Images began to appear. They floated across the still surface of the water, quick and fleeting. He glimpsed his mother talking to his sisters, their heads bent together as they schemed some wickedness. The image changed and became his brother Dinin practicing with his swords. Then, in quick succession, came a dozen scenes scattered around the city: faces and places Drizzt did not know.

At last he understood. This was a scrying bowl. He had heard Matron Malice mention such a thing to Briza once, when she had not realized he was within earshot. This was one of the greatest treasures of House Do'Urden.

You should leave this place now, Drizzt, warned a voice in his head. The advice, however, was drowned out by exhilaration. The scrying bowl could show him anything he wanted! But what should he ask to see? Maybe he should let the bowl decide for him.

He gripped the rim. "Show me something important," he commanded. The metal seemed to hum beneath his hands.

For a moment he thought his request had confused the magical vessel, for the water went dark again, so black that it hurt to gaze upon. Then darkness turned into fire. The flames receded, revealing in their wake a dagger. It was beautiful. The dagger rested on what appeared to be a stone step. A purple gem winked in its hilt, and its blade still glowed with the heat of the fire. Drizzt bit his lip. The dagger seemed so real-so real that, before he even knew what he was doing, he reached into the bowl, his hand slipping beneath the cool surface of the water.

His fingers closed around hot metal.

With a yelp of surprise and pain, Drizzt snatched his hand back. The water bubbled, and there was a great hissing of steam. At last the vapor cleared. Drizzt stared in fear and wonder.

"What have I done?" he whispered.

In his hand he gripped the dagger, its metal now cool, quenched by the water in the scrying bowl.

Reality melted, flowed, then condensed again around Zaknafein. Once more he stood high atop the center of the tangled web that was Menzoberranzan. Narbondel. The stone was cool beneath his feet, but already the purple magelights bobbed through the streets of the city-the approach of the archmage. A new day was about to begin. The Festival of the Founding. Zak did not have much time.

The weapons master searched along the craggy top of the pillar until he found the small crevice. He snaked a hand inside, depressing the switch. As before, a dark hole opened in the stone. Without hesitation, Zak lowered himself into the stairwell below. His elven eyes adjusted to their new surroundings.

In minutes, he knew the Dagger of Menzoberra was gone. It could not have fallen far down the stairway, and the bright jewel in its hilt would have stood out against the dull stone steps, making it easy to detect. Zak swore as he padded up and down the staircase one more time, just to be certain. But he knew he would not find the relic, and he was right. He climbed out of the opening, back to the top of the pillar, then slammed the portal shut in disgust.

"Where is it?" he rasped to the darkness.

The Spider Mage had said the Dagger was not destroyed, and Zak did not doubt the wizard's words.

"Jalynfein would not lie to me. We are kindred spirits, he and I."

Yet if the relic had not been destroyed, that left only one possibility. Someone else had retrieved it. But who? And where had it been taken? The Festival of the Founding was about to commence. He did not have time to search even a fraction of the city, let alone all of it. It seemed his quest for redemption had come to a premature and bitter end.

All at once, low laughter escaped Zak's throat. What a fool he was! Of course-he had possessed the power to find the relic all along. Reaching into his neck-purse, he pulled out the spiderjewel. He set the gem on his outstretched palm. The ruby embedded in its abdomen winked to life. The arachnid spun a moment, then stopped. Zak followed the spider's orientation with his gaze. West.

There was no time to waste. Zak stepped off the pillar and into an updraft, wrapping himself in his piwafwi and letting the warm air conceal his body heat from prying eyes. He sank to the ground, vanishing into the city's streets, just as the regal procession reached the base of Narbondel.

The archmage laid his hands upon the ancient pillar. Fire welled forth. Stone glowed crimson. The Festival had begun.

Matron Malice gazed around herself, eyes glittering with satisfaction. Everything was in place for the Festival. On her orders, the servants had brought House Do'Urden's most opulent treasures into the feast hall: chairs fashioned of dwarf bones, onyx tables resting on dragon claws, crystal goblets colored crimson with a tincture of faerie blood-taken from the hated light elves in a raid on the surface world. Malice's was not the richest house in Menzoberranzan, but it could muster a remarkable display all the same. Matron Baenre could not help but be impressed.

Malice smiled, but the expression felt hollow. Despite her imminent victory, her satisfaction was marred. Something was missing. In chagrin, she realized who it was. Yet she was better off without the unruly weapons master, she told herself. She would find others to replace him, in her bed and in her heart. It was foolish to waste her thought on Zaknafein. This was to be her day of glory.

Dinin hurried into the feast hall and bowed low before her. "Forgive the intrusion, Matron Mother, but you asked me to inform you if anyone-anyone at all-came to the house's gate. A lone goblin has shown up, and it begs hospitality."

Briza let out a snort of outrage. "The brazen little worm." She gripped her snake-headed whip. "I'll take care of it, Mother."

Malice glared at her daughter. "And earn us the further disfavor of Lloth?" she sneered. "I think not. Put away your whip, Briza. You like the feel of its grip far too much. Perhaps it would do you good to remember what the other end of it feels like."

Briza stared in slack-jawed shock, then hastily coiled her whip, lest she feel its bite herself.

Malice stroked her jaw in thought. "The Spider Queen will appear somewhere in the city today, and there is no telling what form she'll take. We cannot take the risk of turning any stranger away." She turned to her son. "Dinin, bring the goblin here. Whatever it wants, it shall get."

Dinin stared in surprise, but had the sense not to question his matron mother. He returned minutes later with the goblin: a small, sniveling creature with green skin and a warty face. Malice resisted the urge to stick her dagger into the loathsome thing's throat. There were too many stories of families who had turned away some wretched creature only to learn it had been Lloth in disguise, even as they died from food turned into poison. Malice forced herself to smile.

"Welcome to House Do'Urden," she spoke. "Would you like some wine?"

The goblin nodded, rubbing gnarled hands together and baring yellow fangs in a grin. "Garn, but I love the Festival of the Founding!" it croaked.

Malice herself was bathing the goblin's crusty feet in a silver basin when the feast hall doors opened and Matron Baenre entered.

"Don't forget to wash between the toes," the ancient elf said in her rasping voice. "Goblins are not known for thoroughness in hygiene."

Malice leapt to her feet, wiping her hands against her gown. "Matron Baenre! I was only… that is, I was just trying…" Her cheeks glowed with warm embarrassment.

Baenre cackled, leaning on her staff. "Fear not, Matron Malice. I appreciate a matron mother who knows the value of tradition. But I think you have shown this goblin as much hospitality as tradition warrants this day."