I should fire you for your insolence,” Yazmine continued, crossing her arms.
“Fire me?” The man laughed. “Like the last four times? I’m the best pressman in Menzo, and you know it. But I’m not a miracle worker, Yaz. How am I supposed to do my job when you’re out of bloody paper?” He threw his hands up in frustration.
Vieran entering caught Yazmine’s attention, and Imrae saw her sign to the man to shut up. The man signed something back, but she didn’t catch it. He cheerfully stepped over to the front.
“Good afternoon, my dear. Who do I have the pleasure of addressing today? A matron mother, perhaps? Or simply a mother?” He grinned at her with sharpened teeth. Imrae blinked, thrown off guard by the man’s appearance and demeanor. Was he a tiefling? A strange half elf? He looked drow enough, but his skin was a shade too blue, and he had curling black hair streaked with white and slitted yellow eyes. His various tattoos and leather attire made him stand out even more in the little shop.
“Thankfully, neither,” Imrae responded, scrunching her nose up in disgust at the man.
“Come, now, surely a bright young woman like yourself should want nothing more than to climb to the top of the Spider Queen’s web.” The man still smiled, but combined with his shift in tone the expression became more of a sinister gotcha than unwelcome flirting.
Imrae started, attempting to recover her position in the conversation. “I mean–”
Vieran plopped a large stack of papers on the desk. “Here you are, Ms. Vahadarr.” He glanced sharply at his coworker, who lifted his hands in surrender and backed off.
My apologies for Severin. His humor can be a bit... crass... Vieran signed, then looked her in the eyes. “You may wish to check that all of the paperwork is present and accounted for. Of course, we do our best to ensure everything is done according to the order, but one can never be too sure,” he said quietly.
She took the stack of papers, bewildered by this whole interaction. Regardless, Imrae made a show of flipping through the stack, glancing up occasionally at the man in bored annoyance... until she saw the pamphlet. Her eyes widened a bit before she regained control over her expressions. She looked back up to see if the man had noticed, but he had already gone back to his desk. Imrae quickly stacked the papers, shoved them in her bag, and left to find Layla.
❖❖❖
“I didn’t take her to be your type, Vieran,” Severin said casually. Vieran looked up, confused as to who he meant. “That woman that came in earlier. You practically ran to get her order and shooed me away like a disobedient dog.”
“Ahh, no, no,” Vieran waved his hands defensively. “She came in while you were out sick. I knew what she was here for, and you were still antagonizing Yazmine. That is all.”
“All the same, she’s a bit out of your league, don’t you think?” He smirked.
“And why is that?” Vieran frowned. He may not get out much, but he didn’t consider himself completely romantically inept, despite evidence to the contrary.
“Why is that? Vieran, she works at Arach-Tinilith. I saw her when I delivered the first set of books a few weeks ago. She’s probably a Revered Daughter, considering her reaction to being called mother.” He chuckled to himself.
Vieran paled. So it was a loyalty test. There was no other explanation. He was as good as dead.
Severin misinterpreted his fear and started laughing. “Hey, just because she’s out of your league doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try. With luck we might make a house consort out of you yet.” He patted Vieran on the back before going back to the press.
❖❖❖
Imrae squinted in the candle light back in her room. The curtains were drawn, and the doors were locked. Maybe it was paranoia, but she thought her use of candles would draw suspicions. Why would anyone use candles instead of Dancing Lights? To read forbidden knowledge hidden in heat seals, of course.
The printed text was inflammatory, but could easily be explained away as a political intrigue or confiscated materials. The worst that would happen is a slap on the wrist, assuming it wasn’t House Benrae that found it. The hidden text on the other hand... That was far more dangerous.
She took out a tiny metal sword. A holy symbol in miniature. When she had first learned of Eilistreaa during the year of silence, things were so much better. Progress was being made, gods weren’t being assassinated left and right, magic didn’t explode into blue fire on a whim...
Even a few years ago, Lolth’s power had seemed to be waning. But just like the moon, Imrae could feel the Spider Queen’s power waxing once again. And worse yet, Eilistreaa was nowhere to be found. Some claimed to hear her voice once more, but Imrae wasn’t convinced it was anything more than wishful thinking. Clerics still had the Dark Lady’s divine magic, though. She still had her magic. So Imrae supposed there was still hope.
She flipped the pamphlet over. Running the Message of Eilistreaa still seemed foolish to her, given the current state of things. What good was it to open the eyes of a novice student or two if the awakening was nothing more than a death sentence? She sighed. Truth and liberation were the good, she told herself, even if right now they left powerless. As she scanned the familiar text, she noticed something different. Imrae froze. There was an extra line of text at the end of the heat seal.
You should be careful. Less friendly eyes could see this.
Who added... Her eyes widened. The scribe had seen it. Why did he give it back? Was he going to turn her in? Blackmail her? She steadied her breathing. Fear was the way of Lolth. In all likelihood, he was simply trying to avoid trouble. Though she wondered... If he had read the seal, maybe he followed the Dark Lady, too?