He noticed something: a golden ball, hovering in the air just ahead of him. He glanced up and saw all ten masters staring at him. Nine of them had golden balls hovering in the air in front of them; Master Seldszar did not. He'd temporarily forfeited his right to a voice on the Conclave, so Q'arlynd might say his piece.

The speaker's sphere bore Master Tsabrak's visage. The vampire drow's voice whispered out of it. "Rise, Q'arlynd. Finish what you started to say earlier."

Q'arlynd rose to his feet and nodded his thanks to Seldszar. Q'arlynd was certain he'd pay for this later-pay dearly-but he was glad to have been given a second chance. He turned to face the female he was about to accuse. She stared back at him from her perch on the driftdisc-a flat, level stare that held a promise of retribution for whatever he was about to say.

Q'arlynd couldn't worry about that now. Nor could he let himself be distracted by speculating how much time had passed while he'd been imprisoned, and whether one or both of his apprentices were dead. He would keep this short and to the point. He touched the golden ball.

"Bae'qeshel is a bardic tradition, it's true," he told the Conclave, his eyes still locked on those of the female on the driftdisc, returning her challenge. "But it is only practiced by members of a particular faith-by those who worship Lolth."

T'lar didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. Someone else in the room must have, though. Q'arlynd heard more than one sharp intake of breath.

Guldor was the first to touch his golden ball. "How can you make such accusations? You know nothing of bae'qeshel magic!"

"My sister was a bae'qeshel bard."

Guldor was good: his face didn't even flush. "You lie."

"A simple divination will prove that I do not," Q'arlynd said quietly. He waited a moment or two-long enough for any of the masters who had a spell that would detect falsehoods to cast it. "My sister, Halisstra Melarn, was a bae'qeshel bard. She was also a devotee of Lolth. You cannot be the first, without the second. Something you were no doubt privy to, Guldor Zauviir."

The sphere assumed Master Shurdriira's face. "I withdraw my second."

For several moments, there was silence in the chamber. Then Master Tsabrak spoke. "T'lar Mizz'rynturl, leave us."

Never once taking her eyes off Q'arlynd, T'lar moved back. Instead of the anger Q'arlynd expected, T'lar looked as if she were appraising him-sizing him up. The doors to the chamber opened silently, and the driftdisc slid out, whisking her away.

Guldor's face was purple with barely suppressed rage, but he rallied quickly. "Q'arlynd Melarn," he said in a soft voice. "Do you worship the Spider Queen?"

Q'arlynd answered warily, aware that whatever divinations the masters might have cast earlier would still be detecting falsehoods. "I was raised to follow Lolth-as are all drow. But I never formally pledged myself to her."

Guldor smiled. "Because you worship Eilistraee?"

Q'arlynd's eyes narrowed slightly before he could prevent it. He was on dangerous ground, here. Eilistraee's worship was not forbidden in Sshamath-the Conclave officially permitted all faiths-but her worship was still a quick way to make enemies, among those masters who had, secretly, taken the Spider Queen as their patron deity.

One thing was in his favor, however. Guldor had to be guessing. If not, he would have phrased that last as a statement, rather than a question.

"Only females are welcomed into Eilistraee's circle," Q'arlynd answered. He arched an eyebrow. "Surely you don't mistake me for one?"

"Males can become lay worshipers."

Q'arlynd waved a hand dismissively-the hand that didn't bear Eilistraee's crescent-shaped scar. He turned away from Guldor. "He's grasping at spider silk," he told the other masters, feigning a lighthearted tone he didn't feel. "Appropriate, considering the company he keeps."

Someone chuckled.

Out of the corner of his eye, Q'arlynd watched Guldor. The master's lips were pressed tightly together. Guldor would have anticipated that his nomination of T'lar Mizz'rynturl might fail, but he hadn't expected to be mocked. Q'arlynd had just made a lasting enemy of the master of a very powerful College.

The face on the sphere grew fatter, more jowly. "Now that only one nomination remains to be considered," Master Urlryn said, "Why don't you tell us, Q'arlynd, why the School of Ancient Arcana should be named a College."

That was better. Things were back on track. And Eldrinn couldn't have been dead yet-if he had been, Master Seldszar wouldn't have looked so unperturbed. Though gods only knew what was happening, down at the Cage.

"The reason is simple," Q'arlynd began. He followed the speech he'd rehearsed with Seldszar earlier, down to the last syllable. "Accept my school as Sshamath's eleventh College, and your city will reap the rewards. To the city itself, my College can provide powerful magic: spells that have been forgotten since the time of the Descent, spells that have been revealed to me by… this."

He pointed to his forehead with a flourish, and dropped the invisibility that had been hiding the lorestone. A corresponding bulge appeared on the forehead of the face on the speaker's sphere. "Only a few of you will have seen its like before," he told the masters. "It's a selu'kiira of ancient Miyeritar."

Eyes widened. The masters must have noted the lorestone's deep color.

Q'arlynd held up a cautioning finger. "Lest any of you think of claiming it, I offer this warning. The lorestone will only share its secrets with a descendant of House Melarn-and I am the last surviving member of that noble House. Everyone else, from its matron mother to the lowest boy, lies buried in the rubble of Ched Nasad. Anyone else who attempts to wear House Melarn's lorestone will wind up feebleminded."

Heads nodded slightly at that. All remembered the state Eldrinn had been in, when Q'arlynd had returned the boy to the city two and a half years ago. The connection was obvious.

His speech concluded, Q'arlynd fell silent. There was a further incentive for certain masters, but it couldn't be spoken aloud. Master Seldszar had spent the last year carefully tracing the lineage of each of the current masters of Sshamath's Colleges. Two other masters, besides Seldszar, could trace their lineage back to ancient Miyeritar. Like him, each might be able to claim a kiira from Kraanfhaor's Door, so long as he was shown how-something that wouldn't happen until the College of Ancient Arcana became a reality. Neither of the two masters would know for certain whether anyone else had been promised a selu'kiira. Each would do whatever he could to influence the rest of the Conclave, in order to claim his reward.

"A pretty promise," Master Shurdriira said. She tipped her head. "But how do we know you will share this magic?"

Q'arlynd smiled. "I have already." He watched as that sunk in-as the masters glanced covertly at one another, wondering who had already benefited. Then he added, "Do you dare run the risk of being the only one without access to my spells?"

Master Seldszar flicked his fingers: My ball.

Q'arlynd inclined his head, then nudged the gold ball to Seldszar. The Master of Divination touched it, and the speaker's sphere assumed his likeness. "I suggest we end this debate and put the nomination to a vote."

"Agreed," Urlryn said.

"Agreed," Tsabrak echoed.

One by one-with the exception of Guldor, who remained sullenly silent-the other masters gave their assent.

Tsabrak spoke. "Q'arlynd Melarn, leave us."

Q'arlynd bowed. Even before he'd finished rising, he teleported away.

He appeared straddling the femur that was the dividing line, his hands raised and ready to cast a spell. Piri lay on the ground a few paces away, either unconscious or dead, his wand beside him. Eldrinn was in even more dire straights.